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shadow_vector2011-02-16 06:41 am
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-02-16 06:41 am
Entry tags:
Mabaya ch 9 Already Lost
R
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor
IDW/G1
Rating is just to be safe: graphic descriptions of past torture, bit o' insanity.
Previous:
Only the Strong (Perceptor, Drift, Turmoil)
In Darkness (Turmoil, Drift/Deadlock)
Caught (Turmoil, Perceptor)
Coming to Light (Perceptor, Drift)
Disconsolate
Visit
Decompensating
Tangled
“Drift?” Perceptor’s voice was as gentle as only his could be—a mech who had never had to yell over artillery fire, bellow down a mech twice his size.
“Deadlock.” Deadlock whirled, red optics blazing over Perceptor where the Autobot had settled himself against the wall. “For the last time!” He hated the consternation that flashed over Perceptor’s damaged face. “It’s Deadlock. Drift’s dead.”
“He can’t be.”
Deadlock brandished the stump of his arm. “Amputated. Dead. Gone. Excised.”
“That,” Perceptor said, “is a limb. You are more than that.” He tilted his head toward the ravaged gap on his shoulder. “We are more than our parts.”
“Please,” Deadlock said, and he found himself sagging toward the ground. You of all mechs, he thought. You of all of us should know how facetious that is. “Please don’t argue with me about this.” You don’t know what’s at stake.
Perceptor tilted his head, in a gesture so similar to Turmoil’s that for a moment, Deadlock was stunned, his systems firing numb. “That depends. Whom am I arguing with?”
The numbness blazed to life, an incandescent rage, and Deadlock flung himself at Perceptor, his good hand snatching at a chest plate. “ME,” he snarled. “You’re arguing with me.”
Perceptor’s mouth worked, debating, in his slow, analytical way, what to say. “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said, finally. Simple truth, which punctured Deadlock’s anger.
“Then don’t,” Deadlock said, holding onto the fading vestige of anger.
“I will not call you Deadlock,” Perceptor said, with that flat stubbornness Deadlock knew was unshakable.
It was…not a point Deadlock wanted to press right now. Not with all that was swirling through his head. “We have to get you out of here.” While there’s still time. While I still care. He could feel it slipping from him, his systems still hissing alive from Turmoil and the ghosts of the past he brought with him. Perceptor deserved better than what he could give, and…oh, he found himself wanting that sensual violence with Turmoil again.
Perceptor said nothing, trying to avoid that same tired argument again, knowing neither would yield there, either. “Let me look at you, first,” he said. Not a denial but a delay. “Please.”
Deadlock frowned but couldn’t find a valid reason, beyond shame, to deny the request. “Fine,” he said, dropping wearily to the ground. He thrust out his injured arm, knowing that that was what Perceptor really wanted to see. He turned his face staunchly away.
Perceptor scooted forward, drawing the arm onto a cradle made of his crossed legs. “Ah,” he said, and his voice took the tone of someone used to talking to himself. Deadlock realized he’d never really seen Perceptor in his element, from…before. Both of them haunted by pasts, but Perceptor seemed more at peace with his.
“There was…some attempt at cautery.” Perceptor rolled the stump over, his hands delicate, tracing the truncated cables. “May I ask how it was done?” His optics flicked up to Deadlock’s face.
Deadlock’s mouth twisted, and his systems fired a phantom of the memory. “Start to finish? Or merely the…removal.”
“The, uh, the process might be illuminating,” Perceptor said, peering back at the wound, scraping at a clot of energon that flaked off under his touch.
Deadlock gave a bitter smile. Well, then. “First, he broke each of the fingers. Knuckle by knuckle. The wrist itself was pinned in a vice.” His voice was flat, the old voice, Deadlock’s true voice, reporting it as though it had happened to someone else. Because it had: it had happened to Drift. “Then he crushed the palm.” His other hand jumped in some useless sympathy.
Perceptor’s hands had gone still, too still.
Deadlock gave a limp shrug, continuing, “Then the fingers were removed.” No. Hiding behind the passive voice. “He tore them off. One by one.” He would not protect Turmoil, nor Perceptor, nor himself, by hiding agency. “The palm…useless.” He remembered—a sparking, fluid slicked and charred mass of twisted black, throbbing with hot agony. Unsalvageable. He’d seen enough combat trauma to know there was no saving the hand.
“Oh,” Perceptor’s voice was chalky with regret and horror.
Deadlock looked down at the twisted mass of metal. Compared to how it had looked? This was nothing. Simply ugly, but not some sort of abomination to the idea of function. “And then,” he said, ruthless, pushing himself as well as Perceptor. He wanted the truth? He would have it. “Well. Turmoil normally equips a laser cannon. That’s the cauterization.”
Perceptor’s optics flicked closed, trying to avoid the image Deadlock knew was forming nonetheless across his processor. “I…am sorry.”
“’Sorry’,” Deadlock said, bitterly, “doesn’t solve anything.” He forced his red optics into Perceptor’s, holding his gaze.
“I know,” Perceptor said, softly. “Believe me. I know.”
Deadlock held the gaze for another few beats, enough to feel Perceptor’s resistance. “What else can you tell from it?”
