Before we continue any further into the story, it must now be made abundantly clear that every line spoken by a Carrotian in this chronicle is but an approximation to the complexity of the Carrotian language, and a poor one at that.
Much like the Inuit language, which contains several dozen different words for snow, the Carrotian language supports countless different ways of describing brushstrokes, collages, application of glue, application of glitter, and tiny details on the surface of pylons.
In fact, the moment that Poll realised that there was something incredibly crooked with her own civilization, and thus began her descent into a decidedly uncarrotian state of mind, was when her teacher demanded she'd write the word for 'slightly diagonal brushstroke on multiply with a 65% layer of transparency' a hundred times on the blackboard during astrometrics class.
"Wake up!" A soft moan rose from the lips of the male rabbit lying on the floor. "C'mon, Tinn!" He shielded his eyes with his hand. "Wake up! You've been sleeping for long enough now."
The air in the pod was cold and stale, sending chills up Tinn's arms; his uniform hadn't been built for warmth. "W-where's it g-going?" he chattered, wrapping his arms around himself.
"I have no idea." She leaned back into her seat, "There's no navigation system. I read up on some of the logs to figure out why," she made a face, "But they're just full of the sort of explanations I got kicked out of school for. Maybe you'll have better luck. C'mon." She hoisted him up into a seat. He shot her an embarassed smile, which she stauncely ignored. "Just decipher it for me, will ya?"
Tinn bent his head towards the monitor screen, and began to read. Poll relaxed against the side of the hull, watching him with tired eyes.
Five minutes later, he shot up, white as a sheet.
"What? What is it?" Poll'd flung one arm over her seat sometime in the past few minutes, and was staring at him expectantly.
"It, uh, appears," he said, wondering how he could possibly bring this in a way that wouldn't further enhance Poll's cynicism. He failed miserably. "..That this ship's navigation systems have been replaced with a very simple 'Land on whatever surface you happen to run in on' order, because the designers believed that it would leave more room for, uh.."
"Room for what?" She veered up in her seat.
"...This particularily neat impressionist statue." He gestured vaguely in its direction, feeling rather silly for a moment. This was happening to him a lot, lately, and a rather uneasy feeling had begun to settle in his stomach.
Poll simply covered her face up with her hands, and whimpered. "Should've stayed on Aries. Knew I should've stayed on Aries."
"Uh, there, there.." He tried for an apologetic pat, but it didn't work entirely as he'd hoped. Exactly at that moment, various sirens and lamps in a variety of painful colours went completely, utterly batshit. "Uh, Poll?" He gestured at the screen.
"Oh, shit." Poll sighed, and watched helplessly as the entire round spacecraft gently landed itself on the surface of what, to any independent observer, would be considered 'a rather ugly bunch of flying Legos with a few nasty holes in them'. Since neither Poll or Tinn were independent observers, they started yelling things at eachother in complete confusion, which is a traditional, and completely, utterly useless survival technique.
The pod did not seem to be bothered by any of this; it extended its landing gear, it braked, and then it neatly deposited itself right smack dab in the center of pandemonium.
The Primari are, in fact, a lot like the Carrotians, though they are vaguely more hamster-like in build and shape. In fact, for a long time, both species got along famously. They went to art-exhibitions together, they went hat-shopping together, and they had a merry old time having bloody arguments about art that invariably ended with pieces of some backward planet flying in all directions, which was all well and good for that particular area in space-time.
This all changed on one sad, doomed Sunday evening, during which the Primari High Councillor and the Carrotian Lord Artist had a particularily gruesome argument regarding colour schemes.
The Carrotians had always been the more passionate of the two, and the Primari High Councillor had been returned with his bodyparts arranged in a pattern that signified a rather nasty word in the Primari language. The Primari were unwilling to concede (or so the Carrotian version goes) that pastels were, in fact, in many ways superior to the primary colours, and were rather angry over the insult they had suffered at the hands of the Carrotians. Thus, they launched a devistating attack on the Carrotian capital, which signalled the start of a war so immense, so coordinated, and above all so bloody boring, that even today it is still referred to as 'a mighty unpleasant sort of affair' in those sectors of the universe that survived the carnage.
