This is angst. It will turn around. Some day. I hope.
~~~~~~~~~
Ironhide slammed a fist into the wall as if the very fault lay with the cold metal.
The other battle-weary and-war torn mechs around the washracks jumped. There was a murmur of unease through them, but they knew better than to get between the red mech and whatever was unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of his frustration. Cleansing fluid streamed down Ironhide’s back, carrying away charring and disconnected wiring. The floor of the washracks was its own little model of the trouncing the Autobots had just endured. Ash, cinders and paint flecks mounted a sweeping flank against armor chips, shards of crystal, and torn wiring in the ongoing battle to win the cleanser fluid drain. The physical signs of the war, played out in miniature after each battle.
Great crimson shoulders whined and the weapons specialist pounded the side of his hand into the wall again. It wasn’t enough, he couldn’t drown it out the images replaying through his processors. He snarled venom and slammed his helm against the wall, the resounding crack cut through the sounds of running fluid while poor terrified little Bluestreak limped out of the stalls as quickly as his injured leg would allow.
It had been a ferocious battle, with the Autobots trying to hold a final line in that sector, but the Decepticons were not having any of it. They swept over the field like revenging spark reapers straight from the Pit. But he’d seen him only clicks before. It wasn’t right. He’d seen him, moving along the lines, brilliant white against the carnage and energon, and clearly marked as a medic.
The unwritten code.
Medics were off limits.
The CMO should have been safe when crouched over a patient.
But not today.
Ironhide’s helm had whipped around at Ratchet’s cry. A straight shot and the mech had gone down.
Why had he moved from the CMO’s side? Why had he let himself be drawn into a hand to hand battle with some nameless ‘Con slagger? Why couldn’t he disengage and move fast enough to get to Ratchet? Why in that moment had the opposing forces started a rain of mortar fire and rushed forwards, pushing the Autobot forces back? Why did the line break, the rout and chaotic retreat beginning before Prime even called it?
They could not even retrieve his shell, and Ironhide tried to pound the unfeeling metal into submission. Maybe if he battered it enough, somehow, in some way Ratchet would be delivered back to him.
Then a sound. Not the slow tread of an individual attempting to stay out of the blast radius of a very volatile mech, but footsteps approaching.
Ironhide turned and growled at Wheeljack. "Don't even start," he snarled, wallowing in a viciousness born of pain.
"Come on, 'Hide..." the inventor began, and the weapons specialist flinched. Not from anything that was said, from the implication. It was a very exclusive circle that could get away with that nickname. A circle now down by one, as the red mech was reminded.
'Hide didn't want to discuss anything with the other mech at the moment. All he wanted was to spend the next few orns wallowing in the grief of losing Ratchet, then turn that into some nice destructive rage at the next Decepticons stupid enough to walk into his sights. He hissed and tried to brush past the engineer and out of the washracks.
"No, 'Hide. Ya've gotta deal with this-" Wheeljack tried to put a hand on Ironhide's shoulder.
The hand was slapped away. "Why!? It's over. He's gone."
"We don't know that," resonators flicked a moment with his words.
"We do too know that! I saw Shockwave! He had him in his sights and was moving towards his-" and his vocalizer fritzed, Ironhide ground his jaw and tried to shoulder his way past. "Then we were swept back. Shockwave doesn't take prisoners..." His voice was brittle and hollow.
Wheeljack could see that his friend was about to shatter, either explode or implode. As a mech that knew explosions, the damage was better out than in. "Ironhide, you really need to-"
"Frag what I need!" Ironhide roared and threw a fist at Wheeljack.
no subject
~~~~~~~~~
Ironhide slammed a fist into the wall as if the very fault lay with the cold metal.
The other battle-weary and-war torn mechs around the washracks jumped. There was a murmur of unease through them, but they knew better than to get between the red mech and whatever was unfortunate enough to bear the brunt of his frustration. Cleansing fluid streamed down Ironhide’s back, carrying away charring and disconnected wiring. The floor of the washracks was its own little model of the trouncing the Autobots had just endured. Ash, cinders and paint flecks mounted a sweeping flank against armor chips, shards of crystal, and torn wiring in the ongoing battle to win the cleanser fluid drain. The physical signs of the war, played out in miniature after each battle.
Great crimson shoulders whined and the weapons specialist pounded the side of his hand into the wall again. It wasn’t enough, he couldn’t drown it out the images replaying through his processors. He snarled venom and slammed his helm against the wall, the resounding crack cut through the sounds of running fluid while poor terrified little Bluestreak limped out of the stalls as quickly as his injured leg would allow.
It had been a ferocious battle, with the Autobots trying to hold a final line in that sector, but the Decepticons were not having any of it. They swept over the field like revenging spark reapers straight from the Pit. But he’d seen him only clicks before. It wasn’t right. He’d seen him, moving along the lines, brilliant white against the carnage and energon, and clearly marked as a medic.
The unwritten code.
Medics were off limits.
The CMO should have been safe when crouched over a patient.
But not today.
Ironhide’s helm had whipped around at Ratchet’s cry. A straight shot and the mech had gone down.
Why had he moved from the CMO’s side? Why had he let himself be drawn into a hand to hand battle with some nameless ‘Con slagger? Why couldn’t he disengage and move fast enough to get to Ratchet? Why in that moment had the opposing forces started a rain of mortar fire and rushed forwards, pushing the Autobot forces back? Why did the line break, the rout and chaotic retreat beginning before Prime even called it?
They could not even retrieve his shell, and Ironhide tried to pound the unfeeling metal into submission. Maybe if he battered it enough, somehow, in some way Ratchet would be delivered back to him.
Then a sound. Not the slow tread of an individual attempting to stay out of the blast radius of a very volatile mech, but footsteps approaching.
Ironhide turned and growled at Wheeljack. "Don't even start," he snarled, wallowing in a viciousness born of pain.
"Come on, 'Hide..." the inventor began, and the weapons specialist flinched. Not from anything that was said, from the implication. It was a very exclusive circle that could get away with that nickname. A circle now down by one, as the red mech was reminded.
'Hide didn't want to discuss anything with the other mech at the moment. All he wanted was to spend the next few orns wallowing in the grief of losing Ratchet, then turn that into some nice destructive rage at the next Decepticons stupid enough to walk into his sights. He hissed and tried to brush past the engineer and out of the washracks.
"No, 'Hide. Ya've gotta deal with this-" Wheeljack tried to put a hand on Ironhide's shoulder.
The hand was slapped away. "Why!? It's over. He's gone."
"We don't know that," resonators flicked a moment with his words.
"We do too know that! I saw Shockwave! He had him in his sights and was moving towards his-" and his vocalizer fritzed, Ironhide ground his jaw and tried to shoulder his way past. "Then we were swept back. Shockwave doesn't take prisoners..." His voice was brittle and hollow.
Wheeljack could see that his friend was about to shatter, either explode or implode. As a mech that knew explosions, the damage was better out than in. "Ironhide, you really need to-"
"Frag what I need!" Ironhide roared and threw a fist at Wheeljack.