Hook-Snippet Thing...
Takes place after the re-aging plot, for definites, as well as after a few other Hook-related plots.
Anyways. Hook is very, very upset.
---
Hook felt brittle as he stalked down the corridors. Brittle and holding onto his composure with the same sheer refusal to accept any other possibility that had saved mechs' lives before.
If anyone stopped him, he would scream. And then he would dismantle them.
His optic-band was very bright, and his hands were shaking when he finally reached his quarters. Infinitismal tremors, just enough to nick someone's lines if he were working wrist-deep in them. But his hands never shook when he held something in them. Never. Even when his visual display slid into grey-scale because he didn't have enough power to keep it in full-color, even when his processes ran at a snail's pace because he hadn't been able to defragment for months, his hands never shook when he held something.
Perhaps that would save him now.
Inside, the room was empty. Almost painfully so, with only one desk covered in projects and a shelf over his recharge berth with interesting items that he required on hand. Where was the clutter, the ever-encroaching chemicals and random junk, the body parts, the never-ending stack of parts requests being filed?
The gyros of his mind wobbled. Long Haul...
The walls fell down. Thoughts, emotions, and memories flooded him, overwhelming him to the point where it felt as if he was in the middle of a half-demolished structure being torn apart by a storm.
He stumbled to his berth, one hand scraping over the wall with a soft whine. He barked his legs on the edge of the berth, the jolts just one more note in the cacophony. His arms snapped out, hands cracking against the wall to keep him from collapsing. For a long, shuddering moment, he stared at the spread of his fine green fingers against the grey wall as if neither hands nor wall was what he actually saw.
Long Haul had meant to kill him.
A shudder ran through him, and then another and another. Long Haul had meant to kill him. Long Haul no longer wanted him. He was...
His hands tightened on the wall. Think it. Use the correct word. He was abandoned. Cast aside. Forsaken. By his workmate-brother-gestaltmate.
The sound that slipped out of his mouth sounded too much like a strangled sob. He was above that, however, and the force shaking his shoulders was not the dry weeping of a Transformer. His fingers curled into claws against the too-strong wall.
He would kill Long Haul. No, no, he could still fix the other construction vehicle, he could. It was just more dangerous now. Chin up and face the world, Hook.
He lifted his head and came visor-to-body with the small Scrapper-shaped figure he had created during that child-madness. He had put it on the shelf over his berth when his sanity returned, yes.
He stared at it, then reached out with a shaking hand and picked it up. It was half the length of his forearm, and its limbs flopped a little oddly for a proper rendition of a Transformer. But it looked so precisely like Scrapper...
His knees gave way, and he knelt-fell onto his berth, clutching the figure to his chest. And he just held on.
End
Anyways. Hook is very, very upset.
---
Hook felt brittle as he stalked down the corridors. Brittle and holding onto his composure with the same sheer refusal to accept any other possibility that had saved mechs' lives before.
If anyone stopped him, he would scream. And then he would dismantle them.
His optic-band was very bright, and his hands were shaking when he finally reached his quarters. Infinitismal tremors, just enough to nick someone's lines if he were working wrist-deep in them. But his hands never shook when he held something in them. Never. Even when his visual display slid into grey-scale because he didn't have enough power to keep it in full-color, even when his processes ran at a snail's pace because he hadn't been able to defragment for months, his hands never shook when he held something.
Perhaps that would save him now.
Inside, the room was empty. Almost painfully so, with only one desk covered in projects and a shelf over his recharge berth with interesting items that he required on hand. Where was the clutter, the ever-encroaching chemicals and random junk, the body parts, the never-ending stack of parts requests being filed?
The gyros of his mind wobbled. Long Haul...
The walls fell down. Thoughts, emotions, and memories flooded him, overwhelming him to the point where it felt as if he was in the middle of a half-demolished structure being torn apart by a storm.
He stumbled to his berth, one hand scraping over the wall with a soft whine. He barked his legs on the edge of the berth, the jolts just one more note in the cacophony. His arms snapped out, hands cracking against the wall to keep him from collapsing. For a long, shuddering moment, he stared at the spread of his fine green fingers against the grey wall as if neither hands nor wall was what he actually saw.
Long Haul had meant to kill him.
A shudder ran through him, and then another and another. Long Haul had meant to kill him. Long Haul no longer wanted him. He was...
His hands tightened on the wall. Think it. Use the correct word. He was abandoned. Cast aside. Forsaken. By his workmate-brother-gestaltmate.
The sound that slipped out of his mouth sounded too much like a strangled sob. He was above that, however, and the force shaking his shoulders was not the dry weeping of a Transformer. His fingers curled into claws against the too-strong wall.
He would kill Long Haul. No, no, he could still fix the other construction vehicle, he could. It was just more dangerous now. Chin up and face the world, Hook.
He lifted his head and came visor-to-body with the small Scrapper-shaped figure he had created during that child-madness. He had put it on the shelf over his berth when his sanity returned, yes.
He stared at it, then reached out with a shaking hand and picked it up. It was half the length of his forearm, and its limbs flopped a little oddly for a proper rendition of a Transformer. But it looked so precisely like Scrapper...
His knees gave way, and he knelt-fell onto his berth, clutching the figure to his chest. And he just held on.
End