I Am A Soldier:

[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...

[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.

[Sand in his joints, a gaping hole in his chest, no medic, no other Autobots, no way home... a tiny rodent following him around everywhere...

And now.

Snow.]

...

I hate this place.

[The big Autobot is standing in front of his pod, kicking his feet, and trying to shake the snow out of gaps in his armor, shuddering all the while.]

Weapons are back. My cannons remained... Going to test them topside.

Need some work done. On my armor.

[And that's all there is. There is a lot he doesn't say, a lot he hopes is going to be understood by those close to him. That if anyone needs him, they know where to find him. That he needs to do something, even now, when he doesn't think it'll do any good.

And that he needs to see someone in particular. Even if he still can't say it.]

[The video opens on Ratchet.  Who looks exceedingly peeved.  Moreso than those familiar with him may have ever seen him.  In fact, he looks as if he'd very much like to rip his communicator in half.]

Whoever is in possession of my medic will inform me of his whereabouts.  Immediately!  Or I shall tear you apart!

Where has the captain put him!  Answer me!

[... well.  That's certainly not something Ratchet would ever say.]

[There's static for a few moments, before the comm actually picks up the very subdued voice.]

Ratchet... I... need you. Please.

Help.

[All of the above fall under things he would never... ever... say over open comm lines like this. Thank you very much, Captain. There's a pause, but anyone with decent hearing can hear him muttering to something--or someone.]

It will be fine... going to be okay... quiet now.  I have you... Going to be fine... not going to hurt much longer... hush.


[Aren't auditory hallucinations fun? He has not left the hall the elevator dumped him into. And he likely won't on his own--thanks to being blind from Infected Passenger Spit, badly damaged, and with absolutely no sense of direction, the old boy's stuck on Deck 12.]