War Wounds

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG-13
IDW
Springer, Kup
pre-LSOTW but heavy spoilers for events on Pova, h/c
for hc_bingo prompt "hiding an injury"

“Still hurting you?” Kup jutted his chin at Springer’s midsection, as Springer rose to leave.

Springer froze, realizing too late that he was brushing his wrist over his chassis. His other hand clutched to the datapad with the after-action review of the battle. Simple, clean, just the way he liked it.  “No,” he said, too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Hmmph,” Kup said, reaching into his hip storage for another cy-gar. “Need to practice your lying, Springer, if you expect to fool a rust bucket like me.”

“I’m not lying,” Springer said. “Ratchet himself cleared the repairs. And that was fraggin’ ages ago.”   Ages ago, you hear that, Springer?  You’re over it. Over it.

“Ages.” Kup clamped the cy-gar between his dentae, optics raking over Springer’s frame. “You wanna talk to me about ages?”

No. Not really.  Every klik Kup had spent on that planet, ravaged and mad by the Regenesis crystals, was a klik too long in Springer’s mind.  “Look, Kup. It’s history. Ancient history.”

“History ain’t so ancient if you’ve lived it,” Kup said.

Springer didn’t want to think about what that meant: Did Kup remember the horrors? Did he know the mechs he’d killed who’d been trying to rescue him?  “Getting philosophical on me, old mech?” An evasion into a joke.  He knew it was a long shot but for both their sake’s, he had to try.

And it failed. “Talking sense.  Which it might do you some fraggin’ good to listen to, sometimes.”

“Look. Pova. It’s the past.  It’s over. Done with.” He shook his head.  Done with.  Pova. The trial.  The look of black blame in Impactor's optics as they led him away. 

“Yeah, I know. I read the trial transcripts.”

Springer’s optics scrunched down, as though masking physical pain.  That was over and done with, too, okay?  History. You were doing your job. You were doing the right thing.  It just felt wrong.  Because of Impactor.  “Should try the Wreckers Declassified,” he said.  “Little bit more colorful.”

“Read that, too.”

“You must have a lot of free time, then.”  He clenched his hand into a fist, forcing it down by his side.

“Look, kid. I’d say it ain’t my business, but,” a glint of a smirk, “it kinda is.”

Fraggin’ busybody. “It’s just a reflex, okay? Nothing important.” 

“Yeah, if you say so.” The tone said that whatever Kup thought was worth ten of Springer’s ‘said so’s. “Can’t blame an old mech for worryin’, though.”

Watch me, Springer thought. But he gave a shrug. “Sweet and all, but there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Sure.” Kup settled back in his chair.  Springer stared at him, waiting, and then shrugged, and turned to go.  “I was just wondering something, though.”

Springer stopped on the threshold, hand reaching for the keypad. “What?”  Because he knew Kup wasn’t going to let him out of here without it.

“Just wondering, you know, from the Declassified.”  That again.  Springer was beginning to want to find this Fisitron and shove his fist down his fanboy throat.

 Another shifting sound, Kup making himself comfortable, and trying to draw Springer’s gaze. Springer refused to give him that much, staring at his hand instead.  “You’d think a mech who’s been around as much as Impactor would know,” another pause, a pull at the cy-gar, a tug at Springer’s patience, “that triple changers don’t have circuit dampeners.”

Springer froze.  He’d read the Declassified, too. Just to see, just to wonder what that mess had been turned into.  Turned into, apparently, mutual heroism, sacrifice, and loyalty at its highest.  He’d read about himself suggesting it, a bold tactic that would save them both, chassis turned confidently toward the enemy, optics fierce and fearless as Impactor fired through him at their attackers.

It was all complete and utter slag.

“Heat of battle,” Springer said.  “You know.”   It sounded weak, almost as weak and pleading as he’d been at Pova, jammed in that barricade, stuck, trapped.  It felt like fear.

But he had a team to lead, now. He couldn’t afford fear. Much less weakness. 

“Yeah. I do know,” Kup said. “I also know you. And Impactor.” He cocked his head. “And you’ve done a lot of stupid things, Springer. But nothing ever that dumb.”

