☼ Wing ☼ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
winged_knight) wrote2015-04-20 12:53 pm
winged_knight) wrote2015-04-20 12:53 pm
Entry tags:
Draft: DH Memoria Event
There was darkness. Only darkness. Or were his optics offline? Like eyes closed to the truth. He doesn't remember what happened last, where he was. He must be safe in his berth right? A simple little courier jet, performing his assigned function like everyone else, a cog in the wheel of this once great society. He was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. The conflict these days? It was between the elite and the oppressed, he had no quarrel. Didn't he? It was someone else's fight, someone with skill and resources and connections.
The war would never touch him, that was something that happened to other people.
Didn't it?
The waking and surreal world continued to do a eerie dance as Wing faded in and out of consciousness, on the edge of stasis lock, until a blinking yellow light cames into his world. After a few seconds, his systems finally rebooted and his HUD came alive, vision filling with a spill of red errors and damage reports. That's when the pain hit him, sensornet awake and alive to agony. And then he heard someone screaming, his own voice, echoing around a small, rock strewn cave.
No...not a cave. Not rock. Plasticrete and metal. The remains of a large building, collapsed around him. Then he remembered the explosion. And the package...the one he delivered. The one with the strange manifest. The manifest he didn't have the skill to detect a forgery, the one he trusted his supervisor who said it was safe. He'd never lie to Wing....
The small space echoed then with a low moan then: despair, regret and pain mingled into one sound, hopeless, feeling not only the weight of countless tons of debris over him but countless lives as well, every spark in that building before it blew...
It's then that he relived parts of his young life: carefree, watching the starships come and go from the Ibex spaceport, dreaming; or simply carrying out his simple life without question, without acting on his doubt, his desire to do more, be more. Wing felt unworthy of it now, not opulent but still a fairer life than some had. Does he even deserve to live now? To fly again?
The light of one yellow optic guttered, illuminating the shipping bay floor beneath his cheek with dying light. And just when he was ready to pass, to give in to that grief and despair, the tick of falling dust and debris roused him again; thin slivers of light breaking through the rubble, growing larger by steps until Wing could hear voices shouting, calling to one another. And then a hand, dark gray with a bright red band, touching his wrist. And a voice from the light, a figure with white plating, brilliant against the darkness...
"Don't give up friend, we'll get you out of here. Don't give up."
The war would never touch him, that was something that happened to other people.
Didn't it?
The waking and surreal world continued to do a eerie dance as Wing faded in and out of consciousness, on the edge of stasis lock, until a blinking yellow light cames into his world. After a few seconds, his systems finally rebooted and his HUD came alive, vision filling with a spill of red errors and damage reports. That's when the pain hit him, sensornet awake and alive to agony. And then he heard someone screaming, his own voice, echoing around a small, rock strewn cave.
No...not a cave. Not rock. Plasticrete and metal. The remains of a large building, collapsed around him. Then he remembered the explosion. And the package...the one he delivered. The one with the strange manifest. The manifest he didn't have the skill to detect a forgery, the one he trusted his supervisor who said it was safe. He'd never lie to Wing....
The small space echoed then with a low moan then: despair, regret and pain mingled into one sound, hopeless, feeling not only the weight of countless tons of debris over him but countless lives as well, every spark in that building before it blew...
It's then that he relived parts of his young life: carefree, watching the starships come and go from the Ibex spaceport, dreaming; or simply carrying out his simple life without question, without acting on his doubt, his desire to do more, be more. Wing felt unworthy of it now, not opulent but still a fairer life than some had. Does he even deserve to live now? To fly again?
The light of one yellow optic guttered, illuminating the shipping bay floor beneath his cheek with dying light. And just when he was ready to pass, to give in to that grief and despair, the tick of falling dust and debris roused him again; thin slivers of light breaking through the rubble, growing larger by steps until Wing could hear voices shouting, calling to one another. And then a hand, dark gray with a bright red band, touching his wrist. And a voice from the light, a figure with white plating, brilliant against the darkness...
"Don't give up friend, we'll get you out of here. Don't give up."