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.

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Helex's brow draws low as he chews over the answer. It sounds too easy, he thinks. Nobody is like this.

"That's stupid," he says. "You're stupid. Nobody says stuff like that. Nobody's that nice." He looms over Ratchet, smaller arms crossed, large hands on his hips. "Why should I believe a word of it?"

This is already much more of a conversation than Helex wanted when he came out here. This guy just does not shut up, does he? Helex snaps off another piece of support beam and this time crushes it between his hands, dumping searing hot steam and gases through his vents. Picturing the other bot's arms getting twisted and smashed helps. A little.

"It isn't 'installed'," he growls. "It's my mode. I'm a smelter. It's my job." He rounds on the big guy. "You got some kinda problem with that?"

Ratchet huffs a soft laugh, more entertained than anything else.

"You sure as hell aren't the first person to call me stupid this week," he sighs, then shakes his helm. "And, I'm not nice. It's just practical. Believe it don't, it's no paint off my plating."

The wait will be a decent while; Helex is shoulders-deep in the wreckage and working his way further in. Every new foot of destruction is a little more anger expressed, a few ticks off the homicidal rage burning at the back of his mind. He wants to kill and he can't and the drive has to go somewhere.

When he finally steps out, the entire building shudders as he drags a support beam with him and one side of the building begins crumpling inward. He spots Sixshot and stops in place, scowling. He's itching for a fight – he aches to kill, but he's not stupid. That isn't a fight he can win.

He grinds his jaw.

"What d'you want?"

No, no he really does not. It might have gotten him into trouble a couple times before -- trouble his partner probably got him out of. Or... deeper into. Depending on the day.

"That's... That sure is a thing."

He spreads his hands, as if to ask what in the world the angry bot was expecting him to say. If he feels any kind of wariness... he hasn't shown it. Honestly, he's used to being Too Big to get into any real physical scrapes.

Or he was. And then Shockwave Happened.

"What do you want me to say here? Because you're acting like you're spoiling for a fight, and nothing's stopping you from walking away right now, pal."

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.'

Helex's form emerging from the settling dust cloud draws Sixshot from his silent watching. He lifts his head, optics brightening as the lenses shift their focus behind red glass.

"We've only spoken briefly before, haven't we, Helex?"

That's not a question Sixshot seems to be expecting an answer to and the softness of his voice belied the ice underneath. This was an interview between a soldier and a ranking officer.

"With Tarn in exile, I think we should have a little chat." There's a subtle flash of teeth to accompany the words, the Sixer crossing his massive claws neatly together. "Why don't you have a seat?"

"…Why d'you care?" demands Helex, the furrow in his brow deepening further. Because Ratchet must care one way or another, or Ratchet wouldn't still be standing here talking about it. It's the wherefore of the thing – the reason he should care to press the issue when he admits it isn't his job to mind Helex's medical status – that Helex can't quite understand.

It bugs him. A lot. The molten metal in his smelting chamber roils along with his frustration.

Something in Helex's jaw audibly pops.

"I didn't want you to say anything in the first place!" he bellows, throwing aside his handful of twisted metal and rounding on Roller. "And yeah, I want a fight! I wanna beat somebody so bad I can taste it! But I'm not supposed to!" He rips something out of the wall with two hands. He wants to kill so much it's like physical pain. But he'd just cause more trouble for Tarn if he did, so he can't.

Not even this guy.

"I came out here 'cause I can't hurt anybody if there's nobody around!" As if that's the most obvious thing in the world. And it drives him up the wall to say it, because the last thing he wants right now is not to hurt people.

Ratchet opens his mouth to say something snide before his extremely poor and tragically underutilized self-preservation instincts finally creak into gear and he pauses, then closes it again, appearing to seriously consider Helex's question--a good idea, since the huge smelter probably wouldn't even need all four hands to pull him apart like a strip of weak sheet metal.

He hesitates for a long moment before deciding on actual honesty.

"I don't know," he says, not sounding particularly perturbed by this fact. "I just... do. It's my job to see that people are well. I like to think I'm pretty good at it. Makes me feel useful. I just... like helping people, making something good where there wasn't before. When the people at hand aren't actively shooting at me or my friends, anyway, I guess." He cocks his head at Helex, curious.

"Does that answer your question?"

Oh, Helex is angry. Immensely angry. So furious and full of loathing that he's tearing buildings apart and dreaming of the day it's the Autobots here being rendered down to molten ore in his chamber, and not scrap metal. He is overwhelmingly angry.

But not with Tarn. With Tarn, he's just confused and now, reading the terse message, vaguely upset.

