Memory...?
Copter’s a little weirded out right now. First off, no more painkillers. Whoa. From now on, copter’d just do what he’d always done and put up with pain. Done with that foray into prescription pharmaceuticals. Drugs are bad, mmmkay? From now on, he is going to be stupid-hardcore no-thank-you I-love-how-much-this-sucks.
He doesn’t even remember why he took them in the first place, other than that Lockdown seemed so happy and mellow and frag, he wanted that, too .
And memory is kinda the problem. Since those painkillers, frag. He can’t seem to remember much at all. He is surprised he’d been able to fly back up here to Copter Island, and that he remembered where it was, because large chunks of the rest of his memory files are corrupted. It's a little weird, because he’ll think back on things and parts of them seemed grey and hazy, and then parts were just…black.
He hadn’t wanted to upset Lockdown, of course. Lockdown is way too cool a mech and copter really doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. About what Blackout has, after all, done to himself. Maybe six isn’t such a hot lucky number…?
But he is safe, for a while at least, here on Copter Island. For once its isolation and solitude are a blessing. Safe. Private. He needs time to dig through his files, see if he can at least categorize what was missing. Lockdown hinted that he should try to reactivate memories. WHILE insisting he’d interfaced. Blackout does a quick keyword search and no. No entries marked ‘interfacing.’ None marked ‘grievous error in judgment’ either. Or even ‘gateway to interminable regret’. So…no. No interfacing had happened. Definitely.
He pulls open a few files at random, just to see if they are internally corrupted, or if the damage is only files themselves. Maybe partitions are still stable. They seem pretty ordinary, boring stuff. He riffles through keywords. He has a lot under ‘combat.’ They seem almost entirely intact. Still, good to check. Maybe he can figure out what or at least how much he’d lost. He opens one....
***
It wasn’t his first combat kill, not really. He’d had dozens of aerial kills, but those had been different. Distant, nothing more sometimes than flashes of light, or blips on his nightsights going from green to white on ground targets; blossoms of shrapnel throwing heat against him if aerial. But this one…up close and personal.
Garrus-9. Nightside, and Blackout’s audio locked out to protect him from the force of his own sonicwave generator, so the battle seemed to unfold in strange shows-tracers slicing lines through the darkness, explosions blooming like fast-lived silent flowers. Shots might have ripped past him, unheard. What you can’t hear, you can’t fear. He had flown on fearlessly until the round had taken out the actuators for his rudder.
He’d spun down, out of control, slamming into the building with a force that had sparked white across his optics. Pain signals shouted at him, clamoring for his attention, rising to a shrieking chorus as he unfolded into his bot mode.
The Autobot scout had approached, as two icy blue malevolent optics bobbling over the rubble-strewn landscape. Blackout had gathered himself, bracing for assault.
The Autobot fired the weapon at close range, his face, illuminated by the muzzleflashes, sneering with hate, as if he’d chosen close range to make the rounds hurt. Blackout had roared-he felt the vibration through his frame-spinning as he stood up to catch the muzzle in a backhand. A few rounds cut into his armor, leaving scorched traces up his forearms.
The Autobot dropped the weapon, letting it be swept from his grip, dropping down to attack Blackout’s exposed knee. The copter felt pain and rage surge through his systems like twinned serpents as his knee stabilizer buckled. The weight of his massive engine, overbalanced, dropped him hard, but not before he lashed out, striking his assailant. He rolled to one side, quickly, wincing as the Autobot snatched a rotor. He jerked it out of the Autbot’s grasp, furious, yanking the Autobot in closer to him, seizing his wrist in his injured hand and whipping the mech backwards against one still-intact wall.
The mech came up with another weapon, a small energon blade, lunging at Blackout, the blade skittering along his forearm plating before sinking into his elbow joint. Blackout could smell the bitter reek of cauterized cabling and scorched energon, more lances of pain firing along his sensor net. It seemed to speed the race of rage and power through him. He squeezed at the shoulder of the smaller mech, gritting his dentae as he felt metal give under his heavy fingers. The mech lashed out again, with his other hand, his uninjured side, small fingers acting almost like talons raking down Blackout’s arm.
Blackout clapped his other hand, pinning the Autobot’s hand against him, dragging the hand up, bracing the body with his other, pulling, yanking, tearing at the limb, feeling the servos snap, the cables release in a shower of sparks. He felt a fierce rush at the rictus of agony on the Autobot’s face, the sparks flickering in the darkness, the hot spill of energon and pneumatic fluid against his armor. He reached further, fingers wrapping around the throat, squeezing, as his other hand punched against the chassis, bursting the thin armored plates of the grounder.
By rights, he should have stopped then, and salvaged the mech-drained the fluids, taken the electrical charge of the spark. He had more than a dozen salvage kits in his storage. But he didn’t stop, instead he wrapped his hand around the spark chamber, pinning the legs with one foot, and squeezed, feeling the core lines rupture, the smaller mech thrashing in frantic death throes as he crushed the spark chamber, the hateful blue light dimming in the optics.
His first kill. His first real kill where he had to see it happen, and more than that, see himself seeing it. And feel himself feeling it-the torrent of power and rage and brutality wash through him. It felt pure and raw and the most alive he’d ever felt. All of his power and strength and speed and stamina and reflexes, used at once.
