Prompt: Catastrophe
First Aid stops in his tracks as he finds himself back, here, in this strange intersection of universes. Again. The gestalt bond with his brothers is silent, though he would have sworn they were all together, only moments ago. He check his chronometer, wondering how long he has been gone this time, and makes a small sound of dismay at the readout. Nearly a week.
He looks around, hoping for clues as to whether he's been wandering around in some sort of hallucination, perhaps his processor's way of trying to cope with the long separation from his gestaltmates, but there is nothing, no trampled vegetation, no sign of how he arrived here. Streetwise or Groove might be better at finding those sorts of signs; he's a medic though, not a tracker. First Aid hopes he hasn't left the other Ratchet too badly in the lurch in the medbay as he pushes his way towards what seems to be an open area, hoping to get his bearings.
The air seems...funny, somehow, heavy and strange. There's a roaring sound, coming from somewhere, and an entire tree suddenly falls from the sky, one branch knocking First Aid onto his aft as it crashes into the ground next to him. Poor tree. First Aid starts to crawl over to it, with some vague idea of pushing the tangle of roots back into the ground somehow, only his visor is now being pelted with a stinging hail of dirt and debris, and he can't see. Something slams into the side of his helm with enough force to dent, and then the ground is falling away or he is rising, he can't tell which, only that there is no up or down anymore as First Aid is tumbled helplessly in the grip of a massive tornado. He laughs dazedly as a prompt chooses this moment to ping his CPU: Catastrophe. Well, yes. Thank you for the warning, prompt-being.
The wind has become something wild and solid and he can't draw it through his vents; his insides feel like they are melting. First Aid tries to curl up into a protective ball, but the wind has grabbed hold of his arms and legs and won't let go. He can't even control his own limbs. Something else slams into the back of his helm and he stops fighting, going limp and letting the wind do with him as it pleases.
Hot Spot. Blades. Streetwise. Groove...First Aid holds on to the memory of his brothers with his last scrap of conciousness. There is something gripping him, his vents have found the air again and draw it in in great, gasping breaths. A quieter, familiar throb of sound thrums above him through the ringing in his audios. He knows he should recognize that sound, and the exasperated, worried voice that he's feeling rather than hearing in his head. What on Earth have you gotten yourself into this time?
First Aid wakes up later, though how much later he can't say as his chronometer isn't working at all. He's laying on something blessedly solid and rain is pounding hard enough to make a small stream beneath him. He shifts to the side a little so his face isn't in the water and decides that's more than enough moving for now.
Blades? There is no answer, voice or bond. First Aid allows himself a single, gulping sob and then sighs, curling up in the rain and just enjoying the relative stillness for awhile. Every now and then the ground seems to tilt and shift but that's probably just his battered equilibrium sensors trying to readjust. The prompt pings him again. Catastrophe.
I'm supposed to talk about catastrophes, guys. First Aid lets out a tired laugh. He's probably lost his processor already, so he supposes talking out loud to himself won't make it any worse, and it's comforting to pretend he's talking to his gestaltmates. We were built for catastrophes, weren't we. Fire and rescue, flood and earthquake, famine and war. Decepticons making the Earth fall into the sun. That's all we've known since our very first days online. It's the reason for our existence, to try to prevent catastrophes, or to help the people and 'bots caught in them if we can't. If there were no more catastrophes...what would we do? If no one got hurt, or sick anymore...that would be a wonderful thing, wouldn't it? And if no one needed us...no one needed me to be a medic anymore...I think I might curl up and deactivate, after awhile. Being a medic, that's what I am. Does that mean for me to be happy, someone else has to be hurt? Sighs and tries to wipe some of the mud and rain off of his visor, troubled by the idea. He can almost hear Blades scolding him, though. You'd say 'nonsense' and then hug me until I couldn't worry about it anymore, wouldn't you. And I suppose there'll always be 'bots needing oil changes and gears tightened and such. Which reminds me...
Opens a general comm. channel - he'd been meaning to do this earlier, before he disappeared for the umpteenth time - Fireflight going into heat had made him think of it. It would make more sense to call for help, but First Aid's processor has perhaps been a bit rattled.
//This is a reminder to all 'bots who are currently interfacing or considering interfacing in the near future to please be sure to update your firewalls and antivirals, especially if your partner or partners are from a different universe than your own. I'm attaching a file of updates; however, if it's been more than one Earth year since your last update you should make an appointment with either Ratchet or myself or...// knows there are some Decepticon medics about but isn't quite sure of their names //or your own medic for a check up. Remember, always practice safe interface!//
That done, he runs a diagnostic on himself. Suprisingly little in the way of serious damages; his head hurts, he's sore and battered, but all of his parts seem to work. His core temperature is down, however, and dropping quickly, which is a little worrisome. Something seems to be awry with his thermoregulator, but there's not much he can do about it. He pulls himself up with a small groan and wanders off slowly in the direction of civilization.
