[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Red Flags [Closed]
Feb 2, 2024 23:29:07 GMT -5
Post by Carbine on Feb 2, 2024 23:29:07 GMT -5
Episode 3.5 | Week 1 | Day 6
In, then out... in again, then out... Carbine was fucking the brig and not at all enjoying the ride. The issue was, he didn't know how to get free of the damn hell he found himself in when it came to how others now saw him, as evidently, he was the Autobot's first choice pick out of the entire group as a whole to get flung into that cesspool just because he made some poor choices and didn't line up obediently with their contradictory ideals. He didn't color within the lines even before the war kicked off, so it was no surprise that the trend would continue after, which he saw as expressive art in his opinion! Though they were close-minded delusional individuals too scared to see the blood on their damn hands, and he didn't know how he was going to learn to be so-called 'good' within their skewed rules so that he didn't become even more of an outcast than he already was.
He wanted to be a part of the team. He WANTED to fit in even if he truly didn't know if he was capable of it in his core... to be accepted for who he was and be able to use his talents for something that wasn't as degrading as 'you became a prisoner back in Garrus and will amount to nothing more than the degenerate criminal you were back then'. It felt awful, and it was having a negative impact whether he could admit it to himself or not. No... he had admitted it to himself which was a big part of why he was taking this so personally this time around. Being able to see what he had done to Windshield turned the blurry funhouse mirror clear, and he could now clearly view a green-clad distortion of himself atop that monster grinning back. He was no better than that mech from way back then. But... he had to try right? Redemption had to be a thing, even if it felt so very far out of reach.
Then again, did he even have a sliver of a chance of reaching it? Or were the Autobots simply adding more weight to his shackles with how they treated him in regards to their captive?
They knew what he was.
They could see now that even he couldn’t do that job in the brig without messing it up...
The black and white mech was sitting within the rec-room of Omega One facing the door, his upper torso hooked forward so far that his forehead was pressed down against the table before him, beside of which sat a ration of Energon in a cube that had yet to be touched in any way. His back was angled high due to the way he was positioned, especially as the chair he was in was turned around so that the backrest was jabbing awkwardly against his domed chest, though there were more than obvious reasons why he couldn't use it like a normal individual given the mass of armor that stretched up his spine. Numerous overlapping panels and plates turned the entire central column into a ridge, a set of four contrasting rings angled on either side where shoulder blades would be, showing that it wasn’t simply armored but likely had some purpose within his alt that wasn't very apparent on surface layers.
He didn't move, didn't make any efforts to address what was sitting a short distance away from his head, there being a possibility that he had actually fallen asleep, though that simply wasn't true.
Carbine was thinking. Mulling over things. Giving himself time to reflect on current events, and how he failed to do even the basic task of interacting with a new Autobot without messing it up. How was he to know a Wrecker of all people was a whiney piece of shit bitch who couldn't handle a little danger and laugh about it after the fact? How was he to know that said Wrecker couldn't throw insults back and offer some retorts that weren't overly serious jabs fueled by being salty that he had used the skills he was manufactured with to try to win a race? It was bothersome, and he normally would try to take it in stride and mock the mech later on... an act he may impulsively do anyway because it is in his nature... but he probably should try to apologize without any underhanded slaps, which would be the RIGHT thing to do.
Yet he wasn't any good at doing what was right.
So here he sat, dreading whatever may come next because he would likely mess it up and get sent back down to the brig for round three. Carbine didn't want to be back there, it was quiet and lonely, and he would have nobody to truly interact with. At least in Garrus it was always busy in some way, even if it was teaming up against that jackass down the block who couldn’t seem to stop groaning in dismay at the hell he had been shut into, which only made his so-called hell worse, which made him complain more, which resulted in getting beat up again... YAY! Repetition and toxic loops! There was comradery there though, a demented sort of team of like-minded rancid souls all circling the drain to madness waiting for death to take them finally.
No. He was in the Autobots.
Carbine had sometimes wondered if the Wreckers were a team that would be better suited to him... where it was more chaos-oriented doing what needed to be done even if it bent the rules, but now that delusional little dream was crushed. The one he had interacted with couldn't even man up in a fun little scuffle where no contact was even made.
