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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
For now, Pharma was good leverage at least.
First Aid's question draws Sixshot out of his mental Decepticon politicking. He can feel the angry and frustrated buzz of First Aid's field against his chest and the Sixer closes his optics.
Why?
"I don't... know."
It was more impulse than sense that had found him helping First Aid when he'd still been reeling from the Reapers and the discovery of his kill-switch, way back in the crater. It was impulse that had drawn him here, too, into the heart of potentially hostile Autobot territory, just for the sake of seeing how this little mech was doing. Sixshot didn't entirely understand it, but he also found he wasn't entirely compelled to go against it either.
no subject
First Aid thinks he might be fine with dying, as long as it was quick. It would be an end to all the pain and sadness he'd been feeling.
"I like you," he says in response, and he knows it's foolish, but he does.
"Pipes brought me the drone. Thank you. It'll probably help until I have an arm."
no subject
Tarn's loss of direction had resonated with him, but it'd garnered him no direction for himself either. First Aid, however. First Aid was the first real sign he'd seen on this murky road. He's not sure what any of this was leading to yet, but it was beginning to feel less like wandering.
"I'm glad it came to you safely," Sixshot says softly. Silence stretches on for a bit after that, a little awkward, a little unsure. He shifts slightly, letting the tip of his snout bump against the top of First Aid's helm.
"... I like you too."
no subject
For once since he lost his arm, First Aid felt calm. He could feel the rumble of Sixshot's super powered engine warn against his plating, vibrating softly. He reaches up, stroking the mech's jaw as it bumps against his head, his visor squinting.
"I'm glad," he murmurs, stroking over the warm metal, slow and affectionate.
It occurs to First Aid he's left a mess in the medibay, but now he's tangled in with Sixshot that the effort to move and take care of it seems like a huge insurmountable feat. He sighs softly, his hand stilling against the mech's jaw.
"Ratchet will peel my plating from my protoform if I get too lazy. Come inside and help me get a few things done."
no subject
The Sixer was borderline drowsing off when First Aid stops and it takes a few seconds more to register the words the smaller mech had spoken.
"Wouldn't Ratchet be angrier at me coming in?"
Ratchet hadn't seemed to happy when he'd asked about First Aid. He doesn't imagine the Autobot CMO taking Sixshot actually walking around in the clinic much better.
no subject
First Aid would argue up and down with anyone who tried to say otherwise. The war was over. He didn't need to adhere to faction. Even so, they had been willing to take in and treat Sonic and Boom when they thought-- no, he couldn't think of that now.
"I'm the one with one arm. I need an assistant. We'll keep you in the back anyway; I don't need you actually checking on patients."
no subject
"I don't think anyone would want me beside their beds. Or anywhere near them for that matter." That would probably be extremely detrimental to the person's mental, and possibly physical health.
After a moment of quiet consideration however, Sixshot somewhat reluctantly moves to stand up. As he does so, he shifts his mass into subspace, shrinking down to a more door-friendly robot dog. He still stood shoulder to shoulder with First Aid, mind you.
no subject
He picks up a chart, looking it over, and then turns to the wolf mech.
"Okay, so I need your help counting and moving supplies. The chart is a bit long. Would it help to download it directly?"
no subject
He slows to a stop as the medic picks something up, peering curiously around the room. Medical facilities were nothing new, but he's never really been in the supply area before.
"I can direct download," the six-former answers, attention back on First Aid. Turning slightly, he pops a panel open on his shoulder in offering.
no subject
"I'm trusting you not to report this info," he murmurs, reaching up to unspool Sixshot's data cable from the open panel.
The transfer of data only takes a moment once First Aid has plugged it into the pad. List counts of scrap metal, tools, pumps, energon stocks, oil, and so on uploaded in just an instant. When it finishes, the medic gently unplugs Sixshot from the datapad and pets his neck.
"Before we get started, you want to see something I invented?"
no subject
Tarn hadn't exactly chosen to comply, but then the DJD Commander wasn't bound to Decepticon High Command the way Sixshot was either. Not... that First Aid would know any of that.
Sixshot quietly opens the data packets he'd been given, scrolling through the lists as First Aid unplugs him.
"If you'd like to show me it," he answers, attention drawn back to the medic at the pat on his neck.
no subject
For as bad as things had been lately, First Aid was excited to show Sixshot his work. He wasn't famous, he was no Ratchet and all, but he was proud of what he does. People just don't appreciate it much since he's weird.
He leads Sixshot to the area where they keep all the emergency equiptment, things used only with the terribly sick and dying. Most of it is fairly cobbled together with the things they could find.
First Aid picks up two oversized clamps, resting them in his hands.
"It's a jumpstarter. You hook it up to a fading spark and use a healthy one to boost it."
no subject
"Cool," the Sixer decides at last, looking up again. "Is it universal?"