robothell | (no subject)

(no subject)

Who: Tarn and First Aid with a guest appearance by Rampage, Tarn and Sixshot
What: Tarn has "words" with First Aid
When: a few weeks after pollen
Where: somewhere near the Autobot Medibay
Warnings: gratuitous robot violence. Seriously.

Embarrassment. It’s the only word Tarn can find to describe how he feels upon recollection of his last meeting with First Aid. The tiny Autobot had taken him firmly in hand, taking advantage of every shameful desire that he could muster; drunk with the effects of the pollen that had clogged his systems.

Worse than what the medic had seen was what he probably thinks. After how Tarn had acted, any respect or fear that First Aid had was surely long gone. And what rumors had he been spreading? Who else knew about the incident? His tanks churn at the thought.

Really, Tarn knows what he must do. The only thing keeping him contained, so far, was the thought of Megatron finding out. They had come so far, trust was just beginning to be rebuilt. Was his pride really worth shattering all that work?

Yes. It was.

Which is how Tarn found himself prowling the back alleys near the Autobot Medibay, optics scanning for a certain small red and white Autobot that he was to have words with.

Fortunately it doesn’t take him long.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"No--" First Aid's plea gets cut short as Tarn's fingers peel into his throat. He chokes on his own energon as his vocalizer spits static, trying to reset a few times before it shuts down, his body diverting the energy away from the broken component.

Silence was truly terrifying.

The hard slam of Tarn's foot makes his stomach plates cave into a distinct 'Tarn toe' shape and his body leaves red paint scrapes against the wall where he hits it hard. For a moment he doesn't move, too stunned from the sudden shock of pain through his whole body. He feels like he might retch; he can't even pay attention to the notifications streaming through his head, too focused on shivering and venting.

Tarn's looming shadow forces him to shift onto his knees and he places a shaky hand on his face, pulling the mask free. It was dented enough to press sharply against his mouth, and once he drops it blood drools from his split lip. It hurts and he can feel his armor grinding as the plates shift with the movement but self preservation urged him to get back on his feet.

"Hkk--" First Aid's vocalizer clicks, sparking at his throat.

On impulse he lashes out, having nothing more than laser scalpels in his fingers to try and take across the mask.

One of the laser scalpels finds its mark, even as Tarn ducks away, leaving a deep gouge across the cheek of his mask

"Disappointing." He sighs lowly, shaking his head in disaproval. " Despite what you may think, I had really preferred to not have to do this."

Tarn catches the medic's wrist, large hand easily engulfing it. The kibble in his forearm creaks with warning as he takes a step closer, pushing First Aid back a few steps in the process. Delicately he grasps a red index finger, rotating it slightly as if to inspect the laser scalpel at its tip. After a few seconds, and without warning, he brutally rips the finger from First Aid' hand. It isn't a second later that he follows suit with the remainder of his fingers, leaving behind a bleeding, useless, stump

"Murder of this variety is always so messy and artless."

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.

Tarn grins as fear floods the Autobot's field. He watches silently as First Aid jerks and flounders to right himself, trying to flee back to the safety of the Medibay.

That won't do.

Tarn stomps a heavy foot on First Aid's smaller ankle joint, shattering it.

"Are you frightened, First Aid?"

He kneels over the prone, quivering form, admiring the various dents and shining sliver scrapes that litter his paint.
Reaching down he tenderly cradles his helm in his hands, stroking thumbs gently, almost affectionately, over heated cheeks.

"Who's the pathetic one now?"

Tarn plunges his thumbs through the glass of his visor, piercing optical feeds. Energon rushes from the holes, and broken glass clinks to the blood smeared dirt below. Blindly he reaches behind him, gathering the severed fingers into his fist. One by one he begins to shove them into the gaping holes , pushing as far as they go; prodding at his barely protected brain module. That would come later, however. After there is no doubt in his mind that First Aid has learned a valuable lesson.

