Every word you spoke, and everything you said -- [SPOILER WARNING]
Who: Sideswipe
What: The silver Autobot returns to Nautilus from a rough visit home.
Where: Northern Gate
When: Late Sunday Night
Warnings: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS for Dark of the Moon
Notes: ... I can't say SPOILERS enough. It's a narrative, but if someone wants to tag in, go ahead. Network post will come tomorrow though.
It was just supposed to be a quick visit. A short hop home to reassure himself everything was still all right. That everything the shadows and the whispering menace at the city's heart was wrong. He laughed, he teased - told them not to miss him too much. Bragged he'd be back before anyone died. Boasted he'd be the one back home doing all the work, winning all the battles, fixing the problems. He left his companions behind, skating with his back straight, a spring in his stride, all grins and smart comments.
The quick visit became three years.
The last few days ripped the laughter, the bragging and the boasting away in two simple shots of cannon rapport. Blew away the teasing with the pile of rust on the wind. Tore his world out from under him and sent him spinning into the rush of battle feeling as if someone had stripped him of his armor, of all his certainty.
He got there too late to do anything. All he could do was stare at the pile of broken parts, the crumbling rust and fight down the urge to scream. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to come home, fall back against the waiting support of an old friend, a teacher. This wasn't right, and he wanted to scream it out to the universe.
To grieve.
But, there were plans to make. Battles to fight - and someone, no matter how unprepared and alone they suddenly felt, had to step in. Had to direct Ratchet, had to get Que to focus. Someone had to fill the massive, black-armored treads left behind. Bumblebee was too concerned with the boy. Ratchet too numb - Mirage, distant - Jolt, dead. There was no one else. No one but him, who'd come home for reassurance, for counseling. For shelter against the fear, the doubt that chewed at his spark for far too long.
It hit him, as he sat, crouched with the others as Optimus launched their desperate plan. As he found himself steadying their medic while the capsule shook, and hauling Bumblebee to his feet as they made their way clear of the ocean.
He was the only one they had.
There was no room for grief. No time. He threw himself into the fight, into the role, with abandon. As long as there was an enemy to fight, a battle to win, he didn't have to think. He could shove aside the pain. As long as Sentinel still lived, his armor gleaming the color of human blood - a fitting color for such a traitor - there was a reason to keep fighting and ignore all else. It didn't matter how hard the traitorous Prime flung him into the ground. He had to get back up again, he had to keep fighting. The enemy wasn't even damaged, and his stability was dead. This murderer had ripped something away from him. He'd sooner die than let Sentinel get away unscathed by his blades.
A familiar sentiment, if not a painful one.
He almost resisted, almost fought with every ounce of stubborn willpower, when the city came to claim him. But there came a brief, silent moment of acknowledgment, as Prime's gaze met his, and held it, as if Optimus knew all too well what was happening. As if his leader was accepting it as the inevitable.
It's finished. Dismissed.
There was nothing to hold him back, then. He gave in to the city's will as his optics shuttered, refusing to open again until he was staggering back through the Gate, sagging in exhaustion, in pain that had very little to do with the wounds from Chicago. The fight was over. The enemy lay dead, their invasion thwarted. Time had frozen, and with it, it took the responsibility, the mantle of black armor and cannons he'd assumed. It lay behind him.
Nautilus stretched out across the space in front of him, gleaming in the night. No Decepticon ships hung in the sky. No crumbling ruin of Cybertron sat like a rusted vulture in the atmosphere. The streets were clear of rubble, of corpses, of rust and shrapnel. Buildings stood straight, tall, unblemished by holes and smoking craters. His comm was free of orders. There was even a bird chirping quietly somewhere to his right.
The very absence of the war struck him like a physical blow, and drove him to his knees.
The grief came, then. It set upon him like a virus, like the damned rust that caused it. Nothing held it back. Nothing stood in its path, and it consumed him, eagerly. It felt as if something had been forcibly ripped away from him. Everything he'd stayed strong for, eveything he'd used to fight off the horror of that thing, the words he'd used to stand on... was gone.
First Ratchet. Now Ironhide. There was no one left to make proud. He still wanted to scream, to deny what it was he'd seen - or to shout out his rage at the unfairness of it all. He felt himself curl in, legs drawing up to his chest, arms wrapping around his knees, as if to hold everything back.
He lay there until the sun sank, waiting, ignoring the scrapes and damage to his frame. But the heavy tread he expected, the gruff old voice he so badly needed, never came.
