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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He should REALLY just leave and let the short-sighted idiot get buried in the building, Sixshot thinks as he's dragged after Tarn. Let him take two hours to dig himself out, see how slagging far that gets him.

Uttering the most long suffering of sighs, the Sixer reaches out and yanks Tarn away from under the collapsing ceiling by one of his stupid back canons. He then sweeps the DJD commander off he feet as if it were their bloody honeymoon, spins, and then leaps out of the building just as the structure gives away entirely.

Energy flows into Tarn as Drift pushes forward. Searing pain engulfs his frame, short circuiting sensors and slicing through thick armor into his protoform. Unbidden, a pained roar escapes him and he clenches his fingers harder on the sword's blade.

Primus, it hurt; Tarn's vision flickers slightly as he manages to pull the sword from his side. A splatter of energon hit the ground as he holds the sword up, inspecting it, before tossing it over with the other.

Eye's blazing in fury, he locks eyes with Drift.

"Clever, Drift, very clever..." he groans, "much better than last time, I must admit. You must be learning."

Drift puts his entire body weight into the keeping the sword buried in Tarn's side, but Tarn's too strong -- Drift's optics widen as Tarn pulls the sword from his chassis even as the blade cuts into his fingers and tears it out of Drift's grip to toss it behind him. Drift staggers back several steps and feels his spark clench in his chest, now facing Tarn without a weapon in hand. The Great Sword had been his best bet -- Drift knows he doesn't stand a chance in bare-fisted combat, not against someone as massive and powerful as Tarn.

"It must have been a long time since you've felt pain," Drift says levelly, holding Tarn's gaze as he steadies himself, refusing to give in. He might be weaponless, but he's still in good shape, not too injured -- he hasn't lost this fight yet. "You've made pain your business, but you forgot what it felt like, didn't you?"

And that's when he runs right at Tarn, charging as if for a full frontal assault -- an undeniably stupid move, as he's sure Tarn will think. But just before he gets within arm's reach of Tarn he rapidly transforms, shifting down into his sleek alt mode with a scream of tires hitting the dirt as he shoots right for the gap between Tarn's legs.

"You can bring her here," Ratchet says immediately, his optics focusing on Megatron. "I'll do what I can to help calm her down, injured or not." He watches Megatron leave, his gaze steady as it flicks back to Tarn, a harsh blast of air shunting from his vents as his jaw sets.

"The answer's still no," he says, voice frigid. "And I'm not telling you where it is, so you may as well either leave or kill me and stop wasting my valuable time."

The blow has weakened Tarn physically, but rage keeps him alert and consumes the pain like fire. Holding a large hand to the deep wound on his side, he snarls and dodges the speedster. He must applaud him for his bravery in the face of death, if nothing else.

"You know nothing!" Tarn growls lowly, reaching for his vocal talents once again; capturing his spark in a vicious grip and pulling. He just needs to down Drift long enough to regain the upper hand. "Where do you think you're off to? Do you think I am so weak that a silly sword to the side will be enough to fell me? I know more than anyone the limits of Cybertronian anatomy, and that barely even scratches the surface of the threshold of pain we are able to bear."

Drift speeds past Tarn, intending to transform back and grab his Great Sword off the ground -- but he's barely even finished transforming when Tarn's voice insinuates itself into his spark and brings him to the ground with a choked cry. Drift can barely move, his spark suffocating under the influence of Tarn's voice -- his optics flicker and flare dangerously, his entire body stiffening and arching off the ground.

He can't manage a response -- he can't even speak, the only sounds making it out of his vocalizer strangled and full of static. It's blinding pain in a way Drift has never known it, and for several impossibly long moments he can barely even move. But Drift is determined to fight til the last glimmer of his spark, and even as Tarn's voice constricts dangerously around it, Drift reaches out a straining, shaking hand to close it around the hilt of his Great Sword lying nearby.

