robothell | the shit train just keeps rolling

Ratchet snarls as Tarn's knee connects, knocking the wind out of him and leaving him briefly stunned--but only briefly. Tarn grabbing him, Tarn being this close is terrifying, but tactically it couldn't be better. Ratchet's far from helpless but he's a surgeon at heart, and when he doesn't have a gun in his hand he fights like a surgeon. He flicks a scalpel out of his wrist and lashes out, precision jabs between armor plates, against sensitive wiring, severing any important connection he can reach before Tarn hauls him closer and his optics widen helplessly.

He drives his arm up without thinking, swinging in to bury the scalpel in against Tarn's vocalizer and twist, doing as much damage as possible before Tarn tries to fling him aside again.

Tarn glares over at Spinister as he begins to take control of the situation. Tarn wants to be angry but in his core he is relieved to have some kind of plan; to not have to think. He takes a moment to watch as the medic strips the plating from his knee.

He swallows his pride, returning to his attention to the high grade.

"I'll be there. When can I expect you to be along?"

"Gimme four hours." There wasn't a lot to pack, but it was good to be thorough. "Radio me if something happens. My freq is [number]."

He glances up at Tarn before looking back down and switching out the scalpel for the welder.

"Anything you don't get?"

Tarn stills himself as they take to the air, fingers digging into gaps in Galvatron's purple armor. The minute they land at the rusted building, Tarn is trying to push himself away, wildly thrashing until he falls to the ground in heap. He glares up at warlord, lips furiously forming words behind his mask but catching in his throat. He wants to die, why can't he just be left alone.

Frustrated, he slams his fist into the ground with a dull thud; he can't even muster the energy to stand from the dust and address Galvatron with dignity.

Tarn has to be one of the fussiest tanks that Galvatron had the pleasure of dealing with. If Tarn wanted to flop into the dirt, then Galvatron was going to let him, instead inspecting the integrity of the building. He returns a moment later once satisfied and probably much to Tarn's pleasure, he hooks his fingers around Tarn's collar and drags his body across the ground into the building.

"My former master Megatronus staked his territory in the darkest, harshest areas of Cybertron," he says conversationally, knowing Tarn can't really respond to him. "Many viewed the Darklanders as barbarians."

He sneers, then lets his axe slide from and unfold from its subspace. He uses the handle to pound at the metal of the floor until it gave away, then began to dig. Once satisfied, he uses the edge of the axe to cut his palm and holds the dripping wound over the small pit, filling it with a small puddle of energon.

"Your fellow Decepticons faced exile much more gracefully."

He snaps his fingers to make a spark, then sets fire to the pit.

The sharp pain of Ratchet's stabbing only makes Tarn more angry. Pushing the pain aside, he lifts the medic closer, determined to end it once and for all.

Unfortunately, in his blood rage, he neglects to consider that this may be poor planning. His shout of pain is quickly cut off as Ratchet buries his scalpel in Tarn's throat, successfully destroying his vocalizer with a savage twist. Panic seizes him as reality sets in, grounding him. Tarn is quick to throw Ratchet against the nearest supply shelf with all of his strength, hands coming to his throat to assess the damage. The following livid bellow comes out only as a series of clicks. His optics bleach as the flare brightly in shock.

Ratchet slams into the cabinets and slides to the floor, coughing and reaching up to wipe energon from his mouth with the back of one palm.

"Should have talked me to death when you had the chance," he says, his voice thin and staticky. He shifts in place, wobbling to one knee before he slumps back against the wall again, optics blazing. "You want to come here and try that again? Best two out of three?" Ratchet's face splits into an extremely nasty smile, shivering with anger and adrenaline and a strange, helpless fierceness. Ambulon and First Aid aren't behind him anymore, but he's not worried--he's confident he has Tarn's full attention. "Why not, right? What worse damage could I possibly do?"

Tarn is silent for a long moment, watching Spinister work.

"You've been plenty clear. I'll be at the coordinates after I attend to my business."

He would never admit it to the heli, but Tarn finds himself thankful that he doesn't have to handle this alone. Of anyone who he could possibly have accompany him to the wastes, Spinister is by far the most useful.

