22 - audio

Aug. 11th, 2012 06:18 pm
heavyweaponsbot: (Human | Urk...)
[12 hours after being placed in the stocks, they open, and an Autobot-turned-human drags himself to his feet.]

[He leaves a message, when he gets back to his room:]


Need a medic. Nothing serious. Just dislike leaking all over the place.

[Nothing else.]

[He closes the book.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Lies betrayed and the oppressed)
[His kind do not dream. There are memories, certainly. But never dreams.]

[Not until the Elegante took that hard and fast rule away -- took him, changed him. Made him human. The change must have altered something. Ever since then, his recharge has been plagued with memories, with compounded memories and fantasies, fears and daydreams. He can't stop it. And while it's unsettling... it's something he's adapted to, more or less.]

[When the dream comes, he thinks it's going to be just the same as always. Another vague half-memory.]

[He is wrong.]


DREAM SEQUENCE - cut for length and headcanon )


[The old soldier wakes alone, staring up at the night sky beside the lake. Cold sand presses against his back, where he'd simply dropped in his tracks. Water is lapping at one of his feet, damp and uncomfortable in the joints. Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts a hand, staring at it.]

[And for the first time since his arrival, he notices the barest hint of neon paint transfer, caught in the scars and grooves of his palm.]

[... you're stronger than this.]


Hmn.

Old fool...
heavyweaponsbot: (All Spark why would you even --)
... Anyone else suddenly get a bad feeling?

As if something horrible has happened, and you have no power to set it right again?

[He has no idea where this feeling is coming from, or why it's there, but ignoring it isn't exactly helping anything.]

[It just makes him feel more and more restless.]

Need to go hit something. Badly.
heavyweaponsbot: (Facing the fire together)
[Oh yes, by now he knew exactly how to get the pumpkins to stop talking. It would have been smart of him to do so. He would probably have been saving himself a lot of trouble by doing it.]

[But he hasn't.]

[The pumpkins are still whispering and whining. He'd smashed several of them -- Decepticon faces all, and that had felt good. By now... he's tracked on to one in particular. Only centuries of long association have allowed him to tune the words out, listening to the voice. If he shutters his optics, he can pretend he's being lectured, or being made to listen to some science babble or other.]

[His head is bowed, and one of his hands is resting lightly on the pumpkin in question.]

[He can't bring himself to break this one -- not when it has the voice he's been missing for months now. He'd never expected separation to be this difficult.]

[Ironhide can be found solemnly regarding the Ratchet-pumpkin in the early morning hours of the Keep.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[Things have died down. And now there's nothing going on but pounding, pouring rain.]

[While the old timer should probably have gone to refuel, he opts instead to go out in the wet. Why? He can't really say. Maybe he's disappointed he let his charges down -- after checking everywhere, it's become obvious Zuko is no longer among the Keep's guests. Maybe he feels he failed them some other way -- he should have been the one to put an end to Riku, not Xanth.]

[... He should still be on the Shore.]

[Try as he might these few weeks, he can't shake that feeling. There's something missing. And it's painful. Like he's missing a vital internal component.]

[Ironhide winds up near the lake, in the middle of the downpour, just staring out at the water. The water pings off his armor. He never thought he'd admit it, but the sound and motion of the waves is... well.]

[It's familiar.]

[And therefore, it's comforting.]
heavyweaponsbot: (FLAWLESS.  VICTORY.)
[Good evening, Keep residents. Where is your resident Autobot, you might ask? Why, he's found himself the Armory, that's what.]

[And, he was hoping to find some scrap metal. But, like so much of his life, lately, he's out of luck. No metal, no charges, no medic... not even the stupid frog.]

[His engine growls a low, almost mournful note before his fingers close around one of the practice blades, and he flings it across the room, where it smacks against the wall with a satisfying sound of cracking wood.]

[But the feeling only lasts for so long, and he's left with a broken sword, and no 'family'. Not even the scraps he was looking for.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Running to fight)
[The voice that suddenly booms over the journals should be familiar to some.  And, if not, it's certainly loud and attention-getting.  Someone is clearly unhappy.]

This... is a lie. It must be. It cannot be possible -- not again!

[A pause.  There's some mechanical shifting while the party in question tries to remain calm.  There is also a sound like... water dripping?]

Who is listening? Can anyone hear me! This is Ironhide -- stuck in some... room somewhere. With a talking book. And no frog. I had a frog on me a moment ago.

[Another pause -- and he's right back to being borderline frantic.]

... Ratchet! Do you read this? Answer me! ... Answer me. You must be here.
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[If you haven't heard from Ironhide lately, that's because the big 'bot is keeping to himself. Ratchet... vanished. Bumblebee is too quiet.]

[He doesn't like this feeling. This weird... lonely feeling. And, in a classic Ironhide move, when he doesn't like something, he shuts down.]

[If anyone cares to, they can find the old weapons master standing near the edges of the temple grounds, staring at something invisible in the distance.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
[Anyone wandering the top deck may, in fact, come across a big, black robot, standing at rigid attention.  His optics are fixed on the place in which he spotted the red bird, the last time he was up here.  It isn't there any longer, of course, he's simply watching the spot - as if he can make it reappear by sheer force of stubborn willpower alone.

Although, he's not quite certain why.  He didn't mean to come up here.  The voices are gone, and yet he still can't get them out of his head - whispering his guilt.  And there's only one incident he can think of.  Only one a disembodied voice on this boat could know about.

The little Autobot.

His failure to save her.  Her death in his arms.

He never did find out if it was possible to enter her into the system.  And with the first mate gone now...  The weapons master rolls his shoulders, as if to physically shrug off the thought, and returns to his vigil, apparently unmoved.]
heavyweaponsbot: (Lose all we have found)
[An accidental transmission, this time. Silence at first. Is it recording from the site of the downed ceiling?

... Judging from the sudden gasp of air through intake cycles, no, it's not. There's no slow wakening when you're an Autobot. Everything comes back online at once. And you lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to get your bearings.]


Where...? Oh.

[Metal creaks, and he groans, deciding against moving for the moment.]

What happened?



((ooc: So. What do you lose when you're a giant robot who wears no clothing? Or carries possessions? Either way, he's back in his room. Bracing himself for scolding.))
heavyweaponsbot: (Sideglance FTW)
[He had come to a conclusion. A conversation needed to be had. About... certain things. And he needed to do it now, before he lost his nerve.

Unfortunately, Ratchet wasn't in his room. Either of their rooms. Nor was he in the library, or the caves. Or the forest.

... How hard could it possibly be to find one neon Autobot? Especially on this boat?

Eventually, he winds his way up to the top deck, spending a moment staring out over the water, before heading toward the mini-golf course. Maybe the medic would be there.]



((ooc: Aimed at [livejournal.com profile] medicalofficer, but people can bump into him on his search if they like.))
heavyweaponsbot: (Stand alone complex)
... so this is what we recieve from our captors, hmn? A reminder of all we have been taken from?

Hmpf. Foolish. Should just leave us be.

[Ironhide is still in the bar, for all interested parties, where it's warm and he's left relatively alone. Or so he believes. He's currently hunched up in a corner, being a brooding black lump. One of the picture-type gifts from the tree is in his hand, and if anyone approaches they may get a brief look at what it is.]

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