Hey, azysapphy, I have a WakeJumper for you!
Sorry this is a day late. I wanted to have it up last night but I got yoinked away for a few hours and by the time I got home I wasn't able to get back on the computer.
Anyway, I was a bit stumped on what to write for you. I love the song that you picked but honestly I have never really been able to make much sense of it. I hope you don't mind that I just picked one line that leaped out at me and ran with it. This probably isn't what you had in mind, and I probably butchered your character, but I hope you like it anyway? ;-;
The other night I dreamt of knives.
WakeJumper jolted from recharge with a strangled cry. Struggling to break free from the lingering nightmare the mech stumbled from his berth and over to the door, slamming his palm into the switch located next to it, flooding the room with light. His intakes wheezed with the effort to draw in air and cool his overheated systems as he sagged against the wall and closed his optics. The medic had thought, hoped, that he had outgrown the night terrors that plagued him when he was younger. Now, as he unconsciously ran a hand over the ragged grooves that marred a portion of his chest armor, a souvenir from his recent run in with a Decepticon, he grudgingly accepted the reality that nightmares had no concept of or respect for age.
The dreams always followed a formula. Sure, the cast of characters and the settings often differed, but in the end the nightmares were all essentially the same. Each one depicted an atrocity of war, and more often than not his subconscious added layers of unneeded horror by incorporating his personal experiences into the scenario. They forced him to relive his darkest moments and deepest fears. The death of his parents and the destruction of his home; the loss of every close friend or friendly acquaintance to the hand of a Con; the numerous ways those closest to him could be taken away. This last nightmare had been no different.
Shaking his head WakeJumper forced the phantoms back into confinement. He knew that they were likely to resurface the next time he entered into another vicious battle, but such was life. The key was to know how to move on and continue living. There were so many things that made life worth living, things that outweighed the dreadfulness of war and even the heavy weight of fear. Reaching over to turn down the lights again the medic dragged himself back over to his berth, repeating that statement to himself over and over again as he began to power down into recharge. Perhaps this time he would be able to sleep without being reminded that another day would bring with it the possibility that he would once more feel the wicked claws of a Con ripping through his armor.
Anyway, I was a bit stumped on what to write for you. I love the song that you picked but honestly I have never really been able to make much sense of it. I hope you don't mind that I just picked one line that leaped out at me and ran with it. This probably isn't what you had in mind, and I probably butchered your character, but I hope you like it anyway? ;-;
The other night I dreamt of knives.
WakeJumper jolted from recharge with a strangled cry. Struggling to break free from the lingering nightmare the mech stumbled from his berth and over to the door, slamming his palm into the switch located next to it, flooding the room with light. His intakes wheezed with the effort to draw in air and cool his overheated systems as he sagged against the wall and closed his optics. The medic had thought, hoped, that he had outgrown the night terrors that plagued him when he was younger. Now, as he unconsciously ran a hand over the ragged grooves that marred a portion of his chest armor, a souvenir from his recent run in with a Decepticon, he grudgingly accepted the reality that nightmares had no concept of or respect for age.
The dreams always followed a formula. Sure, the cast of characters and the settings often differed, but in the end the nightmares were all essentially the same. Each one depicted an atrocity of war, and more often than not his subconscious added layers of unneeded horror by incorporating his personal experiences into the scenario. They forced him to relive his darkest moments and deepest fears. The death of his parents and the destruction of his home; the loss of every close friend or friendly acquaintance to the hand of a Con; the numerous ways those closest to him could be taken away. This last nightmare had been no different.
Shaking his head WakeJumper forced the phantoms back into confinement. He knew that they were likely to resurface the next time he entered into another vicious battle, but such was life. The key was to know how to move on and continue living. There were so many things that made life worth living, things that outweighed the dreadfulness of war and even the heavy weight of fear. Reaching over to turn down the lights again the medic dragged himself back over to his berth, repeating that statement to himself over and over again as he began to power down into recharge. Perhaps this time he would be able to sleep without being reminded that another day would bring with it the possibility that he would once more feel the wicked claws of a Con ripping through his armor.