[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Where the End Begins [Patch]

[Patch]

"They will all be dead in less than a century. You could live forever."

It seemed a shard of hope left Patch’s body with her breath, at this. A callousness- a coldness revealing itself to the femme in Windshield; that she SHOULD HAVE expected!! She SHOULD have taken a moment to SPEAK with-... With SOMEONE after finding out about Windshield’s faceplace, about what he may have… Primus- what he Likely Did to acquire it.

Patch found herself remembering this. Remembering Carbine’s words.

How could she have Yelled At Him for being upset… The ex-cop/convict felt like a fragging Hero
to her now- and Patch DID take a moment of her Own cold satisfaction remembering how much damage he’d inflicted on her now captor with that punch. Was Carbine being a manipulative SHIT in the moment he’d said those things? YES. But he’d also been Right.

No wonder Carbine hadn’t wanted to trust her... Hadn’t wanted to trust Any of them…

A wash of longing- of guilt, of hope for the chance to apologize shot through Patch like ice up her spine. If she got out of here-... That’s the first thing she’d do… After a shower. And maybe some energon.

In this train of thought, it seemed Patch lost the plot, as Windshield continued. Either that or- even attempting to follow, his intention took SUCH a sharp left turn off the path thus far, that the young femme got stuck in the bushes.

"We have the numbers, the means, the science. Patients wouldn't bleed out on your table because you were understaffed, out of Energon, or unequipped, and you would never go hungry again."

Her optics widened a little as a new, vague sense of alarm met her optics.

“Do you-”

“Are you-... H- hold on.” Staggered, half halted words.

The warborn medic bowed her head as her optic-shutters fluttered in genuine confusion. Trying to shake off what felt like a smack to the helm.

There was no act here. No, overly dramatic ‘surprise’ to try and drive home how stupid she thought this was- no, Patch’s disbelief was earnest.

Her optics lifted to Windshield once again, a softness to her voice. As though attempting to interpret words muttered through a dislocated jaw- or a dislocated sentence spoken by someone who’s sense of reality had shifted from that which was shared.

There was almost fear behind her voice. A tentative, hesitance.

“You want me to become a Decepticon?”

[Windshield]

"Yes," Windshield answered without a drop of irony, "If you were to become one of us, you wouldn't have to suffer for a lost cause."

There was a certainty to it, to everything he said, like he truly believed all the problems in the world would melt away if only Patch became one of them. He stared at her with a blank expression, calm and steady, and entirely devoted to the moment. His optics did not flinch once, those concentric rings of fire that only saw the Autobot in front of them.

And the mech behind them continued without pause...

"Imagine it. For the first time in your life, you'd be free of necessity—to live for yourself and no one else."

For yourself... Windshield's voice took on a deeper texture when he said that. It was an abrupt and harsh emphasis, a tone far different from the rest of his delivery and quite unlike he had ever used before. He seemed so tense and focused almost as if frustrated. Was this really him? Beneath all those jokes, under the shame and the guilt, this is what was left?

He seemed so small, suddenly, in his selfishness and grand delusions.

[Patch]

Windshield’s argument didn’t make sense.

Even the very words were contradictory to what Patch knew to be true regarding their factions. Decepticons did NOT, live for themselves- that was, the whole point, now. They lived to serve a tyrannical leader. They devoted their lives, their frames- their very sparks to this cause, at times in Quite disturbing ways.

Her optics widened a little as a pang struck her spark. She tried to catch the alarm before it could fully express itself in her features and failed. A slow, quiet ex-vent escaping as she listened to the mech.

Frag.

Was this his goal the whole time? To recruit Patch to the cause he aligned with? Or a more recently developed intention, after a fortuitous capture, in hopes of, perhaps, sparing the femme from some cruel fate here, in this cave.

Perhaps his want for Patch’s safety was more out of possessiveness, than care for her well-being- evidenced now, by how she was being kept, and how long it had taken him to face her. Hell- by the fact he’d pulled the trigger to Begin With, and called the others in!

