robothell | 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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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."

"…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.

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?"

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.

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."

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?"

"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."

"Don't you talk to me about Tarn!" Helex snaps, and nearly makes a grab to force Ratchet to turn around and look at him. He stops himself at the last second but his hands twitch all the same. He's still angry. He may never not be angry.

If Ratchet's really not trying to tick him off, it isn't working so well.

big dumb loser baby

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