robothell | (no subject)

Who: Tarn and Spinister
What: life is bad
When: sometime
Where: The wastes
Warnings: none

The wind howls through the skeleton of their meager shelter, bringing with it thick clouds of soot. Unfortunately, dust storms were more frequent out here in the middle of nowhere than Tarn had hoped. The vast expanse of the wastes left little to prevent the cloud from building on itself.

As it stands, the state of their dwelling is… unsustainable to say the very least. Tarn has begun to lose count of the amount of times that he’s woken up from recharge and had to chase after supplies that had been caught in the wind. However, shelters in the wastes are far and few between, and he finds himself hesitant to move further away from the city and its supplies. His occasional sneaking trips into the city outskirts have yielded just enough to make the risk work it.

Tarn pulls a tarp tighter around his body in a futile attempt to keep his vents from clogging. in truth its more for show than anything; his entire frame, from the top of his head to his feet, is covered in a thick layer of sand and dirt. He can do little but wait for the storm to pass and wait for Spinister’s return in hopes that he has been able to dig up something of use.

The storm grounded Spinister, rendering the walk back far longer than it usually was. He'd have huddled in the city and waited until things calmed if it weren't for slagging Tarn and he makes sure to curse the commander's name the entirely of his walk to their shabby little base.

His cloak of tarp whips wildly around him as he drags the sled of supplies through the storm, counting down the minutes until he'd finally be there. The heli almost doesn't realize he's arrived until he nearly smacks into one of the building's pillars.

"TARN!" he calls out, feeling around until his hand meets corrugated metal, their makeshift door, and then he starts banging. "TARN, OPEN THE DOOR."