robothell | [ INTRO LOG ]

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[ INTRO LOG ]

You don't know how you got here. One minute you were walking, sleeping, maybe dead -- then you're here, your feet suddenly carrying you down an empty street. Where's here?

Any Cybertronian would recognize this as their home planet, Cybertron, but it's not a Cybertron they've ever known. It has all the familiar hallmarks, but none of the specifics -- the city isn't one anyone here could identify, and even at a glance it's obvious that no one's set foot on the planet's surface in hundreds of years. The city and its surrounding areas all bear the marks of devastating war, of dust and rust collected over centuries. With no one in sight -- right at first, anyway -- there's plenty to explore. In fact, if you start walking, you'll find that your feet may just carry you in one particular direction.

A) The crater.
On one edge of the city is a massive crater left by some wartime weapon that seems to have taken out a large chunk of the surrounding metropolitan area. At the center of the crater it's broken through the surface of the terrain to reveal what looks like it might be a promising energon deposit. There is some strange but native vegetation growing around the edges, too, that no Cybertronian would be able to identify -- small, metallic, brittle-looking sprouts that bear a curiously organic-looking fruit of some kind that doesn't look like it's intended for consumption by any natives of the planet. In one rocky nook of the crater, light catches on the surface of a pool of water, which seems strangely out of place on Cybertron. On closer inspection, it seems that somehow an underground water source has formed a spring in the crater.

B) The center of the city.
If you follow where your feet seem to want to carry you, you'll find yourself in the middle of the ruined city. It seems that the center of the city was once home to a massive forum, and some of the pillars and structures still stand. At the very center of the forum is a massive, elaborately constructed fountain, although it has now long since run dry of whatever used to fill it. One of the low, inner walls of the forum has a terminal embedded in its surface, although it looks curiously ancient, out of place with the rest of the city, and unlike the rest of the technology still left around, there doesn't seem to be any way to power it on or operate it. There are a few scattered pools of water and a few of the strange metallic plants in the city, too, but they're not quite as plentiful as in the crater.

The planet was obviously once home to a massive network of communication relays, but those have all been long since destroyed. However, with the bits and pieces left behind and a few determined minds, it wouldn't be too hard to build a working, if rudimentary, one...

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It felt like days before the forcefield finally dissipated, but First Aid knew in the back of his mind it hadn't even been an hour. He recalls the way his spark clenched in its chamber when it finally flickered out, how his hands quivered ashe picked up the remains of Trailcutter's brain, pressing broken transistors and bent metal into place in an obsessive need to fix it.

When he looked up, he was no longer kneeling in the pool of energon. Trailcutter's body was gone. Bluestreak and Mainframe were nowhere to be found. All that was left was the brain in his hand.

First Aid sobbed for hours.

Parts of his visor are shorting by the time he manages to get himself under control, filaments burt from the heat. His vision isn't the best, but he has a clear enough head now to ge bearings of his surroundings. He can only assume he had been transported here, but by who and why he had no idea.

He vents in a heavy vent, rubs his face, and gets to work. "Is anyone here?"

It didn't hurt to ask, though he was certain he had never been here before despite how familiar it felt. Kinda like deja vu.

Sorry, First Aid, were you having a moment? Because Trailcutter heard that call for anyone in the vicinity, and...well, he considered himself as part of 'anyone'. It takes a bit--he's not exactly the fastest Cybertronian, but he makes his way across the crater, Towards Peace tucked under an arm.

The voice was certainly familiar, and he'd be lying if he said his hopes hadn't been brought up.

"First Aid?"

He only says it the moment he lays eyes on the medic. And after his journey with Red Alert (or...'red alert'. That's still taking time getting used to), First Aid is a sight for sore optics.

"FIRST AID!"

A smile cracks wide as he hurries over, and in a bit of exasperated joy, he throws his arms around him, lifing him a few inches off the ground.

"I had a feeling you'd be here!"

No you didn't.

This is it. He must have gone insane. He was hallucinating, or maybe he was being haunted. He failed to save Trailcutter after he promised he'd be back for him. First Aid's frozen in spot, quivering slightly as the ghost approaches him and then he's--

He's being hugged? His feet leave the ground, dangling heavily under his frame. His visor winks out a few times in a blink, his hands coming up to press into Trailcutter's shoulders, the brain pressed between his palm and the mech's plating.

