First Aid's hands are his livelihood. He has about a thousand more sensors than the average mech in them, all hard wired to various tools, to measure everything like small deviations in plating to minute differences in temperature. All those sensors light up with overwhelming pain as just the first finger is twisted (more like savaged) off. By the last, his body helpfully turned feeling like retching into actually retching.
He couldn't even scream, though his vocoder clicks with the attempt. Each pulse of his fuel pump causes a fresh spurt of energon to pulse from his fingers and he has to force himself to focus on shutting the useless extremity off so that he doesn't waste his active energon through the twisted mess of his hand. Or tries to at least-- he can't focus enough, his head was swimming, too dizzy.
Sweet Primus.
Somehow he always sort of knew that this would be how he went. His history with the DJD was too deep, even if Tarn's reasons were petty. He's let himself get too comfortable and now his memory was feeding him images of dead mechs with their brains pried free, piles of parts that you could only tell had been a living person once from the bit of an eye or finger.
First Aid does what any sensible mech in his position would try: running. The running didn't turn out as well as he hoped though. His joints were starting to lose stability and the first few steps were more like falling upright. And then he falls downward, his already bent armor clanking loudly as he lands heavily.
It's a shame. He'd really started to see a turn in a direction in his life.
no subject
First Aid's hands are his livelihood. He has about a thousand more sensors than the average mech in them, all hard wired to various tools, to measure everything like small deviations in plating to minute differences in temperature. All those sensors light up with overwhelming pain as just the first finger is twisted (more like savaged) off. By the last, his body helpfully turned feeling like retching into actually retching.
He couldn't even scream, though his vocoder clicks with the attempt. Each pulse of his fuel pump causes a fresh spurt of energon to pulse from his fingers and he has to force himself to focus on shutting the useless extremity off so that he doesn't waste his active energon through the twisted mess of his hand. Or tries to at least-- he can't focus enough, his head was swimming, too dizzy.
Sweet Primus.
Somehow he always sort of knew that this would be how he went. His history with the DJD was too deep, even if Tarn's reasons were petty. He's let himself get too comfortable and now his memory was feeding him images of dead mechs with their brains pried free, piles of parts that you could only tell had been a living person once from the bit of an eye or finger.
First Aid does what any sensible mech in his position would try: running. The running didn't turn out as well as he hoped though. His joints were starting to lose stability and the first few steps were more like falling upright. And then he falls downward, his already bent armor clanking loudly as he lands heavily.
It's a shame. He'd really started to see a turn in a direction in his life.