“Yeah, thanks for the compliment.”

“You want compliments, go hunt down that Fisitron mech.”  Kup snorted. “Point is.  You didn’t say that line about the circuit dampeners. Did you.”

Well, Springer.  You going to add liar to the list of charges you bring against yourself every night?  Or is ‘betrayer of your idol’ enough?  It was the same. One more betrayal.   What’s betraying the stupid myth compared to what you did on Garrus-9?  What’s this truth compared to “I saw him do it”?

He shook his head, as though trying to chase off a swarm of gnats.

 “I didn’t say it.” He turned, planting his feet.  “Is that what you want to hear? Fine. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to get fraggin’ SHOT THROUGH.  I wanted to get extracted, to get the frag out of there, then think of what to do. I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t lie about fraggin’ circuit dampeners. I was fraggin’ TERRIFIED.” 

He was also, now, shaking.  Shaking at the memory, and the force of remembering it, reliving it, admitting it to someone else.  This part hadn’t come up in the trial. It wasn’t relevant. Only the shack. Only the gun, pried from his still-shock-numbed fingers.  Only Pova, and all those shots, Squadron X’s execution. Simple and clean, and horribly, horribly wrong.

“And he shot through you, anyway.”

The trembling turned to rage, and he snarled an incoherent answer.

“You didn’t report it.”

“It’s war.  Things happen. It wasn’t a crime.” Short, staccato utterances, choked in his own emotion. 

“Maybe not according to however Prowl’s twisting the Autobot Code this week.  But I gotta say, I can’t think of anything worse than using a mech who’s given you nothing but loyalty. That’s a crime, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask.”  But the words didn’t hold as much sharpness as he’d wanted, like a blade of lead, dulling with each stroke.  “It worked. We won.”

“Is that why you didn’t report it?”

“It’s complicated.” That was part of it. Another part—they had more pressing things to deal with, like Impactor’s assassination of Squadron X.  And another—he wasn’t ready to deal with his own cowardice, his own fear.  And when he’d read the Declassified, the myth, the lies, saw how he’d been transformed into some sort of valiant hero?  It was all slag.  All of it.  And the worst proof of cowardice is that he didn’t have the courage to correct it; that he’d rather wear a hero’s mantle he didn’t deserve than expose his own naked cowardice.

“Complicated. Impactor’s in G-9 and you’ve got a wound that won’t heal.” 

“I told you. Ratchet cleared me.” He tapped his chassis, daring a twinge of pain to surface. Instead, the armor knocked, sounding hollow.

“Was talking about the one up here.”  A tap of the helm. “Worst thing to live with,” Kup said, “is the weight of reputation. Being what others need you to be.  And you’ve got a double-dose of that.” 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Springer choked, finally. 

“All right. Just know, though. If you ever do?  I’m here.”  He gave a knowing smile, sad around the edges, one that told Springer that Kup knew the burden himself. How could he not? Kup was legend. The only difference was, there was no difference between Kup and the legend, and right now there seemed a parsec’s gulf between Springer, the new leader of the Wreckers, and Springer, standing, abashed and scraped raw, in an office doorway. “I owe you that much.”

Springer didn't want to talk about it. He wasn't even sure he could or if the act of shaping the words would shatter reality.  But still.  "Don't owe me anything," he said, his fingers, finally, unclenching from their fist, their deathgrip on the datapad. The specs from the battle blinked up at him, numbers, ratios--the story of their last mission, but, he knew, not the whole story.  And Fisitron would find these, too, and turn this into a tale of glory and sacrifice. And for a moment he felt sick, dizzy, like someone had tainted his fuel. But then it hit him that Kup knew. Kup felt it, probably every day and twice as heavy--the weight of the truth of war. There was no such thing as heroism. Glory was a lie at best, a sick joke at worst, one that warped and twisted everything.  He turned to go, but caught himself stopping in the doorway, turning his head.

Kup knew. Kup understood. And sometimes just the knowledge you weren't bearing the weight alone, weren't the only butt of war's joke...was enough. It was something. Something honest and real and pure, and right now? Springer would give his life for that.  "But. Thanks."