Day/Video/Not Deaging
[On the peak of Demonreach, an island off the coast of the City, there's a visible plume of smoke curling up from the even further decimated ruins of the lighthouse and the completely wrecked splinters of the hut. Just visible over the edge of the cliff, the crumbled form of a Decepticon is laying eerily still.
Harry's face swings into view.]
I... ( Read more... )
Harry's face swings into view.]
I... ( Read more... )
...She's-
He freezes, steps back as her arm crackles with bright energy, subroutines alert to move, evade. But that's not the source.
The first bolt cracks down just to his left, power slamming against his sensors. His side goes numb, prickling sharpnes edging through his unsteady circuits. Rinzler's just quick enough to catch the second building surge, jerk back in time as power courses down in front, overloading visuals with searing white.
The third catches him directly.
Electricity courses down the arch of his back, wrecks through circuits and systems as the program locks up. All energy regulation destroyed, power surging erratically from disk dock to limbs, processing scrambled to useless loops, divergent commands for motion, reaction, thought all terminating early, incomplete, ineffective.
Noise breaks with a sharp electronic hiss as Rinzler falls, sharp lightning crackles rippling across his outer code, jumping connections inside and out. He can't process, can't react-can't see or hear or think, curled form twitching with feeble spasms around his disks as rigid grips clench hard enough to injure. He fights it, tries to uncurl, stand, move-do something.
He can't.]
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And then the bolts fall, and it's unexpected enough that he jerks back with a startled cry, falling flat to his aft and not even caring about the dirt that's going to get into his seams.
It takes him a moment to shut down the errant panic routines that booted automatically in his processor and collect himself; when he does, he draws his feet back under his sprawled body and it's totally a coincidence that the maneuver ends with him crouching a bit further away than he was before. Totally. No, really.
He smiles, bright and brittle, showing incongruously human-like dentals, and forces his attention back to the skin job with the gun.]
Is he a friend of mine? [No way in the pit, not this creepy slagger.] Absolutely~.
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She has to pull her arm away to check on her wound, and she keeps her jaw set, trying not to let on that she's in pain to the two who are left standing. Instead of lightning, there's a green glow around her hands this time; a Cure spell to fix up the worst of it, if nothing else. ]
I'm fine. My shirt isn't. [ Her insides are still inside. There's a nod toward Rinzler. ] Don't think he's feeling so great, though.
[ She sounds more smug about this than anything. ]
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Still, Harry keeps the blasting rod, smouldering red along the runes in warning, trained on him and the gun trained on Rinzler twitching in apoplexy on the ground, ringed in the scorch marks Rebecca's spell left. A little bit of pride creeped into his smile at that.]
Good, if he moves again, keep him down.
[Then to Knock Out.]
Then take your friend and go. No reason for there to be more blows traded. Right?
[By "blows traded", he means "reducing your functions to that of a toaster". Capice?]
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Comprehension wasn't really an option right now.
Neither was hearing. Or sight. His circuitry was burning, sharp loops of energy crackling, buzzing quick and harsh through his code. Internal/external, functions and processing and sensory were a flood of junk data, cohesive lines split and broken by edged impulse, random firing responses aborted, restarted. Nothing was working. He needed to stop it, break it, discharge, but this wasn't the Grid-nothing to access, no flow to tap into.
He couldn't work. He couldn't think, awareness limited to bright agony, the sharp tang of electrical override, and a vague sense-memory?- of threat, danger, other. There were threats. He had to move-get away, get back-he had been trying. Sensation fluctuated with useless proximity and he seized at jerking limbs, tried to push up-his disks, he was holding them, that mattered-fell back again, unable to control it. Hard surface impacted his shoulder, pressed against the black shell of his mask-there was the ground. He tried to push back, curl in, twist away, but he couldn't move and he couldn't find himself and he was useless. Weak.]
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We'll be gone as soon as my ride arrives.
[His optics flick between the two humans before settling on the still-twitching form of Rinzler. He flicks long fingers at the program, and actually manages to conceal the less-than-altruistic intent in his voice when he speaks.]
What about him, hm?
[The transport-- a metal platform floating (Cybertronian) knee-height about the ground on anti-grav lifters-- arrives and nudges at him from behind. He dutifully maneuvers Soundwave's unresponsive form onto it, but keeps his motions slow and controlled and his attention on the unquantifiably dangerous little skin jobs while he does it.]
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At Knock Out's question, however, she looks up. ]
I'll deal with him.
[ She's earned that much, and if Knock Out wants to argue, there's more Thundaga where that first one came from. ]
Tell Soundwave that I want to talk to him once he's feeling better, would you?
