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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Ratchet's optics widen slowly, a kind of thick, choking rage numbing his brain and sending a faint crackling through his audials, soft white noise in his head for a long moment before he manages to draw in a shuddering vent of cool air.

"Pharma was one of the greatest surgeons and researchers we ever produced," he snarls, voice a little unsteady, "and he was my friend,, and you ruined him, and you murdered him, as surely as if you'd put a gun to his head. You aren't getting one single more t-cog from an Autobot medic, not if I can help it. We are done here."

Tarn continues to stare at Ratchet, embers of rage beginning to burn inside him. He almost wants to laugh at Ratchet's audacity but is finding it quite difficult after everything else that has happened. After a quick glance at Megatron he moves a bit closer to the Autobot medic.

"I hate to break it to you, Ratchet, but every decision Pharma made was his own. I'm afraid i had no part in it, as easy as it would be to blame on me. Look inside yourself, for that one. Perhaps you should have kept in better contact with your friend. You may have seen something amiss."

"That's enough," anger adds an authoritative weight to Megatron's voice, now thoroughly annoyed at Tarn's needling. He stands in front of the soldier to address Ratchet and keep the two from closing in any further.

"I've just received a message from Nautica. She's delirious and panicked."
Which means he's going to go. Now.

He looks back at Tarn as he slips from in between them,"We will discuss this again later, unless you're inclined to press salt into whatever Red Alert has suffered from the war as well."

"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."

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."

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.

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.

Ratchet yanks hard at his wrist and manages to duck Tarn's elbow, even if he can't pull away--the blow still clips his helm, denting it and sending sparks along his vision. An awful, grinding terror wells in him as Tarn's grip tightens so close to the delicate mechanisms connecting his hand to his wrist but he forced himself to focus, stepping into Tarn's space instead of away and bringing his other arm up to aim a smaller scalpel across Tarn's throat, going for his vocalizer.

Tarn, blocks with his forearm, the scalpel cutting right into the plating. His hand tightens further on the medic's wrist

"My, you fight dirty, Ratchet."

With a sweeping kick he knocks Ratchet's legs out from beneath him, pinning the medic on his back with his weight. Tarn grabs hold of one of his hands, increasing the pressure of his grip slowly.

"Unfortunately so can I. Perhaps I should return these to Pharma. I'm sure he is missing them."

Ratchet's lips peel back from his teeth in an expression that's almost a snarl, his optics blazing pale with fury and terror. He doesn't bother answering--just hauls one leg up and shoves his knee between them, digging the flare of the poleyn covering his kneecap hard into the delicate interlocking plates of Tarn's belly and shoving with all his solid medic's weight, trying to get enough room to brace his foot between them.

Tarn lets out of soft 'oof' as Ratchet knees him in the stomach, pushing with all his strength. Unfortunately for him, Tarn outweighs the medic significantly. He continues to squeeze the hand harder even as he struggles to keep atop Ratchet, feeling some of the joints start popping ominously.

"Just save yourself the pain and tell me where the fragging t-cog is. I will leave without so much as a look back." Tarn growls lowly; only a slight wheeze to it from the pressure being applied to his stomach.

Ratchet makes a choked, wrecked sound in his throat, his optics widening... but his face sets and he thrashes in Tarn's grip, bringing his knee up again to catch Tarn square at the thin plating at the center of his pelvic span as he snaps his head forward, slamming the thicker plating at the center of his chevron against the front of Tarn's mask.

"Go to hell!" he yells, trying to kick Tarn again and struggling harder, venting roughly as he writhes in Tarn's grip.

Tarn falls atop Ratchet with a hiss at the direct hit to his pelvic plating. He barely even feels the hit to his head, too distracted by the shooting pain. Pulling himself together he straightens up, glaring down at Ratchet fiercely.

"I warned you, Autobot, I really did. This entire situation could have been avoided had you not been so damned Stubborn. I have been more than patient with you, and this is the thanks I get." Tarns stands, grabbing Ratchet by the same knee that was used to assault him. "This hurts me more than I hurts you." He twists the knee joint, destroying it's inner workings and breaking cables, before letting him drop back to the ground.

Ratchet screams.

His head slams back, optics blazing white as Tarn's fingers bite deep through plating into the joints and pistons of his knee, severing cables, energon spilling. His head slams back against the floor as he arches, trying to twist away for a moment and then stopping when that wrenches the tattered, pulpy mess in Tarn's grip and he stops to just drag in air through his vents. It hurts so much that the sensation is almost meaningless, white noise in his head, and he shakes through it, just taking a few seconds to jitter uselessly against the floor before he twists again, looking back up at Tarn with wild optics.

"Are you done?" he asks, voice ragged, vocalizer popping from strain and overuse, but he doesn't look afraid.

The medic's screams are like music. Tarn looks down at Ratchet, smirk reaching his optics and blazing behind his mask.

"Ratchet, Honestly, I'm surprised at you. "He leans over and grabs hand saw from one of the cabinets that he was just rifling through. "This is an interrogation! And I am the Commander of the Decepticon Justice Division. Do you think I would back down so quickly?" He kneels on Ratchet's injured leg, effectively pinning him, before looking him dead in the eyes.

"Now. You have one last chance. Tell me where the t-cog is." He lowers the saw to Ratchet's upper thigh, pressing down firmly.

