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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
3.22 m
Wingspan
2.56 m
Weight
108.53 kg
Genetics
Abyss
Basic
Basic
Jade
Noxtide
Noxtide
Tan
Underbelly
Underbelly
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 1 Spiral
EXP: 0 / 245
STR
7
AGI
6
DEF
7
QCK
6
INT
6
VIT
6
MND
7
Lineage
Parents
- none
Offspring
- none
Biography
|
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PYHA__ pie-yah |
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GUARDIAN OF THE STATIC
He hears a transmission from above...
Piercing and frantic like a final call for help...
LOADING FILE...
DOWNLOADING TRANSMISSION (1/6)...
WARNING: Multiple files appear damaged or corrupt. Proceed with download?
Repairing...
System message received. Status as follows: you have to help us you have to help us you have to help us you have...
Playing...
. . .
. .
.
She crawls out of the wreckage, gasping for breath. It had failed, it had failed, her work was all for naught. Nobody could hear them, they were trapped, they are doomed. She pulls herself free and rolls over on her back, clutching the controller with as strong of a grip as she could muster. Sparks crackle around her, frayed wires tossing up deadly volts. The pain from the crash halts her attempts to stand, so she drags the control panel to a safer place, untouched by rain.
Mayday, mayday, mayday...
She does not think about the crew. They are merely messengers now. She does not think about the lone gold-scaled hand that lays a short distance away, pinned under wreckage. It has outlived its usefulness, and she considers it an alarm, instead.
Distant thunder. Rain padding on muddy ground. The guardian of the clay seemed to have already left, driven away by their cannonfire, though it had already taken enough victims. The guardian of the flame left soon after it triggered the explosion, though unable to take her as well. Once the rain began to fall, she knew who was coming next. It smells the dead.
She holds her breath, propping herself up beneath the cannons. One was bent in half, broken and partially submerged in the smoldering ground. The other pointed forward, but the hissing and flickers of light suggested a deeper issue within. These cannons were no longer distance fighters. They were bombs.
Frantic beeping from the alarms inside, sirens wailing, a cough. She had spent so long studying these things. She had spent so long collecting as much information on them as she could. And when she learned that they sought nothing but the desert's destruction, she had spent so long compiling what she could into a desperate transmission to the outside world. Help, anyone. Come to the desert. Rescue us.
She waits. The rain soaks and dampens the fires outside the wreckage. She swears she hears movement from inside. But she waits, steadfast, knowing the timing had to be just perfect, knowing she could not hesitate. She had one chance. It would be brief, it would be risky, but to fight back against the things that had taken so much from her... she considers it worthwhile.
The hand twitches in front of her, nails scratching the soil. She is not alarmed. She was more alarmed when she learned that her transmissions only echoed endlessly back at her. She was more alarmed when the guardians seemed to take notice and hunt her and her crew down ruthlessly. She was more alarmed when she was hit with the realization that the outside world, anywhere beyond this desert, could not hear them. The transmissions only bounced back against an invisible barrier, and she, too...
The hand then begins to seize. She watches, finger readied on the button, control panel tucked protectively in her lap, as it jerks and scrabbles awkwardly, before falling limp. But the lightning grows closer, and with each loud, piercing bolt, the nerves reactivate, the hand comes alive, and it begins to crawl.
The lightning is deafening and bright. She sees it with her eyes closed.
She holds still. Feels her own body jolt ever so slightly with each bolt of lightning, coming in rhythmic succession. Her eye twitches, her jaw clenches, her leg kicks, but she is strong, for as long as she can be, while the lightning is still far. She watches as the hand drags itself past her, into the wreckage.
The alarms suddenly cut off and the lights from inside die. Nothing but rain and thunder.
And from inside, she hears a familiar voice. The voice of her crewmate, the orange-furred one, the kind one with the subtle accent and slight pitch at the end of their sentences. In a voice, so much like theirs, but with no accent, no pitch, they rattle, “Gghhhh... do not... fight...”
She closes her eyes. She hears dragging, she hears soft yelps and gasps in their breathing in time with the lightning, as nerves seize and twitch, and her own contract uncomfortably. The lightning is closer. It travels through the ground, into their bodies. She still must wait. The guardian of the static has a long reach, but it is not here, not yet.
Another voice joins them. He had a thick blue mane, and he sucks in a low, gasping breath before speaking. “Come inside. We do not... have to continue. If you tell others... they will harm us...”
The lightning is closer. With each bolt, she feels the sharp sting of electricity. She knows it is not her crew speaking. It is coming closer. It will inhabit their bodies to fully control them. It will be right next to the cannons...
She readies herself. “Mark,” she says, to nobody in particular, but she presses the button.
And the gold-scaled individual speaks, the hand far out of sight, but judging by the dragging sound of all three crewmates, is also coming back outside. “Call off the mission... my friend. We don’t need help. It’s impossible to leave... you are safe... if you do not provoke them...”
“Ready,” she says. The second button press is waiting. The cannons behind her, from somewhere deep in the metal, begin to charge. A low, whirring noise, growing in pitch and speed.
“I know you wanted... to bring in help. But do you not... foresee the consequences?”
They grow louder. The lightning cracks, one more time, right in front of her. It is loud, it causes her whole body to jerk, but the last of the electricity dissipates into the ground, under her, behind her, inside them.
“They’d kill the guardians. We’d have no protection... the guardians keep the desert safe. You don't know... what the outside is like...”
“Aim,” she whispers. There is nothing to aim at. One cannon points to the ground, one cannon is broken from within. They aim at their own destruction.
“Agghhh. Come... back in. Come to us. You have nothing to fear."
She hears footsteps. Six individual footsteps, crawling, shambling, running, with synchronized beats of electricity. She feels the crackle of energy around her, the cling of her hair and clothes held by static, and she presses the button before they rush out at her. She does not want to see them, in their sorry state, in their falsely revived state, kept animate only by the electricity pounding through their nerves. But it’s in there with them, the terrible thing, the guardian whose name she does not know.
And it suddenly realizes what she’s doing, and it leaps from their bodies, a ball of blinding blue spark warped into some incomprehensible form, and the crew falls limp to the ground, as they should be, as they should remain. But it is too late. The guardian tries to shoot back into the sky, a deafening crack trying to connect it back to the clouds, a low scream, but it is followed by a gentle whisper of her own, and then a louder explosion of a failed and volatile experiment.
“Fire.”
.
. .
. . .
In the distance, thunder still rolls, lightning still crashes, and the rain dampens the smoke from the crashsite.
However endlessly echoed they may be, the transmissions persist. The guardians stop listening, it is background noise. The residents of the desert comment on the incredible lightning storm, and forget. Several are presumed missing, and search parties later disband. The crashsite is eventually swallowed by dunes and years pass. Some taste the bitterness of a battle lost, but most never know of a battle.
But the transmissions persist. And despite her parting words, when he hears them for the first time, he learns her mission was a success. She asked for help. And he would do his best. He rubs at his face for a moment, taking a slow breath, and listens to the next transmission.
... and the sound of rain plays until the batteries die.
white ball
art by RubyZoisite <3
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