Fic - Something to Live For, Chapter 6 of 14
Title: Something to live for
Chapter 6: An unexpected visitor
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: R
Content advice: mention of rape, verbal sexual harassment, violence (imagined and actual).
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters and/or pairings: Vortex, Prowl, First Aid, with small appearances by Skyfire, Perceptor and Wheeljack.
Beta: naboru_narluin.
Summary: Stuck in the Autobot brig, Vortex has just found out that he has a bigger problem than physical incarceration. Then someone comes along who he didn’t expect, and gives him an added incentive to escape.
[ Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5]
Chapter 6: An unexpected visitor
"Well, that didn't go so..." Badly? Prowl paused in the face of self-delusion.
"Well?" Skyfire suggested.
Prowl nodded. Over on a workbench, Perceptor huddled in microscope form. Wheeljack loitered nearby, concern evident in the slope of his shoulders.
"I ought to..." Prowl began, glancing at the door. “I should go check on him.”
"Yeah, just go," Wheeljack said. "He'll be OK, won't you Percy?"
The microscope remained inert.
* * *
Not the box, not the box, not the box… the words seemed to bounce around his cell, a dizzying cacophony that grated on his sensors and made it difficult to think.
Slag thinking. It was all he’d been able to do in the Detention Centre. No sensation there; just him, alone with his thoughts for vorn after vorn after… Couldn’t go back to that, not now. He had to get out.
He lay on the berth, one arm outstretched, fingertips brushing against the tingling field of the energon bars. Perhaps he could short them… Breakdown had managed it, it couldn’t be so hard. It was all a case of resonant frequencies.
Not that he had enough fuel to try that kind of vibration. Well, if he wanted to be able to run anywhere afterwards. Slag. He snarled and slapped the bars. The recoil sent him back several feet, and made him tingle from his helm to his heels. He did it again, harder, and the recoil sent him halfway across the berth.
This wasn’t like when he’d licked them; this was far better.
There was a strange noise, a static hissing over a faint background hum of machinery. Silence. It was a while before the voice came back - not the box, not the box, not the box - but it was quieter, a pale echo of what it had been before. In the distance, an alarm sounded.
Vortex stood, smiling under his battle mask, and flattened himself against the back wall of his cell. Licking had been too gentle, obviously; the Autobots rewarded that kind of thing. He sprang at the energon bars. There was hardly space to run, but he hit them hard. The force thrust him back against the far wall, and left him sprawling in the middle of the floor, gyros dancing and a high, happy laugh caught somewhere in his vocaliser.
He picked himself up and tried again. This time, the recoil saw him ricochet from the bars to the back wall, which he hit at an angle, to the wall opposite his berth. Sparks crackled across his armour and tingled in his new dents. This was fun. Not as much fun as he wanted, but enough to subdue the voices.
He tried a third time, landing face down at the side of his berth, his armour crawling. It wasn’t worth hoping that the alarm had anything to do with rescue. But it could bring an Autobot or two. Someone to speak to. Perhaps the little yellow bot, who he was pretty sure must be Bumblebee. Perhaps Skyfire.
His interface panel tingled; unexpected, but not unwelcome. He dimmed his optics and thought of Skyfire’s thighs, his strong arms and pristine, white plating. Another buzz of static. He thought of straddling Skyfire’s hips, of carving his name into that beautiful armour; of those large hands holding him, squeezing him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” a stern voice said. The charge dissipated.
Vortex looked up, his scowl hidden. The moon had begun to rise in the distant high window, illuminating one of the Autobot cars. The one who thought he upheld the law.
“You’re not Skyfire,” Vortex growled. “Get out.”
“You’re in no position to make demands,” the Autobot said. Vortex hauled himself upright, swaying slightly, and leapt at the bars. The Autobot flinched. This time, the force was less, and Vortex landed against the far wall, skidding on his landing wheels, his chest plating scorched and paint smouldering. He grinned.
The Autobot went over to the outer door and pressed a few buttons on a console. The alarm stopped. “Look,” he said. “Things will go far easier for you if you just settle down.”