Taking in a deeper breath, Carbine's spine would hook up further, the white rings flicking a couple of degrees back and forth, before he let the ventilation sift through with a long shudder of the slats that ended in a huff before going inert once more.
In, then out... in again, then out... Carbine was fucking the brig and not at all enjoying the ride. The issue was, he didn't know how to get free of the damn hell he found himself in when it came to how others now saw him, as evidently, he was the Autobot's first choice pick out of the entire group as a whole to get flung into that cesspool just because he made some poor choices and didn't line up obediently with their contradictory ideals. He didn't color within the lines even before the war kicked off, so it was no surprise that the trend would continue after, which he saw as expressive art in his opinion! Though they were close-minded delusional individuals too scared to see the blood on their damn hands, and he didn't know how he was going to learn to be so-called 'good' within their skewed rules so that he didn't become even more of an outcast than he already was.
He wanted to be a part of the team. He WANTED to fit in even if he truly didn't know if he was capable of it in his core... to be accepted for who he was and be able to use his talents for something that wasn't as degrading as 'you became a prisoner back in Garrus and will amount to nothing more than the degenerate criminal you were back then'. It felt awful, and it was having a negative impact whether he could admit it to himself or not. No... he had admitted it to himself which was a big part of why he was taking this so personally this time around. Being able to see what he had done to Windshield turned the blurry funhouse mirror clear, and he could now clearly view a green-clad distortion of himself atop that monster grinning back. He was no better than that mech from way back then. But... he had to try right? Redemption had to be a thing, even if it felt so very far out of reach.
Then again, did he even have a sliver of a chance of reaching it? Or were the Autobots simply adding more weight to his shackles with how they treated him in regards to their captive?
They knew what he was.
They could see now that even he couldn’t do that job in the brig without messing it up...
The black and white mech was sitting within the rec-room of Omega One facing the door, his upper torso hooked forward so far that his forehead was pressed down against the table before him, beside of which sat a ration of Energon in a cube that had yet to be touched in any way. His back was angled high due to the way he was positioned, especially as the chair he was in was turned around so that the backrest was jabbing awkwardly against his domed chest, though there were more than obvious reasons why he couldn't use it like a normal individual given the mass of armor that stretched up his spine. Numerous overlapping panels and plates turned the entire central column into a ridge, a set of four contrasting rings angled on either side where shoulder blades would be, showing that it wasn’t simply armored but likely had some purpose within his alt that wasn't very apparent on surface layers.
He didn't move, didn't make any efforts to address what was sitting a short distance away from his head, there being a possibility that he had actually fallen asleep, though that simply wasn't true.
Carbine was thinking. Mulling over things. Giving himself time to reflect on current events, and how he failed to do even the basic task of interacting with a new Autobot without messing it up. How was he to know a Wrecker of all people was a whiney piece of shit bitch who couldn't handle a little danger and laugh about it after the fact? How was he to know that said Wrecker couldn't throw insults back and offer some retorts that weren't overly serious jabs fueled by being salty that he had used the skills he was manufactured with to try to win a race? It was bothersome, and he normally would try to take it in stride and mock the mech later on... an act he may impulsively do anyway because it is in his nature... but he probably should try to apologize without any underhanded slaps, which would be the RIGHT thing to do.
Yet he wasn't any good at doing what was right.
So here he sat, dreading whatever may come next because he would likely mess it up and get sent back down to the brig for round three. Carbine didn't want to be back there, it was quiet and lonely, and he would have nobody to truly interact with. At least in Garrus it was always busy in some way, even if it was teaming up against that jackass down the block who couldn’t seem to stop groaning in dismay at the hell he had been shut into, which only made his so-called hell worse, which made him complain more, which resulted in getting beat up again... YAY! Repetition and toxic loops! There was comradery there though, a demented sort of team of like-minded rancid souls all circling the drain to madness waiting for death to take them finally.
No. He was in the Autobots.
Carbine had sometimes wondered if the Wreckers were a team that would be better suited to him... where it was more chaos-oriented doing what needed to be done even if it bent the rules, but now that delusional little dream was crushed. The one he had interacted with couldn't even man up in a fun little scuffle where no contact was even made.
Taking in a deeper breath, Carbine's spine would hook up further, the white rings flicking a couple of degrees back and forth, before he let the ventilation sift through with a long shudder of the slats that ended in a huff before going inert once more.