triggerhappycopter (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
triggerhappycopter) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
robothell2015-01-07 01:04 am
triggerhappycopter) wrote in robothell2015-01-07 01:04 am
Not in Kansas Anymore
Who: Tarn and Spinister
Where: The City
When: Sometime after arrival
What: Spinister gets an unfortunate welcome.
Warnings: Tooorture potentially??
This was not the WAP.
This was not the WAP at all.
Spinister shakily wipes the black tears from his face with the back of his hand, confusion and panic condensing themselves into a small, hard lump somewhere under his spark casing.
They were playing jenga while waiting for Fulcrum to call in. Then the white-out pain of his spark suddenly starting to burning out, the blurred sight of Crankcase and Krok seizing on the floor in agony.
The pain had stopped as suddenly as it'd come, leaving a ringing, fading soreness behind. When the world cleared up again, it had not been the comforting sight of the WAP's lounge room that had greeted him. Spinister staggers onto his feet, gun and rotor sword slipping into his hands, the former of which he aims into nothingness as he twists round and round, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
"Guys?" the heli calls out desperately. "Where are you? This isn't funny. This isn't funny at all!"
Where: The City
When: Sometime after arrival
What: Spinister gets an unfortunate welcome.
Warnings: Tooorture potentially??
This was not the WAP.
This was not the WAP at all.
Spinister shakily wipes the black tears from his face with the back of his hand, confusion and panic condensing themselves into a small, hard lump somewhere under his spark casing.
They were playing jenga while waiting for Fulcrum to call in. Then the white-out pain of his spark suddenly starting to burning out, the blurred sight of Crankcase and Krok seizing on the floor in agony.
The pain had stopped as suddenly as it'd come, leaving a ringing, fading soreness behind. When the world cleared up again, it had not been the comforting sight of the WAP's lounge room that had greeted him. Spinister staggers onto his feet, gun and rotor sword slipping into his hands, the former of which he aims into nothingness as he twists round and round, trying to make sense of his surroundings.
"Guys?" the heli calls out desperately. "Where are you? This isn't funny. This isn't funny at all!"
no subject
He sets his field kit down on top of the night stand and kicks over an old, empty crate from one of the corners.
"Who do you think this place belonged to?" he wonders, plonking himself down onto the crate and sorting through his tools.
no subject
"I'm not certain. I didn't stumble upon anything useful while scoping out this building. Just dust and old furniture."
He shifts on the berth to find a more comfortable position, causing it to creak. Still better than a table. Or the floor.
Tarn stares at Spinister as he lays out supplies on the nightstand from his field kit. This would hurt, Tarn knew. Digging a bullet out of his protoform is different that reattaching some wires.
Taking on look at the old stained supplies that Spinister is preparing, Tarn opts to look away. He doesn't want to know where those have been.
no subject
"I bet it belonged to some sort of IT nerd," Spinister natters on, oblivious to Tarn's annoyance, setting the tools out neatly by order of use. "It looks like the kind of place Fulcrum would like!"
Fortunately, he trails off into speculative mumbles and eventual silence as he starts working.
First order of business was getting the armor off; not a terribly difficult affair since Tarn's armor was actually built to be easy to navigate. He places the thick plating onto the floor, moves onto the protective dust cover, cuts away the burnt bits and further revealing some of the delicate machinery underneath.
The shot hadn't severed any of the nearby fuel lines, but there was coolant all over the place, coloring the dark mass of cabling a reddish tinge. He starts working on plucking pieces of the biolight glass, debris and pieces of the bullet out.
no subject
A shooting pain stabs through his side as Spinister brushes against a nerve sensor. "Urgh-- Primus, be careful, Spinister.
no subject
His forceps find the last piece of the bullet lodged inside of a motor relay and he begins the slow and delicate process of removing it.
"I'm being as careful as I can be."
no subject
"Yes, of course." He spits. "Just finish it."
no subject
Yeah, he kind of has to take apart most of Tarn's side in order to reach the broken components. The damage wasn't exactly extensive, but the wound was deep; self repair would have taken at least a month to work through it all. As it was, it was a good half hour of finicky disassembly to start off with. It leaves a rather big, empty gap in Tarn's side where the damaged components had once resided.
"Try not to move too much," Spin warns as he covers the hole with the dust cover before turning his attention to the little pile of broken parts.
His success as a surgeon mostly stemmed from his ability to fabricate parts on the fly- the kind of work that was usually relegated to molding or high precision fabrication machines. It was slow and tedious job with a flagging laser cutter though, and he still needed to splice all the various wires together afterwards. They didn't have much in way of scrap metal or corpse parts either; just everything that Spin had brought with him, or anything he managed to scrounge up from the building.
It's nearly ten hours later before Tarn finally gets everything put back into place- and even then, Spin still had to patch the hole in Tarn's armor.
no subject
"I need to move." He starts to get up from the berth, frame creaking from being still for so long.
no subject
"Don't drive or run or transform or anything." He's beginning to slowly list forwards, faceplanting on the patched side armor, blow torch clicking off. "Gotta... let the repairs... set..."