Tarn is thankful when Galvatron turns his back to inspect the building. He hates being seen in this state. He can see the the disgust and the judgement in the Decepticon's eyes. The moment of relief is short lived and Galvatron returns, reaching down for him. Tarn tries to swat his hands away but ultimately gives up as the warlord begins dragging him into the building. His only response is a low hiss from deep in his throat.

He watches silently as Galvatron works, embarrassed by his own uselessness. Under different circumstances, building a fire would be a simple undertaking. Now, with depression and weakness weighing so heavily on his mind, Tarn is unsure that he would be up for the task.

'I am not a Decepticon.' He tries to mumble, 'Not anymore.' He's far too pathetic to carry the title. He can't shame the faction like that.

The warmth of the fire is welcome, helping to chase the chill from his scuffed and bleeding body.

Tarn curls towards the fire, exhaustion pulling him down into the dust.

The shock doesn't wear off quickly. He stumbles back, slipping slightly on spilt energon. He stares at Ratchet, completely disbelieving.

How had he let a crippled Autobot medic, destroy the only weapon he had left? How could be be such a fool? With that realization he collapses to the floor.

'Finish it.' he tries to whisper. 'Finish what you've started.'

He only hisses static.

Ratchet watches Tarn collapse, watches the last of the fight drain out of him as he curls up on the floor, wrecked vocalizer shorting. He takes his time dragging himself across the energon-slick length of the medibay, collecting one crutch where it fell, then the other. He braces carefully as he pushes himself to his foot, wobbling a little before he can get both crutches firmly under his weight and take a short step forward towards Tarn.

He doesn't get any closer, but he turns one crutch out to slide the pad of it under Tarn's chin and tilt his head up, inspecting the damage with a dispassionate, critical optic before he looks back at Tarn's defeated face.

"No," he says, his voice cold as cracked ice--he can't understand what Tarn said, but the desperate, miserable surrender in his frame is clear. "I won't. You go out into the desert and you rust there. I have enough of a mess to clean up."

Tarn stares up at Ratchet as he inspects his throat. He wonders if Spinister will be able to do anything for him, or if he is doomed to be mute for the rest of his miserable life.

Slowly, he tries to get his feet under himself. He can't believe that he's backing down from a fight with a cripple with his tail between his legs; what is the world coming to?

He just has no fight left in him. He's done.

As he gathers to his feet he feels small, and weak, and not at all like the Commander of the Decepticon Justice Division. Tarn feels like a coward.

"Pack. First." Spinister doesn't know what 'business' Tarn had still. He hopes it's just chatting with Helex. "If Megatron changes his mind about how much time you've got, at least you've got your stuff."

He finishes welding the last temporary support into place, does a brief visual check and then starts gathering his stuff.

"Remember, try to keep your weight off of it," the heli repeats, shutting his toolbox. "We're already going to have a lot of work to do and I don't need to spend a week fixing it up if you mangle it again."

Edited 2015-12-03 19:43 (UTC)

Ratchet shifts warily as Tarn pushes up, putting himself firmly between Tarn and the other medics. His optics are still bright and intent as his chin jerks up, glaring defiantly up at Tarn.

"Go on, before I change my mind and call Megatron. Or Sixshot. I wonder what he'd think of you now."

Tarn is a miserable sight. This was a mech who had obviously given up pride or usefulness in favor of wallowing in his despair. Galvatron despised this sort of behavior, but he puts on a smile, tending to the small wound on his hand before he turns and clasps a hand on the mech's shoulder.

"This is one of your first failures, isn't it? Don't let it defeat you."

He leans over his lips brushing the tank's audio as he lays in the dirt near the warmth of the fire.

"I am so very proud of you, Tarn."

Tarn looks up at Galvatron with confusion written plainly in his optics. Of all the people to offer a kind word, he hardly expected it to come from Galvatron. Still, he clings to the sentiment like a lifeline as it cuts through the haze of misery flooding his mind.

He can't remember the last time anyone said those words to him.

He tries to perk up a bit but he can’t shake the feeling of malaise that has overcome him. Somehow the words of comfort only end up making him feel worse. He doesn’t deserve Galvatron’s kindness.

