robothell | Tarn and the very bad no good terrible week

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ratchet | asafepairofhands

Tarn and the very bad no good terrible week

Who: Tarn and Drift and Tarn and You
Where: The city center
When: A few days after the Rodimus incident
What: Tarn has an unfortunate run in with some new friends
Warnings: Tarn. Violence to come

Tarn has had bad days before. Occasionally his latest victim would get a good punch in, perhaps they were particularly good at eluding himself and his team, or they managed to temporarily escape. Maybe the pet decided to gnaw on a particularly important set of data pads. Or Vos decided to poach parts from one of the cleaning drones. Again.

Any of that is a walk in the park compared to the viciously terrible week Tarn has had. So far he has been transported to an alternate Cybertron without his consent. He has been harassed by Autobots, burned, shot at, disrespected,; but really, the proverbial cherry on top of the whole mess, was the incident with Megatron. The founder of the Decepticons, the mech he has sacrificed his identity, his name, his very life to serving, turned traitorous. Betraying his own faction and trading his own badge for an Autobrand. Honestly, Tarn is having a difficult time even wrapping his mind around the whole thing. One thing is for certain though...he is angry and on the hunt for someone to take his aggression out on.

He has been prowling the city ruins for hours, stopping every few minutes to transform a few times, just to take the edge off. He can feel his T-cog grinding more and more with every transformation. He is familiar with the sensation and the knowledge that the cog probably wont last him the month only adds to his every growing ire.

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Drift freezes the second the audio recording starts to play, the energon going ice cold in his lines. He hears himself, but they're unfamiliar words, unfamiliar noise -- it's not something he remembers. And Ratchet's voice in the background -- it sends a vicous chill right through Drift, knotting painfully in his spark, the fuel in his tanks turning to lead. Drift goes perfectly still, trying to mask the horrified expression on his face, and he mostly succeeds, but his mouth goes slack and his optics are pale, wide.

No one had mentioned this -- not Rodimus, not Ratchet. Drift doesn't know when or where this takes place -- was this on the other Lost Light? On theirs? Too far in the future for anyone here to remember, maybe? The thought makes his spark constrict painfully in his chest, but Drift doesn't tear his gaze away from Tarn's face, even as the air stills in his vents.

"What is that?" Drift's voice is surprisingly level, deadly quiet. There's no recognition in his voice or on his face, just a quiet, sickened horror.

Tarn chuckles, slowly approaching the stunned Autobot. It is clear that he honestly doesn't remember the incident. It occurs to Tarn that if there can be a past Megatron that perhaps this Drift is also from some point in the past. This simply means he gets to experience the sensation of destroying drift anew. Wonderful.

"Don't you recognize your own voice? Well, let me fill you in on the gritty details. You see, we tracked Overlords energy signature to your ship. Surely you wouldnt expect us to just go on our merry way after disposing of him. So, we stuck around for a little while. I must say I expected a bit more of a fight than we got. There was plenty of running and screaming but not nearly enough challenge for my taste." His voice bites at the last sentence. "Not a single mech was still online when we left. But don't worry, you will be happy to know that we kept you for last. You were particularly distraught over the disposal of your medic friend. His energon did make quite the mess."

Tarn pauses, taking another measured step forward.

"What ever is the matter, Drift? Have I upset you?"

A short grunt escapes Tarn as he finds himself on his back, inside the ruins of the building he was standing next to. Sixshot has him pinned, massive jaws set around the barrels of his fusion cannon- rendering it useless for the time being.

He can do nothing but talk himself out of the situation.

"Sixshot, I'm afraid there has been somewhat of a Misunderstanding." His voice comes out strained due to the weight bearing down on him. "I was unaware that it was you up there you see."

He tries to wriggle out from beneath the Phase Sixer.

"Shouldn't have shot then," Sixshot laughs around the barrel, sneering as he spitefully presses more of his weight onto the tank when the smaller mech squirms. "Don't you think?"

The building groans around them, destabilized by the hole the Sixer had left in its side. He pays it no heed, world narrowed down to the pitiful little existence caught under his claws, optics bright with malevolence. He could almost taste the energon between his teeth, see the DJD commander's entrails painted over the streets, chest armor gaping and empty...

