Ep.1.0 - Nomad - closed
Apr 16, 2012 23:01:38 GMT -5
Post by talon on Apr 16, 2012 23:01:38 GMT -5
[Russia: 2100h]
Flickering lights enter his peripheral vision, and then it’s the groaning of metal expanding and the fritz that comes with sparking circuits that flood his senses. His body doesn’t want to move, despite the long drug induced sleep. He’s restless and fatigued, sore and far from recharged. It hasn’t quite hit him either; the ship’s status, his partner; his CPU is still mucking around in fog and struggling to make sense of the stark reality surrounding him. He pushes the restraints from the berth, ignoring them and stumbling up. His numbed head has gathered enough wit to make it to the main control board, but the sporadic text and blipping information lurches him forwards into more confusion.
It doesn’t make sense.
Feeling more apt to move around he shoves himself through the main door. It’s to the dark sky, and a thousand stars that greet him in the open. A harsh wind bursts through; and besides the stars themselves, he’s certain now that his tin bucket of a craft is actually damaged.
Perhaps it’s the cold, or the ship, but his head begins running as usual and he’s back to the main console. The small craft had about 30% of its life still kicking around, structural damage about 40. Right about when he started to figure out where the hell he had landed the craft sent a piercing sound through his audios.
“Slag, I thought we cut you off…” Rookie mistake, the SOS signaled; and now he’d be completely exposed to anyone, ‘anything’ deemed curious enough to catch on. And it wasn’t like the craft was going to pick itself up on its own.
It had been several minutes since the craft had actually crash landed. By that time the craft, or rather, the UFO itself had been identified by local authorities. It would only be a matter of seconds before first-responders would be making their blip on his scanners. Rummaging through the main CPU, those very blips sparked to life, amusing him to some degree.
It’d be the last time he’d set foot in the old rust bucket. Leaving his qualms behind him, Talon took foot in the cold terrain, rolling his shoulders back and setting his visor on. He could see them and the heat that powered these vehicles; but these weren’t Cybertronians, they were lifeless machines.
He pushed himself to respond nonetheless, through the lingering fog that just wouldn’t quit. He took a few steps before transforming, taking to the air and immediately pulling the attention of the jets towards him. Regardless of his predicament he could feel that thrill, the aggressor inside that would rather attack than to wait and adapt. All it took was a missile, gunfire and he’d have the go. So he waited, elevating higher into the sky as they chased him; if they wanted to fight he preferred a larger playing field.
Flickering lights enter his peripheral vision, and then it’s the groaning of metal expanding and the fritz that comes with sparking circuits that flood his senses. His body doesn’t want to move, despite the long drug induced sleep. He’s restless and fatigued, sore and far from recharged. It hasn’t quite hit him either; the ship’s status, his partner; his CPU is still mucking around in fog and struggling to make sense of the stark reality surrounding him. He pushes the restraints from the berth, ignoring them and stumbling up. His numbed head has gathered enough wit to make it to the main control board, but the sporadic text and blipping information lurches him forwards into more confusion.
It doesn’t make sense.
Feeling more apt to move around he shoves himself through the main door. It’s to the dark sky, and a thousand stars that greet him in the open. A harsh wind bursts through; and besides the stars themselves, he’s certain now that his tin bucket of a craft is actually damaged.
Perhaps it’s the cold, or the ship, but his head begins running as usual and he’s back to the main console. The small craft had about 30% of its life still kicking around, structural damage about 40. Right about when he started to figure out where the hell he had landed the craft sent a piercing sound through his audios.
“Slag, I thought we cut you off…” Rookie mistake, the SOS signaled; and now he’d be completely exposed to anyone, ‘anything’ deemed curious enough to catch on. And it wasn’t like the craft was going to pick itself up on its own.
It had been several minutes since the craft had actually crash landed. By that time the craft, or rather, the UFO itself had been identified by local authorities. It would only be a matter of seconds before first-responders would be making their blip on his scanners. Rummaging through the main CPU, those very blips sparked to life, amusing him to some degree.
It’d be the last time he’d set foot in the old rust bucket. Leaving his qualms behind him, Talon took foot in the cold terrain, rolling his shoulders back and setting his visor on. He could see them and the heat that powered these vehicles; but these weren’t Cybertronians, they were lifeless machines.
He pushed himself to respond nonetheless, through the lingering fog that just wouldn’t quit. He took a few steps before transforming, taking to the air and immediately pulling the attention of the jets towards him. Regardless of his predicament he could feel that thrill, the aggressor inside that would rather attack than to wait and adapt. All it took was a missile, gunfire and he’d have the go. So he waited, elevating higher into the sky as they chased him; if they wanted to fight he preferred a larger playing field.