471, then I just finished up the last sentence. Both prompts! Though I ran out of time before I could do much with the second.
Something is wrong.
You open your eyes to a dim, cluttered room with pale green light playing against the wall, fighting a wave of disorientation. Your head feels stuffy and a feverish warmth roils throughout your body. After an attempt to sort out in your mind just where you are and what’s going on leaves you none the wiser, you smack dry lips, frowning at the lingering taste of something cloying and sweet in your otherwise cotton-dry mouth, and attempt to sit up.
Immediately the sense of wrongness deepens.
Your limbs feel numb and heavy, responding like leaden weights. Reaching up to rub wearily at your face, a new and dreadful confusion darts into you at the sound of metal on metal. With the exception of your eyes, mouth, and jaw, your face is encased in some kind of mask. Peering at your fingers in the pale, flickering light shows what looks like some kind of dull grey metal as well, joints so cleverly wrought that your hands scrabble at each other in vain to try and pry at a seam. The metal plates your wrists and forearms as well. It goes up past the shoulders, and past them, covers your back and torso, your legs...
In fact, as your numb hands slowly discover, it seems you’re covered head to toe, and you’re not having the slightest success in figuring out a way to pull the imprisoning metal coating off.
Suffused with a dull dread and growing panic, you turn your attention to the room around you, searching for answers. The sickly light originates from a glass vat of bubbling green liquid, lit from behind with a complicated collection of tubes running to and fro to a long table filled with other equipment nearby. Black iron machines with claw feet, covered in strange gears and levers or belching puffs of steam gives the whole place a quaintly old fashioned and fantastical look, like something out of a storybook. The proportions of everything seem bizarrely off, which you attribute to your general disorientation until you force yourself unsteadily to your feet and you head smacks the ceiling.
Everything in here, from the doors to the ceiling to the furniture, is about half the size it should be. Bent nearly double, you grope your way toward the door, suddenly desperate for fresh air and enough light to examine yourself to try and see just what is going on and what to do about it. Wrenching it open and crawling outside, you’re met by the odor of wet and rotting vegetation--at least your sense of smell still works, you’re relieved to note--and find your hands and knees sinking into sucking black mud and straighten up, standing with difficulty and staring all around at clusters of strange little houses built into towering trees dotting the landscape of an unfamiliar swamp.
