did they tell you i'm the devil? acid trap, day 3.
Mar 17, 2022 16:14:01 GMT -5
Post by nolan goode 10m / kaitlin. on Mar 17, 2022 16:14:01 GMT -5
There's something about the feeling of lifting up your mechanical bear paw and standing on your haunches in that dark cavern that holds you by the throat. You feel like Hell brought forth in a creature, you shadow turned girl. Metallic paw lifted, you unload a spiked cannon ball from your mech point blank, feet planted on the stone. The momentum of the thing is heavy, pushes back on the suit's shoulder and you have to manually steady yourself.
That one is fun.
You're going to use the cannons again.
The cannon burrows through flesh and the head sloughs to one side, held by untorn muscle that doesn't have the strength to hold it for long. You shout a loud hurrah type of celebration, adrenaline and giddiness over another battle won making home in your chest.
But then—Wes fades.
It's the only word to put to the way his voice peters out on the end. If you were a shadow in another life, he was a flame, flickering on into eternity, and it's like someone's blown the wick out the way he speaks over the comms. Your eyes snap to his mech, see through the space into the control center and watch his eyes close, body slumping forward.
The blood has coated his chest.
Girl who brought the devil to the arena, you know better than anyone that what makes a place feel like Hell is the expectation that it should feel any differently. Expectation is the real enemy.
So why does it feel like all the air has left the room seeing Wes bleeding out?
"Eleven," you snap at him over the proximity chat, turning your mech away from the dead corpse you were going to loot and lumbering over to his. "Eleven," you hiss when you are a few feet away from him again, this time even sharper, before maneuvering out of your own suit. You climb out the top, feet planted on the neck, and jump down to the roof of his. You have to pry it open with your fingers, feel nails catch and snap a little before you shoot your hand in through the viewing part and press the button to unlock it yourself.
You drop down, legs on either side of his waist, and slap him across the face.
"Wake up," you say, grab at your first aid supplies and wrap bandages around the wound gaping in his throat. Eyes looking around the chamber, you don't have enough supplies to fully handle this. Teeth grit, mouth a flat line, "you have to hold that there."
And you press the eject button, dragging him out by the arm pits.
That one is fun.
You're going to use the cannons again.
The cannon burrows through flesh and the head sloughs to one side, held by untorn muscle that doesn't have the strength to hold it for long. You shout a loud hurrah type of celebration, adrenaline and giddiness over another battle won making home in your chest.
But then—Wes fades.
It's the only word to put to the way his voice peters out on the end. If you were a shadow in another life, he was a flame, flickering on into eternity, and it's like someone's blown the wick out the way he speaks over the comms. Your eyes snap to his mech, see through the space into the control center and watch his eyes close, body slumping forward.
The blood has coated his chest.
Girl who brought the devil to the arena, you know better than anyone that what makes a place feel like Hell is the expectation that it should feel any differently. Expectation is the real enemy.
So why does it feel like all the air has left the room seeing Wes bleeding out?
"Eleven," you snap at him over the proximity chat, turning your mech away from the dead corpse you were going to loot and lumbering over to his. "Eleven," you hiss when you are a few feet away from him again, this time even sharper, before maneuvering out of your own suit. You climb out the top, feet planted on the neck, and jump down to the roof of his. You have to pry it open with your fingers, feel nails catch and snap a little before you shoot your hand in through the viewing part and press the button to unlock it yourself.
You drop down, legs on either side of his waist, and slap him across the face.
"Wake up," you say, grab at your first aid supplies and wrap bandages around the wound gaping in his throat. Eyes looking around the chamber, you don't have enough supplies to fully handle this. Teeth grit, mouth a flat line, "you have to hold that there."
And you press the eject button, dragging him out by the arm pits.