A sight he's seen a thousand times already.

The blood lust recedes abruptly, fizzling out into static nothingness.

Sixshot eases his weight off of Tarn's frame but pointedly keeps his jaws locked around the canon. "Why were you shooting at anything?"

Edited 2015-01-25 02:48 (UTC)

Ratchet hears them approach even before he can see them out the cracked glass of the windows. He recognizes Megatron's alt mode as it roars into view, but the other one takes him a few moments.

When he does realize who it is--who it must be--he goes oddly still, the bottom dropping endlessly, nauseatingly from his tanks, his spark whirling. He doesn't move for a long moment, standing blessedly alone in the medibay, but when he can again a shuddering drag of air whines into his vents, cooling suddenly panic-heated systems, and he takes a moment to just stare down at his hands before he turns, going back to the cleaning he was doing before he'd looked out the window.

"No," he says when they walk in the door, not even looking up, his voice crisp and clear and his face oddly calm.

Pharma is completely, totally, utterly lost. Although this place sort of looks like Cybertron -- feels like Cybertron -- the ruins and dust and decay muddy and taint everything beyond any form of recognition.

The faint sound of a T-cog grinding from use and wear snaps him out of it, and he sighs, shaking himself off as he approaches.

"If you want a medical opinion, I would lay off --"

Pharma rounds the corner just as he's getting well into a bitterly ironic lecture on the maintenance of parts and stops dead in his tracks once he sees just where those sounds are coming from. He actually stumbles backwards a step before he catches himself.

"You have got to be joking."

Drift's mind is racing to keep up with what Tarn's saying, his optics still shocked and distant. It still doesn't fit -- Overlord? Even if Rodimus had tendencies toward omission, Drift knows Ratchet wouldn't have withheld anything about the D.J.D. being involved. That wasn't how it was supposed to have gone down at all. But Rodimus had said there was another Lost Light, and things had gone differently for them -- was this, then, their ultimate fate? Painful deaths for them all, taking special care to make it as excruciating as possible? Drift thinks Ratchet's pained cries in the background, visualizes all too well what the D.J.D. must have done to him, and he feels sick. It feels as though his spark is shrinking in his chest, withdrawing into itself, leaving him feeling empty and cold.

It's slowed him down, frozen his reflexes. Drift knows Tarn is slowly approaching and he finds himself momentarily unable to move, his focus scattered by the sick, churning feeling in his tanks. But then it passes, at least partly, and Drift's hands close around the hilts of his swords again, half-drawn.

"Whatever horrors you brought down on them," he says quietly, levelly, "it didn't happen to me. But that doesn't mean I'm going to forget about it, either."

He knows he should turn and run, should take any opportunity he has to get the hell out of this confrontation. But he can't, not when Ratchet's cries and everyone else's are still ringing in his mind, and Drift just tightens his grip on his swords.

Tarn looks around the Medibay, silently evaluating as he stands quietly beside Megatron. He glares fiercely at the back of Ratchet's head when the medic so rudely brushes them aside. Honestly, though, Tarn expected no less of the Autobot Chief Medical Officer.

He looks at Megatron, giving him a shrug before turning to leave.

"As I expected."

When Megatron enters, he was certainly expecting one of many things - one being a loud earful from Ratchet about Tarn. The dead silence when he enters is new, and concerning, but it's far from successful at dissuading him.

He approaches the medic, taking note of his utterly new and different body language, but unsure what to make of it. His own stance is calm and familiar.

"Someone needs your help," Megatron reminds him, firmly, echoing what Ratchet had told him when they first met. He was still under the impression the doctor would assist anyone in need.

"No," Ratchet says again distinctly, and now he does put the tools down and look up at Megatron, his optics clear and cool.

"Not him. Bring me any other injured person here, Decepticon, Autobot, or otherwise, and I'll do what I can for them, but--not him. I won't have him in my medibay." Ratchet's optics narrow, his tone frigid now, though he doesn't look at Tarn. "He can curl up and rust, as far as I'm concerned. Get him the hell out of here."

Tarn glances down as Drift clutches down at the hilts of his sword and makes an indistinct hum of thought.

"Yes perhaps that's true." He takes yet another step closer, bringing him almost a yard away. "But I never said I ever wished for you to forget about it either."

