[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Unstable [Carbine, Patch]
Oct 26, 2020 0:57:22 GMT -5
Post by Patch on Oct 26, 2020 0:57:22 GMT -5
The young medic’s optic ridges softened, and folded together. Blue optics widening, and narrowing at once. A heavy thrum in her spark at the realization.
He really had been treated like a thing...
Patch was inclined to believe the mech blindly. She’d never been to fragging prison after all. Sure, she’d heard stories from some of her bigger friends with all the etchings, back on the frontlines… But she’d barely seen the inside of a brig with her own two optics. Never captured by Cons, only ever disciplined with labor, or paperwork, or whatever else her leadership was most entertained by when she fucked up, or talked back or… Other things.
The only problem was, the ONLY inkling of doubt...
Was that Patch WAS a war-trained medic… And she had never practiced on live bots...
She’d been trained during the perfect time to be one of those students… And of course, it likely varied from from leader to leader what they would allow, or could organize for their people to work with. Frankly, a lot of shit had been cheap, or old at their base- it had needed to be. They worked with a dummy, they worked on each other to practice I.V installation, and basic scans. Maybe whatever opportunity this was had been something they could simply not afford.
Or perhaps she and her brethren had simply been excluded because of how young they’d been… Perhaps to protect them from the inmates, perhaps to keep the inmates from knowing they were using mecha still warm from the well in the war effort.
That, however, was entirely mute. It didn’t matter if the medics had been trainees or not, the point of it was they had sucked. That was not forgivable as far as Patch was concerned, and she suddenly felt she understood the situation quite a bit better.
There was even a tiny, fleeting flick of an instant in the midst of the anxiety and stress... She found herself thankful the mech had made it at all. Like clutching something just a bit closer at the threat it could have been taken away.
A short-lived response, of course, but present none the less.
There was one thing the mech said next that got her attention in particular- an implication really more than anything else... Patch wasn't here to fix Carbine's helm... She'd asked for information about his time in sickbay, to try and find out where his fear was coming from. She didn't intend to touch his brain if she could help it. Neurological function was way above her pay-grade.
“-Oh I am.” A lightened assurance, spoken with utmost confidence. She clearly did believe the words, only half joking as she breathed them with a sort of dry wit, optics drifting for a moment as she idly scratched at the side of her jaw with her thumb.
The smaller form leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest as her chin cocked up. The sharp lighting smattered across her brightened white and red and chips and dings and scratches as her optic ridges rose. Gaze suddenly heavy on the other mech’s face.
“What kinda ‘selfcare’?”
He really had been treated like a thing...
Patch was inclined to believe the mech blindly. She’d never been to fragging prison after all. Sure, she’d heard stories from some of her bigger friends with all the etchings, back on the frontlines… But she’d barely seen the inside of a brig with her own two optics. Never captured by Cons, only ever disciplined with labor, or paperwork, or whatever else her leadership was most entertained by when she fucked up, or talked back or… Other things.
The only problem was, the ONLY inkling of doubt...
Was that Patch WAS a war-trained medic… And she had never practiced on live bots...
She’d been trained during the perfect time to be one of those students… And of course, it likely varied from from leader to leader what they would allow, or could organize for their people to work with. Frankly, a lot of shit had been cheap, or old at their base- it had needed to be. They worked with a dummy, they worked on each other to practice I.V installation, and basic scans. Maybe whatever opportunity this was had been something they could simply not afford.
Or perhaps she and her brethren had simply been excluded because of how young they’d been… Perhaps to protect them from the inmates, perhaps to keep the inmates from knowing they were using mecha still warm from the well in the war effort.
That, however, was entirely mute. It didn’t matter if the medics had been trainees or not, the point of it was they had sucked. That was not forgivable as far as Patch was concerned, and she suddenly felt she understood the situation quite a bit better.
There was even a tiny, fleeting flick of an instant in the midst of the anxiety and stress... She found herself thankful the mech had made it at all. Like clutching something just a bit closer at the threat it could have been taken away.
A short-lived response, of course, but present none the less.
There was one thing the mech said next that got her attention in particular- an implication really more than anything else... Patch wasn't here to fix Carbine's helm... She'd asked for information about his time in sickbay, to try and find out where his fear was coming from. She didn't intend to touch his brain if she could help it. Neurological function was way above her pay-grade.
“-Oh I am.” A lightened assurance, spoken with utmost confidence. She clearly did believe the words, only half joking as she breathed them with a sort of dry wit, optics drifting for a moment as she idly scratched at the side of her jaw with her thumb.
The smaller form leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest as her chin cocked up. The sharp lighting smattered across her brightened white and red and chips and dings and scratches as her optic ridges rose. Gaze suddenly heavy on the other mech’s face.
“What kinda ‘selfcare’?”