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tfic_contestTitle: Nothing But My Job
Rating: T
Universe: G1
Characters: First Aid, Breakdown, Wildrider
Word Count: 834
The situation was fairly odd, considering the circumstances. The ground was soaked and poisoned with carelessly splattered energon, which glowed like pink sapphire and tropical ocean waters under the burning sun, and prettier than it had any right to be. Aftershocks from cannon fire shook the ground and disoriented the senses, mingling with a jet’s atmosphere disturbing thrusters.
Shouts rang from all around. Left, right, down, up, behind, and back again until you weren’t entirely sure who was who anymore, or even if the voices you were hearing were there at all. Laser fire pierced the air around you until where it came from ceased to matter, and subroutines overran everything sane until you were left with barely formed thoughts, half-baked strategies, and a constant, aching, panic-filled need to survive.
The dangers of time on the frontlines; maybe it wasn’t so odd after all.
The company he was keeping, however, most certainly was. The body lying still beneath his hands was no Autobot, and the presence hovering behind and to his left was no comrade. Even the insides were different. There were connections running throughout the entire body and into the legs that he didn’t dare touch. Equipment for flight, he supposed. The thought made him uneasy; reminded him of just what he had laid out beneath him. No Autobot was gifted with flight; none without wings touched the sky. Just another reminder of what he was about to do, what he was thinking of doing; what he was doing.
But the ground rumbled again, and above him the sky exploded, and time was too precious to contemplate such things. The gray based mech beneath him leaked the same way as his normal patients did, regardless of fancy technology, and like all of them this mech bled too much; too fast.
The procedure would later be remembered with as much clarity as binding was. Foggy and dim, like a corrupted memory file. In the end it all boiled down to what was normal: the damage had been extensive and he’d repaired what he could. The bleeding had been stubborn, but he’d blocked it off. The pain would have been beyond dealing when the mech awoke so he’d done his best to dampen it.
The only difference was the Decepticon sigil half obscured with barely dried energon, and that tickled his conscience uneasily.
The look the mech’s comrade had given him, however, when he’d closed the chest plate on his patient with a relieved finality, had shaken him to the core. Hope, fear, relief, terror, despair, dizzying happiness, and far too many more to interpret but all already imprinted on his processor. It was a look he’d spent his entire life as a medic receiving. The exact same one.
And now from a Decepticon.
He supposed it probably shouldn’t have mattered much. That look was the look, though, and the feeling of tired relief and self-fulfillment he felt receiving it probably would have been the same either way, from anybody.
However, from a Decepticon, it was a surprise, and for the first time he realized how wrong that actually was.
With that thought resting uneasily in the back of his processor, drowned out by battle-noise, he stared into the optics of his patient’s comrade and brother, his enemy, and waited to die.
The first blast was no surprise, the blackened hole it left in his knee joint, and then his thigh when the gun discharge again, left him unable to move and in pain, but he made no move to cry out. The third pierced his shoulder and disabled his left arm. The fourth caught him in the hip and that pain nearly sent him screaming into stasis. Mentally he apologized to everyone who’d need it, and then, in his pain and in his silence, he asked for the end.
The final shot never came, though, and that was the pleasantly unpleasant surprise.
When the blue and white mech just walked past him without a word and collected the defragmenting patient he couldn’t resist asking the question that escaped his vocalizer in a static-warped hiss.
He shouldn’t have been disappointed by the lack of response, and the Decepticon, without looking back, walked away with the other cradled in damaged, dirty white arms clenched in a protective grasp. It didn’t take long after for Megatron to call the retreat.
Quietly, First Aid stared after the Decepticons with many thoughts, (none of them quite within his grasp of understanding), flitting through his sluggishly running processor. The pain from his wounds was intense, though distant, and he faintly recognized none as potentially fatal if they were tended to quickly.
It was a strange thought, possibly too strange a thought to safely linger over, really. So when the startled shouts of his brothers finally reached his audios, First Aid gratefully let himself fall to the welcoming blackness.
It really was too odd; too dangerous, a thought to let himself contemplate. After all, what kind of Decepticon knew of honor?
Rating: T
Universe: G1
Characters: First Aid, Breakdown, Wildrider
Word Count: 834
The situation was fairly odd, considering the circumstances. The ground was soaked and poisoned with carelessly splattered energon, which glowed like pink sapphire and tropical ocean waters under the burning sun, and prettier than it had any right to be. Aftershocks from cannon fire shook the ground and disoriented the senses, mingling with a jet’s atmosphere disturbing thrusters.
