Ep. 0.5 - Zen and the Art of Large Guns - Closed
Mar 25, 2012 19:47:37 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Mar 25, 2012 19:47:37 GMT -5
It was no good.
Ironhide had been trying, for several breem after quitting the sparring rooms for the quieter and more private space of his quarters, to edge the stabilizer in his right arm back into place. Plates flared, spreaders locked into place, tools spread out across the berth as he braced his back to the wall, arm steadied across his upraised knee. While he knew it would take a long, fiddly length of time to seat the stabilizer just right it should be slowly but surely getting better.
Instead, it was WORSE. He threw the manipulating hook down, even dampened sensors stinging a dull throb of pain from the latest slip as his left hand had jerked, twitching, to ram the tool's hooked end into a hydraulic line. Mouth pressed thin and tight, all swearing internal, he snatched up a rag to staunch the thin seepage of fluid until his autorepair could patch the small tear.
If he dimmed his optics he could feel it, the flux still in his struts, down in his mass and circuits, crawling like twitching, juddering poison. It trembled up from his hands [phantom press of plates and energon and internals, cracking and breaking, overlaid in the even ghostlier faux sensation of grappling, of blows and the surge of blaster fire] into his arms [sick tank churning sensation of foreign energies, crackling and surging up his arms, searing away palm and finger to flare upwards] and over his shoulders, ripping in sharp twitching fluxes down his dorsal struts.
Silently snarling, Ironhide rebooted his optics and forced himself up, dropping the rag and reaching for the manipulator once more. It was nothing. It was a waking recharge flux. That was ALL.
The next twitch, as he was carefully threading the tool into place, ripped through a sensor node that made him hiss, snarling, slamming pain dampeners into place. The manipulator fell out of his grasp, tumbling back to the berth, the tip smeared in fresh energon, and he could see the trembling in his hand.
Drawing in a ragged ventilation, Ironhide dropped his helm to rest against his braced right arm, and thought. Ratchet? No. PIT no. They had an agreement, they did - he kept out of the medic's work, the medic kept out of his, and he wasn't like scrap going to break that tradition over a little thing like a recharge flux playing havoc with his motor controls. Blue? His sparkling had steady hands, a familiarity with weapons, and could certainly do it... and would fuss, and want to know what was wrong that Ironhide couldn't do it himself.
Jazz? Oh, Primus. Bluestreak, to a power of infinity in the wanting to know why department. He couldn't... he couldn't...
Another tremor shook him, starting in his fingertips and working to his hips, then down into his thigh and setting up a sharp, fiery echo of the pain of his last welds through that leg strut, tire blown out, rim bent and mangled. Ironhide vented, hard and long, until it eased.
No. Pit, NO. This was nothing. It was nothing. He was tired, that was all. Wrung out in spark from fighting with Blaster, dredging up stuff he never wanted to think about again, never mind have to hash though in thick, angry words. That was all this was. But acknowledging it wasn't getting his blaster stabilizer reseated any faster, and the variance in the loose mount was going to drive him processor cracked.
Exventing, he picked up the cleanest rag in reach, scrubbing away a sheen of energon that was slow leaking from the seam between his plates. ::Shadow? Yeh got a bit? Ah got a favor t' ask of yeh.::
Ironhide had been trying, for several breem after quitting the sparring rooms for the quieter and more private space of his quarters, to edge the stabilizer in his right arm back into place. Plates flared, spreaders locked into place, tools spread out across the berth as he braced his back to the wall, arm steadied across his upraised knee. While he knew it would take a long, fiddly length of time to seat the stabilizer just right it should be slowly but surely getting better.
Instead, it was WORSE. He threw the manipulating hook down, even dampened sensors stinging a dull throb of pain from the latest slip as his left hand had jerked, twitching, to ram the tool's hooked end into a hydraulic line. Mouth pressed thin and tight, all swearing internal, he snatched up a rag to staunch the thin seepage of fluid until his autorepair could patch the small tear.
If he dimmed his optics he could feel it, the flux still in his struts, down in his mass and circuits, crawling like twitching, juddering poison. It trembled up from his hands [phantom press of plates and energon and internals, cracking and breaking, overlaid in the even ghostlier faux sensation of grappling, of blows and the surge of blaster fire] into his arms [sick tank churning sensation of foreign energies, crackling and surging up his arms, searing away palm and finger to flare upwards] and over his shoulders, ripping in sharp twitching fluxes down his dorsal struts.
Silently snarling, Ironhide rebooted his optics and forced himself up, dropping the rag and reaching for the manipulator once more. It was nothing. It was a waking recharge flux. That was ALL.
The next twitch, as he was carefully threading the tool into place, ripped through a sensor node that made him hiss, snarling, slamming pain dampeners into place. The manipulator fell out of his grasp, tumbling back to the berth, the tip smeared in fresh energon, and he could see the trembling in his hand.
Drawing in a ragged ventilation, Ironhide dropped his helm to rest against his braced right arm, and thought. Ratchet? No. PIT no. They had an agreement, they did - he kept out of the medic's work, the medic kept out of his, and he wasn't like scrap going to break that tradition over a little thing like a recharge flux playing havoc with his motor controls. Blue? His sparkling had steady hands, a familiarity with weapons, and could certainly do it... and would fuss, and want to know what was wrong that Ironhide couldn't do it himself.
Jazz? Oh, Primus. Bluestreak, to a power of infinity in the wanting to know why department. He couldn't... he couldn't...
Another tremor shook him, starting in his fingertips and working to his hips, then down into his thigh and setting up a sharp, fiery echo of the pain of his last welds through that leg strut, tire blown out, rim bent and mangled. Ironhide vented, hard and long, until it eased.
No. Pit, NO. This was nothing. It was nothing. He was tired, that was all. Wrung out in spark from fighting with Blaster, dredging up stuff he never wanted to think about again, never mind have to hash though in thick, angry words. That was all this was. But acknowledging it wasn't getting his blaster stabilizer reseated any faster, and the variance in the loose mount was going to drive him processor cracked.
Exventing, he picked up the cleanest rag in reach, scrubbing away a sheen of energon that was slow leaking from the seam between his plates. ::Shadow? Yeh got a bit? Ah got a favor t' ask of yeh.::