Ratchet writhes against the floor, fists pounding uselessly on concrete before they shove helplessly at Tarn's knees, but that just jars his injured leg, so he stops. He's briefly frantic, panic slamming through him like a hammer on an anvil before he focuses on Tarn's face, the expression in his optics. Something nauseatingly and uncomfortably like hatred rakes through him, raw and naked, dragging like sandpaper through his brain and leaving him scraped clean and strangely calm.

"No," he says, his voice clear but for a little static, staring Tarn right in the optics.

"Very well." Tarn murmurs before making his first cut with the saw. shallowly, but enough to cut clear through the armor plating on his thigh and into the protoform a few inches.

"You worried that I would injure your precious hands didn't you?" He saws slightly more into the leg. "Let me tell you something, Ratchet..." The teeth on the blade catch slightly on the inner workings, causing Tarn to push harder, energon gushing freely. He leans in to whisper into Ratchet's audiol, "Not even I am so sadistic as to remove a medic's hands from him."

With one last cut Ratchet's leg is severed.

Ratchet thrashes and bucks, hands coming up to shove at Tarn's elbows, his shoulders, pounding laughably smaller fists against the collar of his armor. The teeth of the saw catch and a short, ragged sound wrenches from between his clenched teeth, despite how little he wants to give Tarn the satisfaction. He reaches up blindly, his fingers digging into either side of Tarn's mask and trying to wrench it free, struggling to do damage of any kind, to hurt Tarn back as he feels his leg come free, the sick lack of weight. He abruptly realizes that Tarn was only pinning him by that leg and he shoves back on his hands, optics blazing, trying not to look at the vivid pink swath he left on the floor when he moved.

"You don't know anything about that," he says, shaking with pain and the remnants of anger--it's starting to be swallowed up by the cold knowledge that if he doesn't start patching lines soon, he's going to pass out before he can finish and bleed himself dry onto the floor of his own medibay. He keeps his optics on Tarn. "You don't know anything. But I know how bad it's going to be for you if Megatron comes back here with Nautica and sees you like this. Is that something you want to risk?"

Tarn makes a small noise of agreement.

"Yes, perhaps your right." He stands from the bloody remnants of Ratchet's leg. He thinks about taking the it with him but decides against it. Let the medic reattach it if he so desires. The damage had been done and the message sent.

"Know this, Ratchet. Don't think that just because I am walking away today, does not mean I will not be back. That T-Cog will be mine."

Edited 2015-02-18 13:34 (UTC)

"Yeah, good luck with that," Ratchet says, his vents laboring as he struggles against panic. He waits until Tarn is out the door before he folds in to survey the damage. At least the cut was fairly clean.

He permits himself a few helpless, agonized noises as he brings a welding torch out of his wrist and down, searing heat scorching sensitive components until until the pain makes him go numb. No one around to hear him anyway.

He works until all the leaks are patched, then slumps back, his cooling fans screaming and his optics too bright. He's still dangerously low on fuel, but he doesn't try to move just yet--he lets himself curl up, hands wrapped hard around the ruined stump of his hip and just shaking a little, rattling against the floor as he tries not to think about the half-destroyed mess that used to be his leg lying a few feet away.

The trembling knot of his body eases gradually and his grip relaxes by degrees as he forces calm through his lines, his ventilations evening out as he goes limp. He lays there for a moment in a now-no-longer-growing pool of his own energon before he decides that's quite enough indulgent self-pity for one non-fatal injury and sits up, looking around for something to help haul himself to his remaining foot and wondering how the hell he's going to start cleaning up.

Megatron is stricken with a look of utter horror as the door slides out of his periphery and unveils Ratchet trying to get onto his feet in his own energon. But, he couldn't have been gone more than half an hour...!

A cocktail of betrayal, anger, and disgust flood from his spark as he processes the grotesque display of violence inflicted on the Autobot doctor. It actually takes him a moment to snap himself out of the grip of his own emotions, sickened with how foolish he was to have caused this. He'd led a mass murderer right to the doorstep of someone he was starting to consider a good friend... What could he even say to that?

The young miner is utterly silent as he runs forward to help Ratchet up, tentative and unsure of how badly Tarn had injured him.

"Hey," Ratchet says, his vocalizer still hoarse from screaming. He sounds exhausted. "Just--yeah, give me a hand up."

He manages to balance against a table, his knee shaking a little, and he almost shrugs Megatron off to try to hop to the nearest chair but decides his dignity will suffer less if he doesn't move too much. He hauls himself up onto the counter to sit, slumped forward on his elbows, lopsided--one on his knee and the other propped in the empty space where his other knee should be.

"I need some fuel," he says, his ventilations still a little unsteady. "And I'm going to need crutches, but we'll figure it out later. That mess is unsalvageable." He jerks his chin at the ruined leg, the finger-marks around the knee joint where Tarn ripped into it with his bare hand plain as day against the wet plating. "And I'm going to need you to wipe that look off your face, as long as I'm making a list. You didn't know." A hand comes down, slick to the elbow with pink fluid, and his hand tightens gently on Megatron's wrist.

"Not your fault, kid."

As well-intentioned as Ratchet's words are, they do little to ease the guilt in his spark. The scene was grim. Ratchet wouldn't be able to get a replacement leg anytime soon, which left him without an alt mode. Nautica was hurt, and now they'd have to break up their slim supplies between them. If Red Alert and First Aid weren't around to lend assistance he'd be feeling more uncertain of their chances of continuing to run the clinic at all.

Megatron's hands are firm and steady in helping Ratchet up to the table, despite the gloom finding itself stubbornly weighing down his expression. His voice remains steady and even.

"Intralinear or intake?"

Tarn and the very bad no good terrible week

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