Distantly he thinks of Megatron's disapproval. His mind struggling through fury and bloodlust to think of consequences.

No...

Megatron won't know; he'll make sure the body is never found. People disappear all the time on this twisted parody of Cybertron.

He is scared, god damnit. First Aid's a medic, not a warrior. Send him into a field full of the dead and dying and the only emotion he'd feel is sadness, but in a combat situation he was useless. This wasn't even a combat situation; this was straight up torture.

He wheezes as Tarn takes his head in his hands. It was the only noise he could make that would convey his hatred-- a deep chest rattle, mostly in the cooling fans. Any sort of sweetness wasn't to be trusted. As soon as the fingers push through his optics the clicking in his vocalizer start again, muting a scream.

First Aid thought he was spent for struggling, but it renews with fervor as he grabs onto Tarn's palm with his remaining hand, pushing against it as he squirms and thrashes in the mech's grip. As his fingers are forced into his broken sockets blood pours out of his nose, flooding his mouth, and he chokes on it, coughing on his own fluids. He swaps from thinking he'll die to wishing he was.

His whole body was agony. Blindness and muteness was terrifying. He could only guess what Tarn was doing from the sound of his movements, barely audible over the sound of his own ragged venting. He spits, aiming for Tarn's face, mostly blood rather than oral fluid. The movement itself makes his fingers widen the hole in his skull, pushing against his brain module, and his vocalizer clicks a few more time as a shock runs through his frame, making his spine arch.

He can’t say that he’s surprised when First Aid spits blood at him. He could feel it still; the medic’s spark flares brightly in its chamber, fluttering like wings in its fright.

“Still so much fight in that spark of yours. I’m almost a bit impressed.”

Leaving no room for him to fight back, Tarn easily drags First Aid up by the back of the head, smashing his face repeatedly into the alley wall. The violent motion leaves thick smears of energon, bits of crushed dermal plating, and shards of glass plastered to the building as his face slowly crushes in on itself . Each hit slams and rattles the fingers against his brain module, nearly piercing it on several occasions, until Tarn pulls him away satisfied by the unidentifiable smear that was once First Aids face.

“Are you still listening, First Aid? I’m not through with you yet.” He waits patiently for the nod, relishing in the desperate wheezes and clicks emitting from his throat. His hands are slick with energon as he readjusts his grip to his shoulders.

The first smash against the wall was fresh agony. First Aid couldn't imagine he'd hurt any more, but the crunch of his face against the wall makes all his limbs seize and jerk like he was some oversized marionette. The pain shoots through his spine, feeling like a thousand needles stabbing him in every sensor in his body, blending with the nauseating agony of his broken ankle and bleeding hand. The grind of his own face echoes in his audio and soon it just... stops hurting as much.

First Aid can tell he's dying. He can feel his spark contracting, giving in. He fades in and out of consciousness, starting to dream while still awake, feeling a phantom brush of warmth against his plating. It would be nice just to go to sleep. He hurts so, so much.

He doesn't have much of a face to show any reaction to Tarn's words. He hardly hears them, his audio filled with an incessant ringing. Where his derma was scraped and crushed away was exposed skull, his jaw disconnected and hanging loose, barely attached by a small bit of ligament. Most of the glass of his visor was gone, leaving the eye sockets fully exposed. The only sign he was still alive was the soft clicking from his vocalizer and an attempt to swallow. With his jaw loose, it just makes blood fish down his chest while the exposed tubing twitches and flexes.

It takes a full minute for him to move, his fingers twitching, looking more like a convulsion than a voluntary movement. Distantly, he thinks about Ratchet. It would be horrible once he finds his body. And he never really did get the chance to apologize to Trailcutter. And Sixshot...

Tarn looks down at First Aid passively as he squirms in pain, Hand coming up to tear the useless, dangling jaw free, leaving tubing and wires swinging and dripping gore and oral fluid. Distantly he thinks that it's shame that he can't see the fear in his face anymore.

