Tom
Inactive Member
Re: Mission 5: Amaya's Gate
When all that was left in the subdeck was the he and the sound of machinery, Tom closed his eyes.
The grinding of gears, the humming of energy; these sounds entered his world. To the untrained ear, the incessant noise of Miharu's inner workings was a constant, deafening pressure on the senses, waves of sound that washed over the body in never-ceasing currents.
But Tom opened his ears and listened. He listened as a proud father would to his child during a piano recital.
She sounded beautiful.
Miharu spoke to him through her music. All was well. All was in a state of perfect readiness, of careful balance. Every instrument in her repetoir was finely tuned and ready for the grand finale.
And she would pass; her melody would sustain them through the fires and the brimstone. She had done it before, and would do so again. That was the beauty of the song. The low rhythms. The high kreen of the fold stabalizers. The absolute roar of the generators, like dragons crying to be fed, howling, biting at the bit in angry defiance. The Miharu knew. That was the only explanation.
Tom's head bobbed gently back and forth, and he reached out in the darkness, placing his palm on the metal framing of the main aether generator. She warmed at his touch, purring contendly into his hand. There was a delicate grace behind her fury, a maternal love that looked over and nurtured them, her children.
She was their protector.
But she could not do it alone. Miharu's music also revealed her concerns. The capacitors, their buzzing deep and low, warned of unforseen challenges, of danger and the testing of limits. It was a sobering break in the symphony, one that pulled his eyes opened and brought him back to the world.
"Miharu," he said as he rested his head on the generator. "I need you now more than ever. Please give us your strength one last time. Give us the strength to end this."
He turned away and walked to his console, awaiting the arrival of the engineering crew.
When all that was left in the subdeck was the he and the sound of machinery, Tom closed his eyes.
The grinding of gears, the humming of energy; these sounds entered his world. To the untrained ear, the incessant noise of Miharu's inner workings was a constant, deafening pressure on the senses, waves of sound that washed over the body in never-ceasing currents.
But Tom opened his ears and listened. He listened as a proud father would to his child during a piano recital.
She sounded beautiful.
Miharu spoke to him through her music. All was well. All was in a state of perfect readiness, of careful balance. Every instrument in her repetoir was finely tuned and ready for the grand finale.
And she would pass; her melody would sustain them through the fires and the brimstone. She had done it before, and would do so again. That was the beauty of the song. The low rhythms. The high kreen of the fold stabalizers. The absolute roar of the generators, like dragons crying to be fed, howling, biting at the bit in angry defiance. The Miharu knew. That was the only explanation.
Tom's head bobbed gently back and forth, and he reached out in the darkness, placing his palm on the metal framing of the main aether generator. She warmed at his touch, purring contendly into his hand. There was a delicate grace behind her fury, a maternal love that looked over and nurtured them, her children.
She was their protector.
But she could not do it alone. Miharu's music also revealed her concerns. The capacitors, their buzzing deep and low, warned of unforseen challenges, of danger and the testing of limits. It was a sobering break in the symphony, one that pulled his eyes opened and brought him back to the world.
"Miharu," he said as he rested his head on the generator. "I need you now more than ever. Please give us your strength one last time. Give us the strength to end this."
He turned away and walked to his console, awaiting the arrival of the engineering crew.