[ti]Ep 3[/ti] Wake Up, Dead Man [Patch, Ratchet, Carbine]
Mar 15, 2020 23:04:35 GMT -5
Post by Patch on Mar 15, 2020 23:04:35 GMT -5
She didn’t look afraid… Intrigued, perhaps. Albeit confused. Optic ridges lowering, as the volatile emotion drained out of her posture. Shoulders falling from their defensive position, servo drifting to her side, with the rag still in it, to hang beside her leg as she listened.
Her chin turned lightly down at the implication of her age, as yes, it did irk Patch to hear that fact repeated by others. A general sourness, more at herself than Ratchet, as though he’d pointed at something wrong about her that she couldn’t decide to change… Only to look back up, with just her optics when he acknowledged her distaste for it. A quiet appreciation for the understanding, beneath some remaining irritation.
A small huff of annoyed amusement at the comment on how youth was supposed to be ‘fun’. After all, the majority of her’s thus far, had been spent hurting, hiding, and killing. As he continued, however -once the young femme’s hackles had lowered enough she could honestly listen to the story- She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the slab, and face Ratchet. Optics still locked on the mech as he spoke. Her servos draped over her knees, the rag hanging between them. An unusually quiet demeanor falling over her as she simply sat and paid attention.
It wasn’t as though Patch had never acted on behalf of an authority before. It wasn’t as though she didn’t understand HOW to carry that tone, that attitude, that urgency required to lead in a time of stress… It could, however, be very hard, to keep going out on that limb when more times than not, she HAD been laughed at for it. Literally laughed at by the street-hardened cops, and the ex-convicts and the war-borns with whom she’d shared the battlefield.
She’d been screamed at, for trying to make herself that person, in moments it hadn’t been right. And she’d been screamed for in times she wasn’t even trying to be an authority- in times she didn’t want to be the authority on ‘what to do when you can see your internals’. But the surgeon’s words were still important, and she did still take them to spark. The honesty regarding her recent actions was difficult for her to stomach, yes, but Patch still knew it was true. And whether she wanted to be thankful or not, she was for the time Ratchet was giving her, the guidance.
The young femme didn’t understand how Ratchet knew, to say the words he did once he’d settled in his chair a little farther. They cut right through her, and they burned like cleanser on a wound she hadn’t even realized was hurting her. The simple notion that she was ‘out’ that… the life she knew, the life she'd been broken by, was done, and over with… It literally hadn’t crossed her mind, that the removal of such a burden was even possible outside of death, or an end to the war.
It was with those words, that Patch became suddenly, blatantly aware of how important the old mech had been, in her life, these past few months. How much she fuckin’ cared about him. But the biggest realization, of all of the thousands of connections that clicked into place in that instant… Was that Ratchet, probably, maybe, actually cared about her BACK- and THAT.
That was too much for Patch to HOLD, right now.
She was fighting SO hard not to look like a femme, like a child, in this moment. There must have been some merit to the stereotypes, however, because this. THIS. These painful words, that she had needed so desperately to hear for such an absolutely appalling amount of time; from someone who mattered so much to Patch. From someone so important as Ratchet was to her… It was so wonderful, it hurt. A happy pain, a strange ordeal. It was simply too much good. It ached, and fluttered, and… Made her feel sick to be perfectly honest.
“Um…” She said, as her brain appeared to be buffering. Optics wide, and trained very diligently on the old mech’s desk. Her low voice much more shaky than she wished it was. “-Wow, okay. Uh-...” Quietly, the rag shifted to sit on the slab beside her.
“Hold up. I- I just- Um.” Her helm dropped, digits coming to close roughly across her intake, as an expression that somewhat resembled confusion fell over her faceplate. “I need a minute?” Forced words. Low. Quivering. Filled with emotion and desperate to hide it.
Quickly and quietly taking charge of her current internal apocalypse, Patch’s lean frame folded over. Elbows to her knees, as freckled servos met her face. Digits to her forehead, thumbs to either side of her jaw, in a steeple sort of shape. Her helm was down. This new action serving relatively well to conceal her expression. However even from across the room, such an experienced physician as Ratchet would easily be able to catch the alarmingly bright blue currently illuminating her palms, as her optics flushed.
