(no subject)
VERSE: canon
WORD COUNT: 514
You never wanted to fight in this war.
Yet here you are, on the field of battle, fighting desperately for your world because you were ordered to. You never travelled far, you never met your opponents in all your years; you know they are called Daleks, and you know that you cannot show them mercy. You do as you are told, and you fight on the front lines. Death isn't anything new to you by now.
So it comes as no surprise when your twelveth body fails. You simply resign to your fate as you drop to your knees and your body explodes into lights - blues and greens, with traces of golds; you always liked watching your regenerations, they were always pretty in their own way. Your body changes and renews and you are once more alive as a new man.
You try to surge to your feet and take your gun, but the explosion of energy has left you weak, and you drop to your hands. Your lungs gasp at the air and the first thing you smell in this body is a combination of blood, of rot, of ash. The first breath in your lungs is filled with smoke, and you cough violently. Silently, you thank every deity you know of that you'll never have to have those things be your body's first experience again.
You look around for one of your allies; one of the other Time Lords fighting out on the front with you. You need time, enough time to let your body acclimate, let it adjust to all the new quirks and movements that come with it. You can't fight yet, though your mind screams at you to obey orders, to stand and fight. You're lucky. A hand touches your shoulder, then another on your chest, and you are guided to your feet.
It's Kessethakosinate, a young Time Lord you befriended when he was still in his third - though now he is in his sixth. "Come on, Devin," he says to you as he tests to see if you can stand. You can't, so he puts one of your arms over his broad shoulders. His sixth is so different from his third, you notice as thoughts tumble through your head. He was a pole in his third, and now he's more like a mountain. You're thankful for it, he might've snapped if he tried this back then.
"Kesseth?" you ask. Your voice is soft, and it sounds as if it is clogged with ash. "How long do you think this'll last?"
He doesn't look at you, but you know what he's thinking. He's thinking you won't see the end of this war, and that soon you'll be dead. You've heard rumours the Council has taken the regeneration limit off, that thirteen is no longer a sign of death to come, but you can't quite believe that. It seems too easy, too dangerous. You don't believe in the easy way out anymore, and in a way, that knowledge hurts.
Then you sigh, close your eyes, and wait for everything to finally come to it's eventual end.
WORD COUNT: 514
You never wanted to fight in this war.
Yet here you are, on the field of battle, fighting desperately for your world because you were ordered to. You never travelled far, you never met your opponents in all your years; you know they are called Daleks, and you know that you cannot show them mercy. You do as you are told, and you fight on the front lines. Death isn't anything new to you by now.
So it comes as no surprise when your twelveth body fails. You simply resign to your fate as you drop to your knees and your body explodes into lights - blues and greens, with traces of golds; you always liked watching your regenerations, they were always pretty in their own way. Your body changes and renews and you are once more alive as a new man.
You try to surge to your feet and take your gun, but the explosion of energy has left you weak, and you drop to your hands. Your lungs gasp at the air and the first thing you smell in this body is a combination of blood, of rot, of ash. The first breath in your lungs is filled with smoke, and you cough violently. Silently, you thank every deity you know of that you'll never have to have those things be your body's first experience again.
You look around for one of your allies; one of the other Time Lords fighting out on the front with you. You need time, enough time to let your body acclimate, let it adjust to all the new quirks and movements that come with it. You can't fight yet, though your mind screams at you to obey orders, to stand and fight. You're lucky. A hand touches your shoulder, then another on your chest, and you are guided to your feet.
It's Kessethakosinate, a young Time Lord you befriended when he was still in his third - though now he is in his sixth. "Come on, Devin," he says to you as he tests to see if you can stand. You can't, so he puts one of your arms over his broad shoulders. His sixth is so different from his third, you notice as thoughts tumble through your head. He was a pole in his third, and now he's more like a mountain. You're thankful for it, he might've snapped if he tried this back then.
"Kesseth?" you ask. Your voice is soft, and it sounds as if it is clogged with ash. "How long do you think this'll last?"
He doesn't look at you, but you know what he's thinking. He's thinking you won't see the end of this war, and that soon you'll be dead. You've heard rumours the Council has taken the regeneration limit off, that thirteen is no longer a sign of death to come, but you can't quite believe that. It seems too easy, too dangerous. You don't believe in the easy way out anymore, and in a way, that knowledge hurts.
Then you sigh, close your eyes, and wait for everything to finally come to it's eventual end.