Still though… The young Autobot held out hope. Perhaps she could still reach him.

“Windshield… I-...”

A broken, sorry unsteadiness clipped across wide optics and a tired, open frown. The words seemed hidden, from him and from her as her body sat restrained. Countless little words, all hiding for their own survival, behind her open optics.

She didn’t know how to start.

[Windshield]

"Patch, please..." He continued in deep, uneasy tones. He saw the frown, the weariness of it all. Windshield stopped himself just short of extending a hand towards her constraints. It would have been so easy to flick his wrist, pull out a knife, and sever the chains.

But he stopped himself, his hand fell down limply beside his body as he continued.

"I don't want you to—I can't stand the thought of..."

Just like her, he struggled to find the right words to say everything that he wanted to say.

"You... Dying down here—Or out there."

He felt so little for others, but not for her. Not for the only kind Spark he'd ever met. The only kind Spark he'd ever betrayed and came back for.

"I don't want us to be enemies. I don't want any more of your blood on my hands."

He formed a fist, claws digging into the palm of his hand.

"I want you to be safe."

There was a vain and hopeful touch in those last few words. As if he well and truly believed with his entire being that every problem he had caused—all the suffering he had wrought—would just go away if he could convince Patch to join him. It was a distilled confluence of gentle concern, though whether it was strictly for her or mainly for himself was so difficult to tell.

Perhaps it was both. There was only one way to truly know.

[Patch]

Patch straightened and tensed at even just the hint of movement of a reach for her. A tightness coursing through her frame as though shocked by a prod.

As he stuttered for the right words, the autobot’s optic ridges lowered. A tilt of her chin towards her shoulder as she viewed him a bit more from the side. Was he manipulating her? Did he REALLY believe this? Did he really BELIEVE she would Ever so much as Consider abandoning her friends, her family- quite literally Everything she’d Ever Known because a mech who’d gotten her captured and left in isolation for a week fragging Asked Her To?

If he’d Really Cared he shouldn’t have brought her down here to begin with. He KNEW what would happen. He HAD to have known. This or Worse- and he still pressed that Fragging Button.

No. Windshield had betrayed her- He HAD. But how much of that anger could Patch let OUT now- how much of that could she Safely Release?

‘Any MORE?’ she thought, as her optics grew wider still and her jaw physically dropped. Not in a melodramatic expression, like one she would give in jest- no- this was Real. And this was evidenced, by just how quickly she turned around and tried to shuffle the reaction under the rug- turning her helm away and blinking and shutting her optics. There was Fear in her disbelief in the Audacity of the mech before her.

If he was serious he was insane.

She wanted to Yell at him. Scream how if he CARED so goddamn much, he should never have PUT her here! He should have considered that want for her safety BEFORE she was in chains in the Con's murky basement. If he Really, believed, that she was such a good person, maybe he should have given the people who’d Raised Her a chance. TAKEN the chance they gave Him.

“I-...”

A breathless, pause. Silence filled with the sound of the distant mine work echoing softly across the walls. There was an unusual, coldness, to Patch’s following words. A numbness, a strange cadence, like a baby deer just learning to walk as she looked back up at the Decepticon.

“I would… have to think about it.”

A small nod fell out of her as she spoke, the sentence baked in fear. Her gaze remained locked upon Windshield’s eyes. Looking up at him, from under the crest of her helm, chin tilted down, optics up and wide as headlights.

[Windshield]

He stood there, frozen in the moment. Then, suddenly, he stepped back. The faint and fragile hope in his optics disappeared at once. The amber lights began to dart erratically, left, then right, then left again, then, finally, they scanned Patch's body again.

Another half-step, uncertain, frantic.

"Oh, Patch, no," he blurted out, tripping over his own words, "T-There is no time."

There was hesitation, a panic, but also something else. The hacker lifted his hand towards the medic again, briefly, before lowering it for a final time. It was trembling.

"Megatron is back. I-I don't..."

He didn't finish the thought, but there was something raw and new in his features.

