Faded faster than the speed of light
WHO: Ironhide
WHAT: After Sam Spoils Stuff, the old soldier tries to deal. As usual, there are varying levels of success.
WHERE: All over. Ending at the Lookout Point.
WHEN: Sept. 1st -- Present
WARNINGS/NOTES: Sort of narrative, but open. Soundtrack cued up to go.
His fist went straight through the enemy's shoulder, with little effort, and even less satisfaction. The stranger backed off, clutching the wound, then fled off into the darkness of the lower zone.
For a while, he simply stood where he was, watching his opponent's fleeing back. He could chase them down. Give them a sound beating, instead of only a damaged shoulder. It wasn't as if they didn't deserve it. The piece of scrap had jumped him for his parts. Waved a stubby pistol under his chin, before his sheer size seemed to dawn on the would-be robber. He hadn't even needed to power up his cannons. It should have been immensely satisfying, to run trouble off without any real effort.
Instead, it changed nothing.
Just as the rest of his actions these past days had accomplished nothing. He'd dropped off the radar, despite promises to cease doing just that. But he hadn't known what else to do. What else to say.
By the way, I'm going down to the lower zones to pummel things until I forget I've died.
He slammed a hand against the wall, the side of a building. Something solid. It dented with the impact, and he hit it again. Another dent, and another strike.
Nothing. It was all for nothing. Every promise he'd made, every effort -- the business with the riots, the portal, secreting Isaac away, everything -- was a collossal waste. He'd wanted to take the little ones with them, protect them, teach them. Telling Prime he'd be disappointed if they didn't bust out of here. He'd sworn time and time again he'd get Jazz home, give him a second chance... show him the new Autobots. NEST. To go back and be a team again.
"If we go, we're goin' together. I promise you."
Not anymore, they wouldn't. There would be no "going". Even if they tried, it was all doomed. It was utterly futile, and the realization cut into his chest like the traitorious Prime must have done. He pressed his hand to the scarred metal, leaning his head against the side of the building. Always, there had been that hope, that purpose. No matter what he went through, no matter what happened to him, or the others, he was working toward that goal. Something to always hold out for.
And suddenly, it was snatched away from him. From all of them.
Everything felt heavy. The longer he stood there, the heavier it felt, the more difficult it was to coax his weary frame into moving. It was a familiar feeling. One he'd fought through before, out of necessity and urgency. But here, in the quiet of the lower zones, there was none of that to be found. He pushed away from the wall, and started walking, his processor a mess of conflicting thoughts.
It didn't surprise him, that he ended up at the Lookout Point. Where else should a dead 'bot go? It was, after all, where he'd been found, after the Decepticon had...
Again, his hand rose, curling thick, scarred fingers over black armor. The irony of it all. It hadn't been his enemy. It had been an Autobot -- a Prime -- to finish it. A traitor within their own ranks. Betrayal. All over again. Only this time, he hadn't been allowed the choice of whether or not to walk away. It was wrong -- bitterly, painfully wrong. Not for the first time since he'd left, he wished for something to fight. Some brawl he could take everything out on, and prove he was still left amongst the living.
He knew it wouldn't help, in the end. It wouldn't really change anything. He passed his hand over his face instead, letting his head bow. He was at wit's end. How did he even begin to process this? How was he to go on, when everything amounted to futility? Even Prime's death hadn't left him feeling this utterly defeated.
What now?
There were no answers. Only the rush of hot, chemical-stained air from the factories the lookout watched over.
Ironhide shuttered his optics, letting it rush over him in silence.
WHAT: After Sam Spoils Stuff, the old soldier tries to deal. As usual, there are varying levels of success.
WHERE: All over. Ending at the Lookout Point.
WHEN: Sept. 1st -- Present
WARNINGS/NOTES: Sort of narrative, but open. Soundtrack cued up to go.
His fist went straight through the enemy's shoulder, with little effort, and even less satisfaction. The stranger backed off, clutching the wound, then fled off into the darkness of the lower zone.
For a while, he simply stood where he was, watching his opponent's fleeing back. He could chase them down. Give them a sound beating, instead of only a damaged shoulder. It wasn't as if they didn't deserve it. The piece of scrap had jumped him for his parts. Waved a stubby pistol under his chin, before his sheer size seemed to dawn on the would-be robber. He hadn't even needed to power up his cannons. It should have been immensely satisfying, to run trouble off without any real effort.
Instead, it changed nothing.
Just as the rest of his actions these past days had accomplished nothing. He'd dropped off the radar, despite promises to cease doing just that. But he hadn't known what else to do. What else to say.
By the way, I'm going down to the lower zones to pummel things until I forget I've died.
He slammed a hand against the wall, the side of a building. Something solid. It dented with the impact, and he hit it again. Another dent, and another strike.
Nothing. It was all for nothing. Every promise he'd made, every effort -- the business with the riots, the portal, secreting Isaac away, everything -- was a collossal waste. He'd wanted to take the little ones with them, protect them, teach them. Telling Prime he'd be disappointed if they didn't bust out of here. He'd sworn time and time again he'd get Jazz home, give him a second chance... show him the new Autobots. NEST. To go back and be a team again.
"If we go, we're goin' together. I promise you."
Not anymore, they wouldn't. There would be no "going". Even if they tried, it was all doomed. It was utterly futile, and the realization cut into his chest like the traitorious Prime must have done. He pressed his hand to the scarred metal, leaning his head against the side of the building. Always, there had been that hope, that purpose. No matter what he went through, no matter what happened to him, or the others, he was working toward that goal. Something to always hold out for.
And suddenly, it was snatched away from him. From all of them.
Everything felt heavy. The longer he stood there, the heavier it felt, the more difficult it was to coax his weary frame into moving. It was a familiar feeling. One he'd fought through before, out of necessity and urgency. But here, in the quiet of the lower zones, there was none of that to be found. He pushed away from the wall, and started walking, his processor a mess of conflicting thoughts.
It didn't surprise him, that he ended up at the Lookout Point. Where else should a dead 'bot go? It was, after all, where he'd been found, after the Decepticon had...
Again, his hand rose, curling thick, scarred fingers over black armor. The irony of it all. It hadn't been his enemy. It had been an Autobot -- a Prime -- to finish it. A traitor within their own ranks. Betrayal. All over again. Only this time, he hadn't been allowed the choice of whether or not to walk away. It was wrong -- bitterly, painfully wrong. Not for the first time since he'd left, he wished for something to fight. Some brawl he could take everything out on, and prove he was still left amongst the living.
He knew it wouldn't help, in the end. It wouldn't really change anything. He passed his hand over his face instead, letting his head bow. He was at wit's end. How did he even begin to process this? How was he to go on, when everything amounted to futility? Even Prime's death hadn't left him feeling this utterly defeated.
What now?
There were no answers. Only the rush of hot, chemical-stained air from the factories the lookout watched over.
Ironhide shuttered his optics, letting it rush over him in silence.