Redeem ch 8 & 9
Mar. 12th, 2010 06:52 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
niyazi-a.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vectorA/N LJ is glitching like crazy... Anyway, two chapters because I'm tired of getting nastygrams that my chapters are 'too short'. They...uhh, have story arc that climaxes, character development and tension, but I guess that's not enough to be worth some reader's 'time'. I'd rather think I"m not *wasting* too much of their time, but clearly, what do I know.
The story so far: here
8. Fateful Meeting
Diego Garcia
Hangar Delta 2
Ratchet bustled over the repair frame. He was really beginning to irritate Barricade. Which, admittedly, didn’t take much. So Barricade was doing his best to return the favor. “Stop it,” Barricade squirmed, trying to turn his face out from under Ratchet’s attempt to scrape the dried energon and coolant from the armor plating. He’d been here for…solars apparently, and no one had risked taking him to a proper washrack. “Think I’m handsome enough for this already.”
“Stop…moving,” Ratchet muttered, pinning the ‘con’s head to the back of the repair frame with one hand, while he daubed a dilute solvent on the dried-on gunk.
“Ow!”
Ratchet sat back. “Oh, come on, Barricade. After what you’ve been through, you don’t think I’m going to buy that the sting of a little solvent is torture to you?”
The ‘con shrugged one-shouldered. “Worth a shot.”
“You have a very odd sense of humor.”
“Could say the same about your bedside manner.”
Ratchet sighed. “Look, Barricade. I know you’re nervous. It’s okay. You don’t have to put on this abrasive act. I’d be terrified if the humans were taking me, too.”
“See? That’s what I mean about your soothing bedside manner. And I’m not scared.” I’m dead already. Just a matter of time until reality catches up. And it’s not an act.
“Sure. Anyway, just so you know,” Ratchet lowered his voice, as if he wasn’t supposed to tell Barricade this, “I have installed the motion-blocks in your legs. The same as you had put in Ironhide.”
Barricade grunted. “A little guarantee of good behavior, served with a delicious sauce of irony, huh?” He met Ratchet’s eyes, level. “Only issue I have with that is getting that fraggin’ psychopath’s used parts.”
Ratchet shook his head. He was used to hearing too much from his patients—they normally opened up to him, telling him things they’d never told anyone. Perhaps the repair process bored them, or, unlikely, Ratchet’s persona seemed to emanate trustworthiness. But Barricade hadn’t opened at all; remained like a tightly coiled prickly animal. It reminded Ratchet of something he had scene on a human television show. A porcupine, he thought it was called. Or prickly-pig. Something like that. But it suited Barricade.
A tap at the door—they hadn’t ever installed proper Autobot door chimes, and now there was no point, so they all stuck with the human custom of knocking. Impossible to do, Ratchet had noted many times with increasing irritation, when one’s hands were full. “Yes.”
The door rolled open—despite himself, Barricade turned to look. A blue cycle bot holding a small human-sized chair, and next to her, apparently, the human for the chair. Male, middle-aged, hair a faded blond. Uniform: military. Barricade spent the first few seconds translating the uniform: Master Sergeant. Sternburgh. Air Assault. HALO. Jumpmaster. Hello, human. Barricade determined to be unimpressed.
He turned his gaze insolently to the cyclebot. “You must be Chromia.” He switched to English, so the human could play along. He enjoyed the flicker of emotions across her face, from surprise to how she figured out he knew her name. “Good to see they brought someone so brave to guard the human against vicious big bad me.” He flexed his sensor blocked talons, watching them respond slowly, inefficiently. “Heard you went at it with Starscream.”
“Shut up, ‘con,” she barked.
“Chromia,” Ratchet soothed, gesturing her back against the wall.
“What?” Barricade blinked in feigned innocence. “I just wanted to know how her repairs were progressing. I hear she lost an arm.” He winced, showily. “Painful.”
“Con, shut UP!” Chromia said. Ratchet shook his head, warningly. As if Barricade actually had to listen to him. Right.
“How’s Flareup, by the way?” He felt a little dirty asking this one. Part of him actually wanted the answer. Chromia rolled forward, arming her missile launcher, her face a hard mask of fury.
Between them, the human, who had settled himself in the folding chair, started laughing uproariously. A little too much, but then again, Barricade was throwing acting subtlety out the window himself. “Jesus H Tap Dancing Christ!” he laughed, “You are gooooood!”
“Supposed to care what you think, human?” Barricade snapped. Still, it was a little gratifying to have his work appreciated. Maybe.
