Prompt response: isolation
[OOC: occupants of the brig are G1 Vortex, G1 Blast Off and IDW Sinnertwin. Cyclonus will come and go as he pleases. Open post]
His systems boot slowly.
First, his core processors. No thought, just experience. Subroutines activate, code runs. Electrical signals, hot and new, blaze pathways through his personality component, coalescing into sluggish consciousness.
Second, audio input. A metallic scrabbling, the soft sigh of vents, the minute hiss and whirr of tiny gears. And behind it all, the wail of white noise.
It is too quiet here.
Third, his optics. Flat planes of dull metal, a labyrinth of scratches. Grey with a purplish hue, lit by the flicker of energon bars. The brig.
Then his sensor net. Awareness of his limbs, his rotors, the incremental sigh of a stale indoor breeze across his blades. A searing web of pain from his mouth to his throat. But not enough. Localised. There should be more. More heat, more metal, more everything. More damage.
...accessing databanks…running diagnostics…
Only his face hurts, nothing else.
This is wrong.
He can’t move.
Inaccurate. New data arrives, is analysed, understood.
He can move, just not far. Chains at his wrists and knees, around his rotor hub. Taut, but not tight. Enough give to shift a little, nowhere near enough to enable him to sit.
Autobots?
...accessing databanks…
No, not their style.
Decepticons then.
Probably Onslaught. Probably discipline. Perhaps even punishment.
…databanks corrupted. Restoring from backup…
Slag. This could take a while.
…vocaliser inoperable…
What?
He tries to speak, as though contrariness will over-write the fact.
Nothing emerges. Not a word, not a crackle, not a hiss.
A tiny dribble of liquid escapes his helm and drips onto his lip. He tastes it - hydraulic fluid - and tracks the tickle of sensation back to the casing of his battle mask.
The lines have been severed. His mask isn’t retracted; it’s gone.
…communications: online…
He doesn’t activate his comm. link. If Onslaught put him here, if he did this, there’s a reason for it.
Instead, he goes for the bond, a quick scan to check on his team, to reassure himself - not that he needs reassurance, never has, never will - that they still function. The knowledge should be automatic, as intrinsic as the contractions of his fuel pump; but it can take a while, sometimes, when he first comes online. He doesn’t worry yet.
The bond is closed.
…
No.
He doesn’t…
…data restored from backups…
His cortex floods, realisation arriving not in drips and drabs, nor a steady stream, but all at once, as stunning as crashing into a concrete wall.
He closed the bond.
Because of Swindle, because of the Nexus. Because of Starscream and the gestalt programming and everything that was making him weak.
The memories are there, as clear as the matrix of scratches on the wall in front of his visor.
But there are still gaps.
There is no Onslaught here - the thought leaves him cold, his vents stalled, his fuel pump paused - this is not punishment or discipline or training. He abandons the thought. He doesn’t need his commander. He doesn’t need his team. He just needs himself; he can work this out.
He doesn’t know how he got here.
Cyclonus?
He remembers the cell, the same cell, but he had freedom of movement back then. He remembers fragging Blast Off over Sinnertwin’s leaking, offline body. He remembers Cyclonus coming for him, not angry, just dutiful. Locking him up. Leaving.
He remembers conversations. Swindle and Fireflight, Blurr and Bumblebee, Sinnertwin, Blast Off, Scorponok. Then… isolation. The temptation to re-open the bond had been unbearable. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t. The need for his team, it was a weakness, is a weakness.
It didn’t used to be like this.
The yearning for connection, for closeness, it doesn’t issue from his personality component. It comes from the combiner programming, and he loathes it.
Lying shackled to the berth, his only view an unchanging vista of energon bars and dim, grey walls, the desire to reopen the bond intensifies. And with it the anger.
The bond itself is a shackle. It stopped him from killing Swindle. It made him soft, needy, pathetic, un-Decepticon.
It isn’t right.
What’s worse is that it doesn’t effect the others in this way. Or at all, as far as he can tell. It’s just him.
He focuses on the bright throb of pain, waiting as the intensity of sensation leeches some of the anger away.
The injury itself remains a mystery, a blank space where there should be sight-sound-feeling. He doesn’t like it.
…diagnostic complete…
A cascade of information across his HUD.
Oh slag. Oh slag oh slag oh slag. The writing’s gone. The glyph Cyclonus etched onto the surround of his interface hardware has been wiped clean. Along with all the other minor damage. Every little dent and scratch, every accidental and incidental imperfection. All fixed, erased. He glances over at one arm. The curve of an auxiliary engine gleams.
He sneers, only now recognising the foreign metal patching his jaw as part of his missing battle mask.
So, someone fixed him. But someone broke him first. Someone else? The welding is crude, the other repairs perfect. Something has happened, and he has no idea what.
He needs his team.
No!
He bears his denta, the twist of his lip tugging on the newly-welded metal, straining the join. He heaves at his bonds, the chain tightening around his rotor mount, shifting the gyros beneath. His processor spins and he tugs again, frantic to escape the desperate compulsion to reopen the bond.
It isn’t need, it can’t be need. Merely want, merely desire. He can master this.
But the chains only move so far, and the brief moment of disorientation soon passes.
He activates his comms. He doesn’t care who can hear him.
