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He should have stumbled, as his stomach churned and a wave of nausea spread through his chest. He should have buckled in his weak, malnourished body. But the durasteel legs held fast, stubborn and unmoving. Unmoving. They wouldn't move.
A fresh creeping panic took over as echo tried to get the unfamiliar legs to respond, to let him sink to the floor and feel the cool tile relieve the ever-present ache in his bones. They remained still. The frustration and anxiety welled up into an anguished cry and echo struck at the motionless prosthetics in desperation to feel something. To hurt them.
But he felt nothing. Even as the blunt force of his scomp arm left a deep gouge in the already scarred flesh that gave way to metal. Even as that metal sparked when the scomp made contact and burned tiny pink marks into his nerveless skin. But he fell forward. The legs gave way just enough for echo to collapse against the sink in the smallest room of the ship. His hand, though clammy and weak, caught the edge and strained to keep him there. Echo stared for a moment at the ghostly pale skin and the shockingly vivid veins underneath, the tendons that rose too far under his paper skin as he gripped the solid metal sink. His hand began to quake under the effort of keeping him upright, shortly followed by the rest of his body - or what was still flesh - as the nausea fought to make itself known above all other thoughts. His scomp skidded uselessly against the sink as he tried to brace himself, crumpling over the basin as bile reached his throat.
Echo swallowed in a futile attempt to keep the vomit down, white sparks clouding his vision even with his eyes shut tight. He gasped shakily and swallowed again, the thick feeling at the back of his throat making him gag. His grip on the sink tightened and his jaw clenched to the point of hurting, straining against the building pressure clawing up his body.
A sudden warmth flooded his face and a minute amount of pressure was relieved. Echo glanced at the dirt-speckled mirror in the dim light, struggling to make out his reflection through his hazy vision. The vibrant red streaks running from his nose, down his lips, and dripping off his chin was unmistakable, splattering haphazardly into the sink and sending specks of blood flying to colour the dry basin in a blooming rust. The few flecks that reached his hand stood out against his skin in mockery of the injuries sustained to his other limbs. This last one, the only one still truly his, was unmarked and whole. Despite his years of training and battle, the bleached-pale skin showed no evidence of his hardship.
His thoughts were broken by the punching feeling of vomit finally escaping his exhausted barricade and wrenching him forward. He had eaten next to nothing in the last 48 hours - ignoring the blatant concern of his new companions - which he now both regretted and was grateful for. The lack of solid food in his stomach allowed the vomit to pass easily out of him without the sharp tearing feeling he was used to. But the weakness and nausea was worsened by the hunger twisting in his gut. He dry heaved a few times before drawing back from his low position above the sink, resting his cheek against his arm still clasped onto the edge. His vision did not return to normal and the shivering that wracked through his whole body only escalated. Echo fixed his gaze on the blood mingling in the sink with the contents of his stomach and lost himself in the swirling red dissipating into the acrid liquid. His nose stung with the bitter and metallic scents but he did not move away, only meekly lifting his right arm to turn the faucet on and wash away the evidence of his weakness. The grating sound of metal on metal snapped his attention to the tap and the scomp that rest against it. It took a moment to recognise the shape as his own arm but slowly, Echo pressed the scomp against the tap and watched water begin to trickle out. He listened to the pipes behind the wall groan as water spiralled around the basin and cleaned out the mess of red and pale yellow.
He lowered himself onto the floor with effort and rested his side against the wall, the sound of running water hiding that of his ragged breathing. Blood still ran down his face, smeared across his cheek from his brief respite laying against his arm. He trailed his gaze down his arm to the patch of drying blood that stuck to his skin, then to his hand still trembling and now aching. He studied the flecks of blood across his hand and the dull red stuck under his fingernails - old blood that matched the crusted scabs on his legs from clawing at them hours ago. A defeated whine escaped him as exhaustion took over. He was too weak to stand or even stem the blood flow from his nose, so Echo sat still, heaving breaths and fighting back sobs. Stars floated in his vision as he slumped his head against the wall and resolved to clean off the blood and dress the gash on his leg when he regained some strength.
For now, he sat and waited and ached, entertaining the bleary thoughts and concerns that he may die there, or worse - one of the others may find him, and he would have to explain why he stubbornly faced his demons alone. The thoughts made his stomach twist painfully but he didn't have the energy to linger on them as he reluctantly closed his eyes and waited.