He feels like he's being scorched all over, a burning, numbing pain. It's long, disorienting moments before he can clear his vision and his whole body feels strange as he stares up at the sky, trying to reorient himself. The last thing he remembers is being on his shuttle, closing in on Drift's signal... and now he's here, and whatever this is goes beyond mere disorientation. He feels raw and hypersensitive all over, his head aching, and he realizes abruptly that he can feel his chest rising and falling, air searing his--
Lungs?
He sits up so fast he's nearly sick, nausea rippling out from his belly in waves as he feels the wind whip around him, blowing snow into his face. He can feel each flake against his cheeks like a hot spark blown back from a welding torch and he realizes abruptly that the burning sensation he's feeling all over is cold. He's cold, because he's sitting on an unfamiliar planet in a t-shirt and fatigue pants in the middle of a snowdrift and there's frozen water against his... skin. He can feel his breath getting faster and faster as he stares down at himself, flexing his painfully stiff hands and feeling his stomach roll again as he takes in the thick, taut scars wrapped around each wrist. He watches his fingertips tremble and it takes him a moment to realize it's because his whole body is shaking, wracked in long, rippling waves as he fights the urge to curl into a tight ball there on the ground, his teeth clattering together uncomfortably before he clenches his jaw. Shivering. He's shivering, and he just sits there for another few seconds, watching the tiny hairs on his arms prickle uselessly before he hears noise around him and he finally kicks his brain into gear.
He looks around, his vision weirdly blurry, his HUD disorientingly absent, but before he can do much else he's being heaved to his feet, a sudden light blinding him as he's frog-marched off with the others, trying not to look as terrified as he feels.
{the base} The first blast of heat when he's inside dizzies him, but once he starts to defrost properly he's oriented enough that he can think again, and what he's coming up with is not comforting in the slightest. He recognizes a military base when he sees one and is relaxed not at all--his voice is hoarse and clipped as he answers questions with the bare minimum of information possible, since, oh yeah, I was a fifteen-foot person made entirely of metal and I'm five million years old doesn't seem like the wisest thing to divulge right off the bat. He doesn't sleep.
He's even more familiar with the medical bay when he's taken there and he's more focused than he has been since he was picked up, his head twisting, trying to take in all the equipment by sight without asking any questions. He doesn't argue with the physical, watching himself being poked and prodded with as much interest as the medic performing the exam. It's strange, but the clinical setting and the bizarrely universal scent of hospital is what finally really grounds him, and he's clear-eyed and alert when they funnel him into quarantine with the rest of the "exotics," as they're apparently being called. Ratchet is aware that they don't know the half of it, and he hopes they don't find out anytime soon.
{the exotics room} Eating is weird.
There are more observations Ratchet has collected during his stay here, but that's the one most present in his mind. It certainly isn't the weirdest thing about being an organic, but it's up there. Still, he manages it, knowing that the alternative is passing out at some point at best, and he slowly starts to acclimate to it, same as he does for everything else. He still doesn't answer many questions, but he sure as hell pays attention to everyone else if they do within earshot, trying to gather as much information as he can. If you catch him looking at you, that's probably why.
Ratchet | OTA
Ratchet wakes to fire.
He feels like he's being scorched all over, a burning, numbing pain. It's long, disorienting moments before he can clear his vision and his whole body feels strange as he stares up at the sky, trying to reorient himself. The last thing he remembers is being on his shuttle, closing in on Drift's signal... and now he's here, and whatever this is goes beyond mere disorientation. He feels raw and hypersensitive all over, his head aching, and he realizes abruptly that he can feel his chest rising and falling, air searing his--
Lungs?
He sits up so fast he's nearly sick, nausea rippling out from his belly in waves as he feels the wind whip around him, blowing snow into his face. He can feel each flake against his cheeks like a hot spark blown back from a welding torch and he realizes abruptly that the burning sensation he's feeling all over is cold. He's cold, because he's sitting on an unfamiliar planet in a t-shirt and fatigue pants in the middle of a snowdrift and there's frozen water against his... skin. He can feel his breath getting faster and faster as he stares down at himself, flexing his painfully stiff hands and feeling his stomach roll again as he takes in the thick, taut scars wrapped around each wrist. He watches his fingertips tremble and it takes him a moment to realize it's because his whole body is shaking, wracked in long, rippling waves as he fights the urge to curl into a tight ball there on the ground, his teeth clattering together uncomfortably before he clenches his jaw. Shivering. He's shivering, and he just sits there for another few seconds, watching the tiny hairs on his arms prickle uselessly before he hears noise around him and he finally kicks his brain into gear.
He looks around, his vision weirdly blurry, his HUD disorientingly absent, but before he can do much else he's being heaved to his feet, a sudden light blinding him as he's frog-marched off with the others, trying not to look as terrified as he feels.
{the base}
The first blast of heat when he's inside dizzies him, but once he starts to defrost properly he's oriented enough that he can think again, and what he's coming up with is not comforting in the slightest. He recognizes a military base when he sees one and is relaxed not at all--his voice is hoarse and clipped as he answers questions with the bare minimum of information possible, since, oh yeah, I was a fifteen-foot person made entirely of metal and I'm five million years old doesn't seem like the wisest thing to divulge right off the bat. He doesn't sleep.
He's even more familiar with the medical bay when he's taken there and he's more focused than he has been since he was picked up, his head twisting, trying to take in all the equipment by sight without asking any questions. He doesn't argue with the physical, watching himself being poked and prodded with as much interest as the medic performing the exam. It's strange, but the clinical setting and the bizarrely universal scent of hospital is what finally really grounds him, and he's clear-eyed and alert when they funnel him into quarantine with the rest of the "exotics," as they're apparently being called. Ratchet is aware that they don't know the half of it, and he hopes they don't find out anytime soon.
{the exotics room}
Eating is weird.
There are more observations Ratchet has collected during his stay here, but that's the one most present in his mind. It certainly isn't the weirdest thing about being an organic, but it's up there. Still, he manages it, knowing that the alternative is passing out at some point at best, and he slowly starts to acclimate to it, same as he does for everything else. He still doesn't answer many questions, but he sure as hell pays attention to everyone else if they do within earshot, trying to gather as much information as he can. If you catch him looking at you, that's probably why.