Murder Drones - Model Mix-up

Heartbeat - Broken Mirrors

The dark, snowy night skies cast an even darker shadow under the protection of the Corpse Tower. The landing pod centerpiece stands haphazardly within the surrounding scrapyard, supported by its four legs dug into the terrain. Nearby, Z is found hanging from an outcrop in the ceiling by her tail, wings wrapped around herself like a cocoon. However, she's slightly moving, almost as if dreaming. Perhaps she is.

Within the skewed interior of the pod, J remains bound to one of the chairs in the control room, held down by three chains bolted to the ground. A metal collar clings tightly around her neck, while the manacles bore into her wrist joints. She's slow to start this evening and is hardly conscious enough to recognize her bindings. Her mind is elsewhere.

What a strange dream to have. It felt fabricated. That... odd sensation that'd run through her, placing her hand against the cheek of that... that Worker. Was that Z? They look similar. Same eyes, same voice, same...

Pausing momentarily, J looks down at her hands — locked in place, unable to move. Though she'd often be quick to anger in a situation such as this... the nostalgia of her dream, the possible memories, allow only a sharp melancholy to sit inside her.

Her sleeping neighbor, Wesson, finally comes to. And his sadness now is far more immediate. Exiting sleep mode, the world around him gains color and comes into view. The dull grays and icy blues of this metallic control room left the place devoid of any sign of being lived in. Nothing like what he'd been used to for all his years of life.

Rolling his head to the side, he's startled wide awake pulled into full focus as he lays eyes on J, silently staring at him. Hopping out of his seat and backing away, he stares back for a second or two, before his nerves settle. He's in no immediate danger, not with those restraints. But her glare is unnerving enough.

Wesson — "...m-morning, J," he weakly greets, voice still somewhat shaky.

Unwilling to be friendly to such a thing, J responds only with narrowed eyes. And why should she be friendly? She's being held prisoner here.

Wesson — "O...kay, um... good talk?"

As the room is both Wesson's room and an effective workplace, he does not get to enjoy the luxury of a change in environment. Instead, he merely walks over to one of the terminals and picks up a box from the ground, cracking it open and digging into it. For the past couple of days, he's been taking stock of the area's resources to see if he can scrounge up the materials to... perhaps get this ship space-worthy again.

Curiously, the box is filled with a variety of knick-knacks and tools alike. Seemingly a variety box where the Disassembly Drones would toss a wide array of items that would fit. Most importantly, he comes up with a screwdriver he can use to access the internals of some of the more complicated machinery. But on top of that, he discovers a small, golden pin. It feels like he should recognize it, but he simply doesn't.

Standing upright, he takes a look around the room to see if there's anything else of note here he hasn't already dug through — but quickly gets distracted, spotting himself in a mirror opposite to him, embellished elaborately in gold. An almost comical contrast to the tape holding it against the wall.

He looks exhausted. It's... been a while since he last saw home. Last saw his mother, his friends... it's no wonder he looks miserable. There are stains in his hair, a couple of scratches across his chassis, and the familiar bags under his eyes. And as his thoughts drift to what he'd give to feel the warm presence of Nori, or Doll... he feels the sting of knowing he can't have that. Telling himself he'll never feel it again.