Ep. 0 - "Debriefing" - (Closed)

Stopping was the problem - every time Ironhide stopped a lifetime of habit planted his pedes just so, weight balanced evenly. Normally it was a tactical consideration, a position of strength and duty, whether he was conscious of it or not. Right then it just meant that every time he stopped the error flags caught up to him, cascading in a mess of increasingly insistent splashes across his HUD. Ironhide didn't quite suppress a huff as he shoved half of them aside, easing off of the cracked leg; he could dampen the pain but the strut damage was going to keep hounding him until he stopped aggravating it.

"Barricade had th' failsafe codes for Megatron's planet-killer," he started without preamble, as blunt and to the point as any report he had ever given. "We got it from him. Blaster's carryin' the data."

"He won't be returnin'," Ironhide replied heavily. He could see - and feel - the sudden weight of Optimus' regard, his commander's attention like a palpable thing. He tried to put himself at parade rest again - slaggit, no, leg, and he cursed himself as he shifted his weight back. The burst of irritation, regardless of cause, made it easier somehow to do what came next, the words spilling out with a low growl that wasn't even slightly faked.

"It was a clusterbomb frag," he huffed, cutting of anything his Prime might have said. "Mah fault - Ah should've called for backup before Ah did. Got too slaggin' cocky - me an' Shadow, against Barricade and one of those drone 'Cons? Should've been easy."

Ironhide vented and no, indeed, he didn't need to pretend one ounce of the irritation admitting the next part gave him, settling into his tanks like scorching acid. "He had a holdout waitin' for us. Starscream. Fragger cut me off." He flicked a hand at the damage all down his side, field sharp and angry and not trying to hide it. "Could've been worse. Screamer cut and ran when Ah made things too hot f'r him - Barricade wasn't expectin' it, though slag meh if Ah know why anyone wouldn't be."

He rolled his head back, listening to the crack of too tight linkages through his ventral struts. It was easier if he wasn't looking directly at Prime - easier if he concentrated on the irritation, on the combat heat still roiling through his systems, the words spilling out like any other report he had ever given. "Shadowrunner and the 'Con had shot each other up by th' time Ah caught up to them. We took Barricade down, but he's a slippery slagger. Gave us a run a couple times, and got his claws in Shadow." He made himself meet his Prime's gaze head on, the words ash and rancid oil in his intakes, the base of truth to them knotting his lines deep down in core systems with a pain that was real.

"Ripped her up good," he ground out. "Mah fault - should've stopped him, should've kept him down, wouldn't have happened at all. Ah missed, Prahm. Meant t' clip him, keep the fragger from runnin' again - Ah don't have the speed to chase his aft down and he knew it."

He dropped his gaze to the side. "Ah missed," he repeated. "Shot off before Ah had a lock. Hit him dead on. Mah fault. By the time Blaster got there, he was already fadin'."

Ironhide exvented, long and low. "Wasn't any volunteerin'," he replied. "Blaster jacked into him t' get 'em. Ah ordered him to. He's six kinds of slagged off at me about it, but frag it, we need those codes an' Barricade wasn't in any condition to give 'em to us."

He straightened once more, wincing as his weight came down on the cracked strut, but held it anyways. "Quick points, Prahm, we got th' codes but th' rest of it was just one slag pit after another. It's mah responsibility - Blaster's probably gonna file a protest an' Ah won't counter it."

Primus, 'Hide, a little glitchscrap of a saboteur had once said to him, do us all a favor, will ya, and don't ever try to straight up lie. You don't have the bearings for it.

It had been a joke, something they'd all laughed about over a game as Ironhide had lost his eleventh round of betting in a row. That had been vorns and vorns ago, when there was still highgrade to go around and laughter and gambling in the back halls of base during downshift. Back when they'd had a proper base. Back when they'd had a planet, a home, that they were still fighting for.

It had been a long time since then, and he wasn't the mech he had been. It hurt - no one had ever told him it would hurt, like a fission through his spark, acid and rust in his tanks, but he ruthlessly partitioned his threads and firewalled it away, unconnected to the frame that was being touched or the optics he raised to meet his Prime's own.

If you have to lie that same long lost glitchscrap had said another time, don't just make it up. There's always a core kernel of truth.

He hadn't understood, back then. He wished he didn't now.

Ironhide vented, slow and easy, and stood firm. "Ah can't guarantee Ah didn't hurt him tryin' t' keep him alive long enough for Blaster t' get there. Ah'm not a medic."

He cycled another ventilation. Cold in his lines. So slagging cold. "Nothin' unnecessary, Prahm. Yeh have mah word."

Because it hadn't been. It had been entirely necessary. The intel they had would keep them alive - keep Prime alive - and at the end of it all, that was the only thing that mattered. It was the only quantifiable measure Ironhide had. Ah did what had t' be done. That was the only thing that needed saying, and he would put his word on it, because stripped of the niceties of lofty ideals, it was the bare and honest truth.

The glitchscrap would have been proud of him. Ironhide couldn't bring himself to feel it.