Author's note: This story is based off a collaboration that I, Bartimaeus, Stovohobo, and Kermitgorf took part in on Ficlets with the same name. Im going to use all/part of their ideas in this story, but Im mainly going to write it how I imagine the story to go. Feel free to jump in if you get a sudden stroke of inspiration.(Im new btw, please forgive any mistakes because I dont quite know how to use Protagonize yet)
..:x%^:Begin Analysis:Subject Status:Concious. Running Diagnostics. Bone Structures:Minor Fracture in Left Clavicle,Fractures in 6 Ribs,Minor Fracture in Left Tibia.Circulatory System:Fully Functional,Heartbeat Elevated. Possible Causes:Fatigue, Shock, Extreme Trauma, Panic.Digestive System:Fully Functional.Respitory System:90% Functional.Causes:Sand Inhalation,Chronic Smoke Inhalation,Blunt Trauma.Nervous System:Fully Functional. Mental State:Unknown, Presumed Clinically Sane, Subject Recommended for Psychological Analyisis. Diagnostic Test Result:Subject Rated at 95% Effectivness.:End Analysis:^%x:..
The man stirs on the cot groggily; it creaks beneath him as if trying to wake him up like an alarm clock. He comes to and his eyes flutter open cautiously. His pupils dilate and he reaches reflexivly for a gun that is no longer there. Panic grips him and a cold sweat breaks out, instantly absorbed by his sandy blanket. He thrashes about for a few seconds while trying to get his bearings while the robotic assistant withdraws into the shadows.
The man glances about the small command bunker frantically as his breathing finally slowes and returns to normal. He stops sweating and his eyes adjust to the light as he tries to swing himself over the edge of the cot. He sways briefly and grabs a nearby medicine rack for support. His gown flutters about him momentarily and he mutters something about not having the right clothes. He spies his uniform draped across a chair across the room and he heads towards the chair. He quickly dresses into the tattered old uniform and briefly brushes it down to remove the thin layer of sand that encrusts everything. He sighs in contentment as the memory material molds itself perfectly to his form, its light weight comforting after the airiness of the hospital gown. The sweat and blood stains that drape across the material like an abstract painting seem to have no effect on him at all.
He mills about the room for a brief while, taking a drink from the sink in the room and examining the small pile of possesions that lie next to the bed. He pockets them all, but he laments the absence of a weapon. He sits down on the chair and waits for the doctor to come by on his rounds.
Suddenly, an explosion rocks the quiet serenity of the bunker and the floor rumbles loudly. The man leaps out of the chair as dust falls ominously to the ground. Suddenly a voice crackles on the intercom above the door,"Captain Andrews, please report to the Command Deck, Captain Andrews to the Command Deck immediatly."
The man glances down at his chest and sees Duke Andrews plastered across it and shakes his head warily.
"Great", he mutters and runs through the open door.