“Only if you want to live.”
Barricade rolled his optics. “Really. Well then, take me to the fraggin’ casting couch.”
The human sat forward, eyes glowing. “You,” he said, “are going to be so much fun.”
“To break? Try me.” Already broken.
9. Battlefield Walk
(A/N: Going back to what I know here: in the Middle Ages, it was common after a battle for both sides to visit the battlefield, under a sort of ‘truce’ where each could search for friends, comrades, family members. The Middle Ages were a warrior culture, as both Cybertronian factions seem to have evolved into, so I thought it might not be a stretch that they would have evolved a similar ritual.)
Tunguska
It had been a dumb idea, Blackout thought, to do a straight atmospheric drop. Right into the chaotic up drafts and magnetic upheavals left over from the cycles-past nuclear blast. It had fallen off target, he noticed, when he could finally get his navigation grids to give him a read through the interference. Skywarp and Starscream had headed off to intercept, and maybe this was the result. They’d certainly bought time. Blackout struggled to find some gratitude, but just like it was hard to see with the radiation buzzing his optics, it was hard to feel any gratitude to Starscream. Who had left Barricade to die. Ordered Blackout to leave.
He supposed if Dead End were with him, the stupid red runt would feed him some line about at least he’d saved the drones. Yeah. He had. It was something. But it didn’t add up to Barricade. Sure, in every tactical assessment, they had specific algorithms to calculate how many drones were worth the life of one sentient mech. Blackout hadn’t pulled the variables for this mission, and didn’t care.
It doesn’t make any difference, really. And in a way, he was inured to this…process. He’d walked hundreds of battlefields, in the tense awkward posture of a mourner looking for a fallen comrade, carefully avoiding the eyes of the enemy engaged in the same thing. For fear of…apology. Connection: I share your loss.
We share nothing, he thought, angrily. Before the war, those who would become Autobots had willingly thrown their military into harm’s way, again and again, without any real sense of what it cost. Oh, they complained about the cost. ALWAYS the cost. Energon: costs too much. Find a way to make do with less. CR? The rehabilitation would take too long. Not cost-effective. We can train another drone to be a warrior, two drones, for less than it costs to rehabilitate a fallen soldier. He hoped they choked on the costs now.
As if the only cost were financial. Even now, Sideways was held tenuously to life in a CR pod, not discarded, not thrown away. For whatever bad (and there was plenty) that might be said about Megatron, he knew, he respected that much: Sideways would not die for lack of regen. And now, that they had the energon, his repairs could commence in earnest.
Calm down, he told himself, fighting emotion and tension. It had taken solars to clear a mission window to do this—they’d all been put to work helping to process the rough chunks of ore into useable energon. It had been exhausting, but no one complained. They all knew what they were doing was saving lives. And, he told himself, Barricade is not any more dead for your delay. He will be here. You will find him. And mourn him. At least you will find him. Unlike…Scorponok. Gone, disappeared. Dead? Held captive and tortured by the humans the way that they had tortured Megatron? Blackout swallowed bitter disappointment at himself. He would do better by Barricade.
Even here, as he landed, transforming to land solidly on his splayed feet, even far from ground zero of the blast, the land still bore the effects of the blast—everything shatter-sensitive. Grass burst into powder as he brushed it with a toe plate; a tree snapped sharply, brittle, as he pushed by it; even the mud had been dried to a compacted powder. He turned, slowly, trying to get his bearings. His nav system was too affected by the radiation to pinpoint the former LZ, and trees had been strewn like dropped rods, their branches and leaves entirely blasted away.
There. That looked like the LZ. It looked different, more exposed, now that the trees surrounding it had been destroyed, but a thin layer of whitish ash caught like snow in the dried mud where there had once been an upchurning scuffle. Everything smelled like bitter ozone.
Blackout climbed the small rise, brittle-baked trees splintering under his feet into puffs of powdery dried mud. Here. Here he was. Over there…that was where Barricade had shot round after round of suppressive sniping at Sideswipe, splatting the Autobot into the then-gooey muck. And? Where was the stand of trees where Barricade had thrown himself to warn the cyclebot? Blackout rotated, his memory cortex replaying the battle, Barricade’s route, in front of him…here. Or maybe here. Blackout couldn’t pinpoint his own location, so the best he could manage was a loose vector to his right.
Still, it was a start.