Tarn's voice drops lowly, threatening to begin tearing into Drift's spark. This was going to be a fun evening.

After a quick bought of transformation, Tarn hears a familiar snide voice from behind him and turns just in time to see a familiar Autobot stumbling back.

Even as his t-cog whirs in an upset fury inside his chassis he can't help but feel something of momentary relief upon seeing the familiar face of his old t-cog dealer.

Maybe this wouldn't be such a disaster, after all.

"Hello, Pharma." he simpers in a velvety tone.

Drift bites back a groan as Tarn's voice starts to insinuate itself into his spark, feeling it wrench, even just slightly. Alarms sound in the back of his head, everything else starting to fade into static. If there had been any hope of escape before, it's gone now. If Drift tries to run, Tarn's voice alone could out his spark before he can get out of earshot.

There's no way Drift can win this fight. He knows that. Tarn is as powerful as a Phase Sixer, at least -- and Drift is strong, Drift is more than a capable fighter, but Tarn's advantages are stacked against him. Even so, Drift remembers the weld lines on Rodimus' shoulder, the scorched plating, thinks of the desperate cries of everyone on the other Lost Light as they'd fallen victim to the whims of the D.J.D....

Drift's optics are cold and pale as he stares back at Tarn, unwilling to yield. He's never been afraid of the D.J.D., of Tarn. He isn't afraid of Tarn now. But Drift can give him a run for his money, at least, make it count. He's not getting out of this any other way anyhow.

Drift doesn't even bother with a clever remark, not so much as a one-liner. That'd just give Tarn more time than he needs -- so instead Drift just springs forward, swords drawn -- but instead of launching himself at Tarn, he aims to vault clean overhead instead.

Tarn remains a few paces back from where Megatron and Ratchet are talking, still half turned toward the exit. His eyes continue to blaze in fury at the Autobot's comments, but he remains silent in his rage, determined to remain on the moral high ground in his leader's eyes.

He can't help but to make a quip about his attitude, however.

"Yes, yes, I'm leaving- no need to be so impolite."

Well, that rules out the option of Tarn just being a very un-funny hallucination. Pharma's eyes narrow, both at that voice (which he really really wished he'd never have to hear again) and at that whirring sound his t-cog emits.

And despite himself, he can't help but mention, in a voice that suggests he'd rather see his hands cut off again than talk, "Sounds like you've seen better days."

"No, you're not," he directs to Tarn, keeping his own expression level at Ratchet despite a little indignation entering his voice,"I understand you have every reason to despise your enemies, but personal preference shouldn't decide whether someone gets treatment."

Megatron rests his hands on the counter Ratchet was working on,"We have more than enough supplies to spare for him."

"Supplies aren't the issue, and I won't pretend they are." Ratchet cuts his optics at Tarn, finally, his lip curling back in vicious satisfaction. "Let me guess. Spot of t-cog trouble on top of all the injuries you managed to sustain trying to beat the hell out of my captain? Paint me scandalized."

He sweeps the tools he was cleaning into a drawer and slams it shut, anger mounting steadily.

"If my problem was that he's my enemy I'd just get over it and give him the care he needs. It's not. We'd all be better off if he dropped dead where he stood and left me to clean up the mess, and I'm not lifting a single finger to prevent that from happening." He looks down at them for a moment, faint chips of blue clear through the vivid red, at least to him. His tanks churn. "I can't, and I won't. Now get out."

Finally, the appropriate reaction to seeing the Leader of the Decepticon Justice Division. Tarn watches with barely suppressed malicious glee as the mech makes a hasty retreat.

He transforms and takes pursuit, ignoring his aching t-cog.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Tarn squints. Dreadwing was never first lieutenant to Megatron. Why would he even attempt to lie to Tarn about-- Pardon? Did he honestly just insinuate that the D.J.D doesn't exist?

Nautica not knowing made sense- she was from Caminus. Lock-on was apparently some sort of shut-in and never actually entered the real world. But to just flat out deny that they existed? Ridiculous.

Tarn thinks that perhaps this Dreadwing is similar to the young revolutionary Megatron, where perhaps the DJD hadn't been formed yet. But regardless Dreadwing was never Megatron's first lieutenant. That is a bit of Decepticon History that Tarn would have remembered.