Fear. He'd never looked so afraid before. Not in front of Starscream, or Optimus, or Carbine. It was primal and inescapable—and it was not fear for himself, but for another.

He knew far too well that there was no time to "think about it", even if Patch made the right choice in the end. On some level, Windshield knew that the Warlord had other plans for her, that her joining the Decepticons was the only path that would spare his former friend further suffering. This he hoped, and he seemed so very afraid that he could lose it all now. Lose her. Lose Patch. Forever.

Another young spark on the purple pyre, burning bright. A lantern on the path of conquest, paved with cranial casings and empty spark chambers.

No. He would not let her be another. His hands formed fists, his optics widened and pinned Patch to the wall tighter than the shackles ever could. Chin held high, he spoke, resolute:

"No! You have to choose. Now."

It was not his intention to order her around, but he pleaded and he insisted, foolishly.

[Patch]

Patch tightened and stiffened, as her intake clipped shut and flattened. She pressed herself to the wall again as Windshield reached for her. A slight lift to her shoulder plating as the frame beneath pulled back.

Patch’s optics widened.

Megatron…?

Megatron was BACK?

The fact Windshield would share this with her only cemented father, to Patch, that he was not thinking logically right now.

What was he going to do if she said the wrong thing? Patch could not fight him- not really. She was injured, and weak, and restrained WELL behind enemy lines. Was he even supposed to BE here? Be the one who brought her fuel?

It felt like a game. Like a video game, the kind Raf would pull up on his computer. A series of choices and tests of skill that all led to a different outcome; the wrong choice made? The wrong, timing, and a monster would pop up onto the screen, and scare the living scrap out of the player.

Game over.

If Patch made the wrong choice now… Would Windshield do the same? Would he jump her, kill her here and now? Would he hurt her? How badly? With what, and for how long? ALL questions which poured through the Autobot’s mind as she stared up at the once-a-friend in terror, who now danced back and forth with unrest before her, demanding an answer.

Patch very much knew her answer.

Would she lie? COULD she lie, in a way he would believe?

Patch’s gaze remained locked on her captor’s optics. Determination- pure stubbornness burned as bright as her strong young spark behind her own. A softness fell across her face, as gentle sternness filled her voice.

“Windshield… You already know my answer.”

Each word was spoken warmly. Individually. Deeply meant, and unwavering.

“I am an Autobot.”

[Windshield]

He knew the answer, he knew it before she said the quiet part out loud.

On some level, he'd known it for a very long time. Still, he tried. He laid his Spark bare, if only for a moment, but that was there and then, and no longer the moment. He sealed it within himself once more, built another layer, and stared down the captive Patch with a determined gaze. The claws in his fists dug deep with anger. It would hurt later, but right now his emotions overrode the sensation.

He took another step back, then another, receding back under the fluorescent light, back into the darkness, until his optics were the only focal point left for her to hold onto, the rest of him melding into the black-and-gray surroundings. It was only then that he spoke to Patch a final time. His voice rung deep, but there was no malice in it. He didn't sound angry or slighted or even hurt. The panic was gone, the stuttering was gone.

What remained of Windshield was the last she would see of him in these miserable chains.

"Then, you will die like one," he began in a smooth tone, "And there is nothing more I can do to stop it."

He closed his optics briefly, tall shadows concealing a tortured expression. Even now, he had hoped beyond hope that this encounter could've gone differently. But it didn't. It went down exactly like the both of them knew it would. Perhaps it was foolish to think her fate—and his as well—was malleable, that anything of their betrayed friendship meant something.

It was so difficult to shake that thought, but shake it he did nonetheless, giving him the bitter strength necessary to say the next piece, to bury it all, once and for all.

"For what it's worth, I hope that Megatron ends your suffering quickly."

He said that with no discernible emotion beyond apathy, as if he steeled himself already, and severed the last tether keeping him clinging to the idea of reunion. Finally, Windshield turned his back on Patch. He took a few steps towards the dark corridor, and stopped only once to finish his piece.

"...But I wouldn't hold my breath," he mouthed off bitterly and slowly disappeared into the shadows ahead.