Vortex tried to stand, but his gyros glitched, and the floor rose up to meet him. “I’m settled,” he murmured. There was something pleasant about the after-effects of the bars, like hovering on the very edge of recharge. “Wh’s Prime?” Vortex asked. Perhaps next time, he could summon enough force to rebound from the wall and back again. A double hit. That would be good…
The Autobot approached his cell again, a silver-limned silhouette, hands on hips and feet slightly apart. Damned fool was trying to look imposing.
“Too important to deal with the likes of you,” he said.
Vortex suppressed a giggle. “If he was here… he’d see me,” he announced, but his vision swam and he missed the Autobot’s reaction. He managed to crawl back to the bars, and leant his head against the gently buzzing field. It was euphoric, a tantalising taste of deep recharge. Slag, the damned things were engineered to tranquillise. Vortex forced the tension from his frame before the Autobot noticed. “Gonna come in here and tie me up?” Vortex asked. He slurred the words, forcing a glitch into his vocaliser as though his systems were closing down. “I could play with your little door wings. Would you like that?”
The answer was obvious. The Autobot shifted, self-conscious. Vortex mumbled a few nonsense syllables, offlined his optics, and listened.
After a few astroseconds, the Autobot simply walked away.
* * *
The bars emitted a subtle, pulsing tone. Vortex could only hear it with his audio sensors touching the field; it was a soporific, enticing him to suspend all non-essential functions and slip into recharge. As soon as the brig door closed, Vortex heaved himself away from the bars and clambered back onto the berth. Stupid Autobot with his stupid boring voice and his dull little groundpounder body. Vortex could think of a few uses for those door wings; and afterwards, they’d look good mounted over his recharge station back at Combaticon HQ.
The brig door reopened barely a minute later and closed quickly. Light footsteps, hesitant and uneven. Vortex smiled; he knew who this was.
“I can hear you,” he whispered. “You’re Bumblebee, right? Did you bring me some high grade?”
The small ‘bot kept to the shadows, seemingly unaware that security systems tended to react to such things as heat signatures and energy readings, not just the difference between light and shade. Whoever was watching the monitors would soon notice him, and he’d be evicted. Vortex tilted his head, the better to see through the bars. Might as well have some fun while he could.
The little ‘bot didn’t respond. He paused, concealed from view by the portion of wall at the front of the cell. There was a small click, as of one mechanical part sliding neatly past another.
“Don’t move,” the newcomer said, but his voice was wrong. It crackled, emotion hidden under static. “If you move, I will kill you.”
The ‘bot stepped into view, hornless helm lit by the moon. He was taller than expected, more Vortex’ own size. In the gloom, red showed up as black, a dark chassis and helm, a pale visor, pale arms. A collection of sloping planes and soft angles, all crying out to be touched. And that delicate, graspable waist. Vortex sighed; oh Sigma yes. First Aid was so… enticing.
“I’m not moving,” he replied. After all, he could do nothing about the happy shudder which ran the full length of his back struts. He stared past the barrel of First Aid’s photon pistol, watching the play of reflected light on the edges of his interface panel. “What else do you want me to do?”
“I want you to listen,” First Aid said, that same burr in his voice. “Then I want you to talk.”
Vortex looked up. First Aid was trembling, but his aim didn’t need to be steady. The gaps between the energon bars were wide enough, and it wasn’t as though there was anywhere to hide. Still, it was First Aid. Vortex retracted his battle mask, and resisted running his glossa over his lips. He smiled. “Anything for you.”
First Aid covered his right hand with his left, stabilising his aim. “I want you to answer my question,” he began. “And I want you to do so truthfully.” He adjusted his footing, so insecure, so fragile. And so close; Vortex could almost reach out, slender talons in the gaps between the bars, and - “Don’t move!” First Aid spat. “Stay still on that bunk or so help me, I will deactivate you.”
“As you say.” Vortex turned his main engine over, a gentle purr in the darkened brig.
First Aid paused. Vortex expected him to glance up at the cameras, but his gaze was unwavering. So, the Protectobot had turned them off; or was there someone sympathetic in the control room?
“Why did you do it?” First Aid said. He coughed the static from his voice. “What you did to Blades. Why?”
Vortex’s talons twitched. “That’s an interesting question,” he mused. No need to rush, First Aid had all the time in the world. He shifted, folding his arms under his chin. The gun juddered, but the Protectobot did not shoot.
“The truth,” First Aid repeated. “Out with it.”