Dismemberment in small pieces is ideal for the situation. Easy to stash until he can have Helex destroy the evidence. Soon the medic’s corpse will be little more than molten slag without anyone becoming any the wiser. The only evidence of foul play being an energon smeared alleyway with no physical link to Tarn.

Precision is necessary. He could just crush the limbs, or twist them free from the rest of his frame. But, Tarn thinks a more personal touch is necessary. Something agonizingly slow. After all, Laser scalpels are so small, it will take time to cut through an entire limb.

He takes First Aid's intact hand in his own, leaning down to rumble against his helm while he strokes the quivering fingers in his grip.

"Let me see your tools, medic." The words pull First Aid's spark to attention. "If you're cooperative I may end your suffering sooner rather than later. And it would feel nice to rest, wouldn't it?"

At this point, First Aid doesn't quite feel the removal of his jaw beyond a sharp pinch that makes him twitch, and he notes its absence only by the odd loss of weight. He was still fading in and out of consciousness, his awareness coming in like small snapshots, and he was more than happy to just let the fuzzy blankness consume him. Distantly he can feel Tarn's mask pressed against his helm, mockingly gentle compared to the violence of the beating.

God, he really was pathetic. Fort Max withstood three years of torture at Overlord's hand, but he can't even handle less than an hour of it before his spark starts to shrink and sputter. Tarn's words caress it, bringing First Aid back to wakefulness with a wet gasp. Energon was leaking from the vents in his chest, his cooling systems caked in his own blood. It spills down, mixing with the gore and vomit already slicking his plating.

He wasn't sure if he could do what Tarn prompted even if he wanted to. He felt like the world was spinning and if he hadn't felt Tarn's voice in his spark he probably would have never heard him over the fizz of static and buzzing in his audio. He gasps again, his fans sputtering, and his head lolls on his shoulders.

Don't trust Tarn. He doesn't. There wouldn't be anything quick about it. His tools? Something about his tools. His hand twitches, his transformation flicking between flashlight, diagnostic monitor, scissors, and scalpel.

Tarn stops him at scalpel, naturally; although the scizzors were tempting. He guides it down, digging it against his dented, gore smeared, stomach plating leaving behind a deep gouge.

Tarn presses the scalpel to to First Aid's hip joint, slicing through sensor relays and severing wires and servos. He pauses in his work to peel back the twisted metal, trying to get better access at the rest of the leg. His fingers slip occasionally, too slick with blood to get a proper grip.The process is agonizingly slow as he slices shallowly, occasionally twisting first aid's wrist to widen the wound. Eventually, the leg falls away from his hip, falling with a dull thud Into the growing puddle of energon.

He finds himself so wrapped up in the tedious process that he doesn't hear the approach of a stranger.

Pain and terror call to Rampage like a beacon. They wash over his spark, filling him with wicked ecstasy, far more delicious than the finest vintage of engex. He's already heading for the source, feeling half-drunk on the intense emotions, before he realizes just who the feelings are coming from.

And just how weak the spark that's making them is becoming.

Rage is boiling in him by the time he finds Tarn and First Aid, mixed with the heavy buzz of bloodlust as he takes in the carnage. The alt-mode legs on his shoulders spread, making his already impressive form look even larger as he steps forward.

"As much as I enjoy wanton violence," he speaks, interrupting First Aid's torment. "That one is mine."

It's too bad Rampage didn't arrive sooner, since to the untrained eye the mech in Tarn's grip was likely dead. First Aid had stopped moving sometime halfway into the excruciating slow process of severing his leg from his hip, no longer having the energy to struggle or form many conscious thoughts. His Autobot badge -- the only part of his body that glows besides his visor -- was now completely dark, and the pulse of energon from the wounds had slowed to a trickle.

He's still alive though. His spark was shrinking, his lifespan slowly ticking away, but alive for now.