A cycle later, all he had for his effort was a dull ache in his exposed joints, where the radioactive ash had worked into the mechanisms, as he’d dug through piles of downed trees. Finding…nothing. Empty shell casings. One or two hastily-disposed-of missiles. A few of the humans’ weapons—tiny fragile things that snapped like spun sugar as he touched them, their barrels warped and melted, as mute testimony to what he’d find if he found Barricade’s body.
IF. It had become an if. It sickened him.
It struck him—what if the Autobots had taken him? They obviously got out of here—he was pretty sure in his digging he’d’ve found even the hint of a slagged Autobot. Had they? A brief flare of hope. Sputtered. What they would do with Barricade if they had him…didn’t bear thinking about. Blackout remembered watching Ironhide casually abuse Barricade, twisting the small sensitive fairings behind his neck with obvious pleasure. Yes. War was an ugly business. And Barricade was going to discover it the hard way. In a way, no fault on Ironhide—a ‘con would have done the same, most likely. He’d done the same, if he were to be brutally honest. Didn’t mean he wanted anyone he considered a friend to be on the receiving end of it. Didn’t want to imagine. Didn’t want to think of it. Problem was: he could imagine it all too well. As well as imagine the enjoyment the inflicter would get. He knew that, too.
Or…the humans could have taken him. Where were the humans? He realized suddenly what had disturbed him this whole time, nagging at his cortex about this battlefield. There was no trace of the fallen. Discarded weapons, empty shell casings, yes. But no bodies. Not even human. It was like a giant hand had come and erased all sentient presence; blasted nature the only thing left. No bodies. It gnawed at Blackout. He pushed it aside—that wouldn’t get him any closer to finding Barricade.
His shoulder gyros slumped in defeat. First Scorponok, and now Barricade. He had let them both down.
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no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 12:17 pm (UTC)The snark! It shall be epic!
Also, you have made me want to hug Blackout. Thank you for that.
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Date: 2010-03-12 12:17 pm (UTC)Second chapter I feel as though I am walking with Blackout surveying the damage, you can sense his total helplessness and his loss. :(
Two great chapters, you're really building a tense detailed atmosphere with these stories, like the calm before the storm. Can't wait for more!!!
no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 05:39 pm (UTC)Oh, here's something only you would appreciate/get:
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Date: 2010-03-12 05:44 pm (UTC)Now I really need tea *giggles* XD eeee...
And I like nice Ratchet :)
no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 01:04 pm (UTC)And, for the record? Ignore the fuckwits on the Pit. They seem to think that every writer there is catering to them and must obey their whims. I take the stance of, if they really are enjoying the story and want to know what happens next then they can wait just like my more patient LJ readers. The Pit readers don't mean jack to me; I get a better response here on LiveJournal, hence they're the readers who get the first updates to stories.
Besides, when you cave to their whims, they think they can make other demands of you. Next thing you know, they'll want you to add their self-insert OC to "make Barricade better through the power of love" and make you want to spork your own eyes out. I've seen it happen. It ain't pretty =/
no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 01:12 pm (UTC)It's almost like they're trolls deliberately trying to make me physically ill. (Yes, I'm that lame: I get queasy at mpreg fics).
(And Barricade already has a self-insert OC--June) *hangs head in shame*.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 01:16 pm (UTC)There's a difference there. June is your self-insert OC, ergo you know how to write her and how she reacts. What the trolls want is for you to add in their self-insert OCs, who you couldn't possibly care less about, at which point they'll complain that you "aren't writing Serena Kitty Sparklepuss the right way!"
(...omfg, where do I come up with these Sue names?!)
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Date: 2010-03-12 03:05 pm (UTC)Also, you have an excellent point and there is nothing more that I can add to it other than, well, that it's excellent.
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Date: 2010-03-12 05:46 pm (UTC)serena kitty sparklepuss has me in fits and sounds like a BAD James bond girl name XD
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Date: 2010-03-12 09:29 pm (UTC)When she shows up in actual fanfic, you have only yourself to blame.
Shame on you. :P
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Date: 2010-03-12 11:02 pm (UTC)And ignore the bratty fans. Or try to take it as a compliment; they want to see MOAR of your writing. Geez, how come I never get any entertaining complaints. Guess I need to write a badfic. Or, worse fic than I already write. :p
Oh, and: Serena Kitty Sparklepuss!no subject
Date: 2010-03-12 11:17 pm (UTC)These by the same people I see reviewing the most godawful pointless plotless Mary Sue fics with no characterization, story arc or anything, and their reviews there are orgasmic.
Sigh.