"Trailcutter?"

First Aid's absolutely stunned, but his expression is an open book when it finally dawns on him. Ghost or Afterspark, he was real. His visor widdens, then closes to an almost squint. He can't kiss without a mouth, but he bumps his visor against Trailcutter's nose and rubs his cheek against his.

"You're alive!"

He's either too excited or too in awe to notice the brain module (or whatever it was, he had no idea at the time) against his shoulder. Someone familiar from where he was back home. He can remember it, the four of them on that planet waiting for the Lost Light to come get them.

"The one and only!"

And for the first time, he says it with pride. But whatever comes after, an 'eyebrow' of that visor raises, a bit questionably.

"Uh...yeah. Why wouldn't I be? It's not like I can drink myself to death now."

Oh, he doesn't remember. Probably for the best. First Aid keeps bumping his visor against his cheek just to make sure he was real. He was so incredibly happy to see him it was ridiculous.

"I was worried something terrible had happened to you."

Something terrible did. Something he caused. Trailcutter was too good to have that happen to him and First Aid felt horrible. He almost started choking up again just thinking about it, his vocalizer spitting static.

His feet were still dangling off the ground, swaying gently.

"Where are we?"

The affection was definitely welcomed--maybe previously Trailcutter had been too drunk to register it (if it'd happened at all), but now...? A small smile spreads at First Aid's little bumps. And maybe giving an affectionate one back.

"Nothing beyond being sober. I guess I disappeared for awhile, but you remember me coming back, right? That whole weird situation?"

Yeah, he certainly remembers it, and remembering when he came back to a shocked Bluestreak and First Aid on one of the escaped ships. Slowly, he lowers First Aid to the ground, hands going to his hips as he looks around.

"If I had to guess....Cybertron. But...if it is..."

He leans in, whispering. "Bet you five shanix it's all Starscream's fault."

The height difference made being lowered somewhat awkward, especially when First Aid had one hand full, but he settles as his feet touch the ground. His stare drifts to his hand, still pressed against Trailcutter's armor, and his fingers curl tight around the brain module, hiding it in his palm despite the slight stabbing as the receptors pushed into the seams.

"Yeah..." He remembered. And Trailcutter didn't seem to remember what happened after. His visor dims, but he giggles at the whisper.

"When isn't it his fault? He couldn't even lead his way out of a gift box if he tried."

He drops his hands slowly and looks up at Trailcutter, then pats his arm gently with his free hand.

"Let me get a look at you. You still feeling fine with sobriety? No pains in the fuel tank? Strange smelling emissions? Unexpected backfiring? Headache?"

He takes a step back, to allow First Aid some room as he lets him down, although his lip contorts up in a little sneer. "Believe me, I already got that spiel. Some other doctor beat you to the punch, despite me already saying I had a designated medic."

She's a little abrasive, that's all.

"But uh...since we're going through the motions, I'm pretty good, except for the whole 'displaced onto another planet' thing. I'm not sure if I'm just hallucinating you or not, but...I'll stick with the more positive option."

Hopefully that's SOMEWHAT helpful.

"Oh. Well, you don't have to just get care from me. I don't have exclusive rights or anything to you."

Silly Trailcutter. Don't you know medics share? Except when they totally don't. Sharing was usually convenient only when they already had more work than they could handle, otherwise medics tend to protect their claim on patients like glamorbots did rich conjunx eduras.

"Pretty sure you're not hallucinating me, though." He can't say the same for himself.

"You been to the city yet?"

"Trust me, I'd prefer if it was you. She was a little..."

Mean. Demanding. No bedside manners.

"So! Anyway. Not a hallucination, got it. As for the city...haven't really bothered to walk in. Mostly because...I thought it was just me, you know?"

You're going to make him blush, Trailcutter. If he could blush. He's barely holding back the urge to hug again.

"Get that. If there's others, they'll probably be heading for it, though."

He looks him over, just trying to assess things.

"You sure you're feeling all right?"

Well, it's true. He puts a lot of faith in you, First Aid. Ratchet did, certainly.

"Well, we're not doing any good just sitting here. I'd rather be on the move then dead weight anyway..."

HAHAHA.

But the question makes him pause. It's not as if it wasn't like First Aid to question, but...something pinged him strangely. Something like First Aid knows there's something wrong. Maybe there's added affects to sobriety....or something.

