robothell | big dumb loser baby

big dumb loser baby

Who: Helex and whoever wants to look at his ugly mug.
What: Big angry sad confused Easy Bake Oven not sure how to handle the fallout.
When: Somewhen after Tarn dramas.
Where: WHEREVER WORKS REALLY. He's sort of out and about.
Warnings: Potential violence if you really annoy him? Otherwise not much honestly.

now.
Deep in a largely empty district somewhere in the city far from the crater – and so, in theory, far from other people – a building begins listing to one side. Dust and smoke drift up from the street in thick bursts and metal shrieks as it crumples.

Helex twists steel sheet and rebar in his massive hands and imagines it's his own neck. Actually tearing off his head won't do Tarn any good now… not that Helex was much good before either. He should have stepped in, he tells himself. It should be Helex in exile, not Tarn; Tarn could figure out a way to bring Helex back. The walking smelter has no such knack for planning and short of a one-bot rebellion, he can't see a way to make it work. Not that such a rebellion would work anyway, he thinks, tearing siding away from the underlying building frame. He could wipe out plenty of the bots here without too much trouble, maybe… but Megatron…

"Dammit," Helex snarls, rending the metal in his hands into scraps and shards. "Dammit!" He starts punching the frame with both large fists, a one-two battering ram that he just imagines is aimed at Megatron's face. He doesn't know what else to do. Attacking anyone outright without a plan will just end up with him dead or exiled, too, and he can't help Tarn that way. Girders start buckling under his frustration and he keeps pushing, punching, ripping away.

He shouldn't kill anybody if he wants to be useful to Tarn, no matter how much he wants them to suffer, but nobody said he can't tear apart decrepit old buildings as an outlet instead. As though it'd stop him if they told him he couldn't.

later.
Sullen and holding at a low simmer, Helex wanders grudgingly back towards civilisation. He's covered in dents and scrapes and finely powdered rust, his smelter is a little over half-full, his hands look like he just tried to box a Metrotitan, and he only feels the tiniest bit better. Wrecking inanimate structures is a mediocre substitute for the pure satisfaction of ending a life.

But he's tired, and hungry. And he can't really address either problem without coming back here.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In his exile, Tarn has taken to watching the city. He’s found some high ground relatively close to the edge of the city where he goes to think (and maybe, also, to get away from Spinister’s judgmental stare). He isn’t there long before dust and smoke begins to rise from a secluded district away from civilization. It barely registers on Tarn’s radar until he picks up a familiar scent in the smoke. Helex’s smelter.

He never did get to speak with him before his exile. He had looked, of course, but the smelter was no where to be found. Which, to be quite honest, with the way Tarn’s mental state was at the time, was probably for the best. He immediately stands up, taking a step toward the scent before pausing. He shouldn’t go down there. He takes another step, and then another. The area of the city is deserted…surely no one would notice if he snuck in. It’s so close to the edge of the city that he would barely be breaking Megatron’s order at all.

Transforming into his alt mode, he makes the quick trip to the very edge of the city, before deciding to continue on in his quieter root mode. If the scent of smelting alloy didn’t serve as a beacon, the screech of tearing metal certainly did.

As he carefully rounds the corner of the building he finds his comrade with his back to him, making quick work of what used to be a building.

He knows better than to approach Helex when he is in a mood like this; especially unannounced. In fact what he is doing is a near death wish as he approaches him from behind. He can’t even clear his throat as a warning, but he does make an effort to make his footfalls a bit louder in hopes that he might hear him through his blind rage. Carefully he reaches out to place a hand on Helex’s broad back.

It is virtually a death wish to come up behind Helex when he's in his temper like this; fighting instincts aside, he's simply violent and detests being touched by much of anyone. Even the rest of the D.J.D. knew better. They're the only ones who might try, though.

