[ti]Flashback[/ti]Flashback - Shattered (Closed)

[Patch]

Darkness. A blazing sky. The haze of night… Cybertron.

The hollow screams, and pounding reverb of bombs, and missiles settled softly in the distance. That familiar, never ending choirs of whistling screaming demons, that had forever made a light show of the edge of Patch’s horizon. The current battle, that was actively ensuing around the young femme, had been raging on for breems now. So far, it had been just like any other. The usual pounding in your chest, shouting, shooting, running forward. Falling down and pulling back. Grasping a comrade by the shoulders, or the waist, and bringing them to cover before continuing your duty.

A duty which specifically belonged to the white and red grounder, who’s peddes where currently beating across the silver metal ground at full tilt, towards a scream…

A scan was taken, with a steady set of words in reassurance, once dented knees had skidded to a stop beside the soldier. The patient addressed by name as sure as any old friend would have been. Patch went over the damage, a knee actuator, that had been torn terribly open to the world, still sparking and leaking from where it’d been burned. The arm of that bright green femme taken up in the Patch’s hand, and stuck, as she pressed a small wedge shape between her digits, and relieved the soldier of her pain.

Patch leaned in close with her own knees on either side of the damage, -her red bag out in front of her against the inside of her leg- as tiny golden sparks began to fly from the instrument in her hand, and illuminate her grit-streaked face, and fuel covered frame. Sealing off the lines, cauterizing capillaries, taking zip-ties to lines that were too major to burn. Makeshift ligatures, that acted as hemostats. Tying off the fuel until a surgeon could be found to draw them off again, and seal it proper. She twisted the ends of raw wires together, and capped them off with colored guards, to signify the direction of the current, and what they were there for. All the while fighting time, and glancing up around her for attackers.

With that, the two where up and moving, the medic content enough with the work she’d managed to do in those few moments. She shoved her chest and arms beneath the green femme’s shoulders and heaved her up, taking any excess weight from her as best she could. Pulling an arm over her shoulders, and roughly drawing the side of her patient’s chassis into her own with her servo to support her.

Limping out into the chaos with labored steps the two moved in tandem. The green two-wheeler smaller in stature, and slighter in heft, though still well enough to support herself -a welcome attribute after so many hours of moving those larger. Between labored murmurs of pain from the victim, Patch fought to urge her forward. “Come on, we’re almost there!” She shouted, breathy and guttural above the blasts. “You’re gonna be alright! Just keep it moving!”

And then in an instant, time seemed to slow down. When a bright, solid sound suddenly cracked out through the noise, from a tower in the distance behind them. A real, solid, projectile gunshot. That somewhere, deep in the back of that young medic’s mind, was heard, in the instant it took to find it’s target…

The green femme was suddenly shot, through the chest, her plating shattering out in all directions, as the projectile tore straight through the center. Hitting it’s mark with frightening precision. Her chest jutting forward, helm throwing back as her optics off-lined, and her body went limp… She was dead, before she so much as made contact with the ground.

The person who stood beside her, had been given no such luxury…

Patch’s helm twisted toward her patient the instant she felt the tug, her own body lurching along with the sudden shift in weight.

Until her chassis was thrown back, her body curving, her torso caving in, forcing her to let go… As a shard of that plating, struck her, and thrust it’s way into the left side of her chest.

In place of a blink, her optics widened.
In place of a scream, the air simply escaped her in a soft, slow ex-vent.
Her helm, dropped loosely forward, as her back caved over.

Then the moment kicked back in once more.

Her body was suddenly smacked by shards of bright green plating, which punctured her own in swift repetition. Stabbing in and sticking out like the knives they had been honed to by the intensity of the blast. Her frame slamming into the torn metal ground. Rushing backward with the velocity of the impact, sliding, and stopping, in the middle of a clearing. No cover, no comrades, no means to defend herself.

Stars, up above her…. She saw stars…

Blast bolts of red, and blue whizzing by in opposite directions, against each other. The moon, both moons, sat shining up above her… And for one, peaceful, crippled moment, that whole war-torn world, was immersed entirely in static-laden ringing...

An invent.

An ex-vent.

An invent that was checked with a choke, a clip, a stumble, caused by a sudden lip of fuel, that had already dribbled into her airway. Patch’s body swiftly tried to clear it with a cough but faltered. A gurgle of a hack taking its place, and throwing drops of bright blue fuel up, and onto her face.

