re_alignment_logs

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WHO: SniPerceptor & whoever wanders by
WHERE: Medbay
WHEN Post-rescue
WHAT: Guess who's waking up on the wrong side of the limbless bed.
WARNINGS: Severe physical trauma including dismemberment, eye and face trauma. Potential mentions of torture.

Opticless, limbless, numb. What a fine state he'd found himself in.

Perceptor recalled very little of the rescue. After his second arm had been crudely shorn off, he had blacked out. Everything after that came in snippets of sound and sensation, flashes of excruciating consciousness snuffed out as quickly as they arose. At some point there were more voices, comfortingly familiar, sounds of conflict, the details of it beyond his ability to decipher in his current state.

He had lost his tenuous grip on consciousness again when he felt himself being moved, the jarring shocking his systems into shut down. Waking up had been less than pleasant. For a brief, panicked moment he had thought himself still with Overlord, had struggled only to find himself blind and immobile, his vocalizer rasping as he tried to call out. Hands had still him then, hands that were almost shockingly careful, helping where there had only been hurt. It was only then that he could register the berth beneath him, the pain dulled, voices soothing him.

Sensor blocks in place, Perceptor drifted in a warm, dark sea of nothingness. It should have been blissful, compared to Overlord's treatment, a welcome reprieve from the pain. Instead it left Perceptor alone with his thoughts.

He was an idiot. A weak, foolish mech. Overlord had dispatched him so easily, used him as bait, left him this... this useless lump of metal. History had repeated itself in the worst of ways, right down to the identity of his rescuer. He could recall Drift's voice clearest, and it made his fuel reserves churn to think of how pathetically relieved he had been to hear the other mech. Drift. His savior. Again. He felt furious. Sick. Pathetic. Frustrated. And the longer he lay along the longer he had to stew, playing it back, recalling the last time he'd been so seriously damaged and left an invalid.

[ ooc; prose or action as you see fit, i'm cool with either whoop ]

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When all the damaged, the dead, and whatever remains are collected, and if Ambulon and Vandal are not preoccupied, it is then that Ultra Magnus will accept repairs. It is then and only then, and that had been the promise made to Blurr, a word given for reasons a bit unusual to him.

Besides. This will force him to approach one of his own mech that he had not been able to properly look after. Rodimus or no Rodimus, the feeling would be the same. Felt, then silently tucked away elsewhere. It is irrelevant in the grand scheme of things how he feels. The only thing that matters is fact.

Fact, then: Perceptor had been maimed and tortured by Overlord. Rescued and Overlord has been put away again. The damage made because Ultra Magnus stated he would bring in Overlord.

Yes. That is fact. Magnus will accept it.

The damages that forced any amount of leak in the commander has been sealed off. Ultra Magnus is in far less than perfect condition, but that is to be expected after facing off with a phase-sixer like Overlord. Frankly, the fact that he's still walking is impressive, even if it's barely.

With no other pieces or people to deliver, Ultra Magnus finally makes his way into the medbay. First, to tend to a matter.

"Perceptor?" he tries, uncertain if the sniper is conscious.

Perceptor is indeed conscious, having been roused from his thoughts with a start at the sound of approaching footsteps, tense and uneasy until he recognizes the voice and forces himself to relax.

"Ultra Magnus."

There's a certain tone of relief to his voice that he can't quite stifle, relief that it's Magnus and not him.

"I did not get the chance to thank you for your involvement in the Overlord matter."

Good, keep talking. He's trying hard to keep his tone calm and even and ever so slightly aloof, as it usually is. Trying hard not to let Magnus see that he's shaken, badly.

"Of all the things for you to say, thanks is the least that I am owed. But you are welcome. He has been secured and placed into prison. I will continue to deal with him."

Bottom line? Ultra Magnus had not been able to properly protect his crew. Whether or not Rodimus is present is irrelevant to that fact. If he takes it personally, Magnus is taking great care to not let it display.