Why not? Vortex thought. He’d never been so close to First Aid for so long, not since that time Defensor blew up Bruticus. But this was different, and he had the distinct feeling that being closer to First Aid could be a wonderful thing indeed.
“Blades did something for me,” Vortex said. “It… helped pass the time. I did something for him in return.” That was it, choose the words carefully, watch for his reactions. Speak in euphemisms, but ones which he can easily translate.
“You did something for him?” First Aid repeated. “He told you no. You…”
“I what?” Vortex said. “I made him overload. And? You needn’t be jealous.” Vortex waited, watched for any change in First Aid’s stance, any adjustment in the angle of his head. Deliberately missing the point was all well and good, but there was only so far he could push it. “He’d already done the same for me. Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t want to,” First Aid said. “What’s wrong with you? You thought you were doing him a favour?”
“What if I’d killed him?” Vortex said. First Aid’s slight yet perceptible flinch was perfect. “We are, after all, enemies. Would that have been any better?”
First Aid wavered, his grip tightening on the trigger.
Vortex rested his chin on his hands. The Protectobot medic was glorious, an intriguing combination of strength and brittle vulnerability. Similar hands to Blades, to those strong, pale fingers which had made Vortex overload so hard his systems shut down. But an altogether different frame, attractive in its own way. The ‘bot held himself well, all things considered; poise and balance, with only a subtle tremor of anxiety. How good he’d look sprawled on the floor, those beautiful hands held tight above his head, back arched in overload.
“You do know what you did is wrong, don’t you?” First Aid said. Again, that crackle in his voice, that film of emotion coating every word. Regret, frustration, concern for his team mate, all spun around with a healthy dose of guilt. Vortex forced his expression into a facsimile of Dead End’s dull fatalism; it was time for a change of pace.
“Have you ever been in suspension?” Vortex asked. There was no response. He glared up at First Aid’s visor, managed to hold his gaze. “Have you?”
Slowly, reluctantly, First Aid shook his head.
“There’s no sensation,” Vortex continued, not like here. “There’s no input. No visual, no auditory, no… tactile. Nothing, for cycle after cycle after cycle until you begin to forget what light is, what colour is, what it is to touch and be touched, to feel and live and-” He stopped, looked down. A little close to home, but that gave it an edge, something First Aid for all his medical training couldn’t miss.
“That’s… Why are you telling me this?” First Aid demanded.
Because you haven’t run away, Vortex thought. Because you’re so intensely fuckable that I’d even frag Swindle for a cycle or two alone with you. “Because I meant it,” he said.
“Meant what?”
“What I said earlier. That…” Oh frag, that flicker of confusion, that subtle, cautious tilt to his posture; this was better than watching seekers bond. “That I’d do anything for you,” Vortex finished quietly.
“Don’t… don’t say that.” First Aid huffed.
“You wanted honesty,” Vortex countered. “Oh Sigma, your hands…” he stopped, as though catching himself saying something he knew he shouldn’t. First Aid shivered. “I’m…” No, it would be too much to apologise, but just enough to give the impression of having tried. “Perceptor told me what’s going to happen. I… I don’t understand Autobots.” Sigma, please make those energon bars disappear. “But if they were all like you, making the effort would be worthwhile.” After all, enthusiastic consensual fragging could be damned hot. He clawed his processor away from that particular thought; he didn’t need his core temperature rising so high that his wiring began to melt.
“What are you trying to say?” First Aid asked, carefully. “That you’d defect? I can’t believe that.”
Do you want to believe it? “My team mates closed the gestalt bond,” Vortex said. “They won’t link with me unless we’re combining.”
Now that got a reaction. The photon pistol drooped a little, First Aid leaned forward. His vocaliser crackled, as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words.
Vortex raised the pitch of his engine, to cover the subtle whirr of his cooling system. Good thing he was laying on his front; his interface hardware practically buzzed. “What were you going to say?” Vortex asked.
For a while First Aid just stood there, still and silent. Then he lowered the pistol. Vortex didn’t dare move; First Aid defenceless was an incitement to do something deliciously violent, and he was already so charged.
"Can't do this," First Aid said, so quiet it was almost a sigh. There was a slight hum in the air, the signature of an encrypted signal. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, an echo of his internal comms. "I'm sorry," he said.
First Aid raised the gun and fired.