"Well uh...I get the shakes sometimes. Lack of effective drinks, you know. But I guess that's from being addicted."

First Aid fights the urge to flinch. If only Trailcutter knew what he was saying. He forces a smile (with his visor, okay) and gives the mech a reassuring pat on the arm.

"Most of that is psychological. Your frame is recovering from years of intoxication, but even then most of it is your brain missing the the high. Rung may have some suggestions on some exercises that may be helpful in alleviating that."

First Aid won't get over how surreal it is to touch Trailcutter, when not so long ago he was carefully picking up the pieces of his corpse. He turns and looks towards the city, venting. He's got this.

"At the very least, we should get some shelter." He transforms, waiting in his ambulance mode for Trailcutter.

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gimmicky - 2015-02-03 04:39 (UTC) - Expand

There's a little red medic sobbing in the crater, something clutched in his hands.

It's apathy that stops Sixshot from transforming and popping his brain module out with a clean shot from his rifle. Only Autobot medics wore those colors. Only Autobot medics would mark themselves as targets so obviously. Sixshot has killed thousands of them during the course of the war, and among the vast number of deaths, this one would have been unremarkable too.

But he was a weapon without a master at the moment, and with no one to pull the trigger, the apathy has time to slowly warp into something that resembled curiosity. For the first time in ages, he wonders.

Sixshot does not answer. He gets up from his resting place amongst the plants and strides over, massive wolf-claws thumping heavily against the ground. Ratchet had been little more than a toy car next to the phase sixer. This little medic was even smaller.

Just when First Aid thinks that things couldn't get worse, they do. The thumping goes unnoticed for a moment -- his head too full of the buzz of despair -- but when the thumping made the earth beneath his knees shake is when it really got his attention. His venting hitches, looking around wildly just in time for Sixshot's massive shadow to fall over him.

Of course he knows who he is. Who didn't know who the Phase Sixers were?

He thumps back on his aft, staring up at the mech's massive wolf form, frozen in spot. He's faced down a number of horrors-- Legislators, plague, even just dealt with the DJD -- and they... well, they never ended well, but he was never just frozen in spot like this, his spark clenching in its chamber.

"Are you going to kill me?" He somehow keeps his voice even despite it.

The mass of machinery and death slows to a surprisingly gentle stop, one enormous paw flattening a deep imprint into the ground to First Aid's left. His hulking frame blots out the starlight, silent and monolithic, red eyes lighting up the shadows on his canine face.

This was not new, the sight of a mech frozen in terror. The question asked was not new either.

The situation however, has changed somewhat, and Sixshot tilts his helm in consideration. As was his nature, he first considers the distance between his paw and the medic. Considers the sight of the small mech's form crushed, spark winking out, energon seeping into the soil.

He feels nothing.

The silence goes on for a long few seconds, before Sixshot finally makes up his mind.

"... Not right now."

Honestly, if First Aid ran, Sixshot doesn't think he'd muster enough care to bother with a chase.

First Aid's bright enough to realize that running from Sixshot would accomplish absolutely nothing but indignity. This close, and at his size, there really wasn't even a glimmer of a chance.

With that in mind, he gathers himself up off his knees and to his feet. At the very least he could get killed standing. After the DJD, he was really sick of Megatron's monstrosities; it was difficult not to feel resentment for his current 'captain' in this situation.

"What do you want then?" There had to be some sort of reason why he wasn't dead already or why Sixshot had approached him in the first place.

Huh. That looked like a brain module. Had the same tang of strange metals in the back of his olfactory sensors too. It was a scent often muddled by energon, coolant and the lingering ozone of a burnt out spark, but he's smelled it enough times to know.

"Are you going to keep that for mnemosurgery?" he asks, ignoring First Aid's question. Sixshot didn't know himself what he wanted, only that it wasn't lying around, brooding in the grass at the moment.

He should probably find some way to reconnect with command. At least this time he'd just been teleported to Cybertron and not to some desolate, burning rock that was a bare million kilometers from a star. Always a fun time when some civilization found out the best way to deal with Sixers was just to pop them off their planet like that.

First Aid seems more horrified by the question than the situation in general. Nothing too unusual for him-- he's lived in DJD territory, faced down plague, Overlord, Legislators, his psychotic ex-boss, and the end of time itself. His hand trembles slightly, clutching the brain module close to his chest.