Tarn is barely listening to him as he tests the supports welded to his knee, before trying to ease himself off of the chair. He makes a vague noise of acknowledgement to Spinister's concerns but generally brushes them aside(Sorry in advance Spin). As he gets to his feet he immediately shifts to his good leg, stopping to finish the bottle of High Grade before turning to leave.

He stops halfway to the door, turning to address Spinister.

"Thank you for your assistance. I will see you in a few hours at the agreed coordinates."

The mention of Sixshot has Tarn backing toward the door. He wont have the Phase Sixer see him like this. Anyone else he might be able to handle, but not his old lover. He's seen enough pity and disappointment in his optics to last a lifetime. No, having Sixshot see him this way is unacceptable. Especially when he has no words to defend himself.

With a short weak glare, completely uncharacteristic to Tarn, he turns and makes a hasty retreat; leaving Ratchet and Ambulon with a destroyed medibay. He has what he needs and slowly begins his trek out of the city with his hand wrapped around his throat in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

Spinister watches Tarn go, scowling darkly. He's only got so much time before the other Decepticons would notice him packing however and he'd really rather not deal with having to answer any questions.

One day, Tarn will probably swallow those thoughts bitterly. For now, Galvatron preys upon his insecurity.

"But I'm also disappointed the job wasn't finished. You took the initiative to destroy an obstacle to your happiness, but lacked the planning to finish the job. You have gained nothing."

Get yourself out of the dirt, Tarn. He grips the mech by the neck, tugging him up. Have some dignity.

"And how did your precious miner react? You've wasted your time attempting to groom a weak mech who inevitably would betray and disappoint you, when you could have been my lieutenant."

Tarn pushes himself up as Galvatron pulls on his injured neck, hissing in pain and leaking energon on the warlords hand. He steadies himself as the world starts spinning, wanting to lay down, but instead giving Galvatron his full attention.

Tarn bows his head in an apology. He knows that Galvatron is right; that he was foolish to try after Megatron proved time and time again that he was too weak sparked to become who Tarn thought he could be. The environment is all wrong.

His plan to murder First Aid was embarrassingly put together; he should have known better. A plan ‘B’ or a more airtight plan ‘A’… He should have just plucked him from the city to ensure privacy. He got too cocky.

Sighing a wet sounding click, his fingers reach down to the dust. ‘You’re right’ is all he manages to spell out. And he means it.

Ratchet glares at Tarn's back until he's sure Tarn isn't going to come storming back in before he whirls around to take in the destruction of the medibay, and Ambulon and First Aid.

"Are you two all right?" he demands, hobbling over towards Ambulon, the first threads of panic tightening his voice now. "Did anything hit you, are you okay?"

Ambulon’s eyes are like saucers. He’s pressed up against the wall, as far from Tarn as he could get without leaving First Aid behind in his terror. As Ratchet turns to make his way back to them, Ambulon is snapped from his trance.

“f-fine…” he clears static from his throat “I’m fine. We’re ok.”

He shakes his helm slightly, trying to snap himself out of the horror gripping his mind. He’s gone. Tarn is gone. He’s still alive. He stares very levelly at Ratchet.

“I can’t believe you just did that."

Spilled energon wasn't to be wasted. Galvatron licks the spilled lifeblood from his fingers without a care for how it looks and watches the mech write in the dirt. He pauses for a moment in his lecture to read it, smirking slightly.

"I know."

There were very few situations in which Galvatron would ever admit he was wrong, but he knows he was right in this scenario. He looks to the gouged, scratched patch at Tarn's chest and raises his hand to his own badge, digging into the edges until it popped free. He pulls the wires from it and it powers down, and then he reaches for Tarn.

"I need no symbol to know that I am one of Primus's chosen in my spark. However, you may take comfort in this."

Galvatron fishes into the mount, finding a wire and spices it, and then presses the glowing symbol to Tarn's chest until it snaps in place.

"I didn't have a whole lot of choice," Ratchet says, his voice still sharp before he comes within arm's reach of Ambulon and leans into one crutch to close a hand on his shoulder and squeeze hard, his vents stuttering a little.

"I thought he was going to go after you, or First Aid again. Scared the hell out of me."

the shit train just keeps rolling

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