In which I choose one piece of art from previously or currently featured DA's daily deviations as a prompt, and write a short story/piece inspired by it.
I take no credit for any of the artworks/pieces chosen. Credit will be given and all rights of artwork content go to the original owners and artist(s). Used for personal writing/recreational purposes only.
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A Life Regiven
The scent of putrid water fills his nostrils, the humidity clinging to every inch of him as he guides the boat into a relative stop with immense difficulty. It floats silently against the dead machinery before him. The skeleton of metal towers several dozen meters high, a twisted, long abandoned ship left to rot in the waters.
He heaves the heavy backpack off his shoulders; it clangs as he drops it to the floor of the metal boat. With one swift movement, he retrieves the cord and swings it forward; it latches perfectly onto the rusting propellor in front of him, and he attaches the other end of the cord to the boat.
It takes a few minutes of ruffling to find the blueprints, crumpled and slightly waterlogged sitting at the bottom of all the equipment. Sketches and scribbles detailing the making and building of a now outdated prototype of a robot - the A732-V. His very own invention. His shoulders sag for a moment as the faded sketch of the metallic figure seems to come to life before his eyes.
Missile right this way, sir. Do not worry sir, I will protect you.
The last words of the long gone robot echo in his mind as he brushes the papers to the side, following the cord’s guidance and leaping onto the propellor. It creaks underneath his feet as he pulls himself onto the abandoned wreckage.
He removes a screwdriver from his belt and gets to work on one of the proximity sensors attached to the shell.
Like hell he would ever let another directed missile get close enough to him or his companions and wipe them all out again. He shakes his thoughts free of the carnage in his memories, concentrating instead on what’s in front of him, and the slow, steady dripping of water from the rusted metal arcs far above. The sensor before him has long since given way to layers of mould and rust, but he kneels determinedly in front of it, chipping resolutely at it in the semi darkness. It’s broken off ten minutes later as he gently pulls the wires out of the hollow shell of the ship. He places the device in the pouch on his belt and continues crawling deeper into the wreck, listing off pieces and devices in his head like a shopping list.
His metal arm, crudely made but well polished, clangs against the side of what used to be the ship's inner cabin wall. He waits for the sound to echo into silence before he begins to take apart the control panel, hands gentle and precise as they cut away at what’s needed.
It’s only two or three hours later that he takes a deep, shuddering breath, finishing his scavenge of the ship with his body aching in exhaustion.
He wipes down the oil and moisture on the metal parts of his makeshift body, keeping the surface as clean and low risk of rusting as possible.
As some of the last rays of sunlight fade from the swampy belly of the wasteland, to be replaced by cold moonlight, he heaves himself back onto the roof of the ship, carefully unlatching hook and cord and leaping gracefully back onto his boat. It rocks slightly in the murky water as he lands on it, depositing his findings into his backpack. Taking the metal rod from the bottom of the boat, a makeshift oar with a plate of metal hammered into it, he pushes his boat away from the empty hull of the ruined airship. It takes a good amount of movement for the ageing motor to finally start up again, spluttering weakly into life and guiding him through the deep, oily water.
He unfolds the papers again and stares down at his own hand drawn documents, depicting every instruction needed to build a A732-V. He sits down with a sigh, floating past the silhouettes of towering, long abandoned ships, ominously shadowed all around like a ghost town. He stares at the tiny microchip taped safely to the inside of the boat. It’s barely the size of his thumb, burned and singed, but still - hopefully - holding what’s left of the memories and consciousness of his old bot. The bot that sacrificed its own life to shelter him from the blast.
“I’m gonna build you once more buddy, gonna keep trying, no matter how many places I gotta rip apart to get your parts. And listen, I won’t let those bastards hurt you ever again, hear me? I promise ya.”
There is no response but the eerie quiet, and the continued slow dripping of contaminated water, falling down from far, far above.