robothell | the shit train just keeps rolling

Tarn can barely think. Too consumed with rage, sorrow, and lingering panic, He finds himself stalking (limping) towards the medibay after Ratchet.

Tarn feels sick, his entire body is practically vibrating with battery suppressed emotion, his mind on the very brink of breakdown. Never before has he ever experienced anger particularly like this. An anger so deadly and ugly, that he barely feels within himself at all. The pain shooting up his leg from his bleeding and sparking knee only exacerbates it.

There is no hesitation as he bursts through the medibay doors, eyes blazing wildly.

“Ratchet!” He roars, staggering toward the medic, his attention lingering briefly on Ambulon as he backs himself up against an unconscious First Aid’s medical berth.

“I will have words with you, now.”

Tarn would refuse to admit that he is shaking as he limps away from the gallows with his life. He needs to think— He needs to plan. Leaving a thin trail of energon in his wake, Tarn makes his way to Spinister’s workshop.

He knocks, but doesn’t bother to wait for the scientist to answer before letting himself in.

“There’s been a change of plans, I’m afraid.” His tone is short and somehow off.

"I just bet you will," Ratchet growls, but his gaze flicks between Ambulon and First Aid's limp frame, spark pulsing in muted panic, his optics wide in calculation. He shifts, trying to draw Tarn away from First Aid and keep himself between Tarn and Ambulon simultaneously, his vents drawing shallow little pulls of cool air. "What, are you going to complain to me about getting caught, or about how I undid all your hard work? Or maybe about how I saved your miserable life? There's so many topics from which to choose."

“It was not your choice to make!” Tarn continues to shout, rounding in on Ratchet. Not thinking clearly, the only thing that rings in his mind is that he has nothing left to lose. He’s lost his faction, his leader, his home, his lover. What does he possibly have left to live for?

He staggers forward, making a grab for Ratchet’s arm.

“Stay out of Deception business, Autobot. This could have all been avoided if any of you just knew how to mind their own business!”

His voice is spitting static at its very core as emotion overcomes him. His hands and knees begin to shake as he gesticulates wildly.

"You're right, it wasn't. It was Megatron's, and he made it. Go argue with him, if you're this pissed off--or are you too frightened to show your face? You should be--he sounded pretty serious when he told you he never wanted to see you again."

Ratchet ducks out of the way, nimble as possible on the rickety crutches, and swings one up to connect hard with the back of Tarn's arm, knocking him forward before he shifts his grip and drives the end of the crutch hard into the crook of Tarn's bad knee. He's between Tarn and Ambulon and First Aid, now, and some of the panic buzzing in his brain recedes, sharpening him.

"Did I wreck your plans for being a martyr, you poor thing? You could fix that, if you wanted, and you know it--just show back up on Megatron's doorstep and he'll take care of it for you. I could call him right now, if you like. No?" He doesn't really wait for an answer, seeing how distracted Tarn is, how utterly uncontrolled--he pushes harder. "No, of course not. Because even bound on your knees in front of me, even when you had to rely on me of all people to save your scored, sorry plating, you were too much of a coward to want to die. You could have dropped me any second and you didn't, because you want to keep on living your pathetic, pointless life at all costs rather than die with some damn dignity!"

Spinister stops in the middle downing a cup of high grade.

"Huh," he says remarks, putting the cup down on the table and seemingly entirely unsurprised and vaguely disappointed. "So you're alive."

Tarn’s knee buckles as Ratchet jabs it sharply with his crutch and he falls to the ground with a grunt.

He whips around the best he can , his hulking form knocking against an empty berth

"SHUT UP!” He cries, fist clenching on the ground “You know nothing, you pathetic old fool!”

Had Tarn been capable of coherent thought, he may have used his vocal talent and extinguished Ratchet’s spark where he stood. But, instead, Tarn Simply smashes his fist into a shelf of surgery supplies, sending them spilling across the floor.

For one very long moment, Tarn considers following Ratchet’s advice; returning to Megatron with Ratchet and Ambulon's corpses in tow. Ripping the life support from First Aid and leaving his spark to gutter into darkness. If he’s going to go, he’s doing so with a body count.

