_Line 213
| || || | __
Live fire pelted against the beast's exterior, rounds of plasma burying brightly into the monster as it charged. It kept its single-minded pace, not once slowing down, yet damage manifested upon its body all the same; flesh-like material bubbled and boiled as a result of the myriad impacts, wisps of smoke rising from the creature's body as some of it simply burned away as a result of the embedded heat. Its lack of care for its own injuries was, in some ways, astounding, contributing to the strange living-machine dichotomy that permeated the being's very existence.
It leapt, attempting to close the final gap between itself and the unloading Utsāha, yet another Husk, this one bearing some sort of bladed weapon, collided with the beast mid-air, driving its blades straight into the entity's body. It writhed and thrashed as it screamed, some of its surrounding skin changing in form and shape as it bunched together, weaving quickly into tendrils that shot forward, messily wrapping around the Husk's torso. They interlocked and tightened, moving from something akin to clay to structures better likened to cable, snapping, reforming, and strengthening as they began to pull the husk downward, either for the sake of leaving it prone against the beast's body, or in hopes that the Husk might end up scraping or impaling itself against the weapon it had just driven into the beast. Once more, the monster began soaking up the life around it, drawing from the forest as all beneath it was pulled within, leaving another gigantic patch of dust where there was once lush forest.
In that moment, struggling against blade and machine, flailing with rapidly reproducing tendrils and tentacles as it tried to get hold of everything it could, the being once more seemed little more than a frenzied animal, lashing out in any way to ensure its own survival. Despite their feelings of duty, despite the fact that they knew that this thing must die, the machines watching, activating, and rushing into battle nonetheless felt pity for their adversary.
It was not pity from on high. No, it was not even pity out of distaste. It was a pity of deep relation, a kind that came from knowing that there was no alternative choice to be made, a fact which failed to hide just how much regret the path ahead nonetheless held. The regret that came from never speaking to a once-treasured friend again. The regret that came from the disowning of one's family. A deep, sorrowful pity, born from true empathy.
Yet though such feelings washed outward from the minds of the Husks and into the minds of the pilots, as they saw the monster scratch and writhe against the ground, the willingness of the machines themselves to carry out what must be done remained unwavering; systems remained intact, bonds remained unbroken, and the feeling of intent radiated outward, keeping pace with the Husks' emotional reservations. A strange thing, to think that an enemy that held such deep resentment within the machines nonetheless mustered this sort of saddened response.
Their feelings, in particular, became more and more directed to a mind within the beast itself, a mind buried far beneath the artificial flesh, concealed somewhere within its body. Indeed, there was a core to be pierced, a mind whose body depended on its existence. For the being to know death, this concealed core would have to be destroyed. And yet, that thought alone brought forth further, stoic grief.
It leapt, attempting to close the final gap between itself and the unloading Utsāha, yet another Husk, this one bearing some sort of bladed weapon, collided with the beast mid-air, driving its blades straight into the entity's body. It writhed and thrashed as it screamed, some of its surrounding skin changing in form and shape as it bunched together, weaving quickly into tendrils that shot forward, messily wrapping around the Husk's torso. They interlocked and tightened, moving from something akin to clay to structures better likened to cable, snapping, reforming, and strengthening as they began to pull the husk downward, either for the sake of leaving it prone against the beast's body, or in hopes that the Husk might end up scraping or impaling itself against the weapon it had just driven into the beast. Once more, the monster began soaking up the life around it, drawing from the forest as all beneath it was pulled within, leaving another gigantic patch of dust where there was once lush forest.
In that moment, struggling against blade and machine, flailing with rapidly reproducing tendrils and tentacles as it tried to get hold of everything it could, the being once more seemed little more than a frenzied animal, lashing out in any way to ensure its own survival. Despite their feelings of duty, despite the fact that they knew that this thing must die, the machines watching, activating, and rushing into battle nonetheless felt pity for their adversary.
It was not pity from on high. No, it was not even pity out of distaste. It was a pity of deep relation, a kind that came from knowing that there was no alternative choice to be made, a fact which failed to hide just how much regret the path ahead nonetheless held. The regret that came from never speaking to a once-treasured friend again. The regret that came from the disowning of one's family. A deep, sorrowful pity, born from true empathy.
Yet though such feelings washed outward from the minds of the Husks and into the minds of the pilots, as they saw the monster scratch and writhe against the ground, the willingness of the machines themselves to carry out what must be done remained unwavering; systems remained intact, bonds remained unbroken, and the feeling of intent radiated outward, keeping pace with the Husks' emotional reservations. A strange thing, to think that an enemy that held such deep resentment within the machines nonetheless mustered this sort of saddened response.
Their feelings, in particular, became more and more directed to a mind within the beast itself, a mind buried far beneath the artificial flesh, concealed somewhere within its body. Indeed, there was a core to be pierced, a mind whose body depended on its existence. For the being to know death, this concealed core would have to be destroyed. And yet, that thought alone brought forth further, stoic grief.
