@catsxcradle
in hollywood, when the hero wakes up surrounded by danger, they dash into action. emerging strong even without a mind to where they are-- chin jutted out towards the world in a demand that they try and take this powerful human down. and hollywood isn’t a basis for reality. taylor knows bullshit when she sees it, the cute kid who throws popcorn at a movie screen until she gets kicked out. but, fuck. she wakes up surrounded by screaming machinery and the smell of smoke. no straps holding her in because there was no time ( not with colby screaming and space swallowing ) before the sheer g’s sent taylor’s mind into a blur. and this. this isn’t hollywood. no effects that can be turned off, no fake fires. sweat sheens across her face as she flails her limbs with a mad fear, the ieva suit leaving her sluggish, a trap of a body for her adrenaline drunk mind as she forces herself to sit the fuck UP. no room to stand. not with the emergency pod on her side like this, blood red lights flashing wildly to the beast of some automated message. sounds like EMERGENCY, sounds more like GET OUT NOW.
taylor’s hands tremble, but the ieva stays steady. one incredible miracle of engineering, draws hysterical laughter as she tries to punch in the right code once. twice. a third time forgetful before she manages it and shoves the emergency hatch door out of her way. those hands only steady to drag her out, falling in a messy tumble onto the powdered ice and rock beneath.
and from there? oh, what FROM THERE could she have? laughter shaking her system until her sore throat is aching, turning laughter into chest goring sobs that smear snot and tears across the inside of her helmet. curled so tight across an unknown ground-- from far above, there would be no sign of her. another smear of white across a sickly snow and charcoal colored moon that chokes smoke into its atmosphere from close, too close to her. one, lonely, insignificant spec upon a wasteland. or so taylor’s mind whispers, reels. until she had run out of tears to cry and is left dry heaving her scorched trauma across the plastic meant to supply vision.
too smeared for anything, now. taylor fumbles. presses until the right button raises her visor up with a sudden hiss of releasing pressure.
she should move. could, feels the urge in her bones before it settles where her mind cannot grasp. managing only to sit up with her back leaned across raised earth and the cooling frame of emergency pod three.
swallowing aches past sore tissues, lumps. no thinking about the other pods, not yet. not now. she clenches her teeth until her breathing has become a steady passage of inwards, outwards. until she swears she can see more than the blur of her puffed and bloodshot eyes.
one button switched, comms activating into life.
“emergency mode.” taylor croaks. stomach knotting tighter with an affirmative beep ringing through her skull. all there exists left to do-- is talk.
( do not think about how far you message can get, or how long before it falls into a deaf nothingness. )
[ INCOMING COMMUNICATIONS ]
[ RECEIVING TRANSMISSION ]
>> Hello? Hello-- I-- is anyone out there? >> Can you hear me? >> If anyone can hear me, please respond.