//Insularity is a blessing. Isolation is a curse.//
He fights the urge to laugh, and loses.
His systems boot slowly.
First, his core processors. No thought, just experience. Subroutines activate, code runs. Electrical signals, hot and new, blaze pathways through his personality component, coalescing into sluggish consciousness.
Second, audio input. A metallic scrabbling, the soft sigh of vents, the minute hiss and whirr of tiny gears. And behind it all, the wail of white noise.
It is too quiet here.
Third, his optics. Flat planes of dull metal, a labyrinth of scratches. Grey with a purplish hue, lit by the flicker of energon bars. The brig.
Then his sensor net. Awareness of his limbs, his rotors, the incremental sigh of a stale indoor breeze across his blades. A searing web of pain from his mouth to his throat. But not enough. Localised. There should be more. More heat, more metal, more everything. More damage.
...accessing databanks…running diagnostics…
Only his face hurts, nothing else.
This is wrong.
He can’t move.
Inaccurate. New data arrives, is analysed, understood.
He can move, just not far. Chains at his wrists and knees, around his rotor hub. Taut, but not tight. Enough give to shift a little, nowhere near enough to enable him to sit.
Autobots?
...accessing databanks…
No, not their style.
Decepticons then.
Probably Onslaught. Probably discipline. Perhaps even punishment.
…databanks corrupted. Restoring from backup…
Slag. This could take a while.
…vocaliser inoperable…
What?
He tries to speak, as though contrariness will over-write the fact.
Nothing emerges. Not a word, not a crackle, not a hiss.
A tiny dribble of liquid escapes his helm and drips onto his lip. He tastes it - hydraulic fluid - and tracks the tickle of sensation back to the casing of his battle mask.
The lines have been severed. His mask isn’t retracted; it’s gone.
…communications: online…
He doesn’t activate his comm. link. If Onslaught put him here, if he did this, there’s a reason for it.
Instead, he goes for the bond, a quick scan to check on his team, to reassure himself - not that he needs reassurance, never has, never will - that they still function. The knowledge should be automatic, as intrinsic as the contractions of his fuel pump; but it can take a while, sometimes, when he first comes online. He doesn’t worry yet.
The bond is closed.
…
No.
He doesn’t…
…data restored from backups…
His cortex floods, realisation arriving not in drips and drabs, nor a steady stream, but all at once, as stunning as crashing into a concrete wall.
He closed the bond.
Because of Swindle, because of the Nexus. Because of Starscream and the gestalt programming and everything that was making him weak.
The memories are there, as clear as the matrix of scratches on the wall in front of his visor.
But there are still gaps.
There is no Onslaught here - the thought leaves him cold, his vents stalled, his fuel pump paused - this is not punishment or discipline or training. He abandons the thought. He doesn’t need his commander. He doesn’t need his team. He just needs himself; he can work this out.
He doesn’t know how he got here.
Cyclonus?
He remembers the cell, the same cell, but he had freedom of movement back then. He remembers fragging Blast Off over Sinnertwin’s leaking, offline body. He remembers Cyclonus coming for him, not angry, just dutiful. Locking him up. Leaving.
He remembers conversations. Swindle and Fireflight, Blurr and Bumblebee, Sinnertwin, Blast Off, Scorponok. Then… isolation. The temptation to re-open the bond had been unbearable. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t. The need for his team, it was a weakness, is a weakness.
It didn’t used to be like this.
The yearning for connection, for closeness, it doesn’t issue from his personality component. It comes from the combiner programming, and he loathes it.
Lying shackled to the berth, his only view an unchanging vista of energon bars and dim, grey walls, the desire to reopen the bond intensifies. And with it the anger.
The bond itself is a shackle. It stopped him from killing Swindle. It made him soft, needy, pathetic, un-Decepticon.
It isn’t right.
What’s worse is that it doesn’t effect the others in this way. Or at all, as far as he can tell. It’s just him.
He focuses on the bright throb of pain, waiting as the intensity of sensation leeches some of the anger away.
The injury itself remains a mystery, a blank space where there should be sight-sound-feeling. He doesn’t like it.
…diagnostic complete…
A cascade of information across his HUD.
Oh slag. Oh slag oh slag oh slag. The writing’s gone. The glyph Cyclonus etched onto the surround of his interface hardware has been wiped clean. Along with all the other minor damage. Every little dent and scratch, every accidental and incidental imperfection. All fixed, erased. He glances over at one arm. The curve of an auxiliary engine gleams.
He sneers, only now recognising the foreign metal patching his jaw as part of his missing battle mask.
So, someone fixed him. But someone broke him first. Someone else? The welding is crude, the other repairs perfect. Something has happened, and he has no idea what.
He needs his team.
No!
He bears his denta, the twist of his lip tugging on the newly-welded metal, straining the join. He heaves at his bonds, the chain tightening around his rotor mount, shifting the gyros beneath. His processor spins and he tugs again, frantic to escape the desperate compulsion to reopen the bond.
It isn’t need, it can’t be need. Merely want, merely desire. He can master this.
But the chains only move so far, and the brief moment of disorientation soon passes.
He activates his comms. He doesn’t care who can hear him.
//Insularity is a blessing. Isolation is a curse.//
He fights the urge to laugh, and loses.