Abruptly, the young form took an invent- one which shook her chassis, as she shuttered it in, then deflated into her hands as she huffed it back out again.
Her chin turned lightly down at the implication of her age, as yes, it did irk Patch to hear that fact repeated by others. A general sourness, more at herself than Ratchet, as though he’d pointed at something wrong about her that she couldn’t decide to change… Only to look back up, with just her optics when he acknowledged her distaste for it. A quiet appreciation for the understanding, beneath some remaining irritation.
A small huff of annoyed amusement at the comment on how youth was supposed to be ‘fun’. After all, the majority of her’s thus far, had been spent hurting, hiding, and killing. As he continued, however -once the young femme’s hackles had lowered enough she could honestly listen to the story- She lowered herself to sit on the edge of the slab, and face Ratchet. Optics still locked on the mech as he spoke. Her servos draped over her knees, the rag hanging between them. An unusually quiet demeanor falling over her as she simply sat and paid attention.
It wasn’t as though Patch had never acted on behalf of an authority before. It wasn’t as though she didn’t understand HOW to carry that tone, that attitude, that urgency required to lead in a time of stress… It could, however, be very hard, to keep going out on that limb when more times than not, she HAD been laughed at for it. Literally laughed at by the street-hardened cops, and the ex-convicts and the war-borns with whom she’d shared the battlefield.
She’d been screamed at, for trying to make herself that person, in moments it hadn’t been right. And she’d been screamed for in times she wasn’t even trying to be an authority- in times she didn’t want to be the authority on ‘what to do when you can see your internals’. But the surgeon’s words were still important, and she did still take them to spark. The honesty regarding her recent actions was difficult for her to stomach, yes, but Patch still knew it was true. And whether she wanted to be thankful or not, she was for the time Ratchet was giving her, the guidance.
The young femme didn’t understand how Ratchet knew, to say the words he did once he’d settled in his chair a little farther. They cut right through her, and they burned like cleanser on a wound she hadn’t even realized was hurting her. The simple notion that she was ‘out’ that… the life she knew, the life she'd been broken by, was done, and over with… It literally hadn’t crossed her mind, that the removal of such a burden was even possible outside of death, or an end to the war.
It was with those words, that Patch became suddenly, blatantly aware of how important the old mech had been, in her life, these past few months. How much she fuckin’ cared about him. But the biggest realization, of all of the thousands of connections that clicked into place in that instant… Was that Ratchet, probably, maybe, actually cared about her BACK- and THAT.
That was too much for Patch to HOLD, right now.
She was fighting SO hard not to look like a femme, like a child, in this moment. There must have been some merit to the stereotypes, however, because this. THIS. These painful words, that she had needed so desperately to hear for such an absolutely appalling amount of time; from someone who mattered so much to Patch. From someone so important as Ratchet was to her… It was so wonderful, it hurt. A happy pain, a strange ordeal. It was simply too much good. It ached, and fluttered, and… Made her feel sick to be perfectly honest.
“Um…” She said, as her brain appeared to be buffering. Optics wide, and trained very diligently on the old mech’s desk. Her low voice much more shaky than she wished it was. “-Wow, okay. Uh-...” Quietly, the rag shifted to sit on the slab beside her.
“Hold up. I- I just- Um.” Her helm dropped, digits coming to close roughly across her intake, as an expression that somewhat resembled confusion fell over her faceplate. “I need a minute?” Forced words. Low. Quivering. Filled with emotion and desperate to hide it.
Quickly and quietly taking charge of her current internal apocalypse, Patch’s lean frame folded over. Elbows to her knees, as freckled servos met her face. Digits to her forehead, thumbs to either side of her jaw, in a steeple sort of shape. Her helm was down. This new action serving relatively well to conceal her expression. However even from across the room, such an experienced physician as Ratchet would easily be able to catch the alarmingly bright blue currently illuminating her palms, as her optics flushed.
Abruptly, the young form took an invent- one which shook her chassis, as she shuttered it in, then deflated into her hands as she huffed it back out again.