I flick a switch and my flight chair shifts from underneath me, all my weight supported by spinal and cranial jacks that draw me inside the capsule behind me. It's a strange sensation, almost, I imagine, like going back to the womb. I've heard it's the trauma of this reversal that is one of the hardest things for people to accept. I never had a problem, capsuleer's are who they are because they can mentally adapt to things like this. I smirk as the capsule swallows me and the 'pod goop' envelops, wondering if this means that 'mommy issues' are what make or break a potential pod pilot.
I feel my eyes blink a few times as I adjust to my other state, that of a ship in space, swarming with camera drones viewing it from every angle. One judders as it tries to blink, then it, or rather I realise I'm not operating on that level anymore. I'm in my element, the ship, with senses that can track to heat of the universe almost to the dawn of its creation, and power to end thousands of lives with a thought.
I survey my hull, I'm well maintained. A friend of mine, Dossie Kielle has recently did me a favour and saved me a trip to the repair dock with her drones. I upset more of my camera drones as I try to roll my eyes with amusement. She's polished and chromed a small patch on my otherwise oxydized hull.
'I'm not gonna clean this rust bucket for you too, hugs-Dossie', scrawled in 12 foot tall letters along my starboard side. I laugh and remind myself to grind that hull plate free of grafitti along Scotties dock bay doors.
Noone in their right mind expects a demigod to be responsible with their powers, especially not the kind of Demigods and goddesses I know.