Chapter 6: An unexpected visitor
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: R
Content advice: mention of rape, verbal sexual harassment, violence (imagined and actual).
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters and/or pairings: Vortex, Prowl, First Aid, with small appearances by Skyfire, Perceptor and Wheeljack.
Beta: naboru_narluin.
Summary: Stuck in the Autobot brig, Vortex has just found out that he has a bigger problem than physical incarceration. Then someone comes along who he didn’t expect, and gives him an added incentive to escape.
[ Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5]
Chapter 6: An unexpected visitor
"Well, that didn't go so..." Badly? Prowl paused in the face of self-delusion.
"Well?" Skyfire suggested.
Prowl nodded. Over on a workbench, Perceptor huddled in microscope form. Wheeljack loitered nearby, concern evident in the slope of his shoulders.
"I ought to..." Prowl began, glancing at the door. “I should go check on him.”
"Yeah, just go," Wheeljack said. "He'll be OK, won't you Percy?"
The microscope remained inert.
* * *
Not the box, not the box, not the box… the words seemed to bounce around his cell, a dizzying cacophony that grated on his sensors and made it difficult to think.
Slag thinking. It was all he’d been able to do in the Detention Centre. No sensation there; just him, alone with his thoughts for vorn after vorn after… Couldn’t go back to that, not now. He had to get out.
He lay on the berth, one arm outstretched, fingertips brushing against the tingling field of the energon bars. Perhaps he could short them… Breakdown had managed it, it couldn’t be so hard. It was all a case of resonant frequencies.
Not that he had enough fuel to try that kind of vibration. Well, if he wanted to be able to run anywhere afterwards. Slag. He snarled and slapped the bars. The recoil sent him back several feet, and made him tingle from his helm to his heels. He did it again, harder, and the recoil sent him halfway across the berth.
This wasn’t like when he’d licked them; this was far better.
There was a strange noise, a static hissing over a faint background hum of machinery. Silence. It was a while before the voice came back - not the box, not the box, not the box - but it was quieter, a pale echo of what it had been before. In the distance, an alarm sounded.
Vortex stood, smiling under his battle mask, and flattened himself against the back wall of his cell. Licking had been too gentle, obviously; the Autobots rewarded that kind of thing. He sprang at the energon bars. There was hardly space to run, but he hit them hard. The force thrust him back against the far wall, and left him sprawling in the middle of the floor, gyros dancing and a high, happy laugh caught somewhere in his vocaliser.
He picked himself up and tried again. This time, the recoil saw him ricochet from the bars to the back wall, which he hit at an angle, to the wall opposite his berth. Sparks crackled across his armour and tingled in his new dents. This was fun. Not as much fun as he wanted, but enough to subdue the voices.
He tried a third time, landing face down at the side of his berth, his armour crawling. It wasn’t worth hoping that the alarm had anything to do with rescue. But it could bring an Autobot or two. Someone to speak to. Perhaps the little yellow bot, who he was pretty sure must be Bumblebee. Perhaps Skyfire.
His interface panel tingled; unexpected, but not unwelcome. He dimmed his optics and thought of Skyfire’s thighs, his strong arms and pristine, white plating. Another buzz of static. He thought of straddling Skyfire’s hips, of carving his name into that beautiful armour; of those large hands holding him, squeezing him.
“You didn’t have to do that,” a stern voice said. The charge dissipated.
Vortex looked up, his scowl hidden. The moon had begun to rise in the distant high window, illuminating one of the Autobot cars. The one who thought he upheld the law.
“You’re not Skyfire,” Vortex growled. “Get out.”
“You’re in no position to make demands,” the Autobot said. Vortex hauled himself upright, swaying slightly, and leapt at the bars. The Autobot flinched. This time, the force was less, and Vortex landed against the far wall, skidding on his landing wheels, his chest plating scorched and paint smouldering. He grinned.
The Autobot went over to the outer door and pressed a few buttons on a console. The alarm stopped. “Look,” he said. “Things will go far easier for you if you just settle down.”
Vortex tried to stand, but his gyros glitched, and the floor rose up to meet him. “I’m settled,” he murmured. There was something pleasant about the after-effects of the bars, like hovering on the very edge of recharge. “Wh’s Prime?” Vortex asked. Perhaps next time, he could summon enough force to rebound from the wall and back again. A double hit. That would be good…
The Autobot approached his cell again, a silver-limned silhouette, hands on hips and feet slightly apart. Damned fool was trying to look imposing.