He looks around, hoping for clues as to whether he's been wandering around in some sort of hallucination, perhaps his processor's way of trying to cope with the long separation from his gestaltmates, but there is nothing, no trampled vegetation, no sign of how he arrived here. Streetwise or Groove might be better at finding those sorts of signs; he's a medic though, not a tracker. First Aid hopes he hasn't left the other Ratchet too badly in the lurch in the medbay as he pushes his way towards what seems to be an open area, hoping to get his bearings.
The air seems...funny, somehow, heavy and strange. There's a roaring sound, coming from somewhere, and an entire tree suddenly falls from the sky, one branch knocking First Aid onto his aft as it crashes into the ground next to him. Poor tree. First Aid starts to crawl over to it, with some vague idea of pushing the tangle of roots back into the ground somehow, only his visor is now being pelted with a stinging hail of dirt and debris, and he can't see. Something slams into the side of his helm with enough force to dent, and then the ground is falling away or he is rising, he can't tell which, only that there is no up or down anymore as First Aid is tumbled helplessly in the grip of a massive tornado. He laughs dazedly as a prompt chooses this moment to ping his CPU: Catastrophe. Well, yes. Thank you for the warning, prompt-being.
The wind has become something wild and solid and he can't draw it through his vents; his insides feel like they are melting. First Aid tries to curl up into a protective ball, but the wind has grabbed hold of his arms and legs and won't let go. He can't even control his own limbs. Something else slams into the back of his helm and he stops fighting, going limp and letting the wind do with him as it pleases.
Hot Spot. Blades. Streetwise. Groove...First Aid holds on to the memory of his brothers with his last scrap of conciousness. There is something gripping him, his vents have found the air again and draw it in in great, gasping breaths. A quieter, familiar throb of sound thrums above him through the ringing in his audios. He knows he should recognize that sound, and the exasperated, worried voice that he's feeling rather than hearing in his head. What on Earth have you gotten yourself into this time?
First Aid wakes up later, though how much later he can't say as his chronometer isn't working at all. He's laying on something blessedly solid and rain is pounding hard enough to make a small stream beneath him. He shifts to the side a little so his face isn't in the water and decides that's more than enough moving for now.
Blades? There is no answer, voice or bond. First Aid allows himself a single, gulping sob and then sighs, curling up in the rain and just enjoying the relative stillness for awhile. Every now and then the ground seems to tilt and shift but that's probably just his battered equilibrium sensors trying to readjust. The prompt pings him again. Catastrophe.
I'm supposed to talk about catastrophes, guys. First Aid lets out a tired laugh. He's probably lost his processor already, so he supposes talking out loud to himself won't make it any worse, and it's comforting to pretend he's talking to his gestaltmates. We were built for catastrophes, weren't we. Fire and rescue, flood and earthquake, famine and war. Decepticons making the Earth fall into the sun. That's all we've known since our very first days online. It's the reason for our existence, to try to prevent catastrophes, or to help the people and 'bots caught in them if we can't. If there were no more catastrophes...what would we do? If no one got hurt, or sick anymore...that would be a wonderful thing, wouldn't it? And if no one needed us...no one needed me to be a medic anymore...I think I might curl up and deactivate, after awhile. Being a medic, that's what I am. Does that mean for me to be happy, someone else has to be hurt? Sighs and tries to wipe some of the mud and rain off of his visor, troubled by the idea. He can almost hear Blades scolding him, though. You'd say 'nonsense' and then hug me until I couldn't worry about it anymore, wouldn't you. And I suppose there'll always be 'bots needing oil changes and gears tightened and such. Which reminds me...
Opens a general comm. channel - he'd been meaning to do this earlier, before he disappeared for the umpteenth time - Fireflight going into heat had made him think of it. It would make more sense to call for help, but First Aid's processor has perhaps been a bit rattled.
//This is a reminder to all 'bots who are currently interfacing or considering interfacing in the near future to please be sure to update your firewalls and antivirals, especially if your partner or partners are from a different universe than your own. I'm attaching a file of updates; however, if it's been more than one Earth year since your last update you should make an appointment with either Ratchet or myself or...// knows there are some Decepticon medics about but isn't quite sure of their names //or your own medic for a check up. Remember, always practice safe interface!//
That done, he runs a diagnostic on himself. Suprisingly little in the way of serious damages; his head hurts, he's sore and battered, but all of his parts seem to work. His core temperature is down, however, and dropping quickly, which is a little worrisome. Something seems to be awry with his thermoregulator, but there's not much he can do about it. He pulls himself up with a small groan and wanders off slowly in the direction of civilization.