Ep 0.5 - Comfort - (closed)
Feb 11, 2012 17:43:56 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Feb 11, 2012 17:43:56 GMT -5
The skirmishes of war were rarely an unqualified victory. There were always damages, if not outright losses, and in a fight that had left their entire roster on the walking wounded list and Prime still in medbay, the only bright point to be had was that they had won. For a given highly qualified value of 'won', which mostly equated to 'still functioning'.
The corridor was empty. Ironhide paused, resting his weight against one hand braced on the wall, and vented in resignation. It was the sort of victory you spent longer cleaning up after than you did the outright defeats.
They'd done their best; which involved putting in a helping hand in medbay when Ratchet could stand it and getting out of the slagging way when he couldn't. Those most able were taking care of what had to be taken care of. It wasn't until Arcee had pointedly reminded him that Ratchet's express command to keep the slagging Pit off of his freshly welded leg meant that he was not on the most able list that Ironhide had grudgingly taken himself off the duty roster. His command protocols, once dropped to the bottom of the queue, gave way to a multitude of alerts about what hurt, and how much, and a multitude of other minor errors from lack of recharge, stiff linkages, low fuel and a general malaise of complaints he couldn't be slagging well bothered with.
Because the other and only thing that took precedence, once duty was set aside, was family.
Bluestreak had been patched and released from medbay, with was all very well for physical injuries, but the youngling had been conspicuously absent ever since and Ironhide had a suspicion as to why. His bitlet had a warm spark, to be sure, but it left the sniper far too open to hurt as well. Venting, Ironhide pushed himself away from the wall, silently told his slagging leg to mute it, and trudged the rest of the way down the hall to the room Bluestreak had claimed as hir own. Leaning his shoulder against the edge of the doorframe, Ironhide tipped his head against the wall. ::Blue? Bitlet, how are yeh?::
The corridor was empty. Ironhide paused, resting his weight against one hand braced on the wall, and vented in resignation. It was the sort of victory you spent longer cleaning up after than you did the outright defeats.
They'd done their best; which involved putting in a helping hand in medbay when Ratchet could stand it and getting out of the slagging way when he couldn't. Those most able were taking care of what had to be taken care of. It wasn't until Arcee had pointedly reminded him that Ratchet's express command to keep the slagging Pit off of his freshly welded leg meant that he was not on the most able list that Ironhide had grudgingly taken himself off the duty roster. His command protocols, once dropped to the bottom of the queue, gave way to a multitude of alerts about what hurt, and how much, and a multitude of other minor errors from lack of recharge, stiff linkages, low fuel and a general malaise of complaints he couldn't be slagging well bothered with.
Because the other and only thing that took precedence, once duty was set aside, was family.
Bluestreak had been patched and released from medbay, with was all very well for physical injuries, but the youngling had been conspicuously absent ever since and Ironhide had a suspicion as to why. His bitlet had a warm spark, to be sure, but it left the sniper far too open to hurt as well. Venting, Ironhide pushed himself away from the wall, silently told his slagging leg to mute it, and trudged the rest of the way down the hall to the room Bluestreak had claimed as hir own. Leaning his shoulder against the edge of the doorframe, Ironhide tipped his head against the wall. ::Blue? Bitlet, how are yeh?::