Momentarily, a lot of them were rather dead. However, as Poll noticed when she crawled, discombobulated, from her pod, there were remarkably less casualties than aboard her own ship. It also confirmed one important thing. "The Primari didn't do it," she said, trying to process it. "It was--"
"OH GOD! OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD!" Tinn hurled himself backwards against the hull of the pod, gesturing frantically. "They even bleed red!" This, Poll decided, was starting to get a mild bit tiresome.
"Oh, stop it." she said, and reached down to remove a Blue Ball Blaster from some poor, dead Primari's hands. She tossed it from one hand to another and took a practicing aim. "We need to get off this ship, and back to.. some planet. Hopefully not Carrotia, because after this business I'm afraid I might blow someone's head off down there. This way." She thwapped him over the head, and then dragged him off into the frantic fray of panicking Primari by the collar of his uniform.
Any Carrotian would agree that a Primari Spaceship is a rather ugly affair, painted almost entirely in yellow, blue and red, and supporting a variety of strange, portruding masses in every basic shape you could think of. These are often placed in areas where they are so mindbogglingly annoying, that every time that, say, a Red Pyramid is placed anywhere, the suicide rate triples.
The Primari Designers have never understood what all this fuss was about.
Debris was shooting off in all directions as confused Primari shot at everything that moved. Considering that most moving things were, in fact, fellow Primari, the chaos only became worse with every laser beam. Some had gotten caught in the crossfire and were crawling legless over the solid blue floor, muttering expletives.
It was a nasty sight to see.
Poll pulled Tinn behind one of the large, blue squares that sat in the center of the room. She watched the Primari rush by, often burning or bleeding. "How could this possibly have happened?" she mused, "Why would anyone want to kill--."
"Oh yes, this is just awful, plain awful," Tinn muttered, gawping up at the large construction. His eyes had gone a bit unfocused, and his hand was jittering all over the place, trying to find something to hold on to. Unfortunately, all he could find was Poll's leg.
"Stupid question." she muttered to herself, and pulled the two of them over to the next obstruction, tugging Tinn's hand away in the process. "Tinn, you took Ship Construction, do you know anything at all about Primari Deathscythes?"
The sudden movement appeared to have snapped him out of his revery, because he managed to formulate a semi-coherent reply.
"Besides the fact that they're ugly and destroy things?" He dodged a flying piece of metal as it crashed against the wall behind him. "And that we're currently in one?" he added, gasping for breath. He suddenly found that there was something lodged in his throat. It was not a pleasant feeling.
"Yes. Besides that. Like where the hell we can go to get out of this mess." She fired at an incoming flaming Primari, sending him flying. "Move!" Tinn was starting to get a tad bit tired of being tugged around by the arm all the time. His eyes slipped close for a moment, his breath coming out in shallow pants.
"Uh. Fourth floor.. I think.." he whispered, and then shot up. "GAH!" Another piece of debris was slightly more on-target than the last, depositing itself neatly into Tinn's lower leg. He winced. "Can we get outta here now?!" he yelled, regaining control over his lungs.
She pulled him to his feet as well as she could manage. "Why the hell were you so insistent on making us leave the pod, then?! We could've reprogrammed it to go somewhere else!" She shoved him into a doorway, then dove in after him, closing the door. "We're supposed to be well-trained Radar Operatives, for chrissake!" She paused, catching her own breath now. "Or, at least, you are.."
"Well, uh. It's rigged to self-destruct when it, uh, lands.. somewhere. The sequence must be working right now.." He smiled helplessly, trying to keep himself upright. Failing miserably, he slid down to the floor. Something about this all didn't feel right.
Poll stared at him as if he'd grown a second head.
"What kind of an IDIOT would.. would program that into a pod? What if it'd landed in a populated area? A nursery, or something?! How could they--" The sort of noise that could only come from a large explosion shot through the building, nearly burning out their eardrums.
Poll's gaze shot to the door, her fingers clenching unvoluntarily around the hilt of her gun.
"Creative license," Tinn murmured, a few minutes later when their hearing had sufficiently recovered. He scuttled up into a sitting position, then let himself sprawl back to the floor as a flaring sense of pain rocketed through his nervous system. Any negative thoughts he'd been fostering at that point about the decorations of the place flew from his mind.
"Have I mentioned to you before," she said, ripping off Tinn's other sleeve and using it as a makeshift bandage, applying as much pressure as she could manage. "That I really, really hate designers?"
"Couldn't agree with you more," said the big, burly hamsterlike man pointing a particularily intimidating gun at them.