“Too important to deal with the likes of you,” he said.
Vortex suppressed a giggle. “If he was here… he’d see me,” he announced, but his vision swam and he missed the Autobot’s reaction. He managed to crawl back to the bars, and leant his head against the gently buzzing field. It was euphoric, a tantalising taste of deep recharge. Slag, the damned things were engineered to tranquillise. Vortex forced the tension from his frame before the Autobot noticed. “Gonna come in here and tie me up?” Vortex asked. He slurred the words, forcing a glitch into his vocaliser as though his systems were closing down. “I could play with your little door wings. Would you like that?”
The answer was obvious. The Autobot shifted, self-conscious. Vortex mumbled a few nonsense syllables, offlined his optics, and listened.
After a few astroseconds, the Autobot simply walked away.
* * *
The bars emitted a subtle, pulsing tone. Vortex could only hear it with his audio sensors touching the field; it was a soporific, enticing him to suspend all non-essential functions and slip into recharge. As soon as the brig door closed, Vortex heaved himself away from the bars and clambered back onto the berth. Stupid Autobot with his stupid boring voice and his dull little groundpounder body. Vortex could think of a few uses for those door wings; and afterwards, they’d look good mounted over his recharge station back at Combaticon HQ.
The brig door reopened barely a minute later and closed quickly. Light footsteps, hesitant and uneven. Vortex smiled; he knew who this was.
“I can hear you,” he whispered. “You’re Bumblebee, right? Did you bring me some high grade?”
The small ‘bot kept to the shadows, seemingly unaware that security systems tended to react to such things as heat signatures and energy readings, not just the difference between light and shade. Whoever was watching the monitors would soon notice him, and he’d be evicted. Vortex tilted his head, the better to see through the bars. Might as well have some fun while he could.
The little ‘bot didn’t respond. He paused, concealed from view by the portion of wall at the front of the cell. There was a small click, as of one mechanical part sliding neatly past another.
“Don’t move,” the newcomer said, but his voice was wrong. It crackled, emotion hidden under static. “If you move, I will kill you.”
The ‘bot stepped into view, hornless helm lit by the moon. He was taller than expected, more Vortex’ own size. In the gloom, red showed up as black, a dark chassis and helm, a pale visor, pale arms. A collection of sloping planes and soft angles, all crying out to be touched. And that delicate, graspable waist. Vortex sighed; oh Sigma yes. First Aid was so… enticing.
“I’m not moving,” he replied. After all, he could do nothing about the happy shudder which ran the full length of his back struts. He stared past the barrel of First Aid’s photon pistol, watching the play of reflected light on the edges of his interface panel. “What else do you want me to do?”
“I want you to listen,” First Aid said, that same burr in his voice. “Then I want you to talk.”
Vortex looked up. First Aid was trembling, but his aim didn’t need to be steady. The gaps between the energon bars were wide enough, and it wasn’t as though there was anywhere to hide. Still, it was First Aid. Vortex retracted his battle mask, and resisted running his glossa over his lips. He smiled. “Anything for you.”
First Aid covered his right hand with his left, stabilising his aim. “I want you to answer my question,” he began. “And I want you to do so truthfully.” He adjusted his footing, so insecure, so fragile. And so close; Vortex could almost reach out, slender talons in the gaps between the bars, and - “Don’t move!” First Aid spat. “Stay still on that bunk or so help me, I will deactivate you.”
“As you say.” Vortex turned his main engine over, a gentle purr in the darkened brig.
First Aid paused. Vortex expected him to glance up at the cameras, but his gaze was unwavering. So, the Protectobot had turned them off; or was there someone sympathetic in the control room?
“Why did you do it?” First Aid said. He coughed the static from his voice. “What you did to Blades. Why?”
Vortex’s talons twitched. “That’s an interesting question,” he mused. No need to rush, First Aid had all the time in the world. He shifted, folding his arms under his chin. The gun juddered, but the Protectobot did not shoot.
“The truth,” First Aid repeated. “Out with it.”
Why not? Vortex thought. He’d never been so close to First Aid for so long, not since that time Defensor blew up Bruticus. But this was different, and he had the distinct feeling that being closer to First Aid could be a wonderful thing indeed.
