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PostPosted: Mon Sep 20, '10, 2:15 pm
Reviews
Taken during his reflections while on-board DSS Aeroprism.

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His breathing was laboured and filled with pain, each breath escaped as a vaporous cloud before being stolen away by the dark cold of the surrounding room. Dark and cold. It was all he had known for the past two years locked up in prison. That was before the Bio-Monster attack three days ago. Three days and, somehow, he was still alive.
By now he knew there was no chance of a rescue. Not that he had hoped for one to begin with. He was, after all, in a military prison in a remote part of Dezoris. Not exactly an important facility. Most of the inmates here were sentenced to life in this hell hole.

Just like he was.

In the three days since the attack he hadn’t heard or seen any sign of any other survivors, guardsman or prisoner alike. If he was to escape he was going to have to continue alone, fighting his way out as he had been doing for three days. But how long would it take to escape and would he survive that long? Judging by his current state, he didn’t have much time left.
Along his right arm was a deep gash running from shoulder to elbow and bleeding heavily, the muscles shredded and nerves damaged. A clawed Bio-Monster had given it to him earlier, but not before he’d driven a knife deep into its skull. A shotgun was gripped in his left hand. He had found it on the first day of the attack in a small armoury. Weapons were rarely needed in such a place so the armoury was stocked with fairly low tech weaponry. But it would do against Bio-Monsters. He’d taken a guard’s uniform too, at first just to help him get by any guards he expected to meet while trying to escape but now he needed it if he was going to survive at all. Prison threads weren’t suitable for fighting or enduring the Dezorian climate. The armour he wore was battered and scarred but he had no idea how much of it had been made while he was wearing it.

He felt another lance of pain in his arm and he had to resist the urge to touch the wound. No matter how much he shrugged off the pain the fact remained that his right arm was useless for firing a weapon and even if he could hold it properly with his left hand, firing a shotgun with one hand while surrounded by Bio-Monsters was a bad idea, no matter how dire the situation. But he wasn’t just going to die without a fight, but how could he fight if he couldn’t even fire his weapon? Taking them on with his bare fists was suicidal and he hadn’t had time to retrieve his knife from the corpse of his last foe before more monsters arrived. A growling outside the door drove this fact home. So here he was, wounded and unable to heal himself, alone in the dark cold of one of the worst places in the universe and unable to even fight for the life which he was about to lose. The despair overwhelmed him and he slumped to the ground, dropping his weapon, and sobbed.

“How did it come to this? How could I not have learned any techniques? How the hell did I get here in the first place?!”

In his desperate anger he pounded his fist into the cold metal floor shuddered in a combination of helplessness and frustration. Something clattered on the floor next to him, the sound surprising him. He sat back against the wall and picked it up, gazing at it in the palm of his hand, recognising it as the small green and white crystal he had carried with him since he was twelve years old, no bigger than the tip of his thumb. A gift from a dear friend. He continued to gaze almost longingly at it, memories coming back to him and taking him away from his prison.
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