Perceptor’s gaze dropped to the injury, but this time, his voice was soft, aware of the pain underneath. “It was left…untreated. And this, and this,” he risked two light brushes on the side panels, “are from the vise. Which was a drill vise. And…even so, you…almost tore free.”
Deadlock twitched. “Yes.”
Perceptor nodded, then bent lower over the stump, tilting it at odd angles, peering into it, shaking his head from time to time to clear a fragment of shattered glass from his reticle. “The-the underlying systems in the forearm are intact. There are structural joins here,” he tapped an area on the armor, “and here for replacement.” He looked up. “It is repairable.”
I’m not. Not in any way that matters. “Yes,” Deadlock said. “Doesn’t matter, though.”
“Why not?”
A bitter smile, and he could almost feel Wing’s disappointment, like a black feather stroking his cheek. “Never getting out of here.”
“You can,” Perceptor said.
“There’s a difference between ‘can’ and ‘will’.” Oh, I can: I don’t want to do what that requires.
Perceptor’s hands curled over the damaged armor, his optics intense, cortex leaping right through to the core of what Deadlock wouldn’t say. “Betray me, then. Do what you need to do to save yourself.”
Save myself. There’s no saving me. There never was. There’s no me to save. Deadlock said nothing.
“It will save one of us,” Perceptor said. “If you don’t, we’re both lost.” Logic and reason again, cool, steady. Deadlock felt his own essence writhing, restless, a shifting worm by comparison.
Already lost. Deadlock pulled gently on his arm, pulling it from Perceptor’s grasp. “Anything else you wanted to check out?” he said, pitching his voice deliberately harsh.
Perceptor’s mouth gaped open, wordless, worried, at a loss. “No,” he said, eventually, dropping his hands. “I just…I wanted to do something.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, prodding gently at his shattered reticle. “I feel…useless.”
Deadlock knew the feeling, and worse, the hollowness that came along with it—a dried husk, brittle without purpose, a hard shell, with nothing underneath. Until…Wing. Who had done his best to show a better way, and died because of it. Died in Drift’s fight. “It’s why we have to get you out of here,” he said. He tipped a shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “So we can find you a better purpose than throwing yourself away on me.”
Perceptor bluntly shoved aside part of his response. “We need,” he said, “a plan. Get out of the cell and then we’ll disagree about who gets free.” There was an implacability in his optics that barred argument.
Deadlock sighed. Fine. It was something better to do than sitting in this cell running endlessly through the same arguments, joor after joor.
Besides, he knew full well that plans, however good, changed the instant they came within range of enemy fire.
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor
IDW/G1
Rating is just to be safe: graphic descriptions of past torture, bit o' insanity.
Previous:
Only the Strong (Perceptor, Drift, Turmoil)
In Darkness (Turmoil, Drift/Deadlock)
Caught (Turmoil, Perceptor)
Coming to Light (Perceptor, Drift)
Disconsolate
Visit
Decompensating
Tangled
“Drift?” Perceptor’s voice was as gentle as only his could be—a mech who had never had to yell over artillery fire, bellow down a mech twice his size.
“Deadlock.” Deadlock whirled, red optics blazing over Perceptor where the Autobot had settled himself against the wall. “For the last time!” He hated the consternation that flashed over Perceptor’s damaged face. “It’s Deadlock. Drift’s dead.”
“He can’t be.”
Deadlock brandished the stump of his arm. “Amputated. Dead. Gone. Excised.”
“That,” Perceptor said, “is a limb. You are more than that.” He tilted his head toward the ravaged gap on his shoulder. “We are more than our parts.”
“Please,” Deadlock said, and he found himself sagging toward the ground. You of all mechs, he thought. You of all of us should know how facetious that is. “Please don’t argue with me about this.” You don’t know what’s at stake.
Perceptor tilted his head, in a gesture so similar to Turmoil’s that for a moment, Deadlock was stunned, his systems firing numb. “That depends. Whom am I arguing with?”
The numbness blazed to life, an incandescent rage, and Deadlock flung himself at Perceptor, his good hand snatching at a chest plate. “ME,” he snarled. “You’re arguing with me.”
Perceptor’s mouth worked, debating, in his slow, analytical way, what to say. “I don’t want to argue with you,” he said, finally. Simple truth, which punctured Deadlock’s anger.
“Then don’t,” Deadlock said, holding onto the fading vestige of anger.
“I will not call you Deadlock,” Perceptor said, with that flat stubbornness Deadlock knew was unshakable.
It was…not a point Deadlock wanted to press right now. Not with all that was swirling through his head. “We have to get you out of here.” While there’s still time. While I still care. He could feel it slipping from him, his systems still hissing alive from Turmoil and the ghosts of the past he brought with him. Perceptor deserved better than what he could give, and…oh, he found himself wanting that sensual violence with Turmoil again.
Perceptor said nothing, trying to avoid that same tired argument again, knowing neither would yield there, either. “Let me look at you, first,” he said. Not a denial but a delay. “Please.”