With a growl he lunches forward, attempting to tackle Ratchet to the ground.

"Yes I'm alive, I hate to disappoint you."

Tarn storms over, grabbing the abandoned cup of high grade and knocking the remaining energon back in one go. It's smooth and pure and helps to lift his mood, however slightly. At least he got one more sip of good high grade before he's doomed to scavenge for scrap.

His injured knee creaks as he shifts his weight, a fresh wave of energon dripping down his leg to pool around his foot.

The theft of his drink earns Tarn a decidedly unimpressed look, but Spinister doesn't protest it.

"You sit down before you make things worse," he sighs, standing up and offering the chair up before going to fetch his supplies. "How much time've we got?"

Ratchet's optics flare and he flips one crutch up, keeping a firm grip on the handle to slam the pad as hard as he can into Tarn's throat as he moves forward and shoves, struggling to drive Tarn back. He can't let Tarn through, not with Ambulon and First Aid behind him, but Tarn's nearly twice his size. He braces hard with his foot and his remaining crutch and drives the point down against Tarn's knee again, hard, then again as he shoves his weight forward to knock Tarn back.

"I'm pathetic? You're supposed to be gone by now, but you took the time out of your busy packing schedule to kick in the door of a dedicated medical facility an assault three surgeons, one of whom is crippled and one of whom is unconscious. You're calling me pathetic?"

Tarn barely feels the pain of the crutch against his knee as he locks in on getting to Ratchet, vision going red at the very edges. He feels that last thread holding his mind together snap. Gone are words and insults— the only thing Tarn has left is bestial, brute strength. He can not fail again. Not again.

He roars his rage as treads shake in barely contained sobbing. He would be embarrassed if he was even slightly within himself.

Tarn’s hand makes it to Ratchet’s face, grabbing his chevron and using it to try to pull him closer. At the Same time a knee goes up, trying to plant itself firmly in the medic’s stomach.

Tarn accepts the seat without hesitation, fiddling with the empty cup. He can barely concentrate on what Spinister is saying, but somehow he is able to catch the gist of it.

"I've been given under an hour to vacate the city." The cup slips from his trembling fingers, dropping to the ground with a startling noise. Tarn just stares at it.

"Be quick about it, I've other things that I need to attend to."

"It'd better be packing," Spinister grumbles as he returns with some supplies, placing a nearly full bottle of high grade next to Tarn for a good measure. He didn't slagging deserve it, but at it'd replenish the lost energon and also get the guy tipsy enough to be a marginally less dangerous walking tower of trouble.

"We need medical supplies and at least a week's worth of energon in case anything goes wrong with the old energon setup. Tarps too, there's not as much cover out in the wastes and it's pretty dusty when the winds pickup."

Having managed to stagger away from the city, Tarn collapses against a rock. Exhausted and in pain, his hands come up to his mangled throat. His voice is ruined and with it goes anything useful about him. His last weapon has been stripped from him completely. He tries to curse but only spits out a hiss of ugly static.

Tarn's helm falls back against the rock with a dull thunk. He should just give up. What else does he truly have to live for.

He curls away away from the world, hoping no one will find him. He just needs to rest.

Tarn listens quietly, attention torn between trying to get his fine motor skills tuned enough to open the bottle of high grade and absorbing information.

"You intend to accompany me then?" He would be lying if some part of him wasn't thankful. Spinister's knowledge of scavenging would be extremely useful.

"What, and wait to see if you'd somehow grown a benevolent strut in your body if I don't?" You know, in case Tarn forgot they weren't friends.

Spinister huffs, opening the medical kit and snatching up the pain dampening chip. "Pop your maintenance panels up would you?"

Tarn doesn't even acknowledge the comment, but he does follow Spinister's instruction, eager to get this over with and go on his way. He has words to have with Ratchet.

"I don't have much, but I'll bring what I am able."

Ah- finally, the cap to the high grade canister comes off in his hand, He presses the lip of the bottle to the slit in his mask, knocking his head back and letting it pour into his waiting mouth. He goes slowly this time, taking time to actually enjoy its flavor.

"Thank you... for the high grade."