Edited 2015-01-31 04:23 (UTC)

Tarn ignores Pharma's backwards step, continuing to press forward. His eyes flare in irritation at the medic's snide comment.

"Yes, yes as you have mentioned many times before. One would think that such a brilliant mind would know not press their luck. I assure you, Pharma, that with the week I have had, I am far from being in a gaming mood."

Yeah, okay, Tarn's not in a good mood. So Pharma switches his hand out for his trusty chainsaw and holds it out, giving it a quick rev and rotation in warning. "If you're going to keep up that attitude, I think you can stop right there."

Glad to hear someone from that universe found that equally unreasonable.

"So, you do hail from the same universe as that autobot Nautica." That was one question answered at least. Though it did beg the question, how many different versions of reality had been brought together on this planet.

"Tell me more about this Decepticon Justice Division of yours."

Tarn stalks over to Drift as he lays convulsing in the dirt. Even as pain overwhelms him, the Autobot reaches for his sword. With a snarl Tarn kicks it out of his reach, reaching down to grab Drift by the throat with his mangled hand.

"Does it hurt, Drift? I assure you that there is more to come. Perhaps you will learn to have a better appreciation of pain by the time we are through." He squeezes, his own energon running down Drift's throat cables.

Drift feels his spark constrict in his chest, suffocating, as Tarn kicks away the sword, his only shot at dealing any more real damage to Tarn. All he manages is a fiercely strangled cry by the time Tarn lifts him with a massive hand clamped around his throat. Drift feels warm energon -- Tarn's -- dripping down his throat, and the entire world spins around him in a dizzying rush, leaving his tanks churning. He's only dimly aware of the fact that his legs are dangling several feet off the ground -- he feels for a sickening few seconds like he's upside down, being jerked side to side, and his optics flicker again, his gaze going distant and unfocused.

It does hurt -- more than Drift has words for, even if he could form them. He's no stranger to pain, but the invisible vice around his spark is new and fresh and it sears mercilessly through him. But even now, groaning as every circuit lights up with agonizing pain, Drift refuses to knuckle under. Somehow he musters the strength to raise his shaking hands to Tarn's wrist, his fingers scrabbling uselessly over the energon-streaked plating -- and then Tarn squeezes and Drift feels his vocalizer give out under the pressure, crushed in his throat, and whatever sounds he'd managed to make at all dissolve into senseless static.

Tarn lets out a theatrical sigh, shaking his head as he pushes past Ratchet to move further into the medibay.

"We can do this the easy way or the hard way. But, i assure you, Ratchet, that i will be leaving this clinic with a t-cog in hand." He lets his voice just barely caress against the medic's spark. Just a tease of what he is capable of. He doesn't expect it to scare Ratchet, of course, but it does give him a certain satisfaction anyway.

"Give me the transformation cog and I will leave both you and your medibay intact. If not..." he chuckles lightly, optics flaring, "well, then I can make no promises."

Ratchet's fists clench so hard that the seams of his wrists ache, that faint pain sharpening his optics more than the slow silken coil of Tarn's voice curling in his chassis, its weight settling like knuckles pressing dread down against the top of his fuel tanks.

"Shove it up your tailpipe, Tarn," he snarls, bare hatred in his voice now. "You aren't going to find the t-cog unless I tell you where it is, and I won't. Let's get this the hell over with."

It takes Tarn a full 30 seconds to actually understand what was happening and by then it is far too late. Sputtering indignatly, he pushes against Sixshot's chest once they are free from the building, squirming to get down.

"Wh- I- Put me down. Right now."

He can think of nothing else to say. For once.

Laughing, Tarn flings a cabinet open.

"Is that so? We will see, wont we?"

Determination sets in as he starts to rummage through supplies; coming up empty handed he methodically moves on to the next.

"I assure you, I will be very thorough."

Grabbing a drawer he yanks it free from its housing, emptying the contents on the floor.