Shouts rang from all around. Left, right, down, up, behind, and back again until you weren’t entirely sure who was who anymore, or even if the voices you were hearing were there at all. Laser fire pierced the air around you until where it came from ceased to matter, and subroutines overran everything sane until you were left with barely formed thoughts, half-baked strategies, and a constant, aching, panic-filled need to survive.
The dangers of time on the frontlines; maybe it wasn’t so odd after all.
The company he was keeping, however, most certainly was. The body lying still beneath his hands was no Autobot, and the presence hovering behind and to his left was no comrade. Even the insides were different. There were connections running throughout the entire body and into the legs that he didn’t dare touch. Equipment for flight, he supposed. The thought made him uneasy; reminded him of just what he had laid out beneath him. No Autobot was gifted with flight; none without wings touched the sky. Just another reminder of what he was about to do, what he was thinking of doing; what he was doing.
But the ground rumbled again, and above him the sky exploded, and time was too precious to contemplate such things. The gray based mech beneath him leaked the same way as his normal patients did, regardless of fancy technology, and like all of them this mech bled too much; too fast.
The procedure would later be remembered with as much clarity as binding was. Foggy and dim, like a corrupted memory file. In the end it all boiled down to what was normal: the damage had been extensive and he’d repaired what he could. The bleeding had been stubborn, but he’d blocked it off. The pain would have been beyond dealing when the mech awoke so he’d done his best to dampen it.
The only difference was the Decepticon sigil half obscured with barely dried energon, and that tickled his conscience uneasily.
The look the mech’s comrade had given him, however, when he’d closed the chest plate on his patient with a relieved finality, had shaken him to the core. Hope, fear, relief, terror, despair, dizzying happiness, and far too many more to interpret but all already imprinted on his processor. It was a look he’d spent his entire life as a medic receiving. The exact same one.
And now from a Decepticon.
He supposed it probably shouldn’t have mattered much. That look was the look, though, and the feeling of tired relief and self-fulfillment he felt receiving it probably would have been the same either way, from anybody.
However, from a Decepticon, it was a surprise, and for the first time he realized how wrong that actually was.
With that thought resting uneasily in the back of his processor, drowned out by battle-noise, he stared into the optics of his patient’s comrade and brother, his enemy, and waited to die.
The first blast was no surprise, the blackened hole it left in his knee joint, and then his thigh when the gun discharge again, left him unable to move and in pain, but he made no move to cry out. The third pierced his shoulder and disabled his left arm. The fourth caught him in the hip and that pain nearly sent him screaming into stasis. Mentally he apologized to everyone who’d need it, and then, in his pain and in his silence, he asked for the end.
The final shot never came, though, and that was the pleasantly unpleasant surprise.
When the blue and white mech just walked past him without a word and collected the defragmenting patient he couldn’t resist asking the question that escaped his vocalizer in a static-warped hiss.
He shouldn’t have been disappointed by the lack of response, and the Decepticon, without looking back, walked away with the other cradled in damaged, dirty white arms clenched in a protective grasp. It didn’t take long after for Megatron to call the retreat.
Quietly, First Aid stared after the Decepticons with many thoughts, (none of them quite within his grasp of understanding), flitting through his sluggishly running processor. The pain from his wounds was intense, though distant, and he faintly recognized none as potentially fatal if they were tended to quickly.
It was a strange thought, possibly too strange a thought to safely linger over, really. So when the startled shouts of his brothers finally reached his audios, First Aid gratefully let himself fall to the welcoming blackness.
It really was too odd; too dangerous, a thought to let himself contemplate. After all, what kind of Decepticon knew of honor?
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 06:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 03:42 am (UTC)...and their hippocratic oath...*shrugs* I always considered it along the lines of ours. 'Do no harm' and all that...
I must think on this.
But again! Thanks for reviewing! *offers cookies*
no subject
Date: 2008-06-02 05:01 pm (UTC)And then how he was shot: it's in character. Hurrah! And you did such a wonderful job with him not being killed, even indirectly--it's subtle but it still gets the point across, irrevocably. I love it!
no subject
Date: 2008-06-18 03:41 am (UTC)I was hoping I was portraying the idea right, so I'm glad to here it ^_^;
Thank you for reviewing. It gives me the warm fuzzies. *offers cookie plate*