But none of them are here and Tarn is exiled, so when Helex hears footsteps behind him only an instant before there's a hand on his back, he spins, trying to grab the offender with one small hand and start punching with the opposite large fist. He registers the familiar violet plating almost too late to stop himself.

"Tarn?!" he huffs, incredulous, winded with the effort of restraint.

Tarn stumbles backwards, trying to take evasive measures from the fist aiming at his face. His vocalizer hisses and clicks as he tries to sooth Helex, hands held out in front of him in a placating gesture.

Though his throat has been neatly welded back together, the wound is still fresh and new. The damage to Tarn’s vocalizer is extensive and is not a quick fix. His disappointment could not be greater.

Tarn holds a finger up to the slit in his mask, gesturing to a neighboring empty building, hoping to keep hidden. He can’t risk being found by any prying eyes.

At first, Helex merely blinks, not quite comprehending the meaning of Tarn's gesture. It clicks a second or two later and he makes an O shape with his mouth, nodding. There are any number of empty buildings nearby that can offer decent cover; Helex chooses one with a door he doesn't have to manually enlarge so he can fit through and waves Tarn in ahead of himself.

"What're you doing here?" he asks once they're both indoors. Not that he isn't happy to see his commander. He's overjoyed, really, and his smaller hands twitch with the urge to grab Tarn by the shoulders and just hug him for a moment or two. Now might not be the time, though.

‘Looking to speak with you’ He tries to force the words past his damaged vocalizer. In the end, Tarn manages to make a sort of pathetic wheeze, but the words are lost in the painful sound. He bursts an annoyed huff through his vents, embarrassed. He hates Helex having to see him like this. Brought so low by someone he trusted; weakened to the point of uselessness and reduced to skulking around abandoned buildings and scrounging the wastes for useful supplies.

He misses Helex desperately. What he wouldn’t give for some good Company to commiserate with and perhaps the heat of a smelter to help cut the bitter cold of the dark nights out in an endless sea of sand. A stab of guilt twists inside his tanks at the thought of Helex having to handle this alone.

He settles down into the dust, scrawling an ‘I’m sorry’ in the dirt. He may as well get into it, it’s not like small talk is a viable option at the moment. ‘I made a foolish mistake’ quickly follows.

The sound Tarn makes is painful to hear; Helex can't imagine what it's like feeling that sound in his vocaliser and he grimaces at the thought. Surely they can get that fixed, he thinks.

But he doesn't get much time to think about it before Tarn is settling down and writing in the dirt instead of trying to sort out speech. Probably for the best. Helex watches the words form and mouths along as he reads, half-mumbling, half-breathing them out of habit. When he finally processes them, he frowns.

"Nothing to apologise for," he says quickly, waving off the very notion with one large hand. "Least not to me." His tone shifts, turning curious, and he adds, "Miscalculating isn't like you. What'd I miss?"

He had to have missed something. He's loyal to Tarn and Tarn in turn relies on him often, but that doesn't mean Tarn tells him everything.

Tarn looks up at Helex as he simply waves off his apology. How can he be so calm about this? He’s failed him in the the worst way and has left him to fend for himself in a world of Autobots and traitors.

'I reacted and operated solely based on my own selfish needs and emotions. My plan to eliminate my target was poorly planned and even more poorly executed due to my clouded judgement. I’ve had to leave you alone’. Its what he wants to say. But, he has a feeling that may be too long to scrawl into the dirt.

Instead, he settles for key words like ‘Became too emotional’ and ‘Lost control. Flawed plan.’ It’s a hard concept to convey without a voice, he decides, pulling his knees up to his chest. The poorly healed welds on his injured knee creak from overuse, aching terribly until he concedes and stretches it back out in front of him. Tarn’s optics catch his comrade’s for a moment. They should be burning with anger for his failure, but instead they are soothing and warm, if not a bit confused. ‘Miss you.’ His fingers linger in the dirt before continuing with ‘Alone.'

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NOW

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orz i keep forgetting Roller pre-dates all that

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