“Blades did something for me,” Vortex said. “It… helped pass the time. I did something for him in return.” That was it, choose the words carefully, watch for his reactions. Speak in euphemisms, but ones which he can easily translate.
“You did something for him?” First Aid repeated. “He told you no. You…”
“I what?” Vortex said. “I made him overload. And? You needn’t be jealous.” Vortex waited, watched for any change in First Aid’s stance, any adjustment in the angle of his head. Deliberately missing the point was all well and good, but there was only so far he could push it. “He’d already done the same for me. Did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t want to,” First Aid said. “What’s wrong with you? You thought you were doing him a favour?”
“What if I’d killed him?” Vortex said. First Aid’s slight yet perceptible flinch was perfect. “We are, after all, enemies. Would that have been any better?”
First Aid wavered, his grip tightening on the trigger.
Vortex rested his chin on his hands. The Protectobot medic was glorious, an intriguing combination of strength and brittle vulnerability. Similar hands to Blades, to those strong, pale fingers which had made Vortex overload so hard his systems shut down. But an altogether different frame, attractive in its own way. The ‘bot held himself well, all things considered; poise and balance, with only a subtle tremor of anxiety. How good he’d look sprawled on the floor, those beautiful hands held tight above his head, back arched in overload.
“You do know what you did is wrong, don’t you?” First Aid said. Again, that crackle in his voice, that film of emotion coating every word. Regret, frustration, concern for his team mate, all spun around with a healthy dose of guilt. Vortex forced his expression into a facsimile of Dead End’s dull fatalism; it was time for a change of pace.
“Have you ever been in suspension?” Vortex asked. There was no response. He glared up at First Aid’s visor, managed to hold his gaze. “Have you?”
Slowly, reluctantly, First Aid shook his head.
“There’s no sensation,” Vortex continued, not like here. “There’s no input. No visual, no auditory, no… tactile. Nothing, for cycle after cycle after cycle until you begin to forget what light is, what colour is, what it is to touch and be touched, to feel and live and-” He stopped, looked down. A little close to home, but that gave it an edge, something First Aid for all his medical training couldn’t miss.
“That’s… Why are you telling me this?” First Aid demanded.
Because you haven’t run away, Vortex thought. Because you’re so intensely fuckable that I’d even frag Swindle for a cycle or two alone with you. “Because I meant it,” he said.
“Meant what?”
“What I said earlier. That…” Oh frag, that flicker of confusion, that subtle, cautious tilt to his posture; this was better than watching seekers bond. “That I’d do anything for you,” Vortex finished quietly.
“Don’t… don’t say that.” First Aid huffed.
“You wanted honesty,” Vortex countered. “Oh Sigma, your hands…” he stopped, as though catching himself saying something he knew he shouldn’t. First Aid shivered. “I’m…” No, it would be too much to apologise, but just enough to give the impression of having tried. “Perceptor told me what’s going to happen. I… I don’t understand Autobots.” Sigma, please make those energon bars disappear. “But if they were all like you, making the effort would be worthwhile.” After all, enthusiastic consensual fragging could be damned hot. He clawed his processor away from that particular thought; he didn’t need his core temperature rising so high that his wiring began to melt.
“What are you trying to say?” First Aid asked, carefully. “That you’d defect? I can’t believe that.”
Do you want to believe it? “My team mates closed the gestalt bond,” Vortex said. “They won’t link with me unless we’re combining.”
Now that got a reaction. The photon pistol drooped a little, First Aid leaned forward. His vocaliser crackled, as though he wanted to speak, but couldn’t quite find the words.
Vortex raised the pitch of his engine, to cover the subtle whirr of his cooling system. Good thing he was laying on his front; his interface hardware practically buzzed. “What were you going to say?” Vortex asked.
For a while First Aid just stood there, still and silent. Then he lowered the pistol. Vortex didn’t dare move; First Aid defenceless was an incitement to do something deliciously violent, and he was already so charged.
"Can't do this," First Aid said, so quiet it was almost a sigh. There was a slight hum in the air, the signature of an encrypted signal. When he spoke again, his voice was distant, an echo of his internal comms. "I'm sorry," he said.
First Aid raised the gun and fired.