redfirelight: (iFangirl iRonhide)
That Red Firelight ([personal profile] redfirelight) wrote2009-12-12 03:32 am

I need to stop being depressed :|

Why do I always write shit at this time of night? ANYWAY. I blame this all on [livejournal.com profile] forgo and her being bored and her creating BadEnd in the first place. Also TV Tropes and Saff. Because it's always Saff's fault.



Title: [ ]
Universe: Transformers (THE BAD END AU)
Rating: Dur
Characters: Ironhide, Will Lennox, dead Doc sort of.



Something has changed.

He jerks, fighting back up into coherence, beating back the waves of emptiness, the maddening void left where there once was stability, where there had been peace. Systems reboot with a low gasp of air into intakes blocked by debris and fluid. All he sees is white. Nothing but white. For a moment, hope surges.

But then the pain comes flooding back, and he nearly screams. It's wrong. It's so very wrong. He shouldn't be here and he'd hoped, he'd pleaded for each last round of welding to be the last. To simply let it go.

It was no different, this time, but they held on. They pieced his broken, mangled body back together, fitted joints into sockets beyond repair, shoved his internals back into their casing. Another limb torn from his body, another crushing injury to his chest. More heavy armored plates melted and warped beyond recognition. The right half of his face is gone, matching the missing optic. His limbs are cold, sluggish despite the transfusions he can sense flooding his body. They have done this so many times, it's passed beyond mere routine.

Yet he knows, something is different.

A weak, broken moan, as he stirs, turning his head to the side, willing himself to see, to focus and understand. There is a hand, suddenly, on the charred and ruined sections of his face--a heavy, tired hand he knows he can remember but for the agonizing emptiness in his chest, driving him to visions of a familiar face and delusions of normalcy.

A human face comes into focus, haggard, squared--the eyes the same warm tone as his hair once was. It isn't her--she's not here she should be here what's happened to her where is she can't leave him alone again--and he slips away, lost for one frantic, panicked moment as the memories surge, damaging as they defend

"Hey. Stay with me here... Look at me."

No, he doesn't want to. They can't make him. He can't remember, he won't remember because it hurts. This man is in the present, in reality, far removed from him--from the place where everything is as it should be.

"Come on, I need you to focus. Listen to me. Just for a second, I... I promise you. Then I'll let you go."

It's the promise, it's the plea in the voice, something in him responds to. The memory of that voice, the countless battles serving with it, it's as much of a command as he's ever heard. It drags him, sobbing, begging not to go, from the perfect fantasy within his own mind. He blinks, as if in a daze, blearily focusing on the seated form beside him. There's a weariness there, a heaviness matching the other humans, nearly matching the ache in his own spark. He's used to seeing it, and the lucid little pieces still drifting through him are pained to see it. This is not how this man should look--his face scarred, creased by lines and fears, shoulders slumped and legs immobilized.

There is a phone in one of his visitor's hands, which still grips it, tight and white knuckled around the chipped plastic casing. He reaches out his maimed hand, huge in comparison, trembling with the effort, and rests it, with supreme care, in the other's lap. The man takes one of the half-melted fingers, staring down at streaks of yellow paint marring the heavy, dark surface. Organic fingers tighten, just for a moment, on metallic.

"He's gone," he says, finally. And when he looks up, there is light in his eyes, a set to his shoulders and jaw that hasn't been seen in decades. Determination, relief... hope. "They took him down... Just got the call."

The big head shakes, slightly. There are so many names, so many faces. Another loss, another death to add to the growing monument, the drafted plan for "just in case", for a future that may never come.

But the man forges on, as if should he stop, he will never continue to speak.

"They're making sure the body's taken care of this time. We've got people chasing down the rest of the group, but... Megatron. He's dead."

He can say nothing. He can do nothing. There's a rushing in his audial sensors, a sudden singing in his systems. His spark feels like it's going to burst from his chest, and if he could remember what this feeling was, he would weep for the joy of it all. He wants to scream, he wants to laugh and hit something all at the same time. Instead, he can only sag back against the recovery bed, trembling, nodding through the pounding, aching relief. And he can feel it, finally, everything begin to slow, the creeping exhaustion... The flood of warmth he thought he'd never feel again and the creaking of broken facial plating as it tries to warp into his first smile.

His hand has not moved. Neither has the human's. He looks at him again, his movements slow, uncoordinated. The human--his ally, his friend--meets his single optic. The lines of his face make their own warped smile, despite the moisture clinging to stubble-roughened cheeks. He pats the metal hand still resting in his lap.

"Don't worry--we'll take care of it. You..." His voice does not quite break. "You get some rest, big guy."

All he can do is nod, a wordless appreciation, an acknowledgment and reassurance, before his head rolls back, his optic offlining one last time. He feels the coldness creeping through each part of him, the stiffening of joints, and then, one brief pulse of pain and desperation before... nothing. There was no more madness, no more ache, only warmth and white and a lecture far too long in coming. He reaches out, and feels the touch he gave up for lost, the voice heard only in his mind. Safety, peace--the sheer rightness of the moment washes over him and he sighs, losing himself, finally, to that embrace.

And Lennox curls the broken fingers back into a fist, his eyes never leaving the smile on the other soldier's lifeless face.

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