Fɪʀsᴛ Aɪᴅ [ IDW ] (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lifepersists) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robothell2015-02-20 08:56 pm
lifepersists) wrote in robothell2015-02-20 08:56 pm
Entry tags:
insert one arm joke here
Who: First Aid and U
Where: Red Alert's clinic
When: Post-Pharma cutting off his arm
What: wow the medics are gimpier than the rest of you guys
Warnings: mild robot gore, a sad cinnamon bun
[ Closed to Ratchet ]
Leaving his arm behind was the last of First Aid's problems. His run in with Pharma left him a bit more damaged up mentally -- and physically -- than he'd care to admit to himself. At the very least, he hadn't lost a wheel, something he was grateful for as he speeds off. Parts of his altmode still dragged as he drove through the city, uneven from the loss of a limb, leaving a trail of sparks and energon puddles behind him.
He had nowhere to go except away from the clinic, no ability to comm someone else to locate him. Eventually, he stops, ducking into a half collapsed building, and weeps privately. Seeing Pharma again brought back the rush of emotions he felt after killing him, making him feel drained for more reasons than the loss of energon.
Well, he's a rightful pathetic scene.
First Aid vents raggedly as he reaches up and brushes his fingers over the shredded joint where his arm used to be. He hisses in pain, pinching at a few ragged lines and clamping them closed, before he starts the arduous task of welding broken parts together. It might make the reattachment harder in the long run, but he'd be bleeding less.
It's a few hours before First Aid returns to the clinic, faint and tired, dirty with grit and sticky with drying energon. Even longer he waits outside, making sure that Pharma had left the premises long enough for him to slip back inside. He's tired-- he really wants to sleep, but he knows well enough that it's pain and energon loss, so instead he drags himself into the main clinic, clutching his shoulder.
"Ratchet?" he asks, trying not to be too loud so he doesn't wake the other patients.
-------
[ OPEN ]
Having only one arm proved to be difficult in accomplishing anything useful. It was a significant blow to First Aid's self esteem, and sometimes he spent ages just staring down at his work, feeling helpless. He couldn't lift with ease, but he could clean as much as he's able with one hand and take care of basic maintenance tasks, such as changing fluids and updating charts. Nurse work. He felt so humiliated.
First Aid touches the stump where his arm used to be, rubbing it thoughtfully. Sometimes he thought he could feel it still. Not really uncommon-- it was a psychological phenomena. Sighing, he drops his hand and begins piling charts, looking over each carefully to make sure that he hadn't missed any details. They didn't have a sophisticated database here, so it was important to keep manual records at the very least.
He picks them up holding them delicately in his hand and attempting to balance them against his chest, but they just end up slipping out of his hand and clattering to the floor.
"Oh--" he makes a soft sound. "Slag."
Where: Red Alert's clinic
When: Post-Pharma cutting off his arm
What: wow the medics are gimpier than the rest of you guys
Warnings: mild robot gore, a sad cinnamon bun
[ Closed to Ratchet ]
Leaving his arm behind was the last of First Aid's problems. His run in with Pharma left him a bit more damaged up mentally -- and physically -- than he'd care to admit to himself. At the very least, he hadn't lost a wheel, something he was grateful for as he speeds off. Parts of his altmode still dragged as he drove through the city, uneven from the loss of a limb, leaving a trail of sparks and energon puddles behind him.
He had nowhere to go except away from the clinic, no ability to comm someone else to locate him. Eventually, he stops, ducking into a half collapsed building, and weeps privately. Seeing Pharma again brought back the rush of emotions he felt after killing him, making him feel drained for more reasons than the loss of energon.
Well, he's a rightful pathetic scene.
First Aid vents raggedly as he reaches up and brushes his fingers over the shredded joint where his arm used to be. He hisses in pain, pinching at a few ragged lines and clamping them closed, before he starts the arduous task of welding broken parts together. It might make the reattachment harder in the long run, but he'd be bleeding less.
It's a few hours before First Aid returns to the clinic, faint and tired, dirty with grit and sticky with drying energon. Even longer he waits outside, making sure that Pharma had left the premises long enough for him to slip back inside. He's tired-- he really wants to sleep, but he knows well enough that it's pain and energon loss, so instead he drags himself into the main clinic, clutching his shoulder.
"Ratchet?" he asks, trying not to be too loud so he doesn't wake the other patients.
-------
[ OPEN ]
Having only one arm proved to be difficult in accomplishing anything useful. It was a significant blow to First Aid's self esteem, and sometimes he spent ages just staring down at his work, feeling helpless. He couldn't lift with ease, but he could clean as much as he's able with one hand and take care of basic maintenance tasks, such as changing fluids and updating charts. Nurse work. He felt so humiliated.
First Aid touches the stump where his arm used to be, rubbing it thoughtfully. Sometimes he thought he could feel it still. Not really uncommon-- it was a psychological phenomena. Sighing, he drops his hand and begins piling charts, looking over each carefully to make sure that he hadn't missed any details. They didn't have a sophisticated database here, so it was important to keep manual records at the very least.
He picks them up holding them delicately in his hand and attempting to balance them against his chest, but they just end up slipping out of his hand and clattering to the floor.
"Oh--" he makes a soft sound. "Slag."
no subject
"I had to leave it. It should have been right outside, but it's not there anymore."
no subject
"I'll see what I can do to find it," he says, struggling to focus on the problem at hand instead of the hard press of emotion welling in his chassis, uncomfortably akin to grief.
no subject
First Aid has to lean into Ratchet to drink the energon, since otherwise he's not able to prop himself up. As he's taking careful swallows of the fuel, a slow tremor starts to come over his frame. It was... really starting to sink in what had happened. That Pharma was alive and remembered what he... did.
He feels sick to his tank, the fuel fighting its way back up his intake, and First Aid has to clamp a hand over his face to keep from purging everything he just swallowed down all over himself. It's a response to anxiety, one he channels instead into shakes as he swallows again, steadying himself, and it's a full few moments before he trusts his tanks enough to pull his hand away.
no subject
"I won't," he says, a hand running absent up and down First Aid's back. "I've got you. And I won't."
no subject
"He remembers what I did." He's not sure why he's telling Ratchet that. Ratchet knows Pharma remembers. He talked to him. "I don't-- the arm isn't a big deal. It's just seeing him. It's like seeing a ghost."
no subject
One hand settles against the base of First Aid's helm, swallowing hard. "We'll figure something out. And you don't--I know I wasn't at Delphi with you and I don't know what it was like. But you're not on your own, in this, all right?"