"I could've backed you up," he says lamely. Maybe Tarn didn't want him along; that's always a possibility. "I'm… I'm sorry I wasn't there. But–" He stops, halfway smiling. It's not a good look on him, anxious as he is. "But I can do something now, though!" he says. "I'm – I'm still here. I bet I can sneak supplies out to you!"

"I got nothing to say to you," Helex answers, hackles already up since Sixshot had to open with that particular, very sensitive subject. Helex doesn't sit, either. Instead, he twists the metal in his hand and imagines it's someone's neck. Anyone's neck will do.

It'll never be as good as the real thing.

"And I'm busy. Go find somebody else to bother."

"That," and Sixshot's tone turns borderline frosty. "Wasn't a request."

He realizes, after a second, that he's raked deep gouges into the dirt and slowly eases his claws free. This wasn't good. He was letting his feelings get the better of him again, a fact that seemed to be happening a lot more often than he'd like these days.

Flattening Helex under his heel was tempting. Primus knows the mech was as big a threat to the fragile peace as his commander had been. It wasn't the politically correct move to pull though, not after Megatron had spared the mech. The only option now as waiting and seeing what Helex was going to do with the chance he'd been given: Tarn being spared was as much as verdict for the smelter too, after all.

Drawing on his suddenly rather dry well of patience, the Sixer cycles air through his vents.

"Helex," he starts again, trying to stifle the vengeful spite that'd lodged itself in his vocalizer. "Unless you want to join your commander, we're going to have to work together. I'm sure you like the idea as much as I do, so I think we should lay down some ground rules for each other."

"Not supposed to."

Okay, that was weird. As far as he knew, there wasn't anything like law in this place. Or rules. Or anything, really, to keep people from killing each other. So what was keeping Psychopath McSmelter from doing what he clearly wanted to do?

"Hey, you almost knocked a building down on my head. What was I supposed to do?"

But he's not advancing on this guy. No, that would be stupid. So he just holds his ground across the street. Hands on hips.

Tarn slowly gathers to his feet, favoring his good leg. He doesn't deserve Helex's loyalty. The smelter should have a strong, capable, commander, instead of this weak despicable shell of a mech that now stood before him. Still, Tarn is grateful that their friendship has transcended the simple parameters of Commander and subordinate.

Tarn nods his agreement to the smelter's plan after a moment of thought. Helex's smuggling of supplies would be helpful, for certain. He had almost depleted the medical supplies that Spinister had brought right away; and his throat still needed extensive work if he was to be able to speak again. Pain dampeners, energon, anything to create a bit of cushion during these hard times. Helex would have to speak with Spinister for a more specific list of needs. Tarn cringes at the thought of that meeting.

He can sense the anxiety rolling off of Helex in waves, the twitching corner of his grin the only outward expression of it beside his slight stuttering in his speech. Tarn takes a step forward, sliding his arms around his comrades thick middle. His mask clinks lightly against the glass of the smelting chamber. The fumes oozing from his vents smell familiar and the warmth of his plating feels comfortable against his own. It is a strange gesture for Tarn, but they both need it.

There are a lot of words in that answer. And they'd make sense strung together like that if it made any sense for Ratchet to want any member of the D.J.D. well. Helex frowns.

"No," he rumbles, all four fists tensing, "not really. 'I don't know I just like helping people' is a lousy answer because I'm me. That means you're stupid, crazy, or waiting for me to let my guard down so you can cross-wire something as soon as I let you near my systems. Or some combination of those."

It's logical to Helex, at least. Wait for the enemy to relax, then strike.

Helex watches Sixshot bridle, looks at the deep furrows those massive claws make in the ground. He's not sure he cares; if the Phase Sixer really wants to kill him, even Helex can't stop him. He could've done it and not bothered talking at all.

"You stay out of my way," he grinds out, "I stay out of yours. I came out here because I don't want to talk about Tarn right now. End of story."

He's trying very, very hard to not cause more trouble for his commander or himself. And everyone around here is making that very, very difficult. He crushes the metal between two hands and tosses it aside, then turns his back on Sixshot to tear a large chunk from the outer wall. It makes a deep, satisfying sound; the next piece he pulls away much more slowly. It's almost cathartic.

Ratchet's optics brighten as he manages not to grin, settling into his crutches and regarding Helex thoughtfully.

"Well, you're not the first person to call me crazy this week, either," he says mildly. "Look--I swore an oath. To the Autobot cause, sure, whatever the hell that even means anymore, but one before that, more important than that." Ratchet's chin lifts, his jaw tightening and his optics sharp--he doesn't look amused at all, now.