And what's with the strange new framework? That is not all what he recalls Dreadwing looking like.

"I beg your pardon, but we most certainly do exist. Ask Megatron yourself. Or any traitor to the Decepticon Cause for that matter." He takes a few steps closer, giving Dreadwing a once over. "And on that topic i assure you, Dreadwing, That i would have heard of you being Megatron's first lieutenant. Former or otherwise."

Tarn sighs a breath of relief as Sixshot eases off of him.

"It has been a terrible week filled with terrible Autobots. I thought you were one of them." He tries to roll to the side to get back to his feet, but the Sixer's jaws are still on his cannon. "Speak of, Did you know that Megatron is an Autobot now?" Well one of the Megatrons at least.

Tarn stills upon Megatron's command. Ratchet’s comments needle at him, yes, but he remains stubbornly silent all the same.

The medic's anger is getting the best of him, Tarn can tell. This could prove to be more fascinating than he expected.

He begins approaching Megatron, glancing down at Ratchet with a smug satisfaction that just barely made it through the mask. He would come out on top of this one way or another. Either he receives treatment, or he gets kicked out- giving him a bit more ammo against the Autobots in his battle to prove his point to Megatron.

"..." Sixshot goes through the mental list of Autobots he'd sighted, smelled or met and none of their profiles really seemed to indicate the sort to start a fight. He'd initially been doubtful of the war having ended but then he'd met Nautica, and, well. Nautica was kind of Nautica.

The wolf-former eases his jaws open, careful not to cause anymore damage than what had already been done. He then transforms, rearing back, mass slipping into subspace. The mech who should have been three times Tarn's height now stood only a few inches shorter than the purple mech.

"I met him. He smelled like a wrecked space bridge and fool's energon."

It doesn't seem to particularly bother Sixshot though.

Edited 2015-01-26 21:05 (UTC)

When one is in a profession such as Tarns, they learn how to read the subtleties of body language. Tarn sees Drift preparing to launch forward, but it’s the upward tilt that catches him somewhat off guard. Regardless he manages to lunge forward a few steps in time to catch Drift in the stomach with his elbow, forcefully driving him back into the dirt. Vaulting over him was not something that Tarn would have expected. Maybe running forward before dodging to the side, or even foolishly trying for a frontal assault.

“Good try, Drift. Really.” He walks over to where the Autobot lays collapsed in the dust, stepping on the tip of one of his swords. “I never would have seen that coming.”

Well that wasn't unreasonable, considering Dreadwing had only recently traveled to Earth in the first place, but he was fairly certain more than that was going on. He could be from further in Tarn's future, like Megatron and Starscream were for him. His frown deepened, thinking back to his conversation with that purple autobot. He was starting to miss the days when things were simple and he could spend his time tracking down and blowing up Wreckers.

He was certainly glad he hadn't announced his defection at the beginning of their conversation. Evidently Tarn held same the contempt for traitors and deserters that Dreadwing himself once had. Even though that very fact could prove his demise, Dreadwing couldn't help but admire Tarn's conviction.

"I recently made the acquaintance of someone who seemed to believe that those of us assembled on this accursed planet were brought here from numerous times and alternate universes." He said slowly, lowering his laser cannon. It sounded as ridiculous here as it had when Nautica said it, but it was, unfortunately, the easiest explanation for recent events.

"For example, she claimed that in her world Starscream ruled Cybertron, a situation that has not occurred in my reality." And never will, if Dreadwing had his way.

"Oh you know how it is... I completely forgot to turn the stove off before I left."

Ha ha. Human sayings. Apparently it doesn't matter how much trouble he could be in here. Bee has to make some sort of snappy comment. What the little Autobot hopes for is that he can lose the big guy in all of the rubble, thus he darts this way and that.

With his yellow frame? Probably harder than it is normally going to be.

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Tarn and the very bad no good terrible week

are we still on for sunday brunch

Of course. then tennis in the early afternoon.

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i'll bring the parfaits, you bring the quiche

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Mmm yes. i will also provide the linen table setting

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and i'll finally have an excuse to break out my wedding silver!

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