Drift (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
positiveenergy) wrote2014-10-25 06:03 pm
positiveenergy) wrote2014-10-25 06:03 pm
(no subject)
It’s a distant, and soft tapping noise from somewhere across the ship that pulls Drift back into consciousness. Cold, blue darkness is the first sight to greet his optics, but he can still feel the familiar weight of corpses resting against either side of his body. The sensation of cold metal sends a chill through his systems, but offers a strange reassurance in knowing that nothing’s been disturbed. All this time, and he still can’t place the identities of any who lay beside him…although their presences alone have been ones of constant companionship ever since the days began slipping past him. He’d tried keeping track of the hours at first, as a menial task to stay occupied, but sleep had reined him in again and again, and any sense of time had long fled.
Awakening now, his own body is rigid and weak, but still displaying small signs of a struggle to stay functioning – soft whirring sounds made louder by the heavy silence huddled around him.
The new noise returns again and breaks the quiet spell - muffled by the maze of hallways and walls surrounding him, but it’s one that’s distinct enough for him to recognize in an instant. Footsteps. A sound that wasn’t meant to pass through the corridors of the ship any longer, and one that Drift had never imagined he’d hear again.
It’s almost surprising that the implications of the noises don’t strike any fear into his spark, but at most it’s…unsettling. Or disruptive even.
Drift reaches the remains of his greatsword – fingers clutching shakily around the hilt and lifting it off the ground. The tip of the weapon had been dulled and blunted, and lower half of the blade is coated in scratches from use as a makeshift cane. Needless to say, fighting wouldn’t do much good now. And running? Pointless. His left leg had been severed just above the knee – marked with a jagged, unclean cut. Wires spilled out from the wound and onto the ground – laying in a pool of energon staining the floor. The rest of the limb had grown cold and numb, and his remaining leg still aches from having to compensate for the loss. Almost distantly, Drift wonders why he’s contemplating the options at all, but they come to him on an instinctive level now.
The hilt of the sword slips out of his fingers as a shudder passes through him – the blade drops to the ground and causes a sharp, loud clanging sound to reverberate throughout the hall. Drift flinches as it falls, and any remaining will to fight freezes in his spark – stunted as he listens to the sound bounce across the walls. He shutters his optics and sinks lower to the ground – falling in beside the other bodies littering the floor, and straining his audials to listen for signs of the footsteps.
Awakening now, his own body is rigid and weak, but still displaying small signs of a struggle to stay functioning – soft whirring sounds made louder by the heavy silence huddled around him.
The new noise returns again and breaks the quiet spell - muffled by the maze of hallways and walls surrounding him, but it’s one that’s distinct enough for him to recognize in an instant. Footsteps. A sound that wasn’t meant to pass through the corridors of the ship any longer, and one that Drift had never imagined he’d hear again.
It’s almost surprising that the implications of the noises don’t strike any fear into his spark, but at most it’s…unsettling. Or disruptive even.
Drift reaches the remains of his greatsword – fingers clutching shakily around the hilt and lifting it off the ground. The tip of the weapon had been dulled and blunted, and lower half of the blade is coated in scratches from use as a makeshift cane. Needless to say, fighting wouldn’t do much good now. And running? Pointless. His left leg had been severed just above the knee – marked with a jagged, unclean cut. Wires spilled out from the wound and onto the ground – laying in a pool of energon staining the floor. The rest of the limb had grown cold and numb, and his remaining leg still aches from having to compensate for the loss. Almost distantly, Drift wonders why he’s contemplating the options at all, but they come to him on an instinctive level now.
The hilt of the sword slips out of his fingers as a shudder passes through him – the blade drops to the ground and causes a sharp, loud clanging sound to reverberate throughout the hall. Drift flinches as it falls, and any remaining will to fight freezes in his spark – stunted as he listens to the sound bounce across the walls. He shutters his optics and sinks lower to the ground – falling in beside the other bodies littering the floor, and straining his audials to listen for signs of the footsteps.