Whirl { Cold }
There was always a certain chill to the night, he supposed, that came with being a giant metalloid sentient amongst the galley of a ship in the midst of space.
It seemed to permit itself entrance into every crevice amongst his form, squeezing through his wiring and over sensitive internal schematics. Every inch of him sagged with weariness and exhaustion.
He’d prefer his own berth to the solid flats of the brig floor, but he knows his mistakes today will only earn him a few more chilly nights in this desolate prison.
Really, he didn’t believe that any of it was his fault. No, none of it at all. With his crooked pedes and angular backstruts, how was he supposed to avoid trouble when it seemed to meld with his very form.
But of course, nobody would believe him. Him and his singular, freaky optic. Sometimes he feels like he can remember a time where his pedes were flat with the ground and his servos had five digits on each end.
But warmth is but a distant memory now, and so are the vestiges of another life. The cold has claimed them, much like it’s claimed a place in his dark, lonely cell.