[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Beyond the Call [Closed]
Jun 17, 2023 1:17:12 GMT -5
Post by Flatline on Jun 17, 2023 1:17:12 GMT -5
When Patch vented along with his guidance for a couple of moments, Flatline's helm would raise, continuing the gesture even after his words tapered to try to give only the visual cue more so than audial so she could start to pick up on it herself. He was honestly quite happy to see that she was making an attempt to follow, as it showed she wasn't completely lost in whatever hell it was that she had fallen into. If she had spiraled down the drain, then there may be no reasonable way to pull her out of it without slamming the cold reset button with involuntary unconsciousness. That glimmer of her following his direction showed him it may not be needed! And that was a good enough reason for him to be patient and continue what he was doing.
Only... Flatline didn't know exactly what he was doing or what his plans were.
It possibly could be argued and boiled down to resources, indeed not wanting to keep pumping medications into her, nor wanting to put her down into a shutdown state... or it could be a real sense of guilt on some level that clashed against Patch's own forming whirlwind. While she was having an internal crisis of realizing that Decepticons were just as Cybertronian as she herself was, and not a swarming mass of vicious beasts from Unicron, Flatline was coming to terms with the fact that he was mending someone he was meant to hate.
In contrast to the young medic, he had spent the majority of his life on their home world, where the division wasn’t between which leader one pledged loyalty to, and rather those who were able to seek care, and those who could not. Each individual once they were slapped before him were basically the same once they passed through those doors, stretching from those of a high standing who got injured, down to some criminal that needed to be stapled together before going to trial to live to see their justice.
There were divisions, yes. Beyond facilitating simple 'survival' things swung wildly due to financial means, some unable to afford to receive that which another could... though it was a rift that couldn't be compared to the faction divisions in the here and now, bold red optics looking down upon someone that he was meant to clash against, only to instead be put beneath his care.
A care that was worthless as she started to cry.
"I see..."
Flatline's expression relaxed into a somber look, knowing that he simply did not have the tools needed to juggle whatever was occurring before him. He couldn't free her arms, he couldn't offer her something to drink, nor even hand over some sort of blanket or other superficial act of kindness that could assist others... Even for someone he cared about, he wouldn't know what to do, let alone someone that he didn't even know and was meant to see as a bargaining chip. He lived superficially, guarded and distant, emotions ripped out of him and left behind somewhere during the long existence he lived, and had made no efforts to address it with himself.
Unsure what to do, Flatline's gaze pulled aside with a soft turn of his helm, able to understand that staring someone down when they were in such a vulnerable state could cause great shame or embarrassment. He could at least save her from that crippling emotion, which may be his Decepticon status showing in its own way since weakness on any level could be the injured gazelle in the herd that'd get consumed. By not looking at her head-on, he was making a sign that he wasn’t going to hold it over her as some form of power.
Really though, mental juggling aside, he just did not know how to handle emotions, his brows furrowing as he looked at the ground quietly, the faintest of grimace tugged at the edges of his mouth as he stayed quiet.
Only... Flatline didn't know exactly what he was doing or what his plans were.
It possibly could be argued and boiled down to resources, indeed not wanting to keep pumping medications into her, nor wanting to put her down into a shutdown state... or it could be a real sense of guilt on some level that clashed against Patch's own forming whirlwind. While she was having an internal crisis of realizing that Decepticons were just as Cybertronian as she herself was, and not a swarming mass of vicious beasts from Unicron, Flatline was coming to terms with the fact that he was mending someone he was meant to hate.
In contrast to the young medic, he had spent the majority of his life on their home world, where the division wasn’t between which leader one pledged loyalty to, and rather those who were able to seek care, and those who could not. Each individual once they were slapped before him were basically the same once they passed through those doors, stretching from those of a high standing who got injured, down to some criminal that needed to be stapled together before going to trial to live to see their justice.
There were divisions, yes. Beyond facilitating simple 'survival' things swung wildly due to financial means, some unable to afford to receive that which another could... though it was a rift that couldn't be compared to the faction divisions in the here and now, bold red optics looking down upon someone that he was meant to clash against, only to instead be put beneath his care.
A care that was worthless as she started to cry.
"I see..."
Flatline's expression relaxed into a somber look, knowing that he simply did not have the tools needed to juggle whatever was occurring before him. He couldn't free her arms, he couldn't offer her something to drink, nor even hand over some sort of blanket or other superficial act of kindness that could assist others... Even for someone he cared about, he wouldn't know what to do, let alone someone that he didn't even know and was meant to see as a bargaining chip. He lived superficially, guarded and distant, emotions ripped out of him and left behind somewhere during the long existence he lived, and had made no efforts to address it with himself.
Unsure what to do, Flatline's gaze pulled aside with a soft turn of his helm, able to understand that staring someone down when they were in such a vulnerable state could cause great shame or embarrassment. He could at least save her from that crippling emotion, which may be his Decepticon status showing in its own way since weakness on any level could be the injured gazelle in the herd that'd get consumed. By not looking at her head-on, he was making a sign that he wasn’t going to hold it over her as some form of power.
Really though, mental juggling aside, he just did not know how to handle emotions, his brows furrowing as he looked at the ground quietly, the faintest of grimace tugged at the edges of his mouth as he stayed quiet.