[ti]Ep 2.5[/ti]As If It Were Nothing [Closed]
Feb 9, 2019 4:23:37 GMT -5
Post by Carbine on Feb 9, 2019 4:23:37 GMT -5
Episode 2.5 | Week 3 | Day 2
...nothing more than a Wrench.
The words haunted, whispering on repeat to fill the silence, reminding nonstop that Ratchet took what was his, and likely had no intention to use it to try to find justice. Wasted, thrown away... the deceased femme's story would be completely lost and end just like that.
As long as Ratchet had her hand, no vengeance would be had. No closure would be found.
The old mech was trapped in some kind of twisted ideal that Carbine couldn’t understand as far as he was concerned. The dead were dead, they couldn’t feel, they couldn’t express their wants or desires... everything they were may have once been stored in their processor, but their spark, their SOUL, was now long gone, and what remains was simply a shell to carry them around. A tool, a device... something to honor and pay respect to should times be different, able to take on the remorse needed, but this was war. The rules change, and boy... they can change a lot.
Carbine thought Ratchet would have taken an approach of scavenging if anything for the dead. Use their bodies to help those who still live, tear out their fuel pumps, butcher their struts to replace and repair the damages caused by weapon or accident alike for the ones who continue to live. A felled corpse something to be remorseful over, but also seen as an opportunity so long as it was not grotesque unneeded mutilations. That is what Carbine would do if he was a doctor, or what he thought he would do... but he also knew he was desensitized to death far before the threat of war whispered through the masses.
Butcheries, chop shops, murderers and sadistic individuals kindling some kind of thrill out of tearing apart the bodies of others. Carbine has seen it all, if not in person than in the police reports. What he hasn’t seen with his own two eyes he had heard about in great detail between him and his so called 'brothers' on the force. Bodies half dissolved in acid within containers, others parted out and in the process of being melted into blocks of raw metal to scrap out without questions. Individuals pressed whole into construction, only to be unintentionally milled out when the building grew old, or happened to be in the way of a greater structure... the stories felt nearly endless.
Once upon a time, in days far gone, scattered to the past... they would have appalled a young officer newly onlined into the force... but...
Bodies were now just bodies.
What you did to find their killers was simply collateral.
And Carbine wanted what was HIS back.
----
Quiet.
Dark.
Scattered illumination flicked along the long hallways and edges of major rooms, night bringing forth a new version of the base that contrasted boldly with the primary hours. A few lights blinked absently along the Control Room that currently lay unmanned, though the security room beyond its edges most likely was not. The Energon from the scuffle a few days prior was gone, the damage was minimized... without the askew monitor that settled at an odd angle, it would be hard to know something had gone wrong and sent everything off course. It was within this darkened hub a single Cybertronian stood before the doorway that would lead to the Medical Bay.
Break in... you can figure out how...
Steal back what is yours.
He probably smelted it to be 'respectful'.
A subtle growl rumbled forth from the mech, soft, barely audible, hissing out from beneath plates of armor.
Maybe you are taking this too personal.
He took it from you! Treated you like trash!
This is your team, don't do anything drastic.
White fingertips flexed out, cables creaking before pulling taunt as a firm fist was formed.
If this were Garus it'd be easy to 'fix'.
A lot of things would be easy to 'fix' there.
So much more simple.
Lifting up the fist, a soft tremble shuddered through his joints, before Carbine rapped the back of a hooked finger along the door, loud enough to more likely than not be heard in the room beyond. Following this, he spoke, words chipper and upbeat, almost amused in a way as if he had simply managed to cut himself and needed to ask for a mesh patch to stop the immediate leaking. A sort of grin could almost be heard in his words.
"He͘y Rat͞chet?̕ ͝G̀o̸͍̩̤̖̻̰̲t a mo͇̬͉͎͉̺̥mȩ̮͎̙̤ņ̹̜̣t̢?"