[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Repurpose and Evaluate [Closed]
Dec 17, 2021 20:57:14 GMT -5
Post by Patch on Dec 17, 2021 20:57:14 GMT -5
A staggered gasp was taken in through empty vents. Surprised and frightened as her optics suddenly blew dazedly awake and flooded with a wash of blue light. Her helm reared back as though something was reaching to touch it, her frame ungracefully pressing back into the wall. Sound came out as she invented again, a sudden wash of needed cold flooding her frame alongside consciousness, along with pain and panic.
There was a body against hers.
There was something in her neck, something large and sharp, her chest ached. Another set of spasmed ventilations -these overtop of the first gentle words- that swiftly turned to flat out crying. Gritted, girlish crying as her wounds tensed, her arms drew tight behind her against the shackles, though the rest of her stayed limp beneath Flatline’s weight.
She was hyperventilating- it wasn’t even cooling her core properly; but she couldn’t slow it down. Stifled by the shards, and the chains her legs writhed, then curled, and drew together. Her ventilations interrupted by squeaks, or shortened, stifled moans of genuine pain, and… terror, bluntly.
Perhaps if he had been harsher she would have thrashed harder. Her frame went to do so, the back of her processor bit at her to try… But he wasn’t hurting her. He was helping, in fact- he was speaking softly. Not pressing her down with force, nor asking the vehicon to do so, rather keeping her steady, and steadying himself.
Her helm relaxed down as the boiling sob lowered back down to a simmering set of huffs.
As she felt the infuser leave her line, Patch tried to tie her breaths back down. Shaky invents shoved back out as she heard the grit of broken up metal against the inside of her own. She was on the ground in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people in an immense amount of pain. Even without the worry of whatever would come next- this was a very scary scenario to be the center of.
The lack of threat of eminent torture… Really only let this land more solidly for Patch.
As the energon met her lines- as she regained mental faculties, it seemed it finally dawned on the femme just how desperate her situation currently was...
The pain was more noticeable, the dark, more noticeable- the binders on her wrists now taking every inch of her mind that wasn’t already buzzing on the pain, or the stranger in front of her, touching her, touching her wounds, putting drugs in her lines, changing -even if for the better- the layout of internal mechanisms.
She couldn’t stop.
She couldn’t Make It Stop.
Not this place. Not her bleeding. Not her pain.
Not her breathing.
Patch knew what happened when people got taken.
She’d dressed the frames. Washed them, mended the wounds enough for friends to mourn. There was sometimes so little left- and those that survived…
This notion was sharply interrupted as something shifted in her leg.
Her helm cocked down harshly, optics wide and terrified as she caught a glance of the medic with a thumb in her wound. The leg tensed up on instinct- perhaps part of the reason he slipped. It didn’t hurt nearly enough, no, not as much as it should have- but it was still alarming to say the least.
She grit her teeth and looked up and away, groaning- all but growling as she forced herself still against every instinct in her frame. Her whole chassis shook with the huffs that escaped the last bit of the sound. It was mind over matter, that was all. She didn’t wanna die- he wasn’t killing her NOW. In fact he was stopping her. She had to LET him… Whether she liked it or not.
“Please be gentle-...”
Perhaps meant as some sort of sly joke in her head- though it came out so much more sincere than intended. So much more pathetic. She was all but begging in this, in fact, the phrase whispered through denta and tears in pain. Not as a correction, not in the slightest, but rather a desperate request to continue.
There was a body against hers.
There was something in her neck, something large and sharp, her chest ached. Another set of spasmed ventilations -these overtop of the first gentle words- that swiftly turned to flat out crying. Gritted, girlish crying as her wounds tensed, her arms drew tight behind her against the shackles, though the rest of her stayed limp beneath Flatline’s weight.
She was hyperventilating- it wasn’t even cooling her core properly; but she couldn’t slow it down. Stifled by the shards, and the chains her legs writhed, then curled, and drew together. Her ventilations interrupted by squeaks, or shortened, stifled moans of genuine pain, and… terror, bluntly.
Perhaps if he had been harsher she would have thrashed harder. Her frame went to do so, the back of her processor bit at her to try… But he wasn’t hurting her. He was helping, in fact- he was speaking softly. Not pressing her down with force, nor asking the vehicon to do so, rather keeping her steady, and steadying himself.
Her helm relaxed down as the boiling sob lowered back down to a simmering set of huffs.
As she felt the infuser leave her line, Patch tried to tie her breaths back down. Shaky invents shoved back out as she heard the grit of broken up metal against the inside of her own. She was on the ground in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by unfamiliar people in an immense amount of pain. Even without the worry of whatever would come next- this was a very scary scenario to be the center of.
The lack of threat of eminent torture… Really only let this land more solidly for Patch.
As the energon met her lines- as she regained mental faculties, it seemed it finally dawned on the femme just how desperate her situation currently was...
The pain was more noticeable, the dark, more noticeable- the binders on her wrists now taking every inch of her mind that wasn’t already buzzing on the pain, or the stranger in front of her, touching her, touching her wounds, putting drugs in her lines, changing -even if for the better- the layout of internal mechanisms.
She couldn’t stop.
She couldn’t Make It Stop.
Not this place. Not her bleeding. Not her pain.
Not her breathing.
Patch knew what happened when people got taken.
She’d dressed the frames. Washed them, mended the wounds enough for friends to mourn. There was sometimes so little left- and those that survived…
This notion was sharply interrupted as something shifted in her leg.
Her helm cocked down harshly, optics wide and terrified as she caught a glance of the medic with a thumb in her wound. The leg tensed up on instinct- perhaps part of the reason he slipped. It didn’t hurt nearly enough, no, not as much as it should have- but it was still alarming to say the least.
She grit her teeth and looked up and away, groaning- all but growling as she forced herself still against every instinct in her frame. Her whole chassis shook with the huffs that escaped the last bit of the sound. It was mind over matter, that was all. She didn’t wanna die- he wasn’t killing her NOW. In fact he was stopping her. She had to LET him… Whether she liked it or not.
“Please be gentle-...”
Perhaps meant as some sort of sly joke in her head- though it came out so much more sincere than intended. So much more pathetic. She was all but begging in this, in fact, the phrase whispered through denta and tears in pain. Not as a correction, not in the slightest, but rather a desperate request to continue.