First Aid feels very warm, almost flushed, even if his frame itself was cold as his energon leaves him. He thinks about his friends; movie nights in Rewind's room, staying late and talking Wreckers with Ratchet, Ambulon's awkward cluelessness, curling in Sixshot's paws, Rampage's horrible attempts at comfort.

He'd pay 10,000 shanix just to see Rampage beat the slag out of Tarn. Too bad he wasn't going to see it.

Tarn looks up at the newcomer. Slight surprise written in his eyes. Who does this mech think he is? With that sort of attitude, Tarn is certain that there is no way around the inevitable. With a put upon sigh, he gathers to his feet, dragging First Aid’s limp frame with him.

This is….not ideal. Now he’s going to have to kill them both.

“You have made an unfortunate mistake in coming here.”

Tarn gives the broad frame a quick up and down look. He’s big, for certain. But, Tarn has bested larger opponents in battle. His voice is low and foreboding, curling sharply around Rampage’s spark in an attempt to give the mech a taste of what is to come.

First Aid isn't dead. Yet. Rampage had familiarized himself with the feel of the various states of sparks between healthy and dead. He's felt them extinguish against his intake, prickling all the way down.

He's certainly on his way out, though, and he growls as Tarn drags First Aid's mutilated body with him.

"Stop touching my things!" he snaps, lunging forward to try and slam a fist into Tarn's face. There's a strange sensation in his spark as Tarn speaks, a pinch, a pain, but he ignores it. It's nothing compared to what he endured on Omicron.

Tarn stumbles back, stunned for a moment. His grip, however, remains strong around the medic’s neck.

“Your things?” Tarn tries to sound incredulous as he hefts the dead weight of First Aid’s mutilated frame even higher, using him as a shield. “I will do with him as i please and you had better not intervene. He is to die.”

Tarn pushes harder, frustrated by the lack of response to his vocal talents. It undulates inside his chamber, ripping violently at Rampage’s life-force. He puts everything into it, hoping to end the mech immediately.

It's not the first time Rampage has seen someone try to use another as a shield. It's just the first time someone has tried to use someone he actually likes against him. The attempt makes his rage boil higher and he steps closer, ready to punch his way through First Aid if he has to.

Then something happens. His spark flickers, throbs, and for a moment, just a moment, it contracts to a single point. His optics go wide then gutter out, his knees collapse, and he falls face first onto the ground.

It feels like dying.

Then with a crackle of pain and energy, his spark does what it always does: keeps on sparking. It burns but then he's spent so much time burning. He lets the pain fuel his rage and from the ground he launches himself at Tarn's leg. His faceplate splits open along its jagged central design revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth, primed to sink into the sweet metal of Tarn's knee.

"hk--!"

Bites down on a yelp as teeth sink into the sensitive wiring in his knee. Tarn's fingers slip loose, dropping First Aid on Rampage's head, bringing both hands down to pry the jaws free.

That should have worked, why didn't it work? The only thing that it seems to have accomplished is making the stranger more angry. Tarn glances around for something to hit him with, reaching for First Aid's severed leg. If drowning his spark won't work he'll have to do this the old fashioned way. Although, with no Nuke available, he is struggling to remain confident.

Winding up, he wacks Rampage with all his strength, sending bits of armor flying from the leg.

Rampage resists the tug of Tarn's hands long enough to bring his teeth together with a sharp snick, neatly severing a mouthful of metal from the surrounding plating. He swallows, sending his tasty snack down through a gauntlet of throat teeth.

He grunts when First Aid's leg smashes into him, but the lightly armored appendage takes more damage than he does, and the dents it leaves pop back out in short order.

He's dropped First Aid. Green optics dart around, falling on the limp remains where they had fallen next to him. Still alive. Barely.

The anger flares hot again. He doesn't want First Aid to die, and even if he did, the only one allowed to kill him would be Rampage! He heaves up, throwing his weight against Tarn to knock him further away from the small medic.

