On the Ward

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW, post Chaos Theory
Rung, Impactor
for tf_speedwriting prompt 'backstory'  I sort of ship these two (AS I DO) and wanted to give them a slightly...more sober and coherent first meeting. I do wonder if Impactor ever went back to the mine?

Rung pulled his daily roster to him. It was his ward rotation day, when he moved through the floors, checking on patients at Deltaran. He much preferred his private practice: more time, more, well, privacy. The sterility of the hospital always set him on edge. And the guards. Deltaran was half prison, after all, holding injured mechs until they could stand trial.  It had, on the plus side, the best trauma surgeons in Rodion. 

But trauma surgeons, themselves, were a tetchy lot.  He’d learned that there was some high correlation between forged mechs and that sort of irritable confidence.  Scientifically based, of course, and only a diagnostic tool to tell him to be extra solicitous around anyone with a medical chevron.

The roster was short, blessedly, and he mentally parceled the day out.  He nodded, clicking the pad into his chassis plate, making his way along the corridor to the first room.

Half a cycle per patient:  Far longer than the minimum requirement, not long enough to actually accomplish much long term. He'd argued for it, written gigs of files arguing for rehabilitation, therapy, counseling.  Always shot down by 'budget' 'danger' and 'recidivism statistics'--the brutal economy of the prison system.

And he really couldn't do much good with the disclaimer he had to recite:

“Salutations, my name is Rung, and I am the City’s appointed psychotherapist.  I am here to assist your recovery.  Anything you say can be used against you in your trial and a report of my findings will be entered into your permanent SecRec.” 

The mech in front of him stared at him, open-mouthed, for a long moment.  “You realize that’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard since I got here.”

Rung blinked. That was not the usual response. 

The mech on the berth started laughing, a hoarse, grating sound.  “Well, least you’re honest about it. More than I’ve seen anywhere else.”  He pushed up to his elbows, purple armor whining where its dented edges dragged against each other.  “So. Have a seat, Rung.”  He smirked as he said the name, as though the familiarity were a joke. “Might as well, right?”

“Uh, right.”  Rung perched himself on the chair by the berth, ignoring the pile of medical equipment: drills and augurs, screwdrivers and wrenches, lengths of wire, small scalpels and torches.  All the stuff of hard medicine.  “Well, Impactor," he recalled the name from the file. "How are you doing?”

“I'm in Deltaran,” Impactor said, wryly. “I’d say pretty bad.” 

“I meant your recovery.”

A shrug. “You think they tell me anything? I just sit here till they feel like welding on me again. Apparently industrial dermal plating’s tougher than you usually see here.”

“You work as a miner.”

“Worked,” Impactor said. “Not really counting on that anymore.” A frustrated sound. 

“Does that bother you?”

“What? That some administrative class mech is going to strikethrough my position without even splashing his energon tea? Cause I got a record?” He grunted. “It’s the way it works.  Stupid to get mad about it.” His mouth pulled, as though it was something he'd said many times before.

“But…you are mad about it.”

Impactor’s face twitched, behind the bronze cheekplates. “Yeah? So I am. Never said I wasn’t stupid.”  He tilted his head. “Hey. I know you.”

Rung’s eyebrows louvered down, perplexed. “This is my first time on this ward.”

“No. No. From before.” The lowlight orange optics narrowed, as though staring through him. “Maccadam’s. You were at Maccadam’s.”

“I…was.”  He didn’t really like that last memory. It was sticky and painful and sounded a lot like sirens. 

“Heh.  I remember.”  Impactor grinned. It was lopsided, the uneven smile of a pit fighter.  “For the record, you can’t fly.”

It was an attempt at a joke, Rung thought. Not a funny one.  Then again, not much in Deltaran was. “Were you…caught up in that?”

A laugh. “Caught up? I fraggin’ started it.”                                                          

“Oh.”  Rung looked down at his datapad. Confession. He was supposed to include it in the records.

“Yeah, log it, whatever.  I’ll take the heat for hitting some slag-nosed cadets, but I ain’t gonna be a coward and lie about it.”

Rung shifted, awkwardly.  “I, uh, I won’t ask you about what happened, though. For your protection.”

“Protection,” Impactor scoffed. “Right. Know how many of them it took to bring me down here?  I don’t need protection. Your kind needs protection from me.” His mouth spread into a toothy, predator’s grin.

A wince, an unprofessional twitch. “I’ll…leave that off the final report.”

Another shrug. “You act like I care what they think about me.”

“But you do.  You want them to know how tough you are, how unafraid.” Rung might be small but he'd made a lifetime's study of mechs and their motivations. It had been quite a coup for Deltaran to get even one day per decacycle on the wards.

Impactor shot him a look. Then, “Damn straight. Not afraid of anyone. Especially not rich cowards.” He rolled one shoulder, chin tipping in challenge. “Nothing wrong with that.”

“Of course not. But it indicates what’s important to you.”

“What’s important to me,” Impactor said, “is that a bunch of cadet punks don’t push their weight around, just because they’re bigger.”

“So, you push their weight around because…?”  Rung’s  optics rested meaningfully on Impactor’s industrial-rated servos.

“Because I hate bullies.”  Impactor leaned forward, pinging his fingers off Rung’s shoulder.  “They were looking for a fight. I gave them one. End of story.”

“I…see.”  Rung frowned. “I suppose I should thank you?”

“Hnh. Didn’t do it for you. Don’t even know you." A measuring look. "Probably don’t even like you.”

“Probably.” A tentative smile. 

“What.”  The mouth jutted.

Something about the glower cracked Rung’s tentative smile into a grin.

And then his datapad chimed.  Time to move on to the next patient.  His smile collapsed in dismay.

“Huh.  Slave of the chrono, too, are you?”  Impactor laid back down, fixing his gaze on the ceiling, folding his arms over his dented chassis.  “Hey, don’t let me stop you.” He waved a hand. “Go on.” 

“I can come back. I have a break in a cycle and a half.” He stood, slowly, the datapad dangling from his fingers.

“Eh, why bother. Just another inmate, right?”

Rung stopped at the door, turned, and caught the glint of orange from the optics.  “Are you?”

The moment hung, and Impactor grunted, rolling over onto his shoulder.  “Whatever.” And after a beat. “Bring some fraggin’ energon when you do.”

Comments

[ravynfyre.livejournal.com]

awwwww! There's something cute about that, especially near the end!

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

What a wonderful contrast of personalities. I love how Impactor asserts his toughness without doing anything to intimidate Rung. There's something fascinating about brutal honesty to be certain, seems like Rung feels the same way!

[okkkkay.livejournal.com]

Ohhh, so in-character for both of them.