Mother of Disease

A woman, grafted with organic material to what appears as an almost throne like room splits through a fleshy wall, and she speaks to you. My descendant, I've woken you from sleep, and age has passed since your planet was ours. I task you as my legs, to scout the surface world you knew, assimilate any life with our cells. Her eyes and mouth don't seem to move, but you can hear and see her clearly. Remember our words carefully when you descend. I am, we are, Us. A pod door of flesh opens.