02-01-2010, 11:06 PM
[html]
Snake had been in a dreary state of semi-consciousness for two days, and he was mid-way through the third. He was not comatose, but he was nowhere near being competent—he seemed to be caught in a milky in-between, a state where he seemed to wake and seemed to pass into a deeper oblivion with the change of the hours. It was for good cause—he very well could have bled out if Daisuke hadn't come to his senses and taken care of him. It actually wasn't a new experience for Snake. This same thing had happened to him the day that he had first shifted to his Optime form, when he and his brother were only a few months old. That was when he had gotten the first scar across his ribs, the one that the longer vertical cut crossed perpendicularly. And the pain certainly wasn't new. He'd had worse, believe it or not. He locked it away with all his other emotions in his own personal Pandora's box, keeping them locked and hidden and far away from any curious passersby.
It was a few hours passed noon when his olive eyes flickered open; they had done so several times in his stasis, but this time they remained so. He was unseeing for a moment and then his gaze sharpened, became clear. At first he had no idea where he was. Was he a captive—had he been taken by a Dahlia de Mai wolf? He didn't think they would take prisoners, but perhaps they were getting clever. But no, it wasn't a Dahlian he had been fighting. Slowly the different memories came back, and he remembered with a shock. He knew exactly where he was now; his nose could tell him that. He had fought with Daisuke—mad, as if a man possessed—and he had lost. And apparently his friend had come around and found it in his heart to save his pathetic friend.
Pathetic indeed! Snake gave a slight growl, closing his eyes again. He could have beaten Daisuke. He knew it. He was a better fighter, and that was a simple fact. He could see how he could have done it—there had been countless opportunities where his knife could have found its way to either Daisuke's neck or some other major crippling artery. Why hadn't he done it? The answer was too easy—he had felt bad. He felt a sick taste in the back of his mouth. He had unwittingly given some of those feelings at try, and this was how they had repaid him. And look at him now! He was wounded, scarred, perhaps even crippled. Certainly not a ready fighter in the war. It would take weeks to heal sufficiently enough to do anything productive. There was nothing worse to him than a soldier who could not do his duty, his task, his meaning in life.
Snake rarely hated—such a fiery emotion was something he abhorred. But right now he hated himself, and that was a hate that was not red-hot. No, it was like an acid, eating him away from the inside out.
[/html]
Snake had been in a dreary state of semi-consciousness for two days, and he was mid-way through the third. He was not comatose, but he was nowhere near being competent—he seemed to be caught in a milky in-between, a state where he seemed to wake and seemed to pass into a deeper oblivion with the change of the hours. It was for good cause—he very well could have bled out if Daisuke hadn't come to his senses and taken care of him. It actually wasn't a new experience for Snake. This same thing had happened to him the day that he had first shifted to his Optime form, when he and his brother were only a few months old. That was when he had gotten the first scar across his ribs, the one that the longer vertical cut crossed perpendicularly. And the pain certainly wasn't new. He'd had worse, believe it or not. He locked it away with all his other emotions in his own personal Pandora's box, keeping them locked and hidden and far away from any curious passersby.
It was a few hours passed noon when his olive eyes flickered open; they had done so several times in his stasis, but this time they remained so. He was unseeing for a moment and then his gaze sharpened, became clear. At first he had no idea where he was. Was he a captive—had he been taken by a Dahlia de Mai wolf? He didn't think they would take prisoners, but perhaps they were getting clever. But no, it wasn't a Dahlian he had been fighting. Slowly the different memories came back, and he remembered with a shock. He knew exactly where he was now; his nose could tell him that. He had fought with Daisuke—mad, as if a man possessed—and he had lost. And apparently his friend had come around and found it in his heart to save his pathetic friend.
Pathetic indeed! Snake gave a slight growl, closing his eyes again. He could have beaten Daisuke. He knew it. He was a better fighter, and that was a simple fact. He could see how he could have done it—there had been countless opportunities where his knife could have found its way to either Daisuke's neck or some other major crippling artery. Why hadn't he done it? The answer was too easy—he had felt bad. He felt a sick taste in the back of his mouth. He had unwittingly given some of those feelings at try, and this was how they had repaid him. And look at him now! He was wounded, scarred, perhaps even crippled. Certainly not a ready fighter in the war. It would take weeks to heal sufficiently enough to do anything productive. There was nothing worse to him than a soldier who could not do his duty, his task, his meaning in life.
Snake rarely hated—such a fiery emotion was something he abhorred. But right now he hated himself, and that was a hate that was not red-hot. No, it was like an acid, eating him away from the inside out.