And…he liked it.
He doesn’t even remember why he took them in the first place, other than that Lockdown seemed so happy and mellow and frag, he wanted that, too .
And memory is kinda the problem. Since those painkillers, frag. He can’t seem to remember much at all. He is surprised he’d been able to fly back up here to Copter Island, and that he remembered where it was, because large chunks of the rest of his memory files are corrupted. It's a little weird, because he’ll think back on things and parts of them seemed grey and hazy, and then parts were just…black.
He hadn’t wanted to upset Lockdown, of course. Lockdown is way too cool a mech and copter really doesn’t want to make him feel guilty. About what Blackout has, after all, done to himself. Maybe six isn’t such a hot lucky number…?
But he is safe, for a while at least, here on Copter Island. For once its isolation and solitude are a blessing. Safe. Private. He needs time to dig through his files, see if he can at least categorize what was missing. Lockdown hinted that he should try to reactivate memories. WHILE insisting he’d interfaced. Blackout does a quick keyword search and no. No entries marked ‘interfacing.’ None marked ‘grievous error in judgment’ either. Or even ‘gateway to interminable regret’. So…no. No interfacing had happened. Definitely.
He pulls open a few files at random, just to see if they are internally corrupted, or if the damage is only files themselves. Maybe partitions are still stable. They seem pretty ordinary, boring stuff. He riffles through keywords. He has a lot under ‘combat.’ They seem almost entirely intact. Still, good to check. Maybe he can figure out what or at least how much he’d lost. He opens one....
***
It wasn’t his first combat kill, not really. He’d had dozens of aerial kills, but those had been different. Distant, nothing more sometimes than flashes of light, or blips on his nightsights going from green to white on ground targets; blossoms of shrapnel throwing heat against him if aerial. But this one…up close and personal.
Garrus-9. Nightside, and Blackout’s audio locked out to protect him from the force of his own sonicwave generator, so the battle seemed to unfold in strange shows-tracers slicing lines through the darkness, explosions blooming like fast-lived silent flowers. Shots might have ripped past him, unheard. What you can’t hear, you can’t fear. He had flown on fearlessly until the round had taken out the actuators for his rudder.
He’d spun down, out of control, slamming into the building with a force that had sparked white across his optics. Pain signals shouted at him, clamoring for his attention, rising to a shrieking chorus as he unfolded into his bot mode.
The Autobot scout had approached, as two icy blue malevolent optics bobbling over the rubble-strewn landscape. Blackout had gathered himself, bracing for assault.
The Autobot fired the weapon at close range, his face, illuminated by the muzzleflashes, sneering with hate, as if he’d chosen close range to make the rounds hurt. Blackout had roared-he felt the vibration through his frame-spinning as he stood up to catch the muzzle in a backhand. A few rounds cut into his armor, leaving scorched traces up his forearms.
The Autobot dropped the weapon, letting it be swept from his grip, dropping down to attack Blackout’s exposed knee. The copter felt pain and rage surge through his systems like twinned serpents as his knee stabilizer buckled. The weight of his massive engine, overbalanced, dropped him hard, but not before he lashed out, striking his assailant. He rolled to one side, quickly, wincing as the Autobot snatched a rotor. He jerked it out of the Autbot’s grasp, furious, yanking the Autobot in closer to him, seizing his wrist in his injured hand and whipping the mech backwards against one still-intact wall.
The mech came up with another weapon, a small energon blade, lunging at Blackout, the blade skittering along his forearm plating before sinking into his elbow joint. Blackout could smell the bitter reek of cauterized cabling and scorched energon, more lances of pain firing along his sensor net. It seemed to speed the race of rage and power through him. He squeezed at the shoulder of the smaller mech, gritting his dentae as he felt metal give under his heavy fingers. The mech lashed out again, with his other hand, his uninjured side, small fingers acting almost like talons raking down Blackout’s arm.
Blackout clapped his other hand, pinning the Autobot’s hand against him, dragging the hand up, bracing the body with his other, pulling, yanking, tearing at the limb, feeling the servos snap, the cables release in a shower of sparks. He felt a fierce rush at the rictus of agony on the Autobot’s face, the sparks flickering in the darkness, the hot spill of energon and pneumatic fluid against his armor. He reached further, fingers wrapping around the throat, squeezing, as his other hand punched against the chassis, bursting the thin armored plates of the grounder.
By rights, he should have stopped then, and salvaged the mech-drained the fluids, taken the electrical charge of the spark. He had more than a dozen salvage kits in his storage. But he didn’t stop, instead he wrapped his hand around the spark chamber, pinning the legs with one foot, and squeezed, feeling the core lines rupture, the smaller mech thrashing in frantic death throes as he crushed the spark chamber, the hateful blue light dimming in the optics.
His first kill. His first real kill where he had to see it happen, and more than that, see himself seeing it. And feel himself feeling it-the torrent of power and rage and brutality wash through him. It felt pure and raw and the most alive he’d ever felt. All of his power and strength and speed and stamina and reflexes, used at once.
And…he liked it.