Ep 2. 'State of Redress' - Closed
Jun 27, 2015 11:28:07 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 27, 2015 11:28:07 GMT -5
<<OOC: Week 2, Day 6>>
For security reasons, the tables in Haven's bar were bolted to the floor. Layby ought to have welded them - it had only taken a few good kicks to upend them to build a barricade across the door. It wouldn't stop Deuce if he was about, but likely he'd have the sense to stay away.
After Ratchet had left, Layby hadn't known what to do with himself. Shock lingered in his systems, and it was with a numb feeling curdling cold in his tanks that he'd taken the box down into the mine. Down the tunnels, deeper than most went, to as far as he'd reached carving out as-yet-unoccupied living quarters.
He'd put the box in the last room in the corridor. It had taken a full minute to decide where in the empty space, but he'd settled the stark white container on the floor against the center of the back wall. It was a poor tomb, but it would do until he could do better.
Layby sat quietly with Cleaver for a bit. Then loudly, safe underground and well-walled from anyone who might hear him.
He finally emerged some hours later feeling worse than when he'd gone in. Existing hurt. Shock had gone to grief, to anger, to frustrating, to despair through a whirling maelstrom that shrank the universe down to a seething point of pain which he wholly occupied.
It had been a very long time since Layby had drunk irresponsibly; part of being a bouncer and a barkeep. He'd never been the sort to see High Grade or any other intoxicating substance as a coping mechanism. The bar, though, every stick of it worked with his own two hands, was the only place he could retreat to that didn't make him sick with the thought of Cleaver.
One cube after walling himself in in the dark became two. Then four. Then the bottle of Nytrix he'd been saving for something special. Something stupid, he'd thought, when he'd cracked the seal and drank from the neck.
Layby didn't pass out, but he did 'wake' from a blank stupor some time the next day. There were a lot of empties around him on the floor behind the bar, and he was sat tucked up against the shelves beneath the taps. His mouth was dry and his systems buzzing with chemical charge, but his mind was clear and sharp.
He picked up a cube and began turning it in his hands, crushing it slowly whilst staring ahead. It was an old party trick to mold a cube into a hollow sphere, and his hands remembered the careful destructive motions better than his conscious mind.
On the edge of the countertop in front of the mech, James lay with his head resting on his paws. His large eyes were fixed on Layby, watchful, and his boneless sprawl suggested he'd been there for some time.
Layby rolled the sphere between his palms, his hands slick with spilled drinks. "Ah let her down, James."
The cat blinked. Layby huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Wasn't like she'da let me. Primus held, I tried."
His face darkened, twisted, and he hurled the ball across the floor and into the wrecked seating area. James jerked and bolted with great, bounding strides.
Layby covered his face with both hands and pressed hard, armor shaking. "'s a bad idea."
It was a lie. He was aching with the want of it.
MECH had taken Cleaver away from him.
After centuries navigating the deadliest regions of war-torn space; bargaining for their mesh and running like hell when that fell through from warships, marauders and mercenaries. Cleaver had negotiated for a DMZ with Megatron personally; had stood bleeding with her fight for it, and had worked hard to turn this old mine into a home for anyone in want of one.
MECH had snatched her and tortured her, killed her and kept pieces of her remains.
How dare they, after everything they'd been through?
Layby hadn't been able to protect her from MECH, but he could sure as hell avenge her.
Deciding on it, giving over and resolving himself to the violence to come, brought a strange sort of peace to him. There was a purpose now. A task that needed carrying out after the Autobots brought the rest of what they had of her home.
Tipping his head back with a thunk against the shelves, Layby opened his comm..
Though they'd only met a few times and spoken little more than that, he and Fortress Maximus had built an easy rapport and mutual respect. Not long ago, the former warden had given him his personal frequency. Layby turned to it now.
::You recievin' me, Max? Can yeh talk?::
Layby had no idea where to find MECH, but the Autobots did. Maximus, hopefully, would give him somewhere to go.
For security reasons, the tables in Haven's bar were bolted to the floor. Layby ought to have welded them - it had only taken a few good kicks to upend them to build a barricade across the door. It wouldn't stop Deuce if he was about, but likely he'd have the sense to stay away.
After Ratchet had left, Layby hadn't known what to do with himself. Shock lingered in his systems, and it was with a numb feeling curdling cold in his tanks that he'd taken the box down into the mine. Down the tunnels, deeper than most went, to as far as he'd reached carving out as-yet-unoccupied living quarters.
He'd put the box in the last room in the corridor. It had taken a full minute to decide where in the empty space, but he'd settled the stark white container on the floor against the center of the back wall. It was a poor tomb, but it would do until he could do better.
Layby sat quietly with Cleaver for a bit. Then loudly, safe underground and well-walled from anyone who might hear him.
He finally emerged some hours later feeling worse than when he'd gone in. Existing hurt. Shock had gone to grief, to anger, to frustrating, to despair through a whirling maelstrom that shrank the universe down to a seething point of pain which he wholly occupied.
It had been a very long time since Layby had drunk irresponsibly; part of being a bouncer and a barkeep. He'd never been the sort to see High Grade or any other intoxicating substance as a coping mechanism. The bar, though, every stick of it worked with his own two hands, was the only place he could retreat to that didn't make him sick with the thought of Cleaver.
One cube after walling himself in in the dark became two. Then four. Then the bottle of Nytrix he'd been saving for something special. Something stupid, he'd thought, when he'd cracked the seal and drank from the neck.
Layby didn't pass out, but he did 'wake' from a blank stupor some time the next day. There were a lot of empties around him on the floor behind the bar, and he was sat tucked up against the shelves beneath the taps. His mouth was dry and his systems buzzing with chemical charge, but his mind was clear and sharp.
He picked up a cube and began turning it in his hands, crushing it slowly whilst staring ahead. It was an old party trick to mold a cube into a hollow sphere, and his hands remembered the careful destructive motions better than his conscious mind.
On the edge of the countertop in front of the mech, James lay with his head resting on his paws. His large eyes were fixed on Layby, watchful, and his boneless sprawl suggested he'd been there for some time.
Layby rolled the sphere between his palms, his hands slick with spilled drinks. "Ah let her down, James."
The cat blinked. Layby huffed a quiet laugh. "Yeah. Wasn't like she'da let me. Primus held, I tried."
His face darkened, twisted, and he hurled the ball across the floor and into the wrecked seating area. James jerked and bolted with great, bounding strides.
Layby covered his face with both hands and pressed hard, armor shaking. "'s a bad idea."
It was a lie. He was aching with the want of it.
MECH had taken Cleaver away from him.
After centuries navigating the deadliest regions of war-torn space; bargaining for their mesh and running like hell when that fell through from warships, marauders and mercenaries. Cleaver had negotiated for a DMZ with Megatron personally; had stood bleeding with her fight for it, and had worked hard to turn this old mine into a home for anyone in want of one.
MECH had snatched her and tortured her, killed her and kept pieces of her remains.
How dare they, after everything they'd been through?
Layby hadn't been able to protect her from MECH, but he could sure as hell avenge her.
Deciding on it, giving over and resolving himself to the violence to come, brought a strange sort of peace to him. There was a purpose now. A task that needed carrying out after the Autobots brought the rest of what they had of her home.
Tipping his head back with a thunk against the shelves, Layby opened his comm..
Though they'd only met a few times and spoken little more than that, he and Fortress Maximus had built an easy rapport and mutual respect. Not long ago, the former warden had given him his personal frequency. Layby turned to it now.
::You recievin' me, Max? Can yeh talk?::
Layby had no idea where to find MECH, but the Autobots did. Maximus, hopefully, would give him somewhere to go.