[ She's not waiting for a no, so she looks at Harry instead. ]
Give me and our fried acquaintance a lift? I'll toss a Cure at him; if that doesn't work enough to get him back on his feet, I'll hand him over to someone, and then we're going back to your place.
[ No, you really don't get a say in this. ]
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Sure a trip like that wont make him short out?
[Cause, still magic, Rebecca, and taking a potential bomb with them through the Vortex is not Harry's idea of safe traveling. Definitely in violation of SOME...dimensional warping commission or something.]
I'd rather take a boat in that case, to be honest.
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Try something new.
The struggles to stand die away entirely, leaving only faint spasms of motion as electricity still sparks across the limp form. Rinzler internalizes. Starts with a branch, works upward, spreads out, sectioning off data. From elements to functions to process. Thought. He can't discharge, can't control the overload trying to burn him out. But he can compartmentalize. Somewhat.
Audio comes back online to the sound of his own uneven rattling. The noise is quiet, jagged, more static gasps than smooth ticking. Visuals are harder, but proximity flickers active. Everything's lagging, uneven, connections distorted and broken as surplus power wrecks between the encapsulated partitions. He doesn't know if he'll be able to move, even if he can lock off the needed subroutines. But Rinzler will try.
He has to.]
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Mn, as you wish~. I'll tell him.
[A still, angular shoulder gets a pat, the kind of physical intimacy Knock Out wouldn't dare if Soundwave was conscious. Knock Out casts one last regretful glance at Rinzler, then turns his attention to maneuvering the clumsy transport out of there. Loathe though he is to pass up an opportunity this good to poke at the recalcitrant program, he is more than happy to put the two dangerous humans behind him.]
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I'll try giving him a shot of Cure now.
[ She looks back at Harry, eyes dark, half-lidded; she still has adrenaline running through her veins and no fight to take it out on. Harry's here, though, and she may still be mad at him, but that makes it even more tempting to try and pin him up against the wall of his apartment. ]
I would really rather not wait that long.
[ There's a slight lick of her lips, and Rebecca looks back at Rinzler, hands glowing green before she casts. She doesn't know if it will work, but maybe it will work better on a program than it even does on herself; she's not a healer, but she's a tech geek, and she has more knowledge of programs than she does of the human body (she certainly knows enough to injure and kill one or to provide first aid, but she's no doctor). ]
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Right. Might wanna stand over here beside me...just in case.
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Footsteps, approaching. Not rushed, not hurried-no need to be, with him like this. Voice-the user's voice. The one who did this. Wariness-cold fury-uselessness spike disjointed through his processing, connections still broken by jagged bursts of power. Rinzler does jerk back, does push away as proximity registers-only to lock up partway, unending noise a ragged snarl as electricity cracks through his unsteady barriers, disrupting the fragments of motion he'd managed to section off.
And then there's a coolness, a vague rush of not-energy, and the crackling pressure... fades. Not much, not gone, but internals spark, potential slackens, and he can feel his systems shifting. Realigning.
He can move.
Rinzler's mask snaps up as visuals return, fixes on the user-green? He disregards the junk data, seizes his body and moves it, twisting back, aside. Still jerky, still unstable, but it's control, action, ability, and he takes what he can. Disks merge to his left hand, right planting against the ground as he stumbles in the roll, pushing up to an unsteady crouch. Rinzler tries to guard, stance failing as the still-looping remnants of the surge snap through his arm and side with a bright spasm. His systems ache, a sharp prickling aftermath of burn, aggravated by the continuing sparks of broken force.
Not relevant. He shoves sensation aside, grabs what readiness he can and braces, attention locked on the threat-both threats, disk humming sharp in his grip.]
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The program is moving, though, getting up -- and has his disks, which she'll have to ask Quorra about in the future. For now, though... ]
I'm not going to attack you unless you attack me first. But I'd get out of here, if I were you.
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I'd do what she says. She's not a patient woman from what I hear.
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None of them is "indecisive".
The mask doesn't move, but his gaze flickers between the pair as he takes a step back. His processing's at half-function at best, but this doesn't take calculation. Two severe threats, his own state barely mobile. This fight can wait for later.
The program doesn't turn from his opponents, but his free hand reaches down to detach a baton. He's still a moment longer, calibrating subroutines, pushing the destabilizing crackle edging through his systems back. Then he turns-two steps and a leap-the last jerky, and shamefully weak. But it's enough.
He clears the nearer cliff, pulls his body in as best he can as too-close rocks shave the air to either side. A moment of clear air, and the baton breaks in his grip, lightjet rezzing to support him. From there, Rinzler drops the stabilizing functions, localizes control to steering, basic perception, and lets the electrical whiteness tear raggedly through his systems as the overload slowly, painfully burns itself out.
The orange-lit jet rises, clears the island. And he's gone.]
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