resistance is futile and all that jazz

[st_jane_ambulance]

I've had to retrain myself to write short things on the fly with little to no planning, because I'm not used to doing that. But as I'm horrendously out of practice writing at any length, I feel I need to start small.

#2: Resistance
Fandom: Tin Man (no, not THAT Resistance)
Words: 378
Notes: This one's a different sort of style. And I tell you, I'm planning to stick that brain right back in his head as soon as I get the chance.

When he woke up strapped to the operating table, Ambrose knew in his core that it was all over. He knew. Logically, there was no way out of this. The restraints that bound him were too secure. Azkadellia’s longcoats would be outside this door, patrolling the corridors, marching outside the tower and everywhere. The surgeon had his abominable shock-stick as well. Even if he were to get off the table—which was certainly not an option at this point—he would be struck down before he could make it more than a few feet past the door. Talking would be useless, too. The surgeon was too loyal to Azkadellia, his sadistic tendencies quite in tune with her own style.

            He knew all this, but still he tried to fight what he knew would be his fate.

            Perhaps he should have fought when Azkadellia came to take him away. He was more than capable of bringing down a few longcoats. It would have been almost effortless. But then what? How far could he have run, when there were surely longcoats all around? How long before he was in their hands again? Perhaps he had known this, then. Had known it would be futile. But even more than that, he would not, could not have run away and left the Queen to Azkadellia. It went against every part of himself.

            His self that was about to be stripped away. Perhaps it would have been better if he’d died. Better for everyone.

            None of it mattered now. It was far too late to think about what might have been. Nothing could stop this chain of events. He knew this. But still he tried. He struggled. He begged. None of it made any difference, but he tried his best. It was all anyone could have done.

            When the needle went into his arm, and the drugs into his blood, he tried to stay awake, tried to stave off the coming darkness. His eyes disobeyed him when he tried to keep them from closing. His mind was going dark. The person he had been was about to die. He tried to fight it.

            It was never enough. But Ambrose, even with his perfect brain telling him it was useless, resisted to the last.

The End (kind of)