He doesn't let much show through anyway.

"I will be in the medbay for awhile, Perceptor. I will make sure it is secure."

A promise of protection. Nothing will come for the sniper.

"I won't be far."

The idea of Overlord imprisoned is, in a way, hilarious. He'd been imprisoned before, but he had still managed to find his way to this new Cybertron, to continue his atrocities.

"Thank you, Ultra Magnus."

It's a nice gesture, and he can appreciate Magnus coming to tell him this, but it doesn't make him feel safe. Even here, in the medbay, surrounded by mechs while Overlord sits imprisoned, he doesn't feel safe. Maybe it's just the fact he can't see, can't move, but he feels shaken to his very core.

"How--" his voice falters, and clicks softly as he resets it, "How are the others?"

Comfort is not a skill of Ultra Magnus's. He can only express in cold, stern facts; anything more is difficult. It's not that he's completely incapable of compassion or empathizing, but to actually reassure another is difficult.

"Four dead. Several injured."

There's a hard exhale from the enforcer.

What can he say? At least it wasn't Garrus-9 all over again?

There's one thing he can firmly say.

"It's not your fault." The tone he takes is firm and confident. Anything more than that, he'll leave it in the hands of Perceptor's closer friends.

He doesn't need to hear anything else from Ultra Magnus.

Facts. Facts Perceptor can deal in, can appreciate.

"Only four. We were lucky."

They were lucky. With Overlord involved the list of casualties could have been much higher.

"Thank you, Magnus."

He might not believe that, but it is nice for the other mech to make the effort. Right now it's hard to see anything but himself at fault here, caught and used as bait, bringing others in to their deaths.

"Yes."

By comparison, yes, this is far less devastating. It could have been much worse. It could also have been better, but Ultra Magnus cannot waste time focusing on what-ifs and what-could-have-been. Simply what can be done next.

Ultra Magnus grunts softly. The gratitude is appreciated in turn, even if he does not see himself as needing it. He could not turn his back to this.

"Is there anything or anyone I can get for you?"

"No, but thank you. Someone should be along shortly."

If anything he'll see--or at least hear and feel--Vandal again sometime soon, when she stops to run yet another systems check.

"I appreciate you stopping by, Magnus. And thank you for containing Overlord."

He can try to have faith in Magnus's ability to keep Overlord contained. Maybe if he focuses on that hard enough he'll start to believe it.

The amount of time Drift has spent in the Medibay meant he'd gotten pretty good at knowing the layout, the medic hours, and how to move through it unnoticed.

He paused in the doorway, for a long moment, just to watch. He couldn't begin to describe how he'd felt when he'd seen Overlord's broadcast, or anything he'd felt since...just one long agonized mental scream of 'Perceptor!'.

He whispered the name now, as if the sound would make Perceptor real and whole and make everything better.

Perceptor snaps out of his thoughts at the sound of a voice, soft and barely discernible but certainly there. He's taken to relying heavily on sound, lacking most of his main senses as he is, and the slightest noise out of routine makes him tense and turn his head.

"Hello?"

He's immediately disgusted by the fear that creeps into his voice, the uncertainty, and his vocalizer crackles softly as he tries to bring some sense of strength to his words.

"Is someone there?"

Well, there's what you were looking for, Drift. He stepped into the room. "It's me. Drift." He cleared his vocalizer. He's really not good at this. "I just wanted to, uh, see you."

Not like this, though. It hurts to see Perceptor like this. But it must hurt more to BE Perceptor right now. Drift couldn't imagine how he'd react with those injuries.

"Drift." A tiny bit of warm creeps into his voice, a little genuine pleasure at seeing--or more accurately not seeing--the mech. Drift's voice is most clear of those he recalls from the rescue, and it's Drift's hands he remembers best, gathering him up, before he blacked out.

There's so much he wants to say, so much he can't say, that he falters, vocalizer rasping as he starts, then cuts himself off. Starts. Stops.

