#occ: yeppee she/it pronouns for Silva!!

[deeps3a-h0munculu5]

It seemed to struggle with speaking, it's throat (or voicebox, you can't tell.) seemed to not be.. uh.. working correctly. "ze.. o...95... 2.. s... Lva... N.. Ru... i..."

Silva Narumi. Subject 0952. You could figure that much out through her garbled, broken speech.

She seems to jump as you smack her hand away, and looks at said hand before snapping it back into position. Seems it even has trouble standing. It's rusted joints hardly functioning as they had both barely been maintained or used. With how she seems like she's forgotten how to move, it seems she was used to puppeteering herself with that bundle of wires.

(Hope this works uhh WHOS DOWN FOR BODY HORROR?? I can make this less freaky if you so desire lol -xoxo, @deeps3a-h0munculu5)

A quiet thud reverberates through the blocked off sector as the mangled octarian falls out of the wires that had been holding her suspended.

Her limbs twist and contort back into their correct positions as she stands up, face obscured by her tentacles. Her metalic limbs rusted over, creaking as she reached out a hand to you.

"..commander....?" She croaks out weakly, the organs visible through her see-through plastic torso convulsing. You could see and hear her heart thumping against the mechanical components pressing against her innards.

(no need. 😁 i am quite fond of body horror!)

When the limp wires released their captive and sent her body clamoring into the cold, unwelcoming concrete below, all Denewiah could think to itself was I knew I should’ve had that damn panel in the ceiling fixed already.

Its metallic face mimics a cocked brow as it then leers down at the fleshed heap of artificial appendages, appearing to debate on whether or not it was observing a person… or a thing. He decides on the latter once he processes that pitiful hand reaching out in a bid for his attention.

“Do not touch me.” it stated simply and without a modicum of personal vitriol towards the individual, even as it sternly smacked her wrist away. Physical contact wasn’t something the old telephone was too keen on. Not unless he initiated it first, at least.

It adjusts on its heels, perhaps just a bit uneasy with the way the strange specimen’s entrails pulse within their crudely crafted shell.

“Surely you aren’t one of mine. Identify yourself.” Tartar ordered.