"He was my friend. He deserves better than that."

He's not sure why he's even explaining this. There wasn't exactly any point in running; he wouldn't even make it two feet before that massive paw slammed down on him, crushing him. Talking was... pretty much the only thing he could do.

First Aid's visor dims, his head dropping slightly to look at the ground. His spark clenches in his chest, aching with sadness.

"I wanted to try and fix him but-- I'm here and his body is... somewhere else. He was dead the moment the DJD tore his head off. I just didn't want to admit it."

Sixshot dips his head down, down, until his olfactory sensors were level with First Aid's hands. He cycles in a long, deep breath and debates quietly for a moment about telling the little Autobot about how the scent in his hands bore a remarkable similarity to what he'd picked up from a set of footprints not too far away. Almost exact, really, the dense overtones of energon and death aside.

"... Walk with me," he says instead, leaning away from First Aid and turning his massive frame around.

It was best not to get any hopes up. Sixshot trusted his nose over his sight any day, but the universe was a weird place and it wouldn't be the first time his senses were wrong. He could only lead the way; the final destination was no promise.

This was probably one of the most bizarre things that has happened to him in his life (not really). Generally, an encounter with a Phase Sixer was followed swiftly by a very painful death. Instead, First Aid just stands stark still as Sixshot snuffs at the brain clutched against his chest.

It takes him a full moment to recover. "U-Um, no offense, but if you're seen with me and not horribly murdering me, won't you get slapped on the DJD's list? The war's over but... some people don't seem to care."

That aside, he transforms anyway. There would be no way he could keep up on his feet. He had a little bit of a speed advantage in his altmode, but he was still comically small next to Sixshot. Missing roughly a 1/4th of the size of Ratchet's altmode, he was miniscule.

"Are you sure this is okay?"

Sixshot throws his beastial head back and laughs, a booming, mirthless sound that shook the nearby debris, teeth flashing in the low light. "That would be a problem now, wouldn't it?"

Whose problem it would be is left up in the air.

"Megatron has commanded peace. Megatron is who I belong to," he clarifies afterwards, sobering abruptly. "Whatever the DJD think has never be my concern. I am his tool- not theirs." The DJD, at least, he could fight. If he turned on Megatron, he would be shut down and left to rust away until his master needed him again.

Then again, Megatron had stunk of Fool's Energon, the scent hanging around him like a shroud, a screaming beacon of weakness. Sixshot could have ripped his vocalizer out before his Master had ever uttered a single word. Won his freedom.

He'd left the silver tyrant alive instead.

The scent trail grows denser in the air, brighter, distracting Sixshot from his meandering thoughts. He spots the footprints in the dust shortly afterwards and makes after them at a steady, even pace, giving his current tiny company some breathing room.

First Aid had really never thought of it that way. He shivers as Sixshot laughs, his spark sinking in his chassis. The DJD had never cared that Megatron had surrendered and ended the war; they had murdered his friend anyway, gleefully at that. His sorrow twists like a knife, poisoning his spark with anger. He hoped they died. He hoped they died, just as painfully and horrible as the ones they've killed.

He nearly bumps into Sixshot's paw as his thoughts wander, but he catches himself and veers away enough that he doesn't brush into the giant death machine. He's still expecting to die, since that seems to be a reasonable expectation when following around a mech that destroys worlds, but he's at least functioning.

"Would you kill them if they came after you?" the words leave his vocalizer before he has the chance to really think about it.

"Are you thinking of asking Megatron to turn me loose on them?" Sixshot asks, something like humor coloring his tone.

Figures the Autobots would want to use him too.

He does spare a moment to think about it though, what he would do if the DJD came after him. They would be a bit more of a challenge, perhaps, Tarn certainly with his deadly voice. But even Tesaurus and Helex were still small next to Sixshot's true mass and all of them would tire in ways that energon fueled mechs would eventually tire.

"I suppose it can't hurt to try," he answers finally.

To be honest, asking Megatron to have Sixshot murder the DJD hadn't even occurred to him. First Aid punches his breaks abruptly at that, sort of veering a little again at the question.

"No!" he says that maybe too forcefully. "No. I wouldn't ask Megatron to do something like that. He..."

He did sort of respect their new co-Captain, even if he was a killer. Megatron just seemed... sad and tired.

"He doesn't deserve that."

[ INTRO LOG ]

CRATER

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