Ratchet's on him in an instant, following him across the room. He knows if he stops to think about what he's doing, if he hesitates, the terror swelling in him will overtake him completely. So he doesn't; he just flicks the largest scalpel he has on hand out of his wrist and swings it in, intending to bury it in Tarn's flank, to the side of his spinal strut--right into his t-cog.

There's definitely a mischievously amused glint in Sixshot's optics as he watches Tarn just lose ALL of his carefully cultured composure.

"Of course." Fortunately for the DJD Commander's dignity, the Sixer doesn't just drop him. He sets Tarn down gently, feet first, hand on one side of the mech's dark waist to help steady him, all proper and courteous.

"You should be a bit more careful," he rumbles as the dust settles around them, quiet laughter in his voice.

Ignoring Pharma, he focuses in on the transformation of his hand into a bloody chainsaw.

"Well That certainly is new. What other new tricks have you learned in your absence?" By now he is almost upon the medic, backing him into a corner.

And Pharma just keeps moving, only aware that he's being closed in on when his back hits a wall. Frag. Panic starts to flood his system, but he manages to keep his composure for the most part as he hisses, "None that you want to see."

He might actually sound threatening if the chainsaw didn't tremble just slightly.

Tarn turns to stare at Ratchet as he dodges the swing of his arm. The hit was clearly aimed for his t-cog; the stare turns into a glare in seconds.

"No need to be stupid, Ratchet. I would think that you would have better sense than that. Disappointing."

He's honestly trying to avoid a fight for once. Megatron is still in the back of his mind, and Tarn is not particularly keen on losing the alliance that he was carefully constructing. If the Autobot is trying to harm him, however, he can supposes he can claim self defense...

He moves to drive his elbow into Ratchet's face, grabbing the his wrist to keep him from pulling away.

"Of course." Tarn smiles, bowing his head slightly in courtesy.

"We are a group of five Decepticons who uphold the word of the Decepticon cause; hunting traitors and punishing them as such. Each of us have certain special talents, which help us in our jobs." he chuckles a bit, "I am proud to say Decepticon defection has dropped 40% since our creation. The mere mention of myself and my team is enough to send most Autobots running; as for the traitors well...they don't think much of anything after we are through with them."

Tarn smirks as he feels Drift's vocalizer crush under his palm, his pathetic noises quieting to static. At least he can no longer spew his spiritual nonsense.

"Such a shame that you turned your back on the cause. You made such a brilliant Decepticon. Your love for killing was unmatched." Tarn sighs, patting drift amiably on the cheek. "Really, Drift, I am disappointed in you."

And with that Tarn draws his arm back before punching Drift across the face with all his strength.

Drift's throat burns with the urge to retort, protest, defend himself somehow -- because he's not Deadlock, not anymore, hasn't been Deadlock for a long time and he's not a murderer anymore -- but he can't make the words come no matter how hard he tries. He no longer has a voice.

And then Tarn's massive fist connects with his face and Drift's optics fly wide open, even as one of them shatters with the impact. The plating on his face dents in heavily, and Drift feels it pinch and sever nervecircuits and minute cabling in his helm, sending shocks of pain radiating through his body, but all he can manage when he opens his mouth is a rush of static.

Still trying to cope with his shattered composure, Tarn pushes Sixshot with all of his strength, stumbling back and catching himself on bent iron beam. Never before has he been so thoroughly humiliated; swept off his feet like a swooning lover.

"Get off of me. How dare you" He growls, eyes burning in humiliated anger.

That shot sort of cements the idea that flight is indeed better than fight. For the moment, until he can slip away and get some sort of advantage, he's going to keep his tires to the ground. Banking a hard right, he doesn't intend to get caught easily.

"Well technically speaking, home doesn't exist right?" Ah, what a weakness for banter. "So no running home, but who wouldn't be with a Con your size chasing after them?"

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Tarn and the very bad no good terrible week

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