"I might shoot you in the chest with a gun, but I wouldn't stab you in the back with a scalpel. Four million years of enforcing equal care for Decepticon P.O.W.s and a long enough time running free clinics for empties in the slums before that and you think I'm going to turn around and use my medical skill to off you on some fake pretext? You haven't pissed me off that much, Helex. Or at all, except to imply that I'd do something like that. Call me stupid or crazy all you want, but I'd never deliberately harm someone I accepted as a patient. It's not who I am."

He eases his too-tight grip on the handles of his crutches and lets too-warm air out of his vents on a rattling sigh, relaxing deliberately. He is stupid, to get this riled up over a situation he can't really do anything about, ultimately. It's not like he really expects to change Helex's mind. He shrugs, half-turning away.

"Anyway, whatever. Like I said, you don't have to believe me--it's not like I'm going to try to jump you to seal those leaks. But come by the medibay later if you want. Nobody there is going to hurt you if you come there looking for help, not on my watch."

"LEAVE!" Helex drags his hands down the sides of his head in frustration. "You were supposed to leave me alone!"

He can't hold it in a moment longer. He charges at Roller with a furious roar, one fist drawn back and ready to punch. Just one good hit. He just wants one good hit, to feel actual living metal buckle under his hand. It'll feel so much better.

This is probably the time when normal people see their lives flash before their lives. Or something like that. Instead, the big guy suddenly sees that time he accidentally went 'bad cop' on someone who inadvertently sat on his last juicebox.

It's sort of relevant. Except with the roles reversed.

And it takes him a moment to process what's going on here. Not long enough to take the hit dead-on, but long enough to where when he ducks to the side, one massive shoulder is in the path of this jerk's swing.

There's a dangerous glimmer in Sixshot's optics when Helex turns on his back on the six-former.

"Alright," the six-former says frigidly as gets up, the heavy sound of massive claws echoing through the destroyed buildings. It's all the warning Helex gets before one of those claws slam into him to pin him flat to the ground. "Let's talk about you then."

There's a maw full of teeth next to the smelter's head and Sixshot lets the smelter bear a little more of his hyper-dense weight. "If I find out that you've so much as left a scratch on anyone in this city." His voice drops to a low, low whisper. "Know that you can't hide from me."

Helex stiffens briefly when Tarn first latches onto him. It isn't unwelcome, it's just unexpected. A little surreal. Tarn has always been a very personal, involved commander, but there's always been a degree of separation that ruled out things like hugs. Yet here they are, with Helex keeping all four hands away mostly in shock.

It wears off after a second or two when Tarn doesn't let go or say anything. Helex lets his smaller hands rest very carefully on Tarn's shoulders first, then curls his larger arms around Tarn's back.

"I'm really sorry," he says quietly.

Helex glowers at Ratchet but decides against keeping him from leaving and beating a better answer out of him. None of what he says actually makes much sense, but they don't seem to think along the same lines, either. Helex bets Tarn could make sense of it if Tarn were here.

But he's not, and Helex has to figure things out for himself now.

He lurches forward a step then stops, fists clenching at his sides in alternating pairs. He's still angry, still not really satisfied. And irritated. He starts following Ratchet.

"I'm not scared of anybody hurting me," he says, insulted at the idea. "Just 'cause I don't want anybody taking shots at me doesn't mean I'm scared of it, okay?"

The warmth of Helex’s arms and smelter soothe him for a few fleeting moments. Tarn shutters his optics and squeezes his comrade a bit tighter to tell him that it’s alright. His hands smooth in quiet circles on Helex’s broad back but he doesn’t make any move to let go. Soon enough he comes back to himself. He wants to scream his frustration against the warm and familiar armor of his teammate, but he can’t even do that. Everything has just gone so wrong. How can he possibly allow Helex, or any other member of the DJD for that matter, to call him a leader.

He’s lost everything in a foolish gamble.

“I-t—“ He hacks a painful sounding wheeze. He wants to talk. He needs to tell Helex that it’s alright. That none of this is his fault.

"Yeah, that seems reasonable," Ratchet says, slowing a little to let Helex catch up and looking up at him sidelong. "Still. It's not how we operate, either way. And I know you guys have Megatron, but he's not trained up a hundred percent, and I also know that Spinister is wherever Tarn is right now and not really available for house calls."

He looks up at Helex, a little harder this time, his optics focused.

"Why are you so set on me being out for your plating? I'm not trying to piss you off, honest."

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