Deadlock frowned but couldn’t find a valid reason, beyond shame, to deny the request. “Fine,” he said, dropping wearily to the ground. He thrust out his injured arm, knowing that that was what Perceptor really wanted to see. He turned his face staunchly away.
Perceptor scooted forward, drawing the arm onto a cradle made of his crossed legs. “Ah,” he said, and his voice took the tone of someone used to talking to himself. Deadlock realized he’d never really seen Perceptor in his element, from…before. Both of them haunted by pasts, but Perceptor seemed more at peace with his.
“There was…some attempt at cautery.” Perceptor rolled the stump over, his hands delicate, tracing the truncated cables. “May I ask how it was done?” His optics flicked up to Deadlock’s face.
Deadlock’s mouth twisted, and his systems fired a phantom of the memory. “Start to finish? Or merely the…removal.”
“The, uh, the process might be illuminating,” Perceptor said, peering back at the wound, scraping at a clot of energon that flaked off under his touch.
Deadlock gave a bitter smile. Well, then. “First, he broke each of the fingers. Knuckle by knuckle. The wrist itself was pinned in a vice.” His voice was flat, the old voice, Deadlock’s true voice, reporting it as though it had happened to someone else. Because it had: it had happened to Drift. “Then he crushed the palm.” His other hand jumped in some useless sympathy.
Perceptor’s hands had gone still, too still.
Deadlock gave a limp shrug, continuing, “Then the fingers were removed.” No. Hiding behind the passive voice. “He tore them off. One by one.” He would not protect Turmoil, nor Perceptor, nor himself, by hiding agency. “The palm…useless.” He remembered—a sparking, fluid slicked and charred mass of twisted black, throbbing with hot agony. Unsalvageable. He’d seen enough combat trauma to know there was no saving the hand.
“Oh,” Perceptor’s voice was chalky with regret and horror.
Deadlock looked down at the twisted mass of metal. Compared to how it had looked? This was nothing. Simply ugly, but not some sort of abomination to the idea of function. “And then,” he said, ruthless, pushing himself as well as Perceptor. He wanted the truth? He would have it. “Well. Turmoil normally equips a laser cannon. That’s the cauterization.”
Perceptor’s optics flicked closed, trying to avoid the image Deadlock knew was forming nonetheless across his processor. “I…am sorry.”
“’Sorry’,” Deadlock said, bitterly, “doesn’t solve anything.” He forced his red optics into Perceptor’s, holding his gaze.
“I know,” Perceptor said, softly. “Believe me. I know.”
Deadlock held the gaze for another few beats, enough to feel Perceptor’s resistance. “What else can you tell from it?”
Perceptor’s gaze dropped to the injury, but this time, his voice was soft, aware of the pain underneath. “It was left…untreated. And this, and this,” he risked two light brushes on the side panels, “are from the vise. Which was a drill vise. And…even so, you…almost tore free.”
Deadlock twitched. “Yes.”
Perceptor nodded, then bent lower over the stump, tilting it at odd angles, peering into it, shaking his head from time to time to clear a fragment of shattered glass from his reticle. “The-the underlying systems in the forearm are intact. There are structural joins here,” he tapped an area on the armor, “and here for replacement.” He looked up. “It is repairable.”
I’m not. Not in any way that matters. “Yes,” Deadlock said. “Doesn’t matter, though.”
“Why not?”
A bitter smile, and he could almost feel Wing’s disappointment, like a black feather stroking his cheek. “Never getting out of here.”
“You can,” Perceptor said.
“There’s a difference between ‘can’ and ‘will’.” Oh, I can: I don’t want to do what that requires.
Perceptor’s hands curled over the damaged armor, his optics intense, cortex leaping right through to the core of what Deadlock wouldn’t say. “Betray me, then. Do what you need to do to save yourself.”
Save myself. There’s no saving me. There never was. There’s no me to save. Deadlock said nothing.
“It will save one of us,” Perceptor said. “If you don’t, we’re both lost.” Logic and reason again, cool, steady. Deadlock felt his own essence writhing, restless, a shifting worm by comparison.
Already lost. Deadlock pulled gently on his arm, pulling it from Perceptor’s grasp. “Anything else you wanted to check out?” he said, pitching his voice deliberately harsh.
Perceptor’s mouth gaped open, wordless, worried, at a loss. “No,” he said, eventually, dropping his hands. “I just…I wanted to do something.” He scrubbed his hand over his face, prodding gently at his shattered reticle. “I feel…useless.”
Deadlock knew the feeling, and worse, the hollowness that came along with it—a dried husk, brittle without purpose, a hard shell, with nothing underneath. Until…Wing. Who had done his best to show a better way, and died because of it. Died in Drift’s fight. “It’s why we have to get you out of here,” he said. He tipped a shoulder in an approximation of a shrug. “So we can find you a better purpose than throwing yourself away on me.”
Perceptor bluntly shoved aside part of his response. “We need,” he said, “a plan. Get out of the cell and then we’ll disagree about who gets free.” There was an implacability in his optics that barred argument.
Deadlock sighed. Fine. It was something better to do than sitting in this cell running endlessly through the same arguments, joor after joor.
Besides, he knew full well that plans, however good, changed the instant they came within range of enemy fire.
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