"I never had the chance to thank you." He finally manages, trying to smile, lopsided from the fresh patch job on his facial mesh.

Drift edges closer. He's seen injured before, terrible injuries, but nothing like this. He was used to combat injuries, not torture. The injuries Perceptor had were slow, methodical, and done to maximize pain. It was beyond Drift's understanding.

"Don't need to thank me. I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner." His voice is unsteady: mostly, he's just glad Perceptor's still alive. There was a while back then when he hadn't been.

"You came. That's what matters." It's what Perceptor clings to, foolishly, that Drift came for him. Rescued him.

Again.

"Were you damaged? Have you seen a medic?" It's easier to talk about Drift than it is to focus on himself, desperate for any sort of distraction from dwelling on what Overlord did.

"...of course I came." A statement of fact.

"I wish you'd've told me you were going after him." He's not trying to assign blame, or hurt. But they could have done it together. They might have stood a better chance. And how else, he thinks, would Perceptor have ended up near Overlord?

"I'm fine. Nothing serious."

"It was a little more complicated than that. I had no initial intention of interacting with Overlord in the slightest, but he took me by surprise."

His voice is carefully calm, neutral. Nothing that might give away the sick feeling that courses through him as he thinks back to his encounter with Overlord. He's quick to shift the focus back to Drift.

"If you're harmed, I'm sure Vandal can assist you. She can't be far, if you'd like to find her after you're done here."

"I just...I feel like I should have known. Like I let you down." His hand hovers over Perceptor's chassis, wanting to touch him, just to reassure himself.

"No, I'm fine. Really." And even if he wasn't, he wouldn't complain, compared to Perceptor's injuries. Right this is going disastrously.

"I don't think I thanked you for, you know, the Badlands." That was a good memory, right? He hoped.

"You did nothing of the sort, Drift. It's more than enough that you came for me at all."

He wants to reach out, to tug the other mech into an embrace, to show some measure of his thanks, but hampered as he is he can only smile in the direction (he hopes) of Drift.

"There's nothing to thank me for. I enjoyed assisting you. It was a welcome chance to work along side you again."

Drift wishes he could be as easy on himself as Perceptor is. Because he should have done more, gotten there sooner, something.

"I'm glad I got you out of there, though." At least there's that. He'd gotten Perceptor free and here and...he hoped that was a tic, big or small.

The smile is off quite a few degrees, aiming at the door over Drift's shoulder. And Drift can't take that anymore, the whole 'hey let's pretend everything's just awesome' thing. Because this is not awesome. At all. He steps closer, stroking one hand down Perceptor's cheek.

"Still," he says, quietly, "It means a lot. Not a lot of others, well...trust me." And to be honest, the other way, also: he doesn't trust too many others to get his back the way he did Perceptor. "Maybe we can do it again sometime." Frag, that's lame, but he hopes the meaning's clear. He wants things to be, well, normally bad again and not this--abnormally bad.

It's been a hellish couple of days since it went down. For Vandal and the medics, nothing but work. For them, it's no big deal. For her, a human, who needs sleep, needs food, needs time to sit, it's been less than ideal. She hadn't really spared it a thought until she'd nearly blacked out arms-deep in a mech.

Sourly, she'd been forced to take a break for a time. She retired to the rest of the ward, thinking perhaps she could still be useful elsewhere. A systems check on Perceptor, who has had many more systems checks from her than is really needed. There's something sickening about seeing him like this, but it's far from the worst thing she's witnessed.

Still. It hurts. She climbs up the berth, announcing her presence with a soft 'hello' before smoothing a hand over his cheek.

"Percy...?" She almost whispers. She wonders if he can smell her. Covered in oil, transmission fluid and various other substances, not to mention she hasn't showered in two days.

"Hey."

Movement. For a moment he tenses in pure instinct, still half expecting violence, but it's easy to discern who it is. Light steps, too light to be one of his species, and few mechs are small enough to need to clamber up. Her step is light compared to Overlord's heavy footfalls.