"Yeah. Whatever." Uttering a quiet sigh, Spinister slots the chip into the port on Tarn's wrist. He turns back and starts sorting out the tools, waiting for the dampener to start working.

"I'm going to stop the leaking and weld some supports on," he explains, keeping his tone neutral as he makes a mental to-do list for the task at hand. "You try to keep weight off of the thing until we're out of the city and we can find somewhere to camp in for a proper repair job. Top up on clean fuel before we go."

He lays the tools out before going to fetch a stool. "Gonna put your foot on this. Is Helex staying?"

Edited 2015-12-01 22:52 (UTC)

Tarn lifts his leg as Spinister approaches with the stool, sliding his foot onto the cool surface. The position puts strain on the warped joint but Tarn ignores it, the chip melting pain into only slight discomfort.

"I Haven't spoken with him just yet but I was intending to ask him to stay, yes. It's important to have an inside source." He takes another sip of energon, intent of filling his tank before entering the wastes. He watches Spinister arrange his tools with passing interest.

"It will be hard... Helex is extremely loyal, but I anticipate that with some time he will do well here. It's comfortable and there's no need for him to worry himself about shelter, or energon, or maintenance..."

This is going to be awful.

"Oh yeah," Spinister agrees lamentingly, putting a second stool under Tarn's knee before getting to work. "He's sure going to have a great fun time being sheltered and fed and maintained here. Mmmhmm."

After a few moments of clearing out the debris in the joint with a small brush and some solvents, he asks, "You had a plan B, right?" The tone of his voice suggests that the heli definitely wasn't expecting a positive answer on that front. "Is there anything you can accomplish out in the wastes?"

You know, since Tarn's clearly the genius, long-term strategist here what with trying to kill the minibot medic fellow and getting banished out into the wastes.

Not today, Tarn. Galvatron has been looking for Tarn ever since he found that the mech hadn't been slaughtered. Disappointing that Megatron didn't follow his violent urges, but it works in his own favor. He can use the broken and exiled mech for his own purposes.

This tank can fly, which is lucky since scanning the area was easier from above. Galvatron smirks at Tarn as he settles down, the thrusters on his feet powering off, and he makes strides over the mech to close the distance.

"Not here, mech. Your inexperience with Cybertron's wastes is showing."

Galvatron bends, hooking an arm under Tarn's knees, and then hoists him into his arm with ease.

He wants to say yes. He wants to have some grand plan to relay to Spinister. Unfortunately, he is at a loss. He looks away from his medic's judging stare.

"I’ll figure something out.” He just needs time to think and plan. But more importantly, he needs time to recuperate mentally and physically and get his old edge back.

He tries to groan, but only clicks pathetically. Instead, he settles for pounding a fist against Galvatron's shoulder. He tries to wriggle away, feet kicking at him the best they can with his maimed knee.

He just wants to be left alone. Tarn shouts his displeasure in a piercing binary shriek. How dare Galvatron manhandle him like this! Especially after the week he's had; it just adds insult to injury.

"Well." Should have figured everything out before you went and screwed yourself over, buddy. It was like talking to a damn rookie, but he gets the feeling that Tarn had pretty much always had his way just through sheer terror and brute force.

There's a very strong urge to roll his optics right about now. Fortunately, Spin's got a laser scalpel in his hand and you don't take your eyes off of laser scalpels.

"Here's my plan," the heli says instead, cutting off pieces of fractured and warped metal. "There's a rusted out building a few kilometers away from the city at [coordinates]. You go there, you make sure the thing's not about to collapse, and then you set up camp and sit tight until I can meet up with you with better supplies."

Edited 2015-12-02 03:06 (UTC)

Sorry, Tarn. All that kicking and punching just gets an amused smirk out of Galvatron. He'd have to do better than that if he wanted him to put him down. Instead, the ancient mech starts off towards shelter by engaging the thrusters on his feet again, taking to the air. Good thing it just happened to be the place Spinister suggested.

"You've had a soft life in Cybetron's cities and ships. The wilderness is much more harsh. If you want to survive, you have to learn not to lay your frame exposed in the cold wastes."

the shit train just keeps rolling

For Ratchet :)

For Spinister

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for Grandpa Galvatron

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