Since I'm back in the Bad Headspace right now
I've finally got around to making a start on editing the first ever TF story I posted up over on FF.net, the first few chapters have been terrorized by the red pen of experience and I'm aiming to post a chapter a week.
Title: The Sins Of The Past
Setting: G1
Rating: NC-17 for the story, this chapter just gets a strong PG
Characters: Jazz, Mirage, Bumblebee, ensemble and OC’s
Warning For any one who hasn't read this story before: I was in a very unhappy and bad headspace when this came along - this is not a happy fic folks.
Summary: No matter how far or fast you run you can’t leave your past behind. Jazz’s misdeeds have finally caught up with him and the price of absolution could be deadly.
Chapter 1: In which Red Alert finds some thing terrible and a horrible fate is revealed.
I don’t own them. They belong to folks with very expensive lawyers.
Ratchet stopped mid step and sighed deeply as the sound of someone noisily emptying their gas tank drifted down the corridor, spinning on his heel he set off in the direction of the sound idly wondering who the twins had got now with their ‘special brew’ energon. As he passed the door to the security office, he again stopped mid step at the sounds emanating from within. Distressed, despairing, broken sobbing was not Red Alert’s usual response to the results of any of the twin’s schemes; seriously concerned that things might have gone further than the twins had planned Ratchet opened the door.
Red was half kneeling, half slumped against the back wall of the office clutching the waste bin so hard that the metal was dented under his fingers, shaking uncontrollably his face white with shock, optics dilated to their fullest extent and fixed in horror on the main screen. The logo of some pirate broadcaster spun slowly in the middle of it, a trite metallic tune issued from the speakers, Ratchet gently and slowly knelt down just out of arms length, not wanting to startle the distressed mech. Having provoked no response with this action he risked moving forward slightly, still no response.
This close Ratchet could hear that Red was uttering a half-mumbled litany of words. “Nononononononono not them, please Primus not them, not that please, please no”
Scratch the twin’s as the source of this Ratchet thought carefully examining Red, then very slowly and as non-threateningly as he could Ratchet reached out and laid a hand on Red’s arm. Against all of Ratchet’s expectations the distressed mech didn’t react violently, in fact all that happened is that Red Alert slowly tore his gaze away from the screen and focused on Ratchet.
In a voice that sounded lost and very forlorn, Red stuttered. “Too late, far too late, what use am I? I have failed the most basic duty of a security officer and now … they …. He…. Oh Primus he’s”
Red’s voice drifted off in to unintelligible, hysterical sobbing as he collapsed into Ratchets arms the occasional dry heave making his frame shudder. Ratchet sighed and broadcast over a private com line to Wheeljack and First Aid a request for them to join him in the security office right this slagging minute.
----An hour later----
“So what you’re saying is that Red’s finally gone off the deep end?” Sunstreaker asked.
Ratchet had finished explaining to the rest of the Autobots what had happened, and that for Red’s own well being the security officer was currently sedated in the repair bay.
“Highly unlikely, I hypothesise that what ever that station was broadcasting must have been responsible for the state Ratchet found him in.” Perceptor reasoned, “So I suggest we examine the broadcast and then we can determine the most appropriate course of action.”
At the various nods of agreement, Perceptor switched on the main screen and the same tinny electronic music that Ratchet had heard in the security room drifted out of the speakers, followed by a high-pitched nauseating voice announcing.
“Good morning Keitel, and for those of you with us for the first time you are in for a treat! Yes good people life doesn’t get better than this, so grab a can of your favourite poison and sit back and enjoy the highlights of the event of the epoch!”
The logo dissolved into a view of a grey, grimy energon stained chamber with a large solid table in the middle, but when the door hissed open and two very familiar offline mechs were hauled in hisses and exclamations of anger filled the room. Silence fell as a third very online mech was dragged in kicking and struggling for all he was worth. Twenty minuets later every mech in the conference room had needed to loose the contents of his gas tank and a numb horrified helplessness settled firmly over the group.