What: The silver Autobot returns to Nautilus from a rough visit home.
Where: Northern Gate
When: Late Sunday Night
Warnings: SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS SPOILERS for Dark of the Moon
Notes: ... I can't say SPOILERS enough. It's a narrative, but if someone wants to tag in, go ahead. Network post will come tomorrow though.
It was just supposed to be a quick visit. A short hop home to reassure himself everything was still all right. That everything the shadows and the whispering menace at the city's heart was wrong. He laughed, he teased - told them not to miss him too much. Bragged he'd be back before anyone died. Boasted he'd be the one back home doing all the work, winning all the battles, fixing the problems. He left his companions behind, skating with his back straight, a spring in his stride, all grins and smart comments.
The quick visit became three years.
The last few days ripped the laughter, the bragging and the boasting away in two simple shots of cannon rapport. Blew away the teasing with the pile of rust on the wind. Tore his world out from under him and sent him spinning into the rush of battle feeling as if someone had stripped him of his armor, of all his certainty.
He got there too late to do anything. All he could do was stare at the pile of broken parts, the crumbling rust and fight down the urge to scream. This wasn't supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He was supposed to come home, fall back against the waiting support of an old friend, a teacher. This wasn't right, and he wanted to scream it out to the universe.
To grieve.
But, there were plans to make. Battles to fight - and someone, no matter how unprepared and alone they suddenly felt, had to step in. Had to direct Ratchet, had to get Que to focus. Someone had to fill the massive, black-armored treads left behind. Bumblebee was too concerned with the boy. Ratchet too numb - Mirage, distant - Jolt, dead. There was no one else. No one but him, who'd come home for reassurance, for counseling. For shelter against the fear, the doubt that chewed at his spark for far too long.
It hit him, as he sat, crouched with the others as Optimus launched their desperate plan. As he found himself steadying their medic while the capsule shook, and hauling Bumblebee to his feet as they made their way clear of the ocean.
He was the only one they had.
There was no room for grief. No time. He threw himself into the fight, into the role, with abandon. As long as there was an enemy to fight, a battle to win, he didn't have to think. He could shove aside the pain. As long as Sentinel still lived, his armor gleaming the color of human blood - a fitting color for such a traitor - there was a reason to keep fighting and ignore all else. It didn't matter how hard the traitorous Prime flung him into the ground. He had to get back up again, he had to keep fighting. The enemy wasn't even damaged, and his stability was dead. This murderer had ripped something away from him. He'd sooner die than let Sentinel get away unscathed by his blades.
A familiar sentiment, if not a painful one.
He almost resisted, almost fought with every ounce of stubborn willpower, when the city came to claim him. But there came a brief, silent moment of acknowledgment, as Prime's gaze met his, and held it, as if Optimus knew all too well what was happening. As if his leader was accepting it as the inevitable.
It's finished. Dismissed.
There was nothing to hold him back, then. He gave in to the city's will as his optics shuttered, refusing to open again until he was staggering back through the Gate, sagging in exhaustion, in pain that had very little to do with the wounds from Chicago. The fight was over. The enemy lay dead, their invasion thwarted. Time had frozen, and with it, it took the responsibility, the mantle of black armor and cannons he'd assumed. It lay behind him.
Nautilus stretched out across the space in front of him, gleaming in the night. No Decepticon ships hung in the sky. No crumbling ruin of Cybertron sat like a rusted vulture in the atmosphere. The streets were clear of rubble, of corpses, of rust and shrapnel. Buildings stood straight, tall, unblemished by holes and smoking craters. His comm was free of orders. There was even a bird chirping quietly somewhere to his right.
The very absence of the war struck him like a physical blow, and drove him to his knees.
The grief came, then. It set upon him like a virus, like the damned rust that caused it. Nothing held it back. Nothing stood in its path, and it consumed him, eagerly. It felt as if something had been forcibly ripped away from him. Everything he'd stayed strong for, eveything he'd used to fight off the horror of that thing, the words he'd used to stand on... was gone.
First Ratchet. Now Ironhide. There was no one left to make proud. He still wanted to scream, to deny what it was he'd seen - or to shout out his rage at the unfairness of it all. He felt himself curl in, legs drawing up to his chest, arms wrapping around his knees, as if to hold everything back.
He lay there until the sun sank, waiting, ignoring the scrapes and damage to his frame. But the heavy tread he expected, the gruff old voice he so badly needed, never came.