The femme’s circulation of air began to quicken in response to the almost immediate overheating of her frame from the panic, her spark beginning to flare uncontrollably. Her vents and airways rapidly becoming rasped with fluid, energon leaking from the inside out. That uncontrolled ventilation was quickly beginning to exacerbate her injuries, only flooding her with more fluid, and allowing it to leach into places where liquid, simply was not meant to be.

In her lines, was where it would become desperately needed, in a matter of moments.

For even despite what had already been done? Even with everything that was already wrong.

That first shard, that was still stuck through her chest? Had touched, and damaged, her fuel pump...

Even with enough fuel in her lines, (who’s volume would, swiftly deteriorate) Her body, would quickly lose the ability to circulate it properly. It likely wouldn't stop, not entirely, though it’s function would be greatly hindered. And if any of those shards where to be torn out at this point? She would, with almost complete certainty, leak to death, in a matter of klicks. Regardless of whether or not she received aid.

She needed help.

As the realization planted itself firmly in her mind, she tried. She tried to make the sound come out of her voice box but it simply did not come.

She couldn't call medic...

By the Allspark... she was about to die, right here on this battlefield...
And there was nothing she could do to stop it...

[Skirmisher]

“Where are we heading now?” the smaller mech, sitting in the passenger seat asked.

The smaller mech had been his assigned partner for his tours over the last roughly eight mega-cycles with the Seven-Six-Three-Eighth Uraya Combat Support Hospital based out of the City-State of Uraya located in the Tri-Peninsular Torus States. Hilux had been a smaller mech from Uraya, but Skirmisher hadn't met another mech or femme with as much tenacity or a mech with so many vices which at times tried Skirmisher's nerves. Hilux had been a native of Uraya, and had been formerly of the Medical Caste whom continued his medical duties even after the Caste System had been abolished. The Praxian had admired and respected Hilux' dedication towards his duties, but Skirmisher hadn't cared for many of the other mech's vices including how Hilux had the nasty habit of propping his pedes up on the Enforcer's dashboard.

“What do you mean? You were there when the call was received,” Skirmisher said, through the internal speaker located on his dashboard. The speaker had been located in the center of the dashboard between steering wheel on the driver's side, and the passenger seat where his partner reclined with his pedes propped on the dashboard.

“We're enroute to a section of trenches behind the main lines. The Battalion Surgeon at the forward Battalion Aid Station reported dispatching one his combat medics to the front eastern sector of the line. Six breems have past, and the medic hasn't reported in or called for a MedEvac. We've been assigned to try and find the medic with any charges they might have,” Skirmisher explained.

“An errant medic?” Hilux asked. “It could be the medic's too occupied, or they might have been inundated with cases. What do you expect to do when we find this missing medic?”

“I intend for us to do our job,” the Former Enforcer replied.

“You were one of those Enforcers, weren't you? You were the kind that was entirely about your duties and no play?” the smaller mech asked.

“I did my duties to the best of my abilities. I balanced my duties with understanding, compassion, honor and in keeping with the judicial ordinances,” Skirmisher explained. “We've been together on these tours for how long, Hilux? I thought we'd discussed this before,”

“We did,” Hilux quipped. “I want to see if you have any vices hidden away. There haven't been any mechs or femmes I've met that haven't had a vice or two, or a dozen they hadn't even been aware of,”

“If I did have any, you'd be the first to know. Trust me,” the Enforcer replied. “Get your pedes off my dashboard!”

Stamped lines ranging from the turning lanes of the old surface streets to the highways passed beneath the six armored wheels of the the former Enforcement Armored Car that still bore markings of a Praxian Precinct that only Praxians may have remembered.

Thick bulkheads reinforced with layers of thicker armor plating to two blaster turrets with the sloped cabin had only enhanced the sense of intimidation towards its purpose during Skirmisher's time in the Praxus Precinct and in touring the streets, but in his current role as an ambulance the armored plating had only increased the survival rates of those patients that had been transported by he and his partner. Through his original purpose, the armored car form had transported bound perpetrators either following an intense pursuit or by the simple act of one such mech or femme either running into the Enforcer or having mistaken the armored bulkheads for that of a nearby building. The manacles and irons had been replaced following his transfer to the Seven-Six-Three-Eighth Uraya Combat Support Hospital Unit to be replaced with room for two medical gurneys, a few medical monitors and other medical tools. A single armored dorsal turret containing a twin-blaster mount had been carried over from its previous cycles in the Enforcement Caste, and had been a means for Skirmisher to have still defended himself and his charges.