Dreams fall apart very easily, because all it can take is a change of thought. Usually, Benji can stabilise them, focus them. In this case, the sheer depth of the place intimidates her, and she does not want to wait for what's coming. Reality frays at the edges, and there is some other alien memory, folding up this one into a smaller scale; a moment of safety, a young, vaguely masculine woman that Wolfgang will not recognise briefly embracing him, a hand at his forehead and lifting hair out of the way, a canopy of trees above her head, although there's no pain, because Benji doesn't quite remember the pain. A jolt of home sickness is shared, before Benji shoves it aside.
Running.
Wolfgang is more riding his own actions, and it's less about feeling as though he is no longer in control of his own body so much as willingly following a script, and so far, he must run. Loose forest dirt and dead leaves skitter and slide beneath his feet, staggering out onto the dirt track as the truck begins to pull away. Klaxons in the distance ring almost like tinnitus, and the shape, it's beyond the shade of the trees, but maybe not for long.
The truck is already moving, because they have to get away now. If it picks up more speed, he'll miss it. But no; a leap, a hand snagging out, someone inside reaching to grab the back of his jacket and gracelessly wrench him inside, tumbling, sprawling.
"We'll be out of range, soon."
Sure, the radius on the hunterbots is not relevant to the shape that haunts Wolfgang's dreams, but belief is a powerthing, and these are Benji's rules. The script falls away from Wolfgang's actions, and the back of the truck is emptier, suddenly, save for the shadowy memory that drives it through the foresty terrain, and Benji. She is, maybe, a little younger, but not much; a BDU jacket swamps her narrow torso, and she presents differently; hair cut shorter, a lighter shade of whiskers shading her jaw and throat. Night is falling fast, too, blending the scenery with shadows as opposed to the high noon of just prior. The klaxons have gone.
She offers her hands, to help Wolfgang up a little, enough to at least kneel or sit.
no subject
Running.
Wolfgang is more riding his own actions, and it's less about feeling as though he is no longer in control of his own body so much as willingly following a script, and so far, he must run. Loose forest dirt and dead leaves skitter and slide beneath his feet, staggering out onto the dirt track as the truck begins to pull away. Klaxons in the distance ring almost like tinnitus, and the shape, it's beyond the shade of the trees, but maybe not for long.
The truck is already moving, because they have to get away now. If it picks up more speed, he'll miss it. But no; a leap, a hand snagging out, someone inside reaching to grab the back of his jacket and gracelessly wrench him inside, tumbling, sprawling.
"We'll be out of range, soon."
Sure, the radius on the hunterbots is not relevant to the shape that haunts Wolfgang's dreams, but belief is a powerthing, and these are Benji's rules. The script falls away from Wolfgang's actions, and the back of the truck is emptier, suddenly, save for the shadowy memory that drives it through the foresty terrain, and Benji. She is, maybe, a little younger, but not much; a BDU jacket swamps her narrow torso, and she presents differently; hair cut shorter, a lighter shade of whiskers shading her jaw and throat. Night is falling fast, too, blending the scenery with shadows as opposed to the high noon of just prior. The klaxons have gone.
She offers her hands, to help Wolfgang up a little, enough to at least kneel or sit.