Pausing for a bare moment, he rubs at his chest, his spark still aching a little from Tarn's strange trick. "That was interesting. For a moment I actually thought I might die. What fun."

Tarn curses as Rampage tears away from his leg, leaving a sizable wound behind.

He tries to evade the massive charging beastformer, stumbling backwards. Unfortunately, in his hasty retreat he manages to slip in a puddle of energon, landing hard on his back. Rampage is unrelenting in his assault, bearing down on him with all his strength as Tarn struggles to gain the upper hand.

"That's enough!" He hisses, trying once more at his failed spark manipulation. He kicks up at the heavy frame, trying to land a hit with the wicked tips of his feet.

"You've forced my hand. I cannot allow you to walk away from this." Each word is bit out as he struggles to inflict any sort of damage to the seemingly indestructible frame above him.

He flickers again, though this time not as strongly as before, his weight briefly collapsing onto Tarn as his strength suddenly wanes. The kick punches into thick metal, splattering droplets of energon to join the gore, but as Rampage pulls, strength returning, the metal folds back into place, sealing seamlessly as if never punctured.

He laughs, loud and wild, optics blazing with sickly green light. "You can't allow me to walk away? Oh, my dear, I'm going to feast on your spark!"

Grappling back, he works to force his gaping maw closer to Tarn's face. "It's been such a long time."

Tarn is taken aback as he watches plating heal before his very eyes. He can’t win this. This mech is somehow untouchable.

He has lost.

Swallowing his pride, Tarn suddenly finds himself faced with a terrible decision. Does he keep fighting this fruitless battle, doomed to fail? Or, does he cut his losses and live to fight another day? Surely Helex would never forgive him if he threw his life away so carelessly; for such a ridiculous and insignificant cause...The decision is easily made.

He braces his forearms against Rampage’s chest and pushes, trying to get that snapping mouth away from him and leaver the frame enough to roll from underneath it. He ceases any sort of offense and devotes his entire strategy to defense. It’s a strange feeling, and jarring compared to what he had been doing not five minutes ago.

Not quite untouchable, but certainly a bit indestructible. Luckily for Tarn, even without the Nuke he's still strong, not to mention more experienced with combat. He manages to fend off Rampage's beastly jaws and roll away.

"Why run?" Rampage asks as Tarn pushes away from him. "You're not nearly frightened enough, yet!"

His spark still throbs painfully from Tarn's strange attacks, but after a moment he realizes some of the ache is from First Aid's dwindling spark. It gives him pause. First Aid is dying. Could he try and save him? Or should he just keep on with the fun part: revenge?

Tarn backs away as Rampage's attention seems to be taken by First Aid's shrinking spark. The distance put between them allows him to relax ever so slightly.

"I'm smart enough to know when a battle has been lost. Besides, you seem to have a decision to make. Do you chase after me, or try to save your precious medic? The clock is ticking, after all."

He hopes that perhaps his efforts today won't be in vain. First Aid's spark is so very weak now. Flickering on the precipice off death. If only he could get close enough to send it on it's way... all it would take would be a quiet word.

Rampage isn't even certain that he can save First Aid. He's only dealt with shrinking sparks while killing people. He does know an emerging infusion might buy some time. He'd tried that before just to see how long it would take them to die.

But he doesn't actually want First Aid to die.

He is pretty certain that he can kill Tarn if he keeps at it long enough. But he doesn't have to do that now. Maybe anticipation will make things sweeter.

With a heavy sigh, he takes a step towards First Aid.

"There's nowhere you can hide from me," he says matter-of-factly to Tarn, before drawing his weapon and firing missile in the Decepticon's general direction.

Whether it hits or not, the explosion is bound to draw some attention.

With a curse, Tarn takes cover from the blast as Ramapage’s missile hits a few yards away. He finds himself choking on thick smoke, trying to expel debris from his vents. Using the dust as cover, Tarn begins his his hasty retreat. He stops only to throw his last two cents in.

“I welcome the challenge."