[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]Late Night Therapy - Open
Oct 9, 2017 11:14:34 GMT -5
Post by Ratchet on Oct 9, 2017 11:14:34 GMT -5
(Week 2, Day 3, 2:30 am)
Nighttime in the Omega base could be shockingly quiet.
Normally, the base ran on the Cybertronian solar cycle, which is very different from Earth’s. But with the Energon crises going on, every Cybertronian was taking advantage of downtime as much as possible, resting in their quarters to reduce the amount of fuel burned.
Now, at 2:30 am local time, the base was nearly silent.
Nearly.
Generators still ran. Equipment still purred or hummed. A general background noise that most everyone got used to within a week of coming to the base.
Tonight, there was an extra sound. Footsteps, moving along the corridors.
Ratchet walked as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb anyone trying to rest. His brain was more active than his feet, and frustration marked his face. He scowled more than usual.
Not often seen outside his Medibay, Ratchet nevertheless went where needed or when he wanted to get away, when he needed to refill, or to train.
Tonight it was neither. It was a need to get out and do something. Anything.
Ratchet’s latest attempt to replicate Energon had been a disaster. Two weeks of work, of tiny, minuscule adjustments to a small, precious vial of Energon. Of watching the sample like a hawk. Making detailed note after note.
Only to watch in numb disbelief as the sample boiled down to nothing, curdling and spoiling in the container.
A dull, blinding rage grabbed the medic for a second, and grabbing the container, Ratchet threw it clear across his Medibay, where it shattered loudly against a far wall. For a second, the old Autobot was about to add a chair and anything else he could get his hands on. He grabbed the edge of his bench, fingers curled painfully tight, squeezing the edge so hard the metal buckled and warp slightly, before he sat down heavily in his chair with a resigned sigh.
Another failure. To add to all the others.
Finally, unable to bear the sight of his own Medibay anymore, Ratchet stood up and walked down the empty corridors, moving towards the practice room.
He needed to hit something. Several things. Very, very hard.
Peering inside the room, Ratchet saw the room was, as he had hoped, empty for the moment. He hadn’t wanted to actually start physically attacking the practice dummies with someone else in there, even though he had every right to train. In fact, he had been too lax on training, and owed some time to the practice room.
Walking up to the large, heavy punching dummy standing in one corner of the room, the old Medic raised his fists, and gritting his dental plates, set himself in a wide stance, and started rhythmically punching. There was no foot work, just a steady hitting, fist and fist and fist and fist. In his mind’s eye, Ratchet was reliving all the failures he had suffered over the last month, trying to slam his aggression and frustration and desperate anger from his mind, through his arms, and out through his fists.
Nighttime in the Omega base could be shockingly quiet.
Normally, the base ran on the Cybertronian solar cycle, which is very different from Earth’s. But with the Energon crises going on, every Cybertronian was taking advantage of downtime as much as possible, resting in their quarters to reduce the amount of fuel burned.
Now, at 2:30 am local time, the base was nearly silent.
Nearly.
Generators still ran. Equipment still purred or hummed. A general background noise that most everyone got used to within a week of coming to the base.
Tonight, there was an extra sound. Footsteps, moving along the corridors.
Ratchet walked as quietly as he could, not wanting to disturb anyone trying to rest. His brain was more active than his feet, and frustration marked his face. He scowled more than usual.
Not often seen outside his Medibay, Ratchet nevertheless went where needed or when he wanted to get away, when he needed to refill, or to train.
Tonight it was neither. It was a need to get out and do something. Anything.
Ratchet’s latest attempt to replicate Energon had been a disaster. Two weeks of work, of tiny, minuscule adjustments to a small, precious vial of Energon. Of watching the sample like a hawk. Making detailed note after note.
Only to watch in numb disbelief as the sample boiled down to nothing, curdling and spoiling in the container.
A dull, blinding rage grabbed the medic for a second, and grabbing the container, Ratchet threw it clear across his Medibay, where it shattered loudly against a far wall. For a second, the old Autobot was about to add a chair and anything else he could get his hands on. He grabbed the edge of his bench, fingers curled painfully tight, squeezing the edge so hard the metal buckled and warp slightly, before he sat down heavily in his chair with a resigned sigh.
Another failure. To add to all the others.
Finally, unable to bear the sight of his own Medibay anymore, Ratchet stood up and walked down the empty corridors, moving towards the practice room.
He needed to hit something. Several things. Very, very hard.
Peering inside the room, Ratchet saw the room was, as he had hoped, empty for the moment. He hadn’t wanted to actually start physically attacking the practice dummies with someone else in there, even though he had every right to train. In fact, he had been too lax on training, and owed some time to the practice room.
Walking up to the large, heavy punching dummy standing in one corner of the room, the old Medic raised his fists, and gritting his dental plates, set himself in a wide stance, and started rhythmically punching. There was no foot work, just a steady hitting, fist and fist and fist and fist. In his mind’s eye, Ratchet was reliving all the failures he had suffered over the last month, trying to slam his aggression and frustration and desperate anger from his mind, through his arms, and out through his fists.