He turns his face towards her, half seeking the touch and half out of habit, even if he can't see her. He can indeed smell her, a mix of smells he'd rather forget and her own scent that, while perhaps a little ripe by human standards, is uniquely her and in its own way comforting.

"Vandal."

His voice crackles slightly, vocalizer still partially shot from. Well. Overlord. He's... He wants to say he's happy to see her, and part of him is, but part of him is also mortified that she's seeing him like this. A mess. A failure.

"Have you rested?"

He knows they've been working hard. That he's not the only casualty. She'd been learning from the medics, of course they'd have her working alongside them. He's heard her coming and going, not to mention the numerous checks she's made on him, the work she's done.

"Yes," She lies, but sometimes people need comforting lies. Simple ones like that don't hurt. This is her rest time. She strokes down his helm, scratching lightly under his chin.

"Need anything? You hungry maybe?" Shes not going to ask if he's okay. That's a stupid question. Her tone is unusual. Almost mothering, almost. Though she's not the maternal type. She's trying.

"I could read to you or play some music for you." She can't stand to see him like this. And he looks so sad. He has every reason to be.

Carefully she leans down and presses a kiss top the bridge of his nose, a habit she'd taken up with Wing and Drift.

"We'll have you fixed up in no time, babe. You'll see."

He can hear in her voice that she's tired, but he doesn't press her. He trusts, hopes, that she's alright. Besides, he doesn't want to ruin this with accusations.

"At the moment I am not particularly hungry. Perhaps in a little bit." In truth, the idea of consuming anything right now makes him feel ill. Logically he knows this is simply a result of prolonged stress, that he needs to keep up his energon intake to fuel his self-repair systems, but logic is not his current priority.

"Whatever you choose. I am simply pleased to have your company."

This, at least, is honesty. It's good to have her near, to hear her voice, to have some sort of semblance of normalcy however minute. He wants nothing more than to scoop her up and hold her to him, to cradle her like some sort of protective charm, but for now her proximity is enough.

"Ok. You haven't had anything in several hours, so I'll let you wait two more, but then you have to, alright?" She's been keeping close tabs on him, she has no excuse.

"How about a book. Got a real classic loaded up here for you. I think you'll like it. To Kill a Mockingbird. And no, it's not what it says on the tin." She leaves one fleeting touch on his face before crawling carefully up to his chest, avoiding any injured areas, and curling up just under his chin.

"This ok?" She likes it here. She can hear the pulse of his spark.

Alive. She likes the sound of him being alive. Not dead and gray and sad.

Flicking open a new VI screen, she pulls up the book.

"Chapter One. When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it healed, and Jem's fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat shorter than his right; when he stood or walked, the back of his hand was at right angles to his body, his thumb parallel to his thigh. He couldn't have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt."

"If you insist." He's not going to argue it, not now.

He falls silent as she climbs up onto him, her weigh a welcome pressure on his chest, warm and solid and there. When all he has is touch and sound, having someone against him is incredibly welcome.

"It's very comfortable."

Perceptor settles in, relaxing slowly as she reads, the tension gradually ebbing from his frame as he focuses on her words, on her voice, anything but his own predicament.

She reads on. She can feel him relax slowly. Good, she thinks. Good. He deserves to be at peace after what he went through. Poor guy. It's only after she finishes the first chapter that she checks to see if he's still awake or if he'd fallen into recharge.

"Percy?" She whispers, brushing a hand over his cheek. She waits quietly for a response. If he's awake, he'll say something.

If he's awake, she'll keep reading.

It's easy to relax like this, to drift off, to let her voice soothe him into a drowsy haze. With the sensor blocks in place he already feels lighter, detached in a way, and when he isn't fighting it it's quite easy to simply slip into a doze. It's only when there's a pause in her reading that he rouses himself, head shifting slightly into the light touch of her hand as he hums a response.

"Mm..? Ah, did you ask something?"

He's a little mortified to be caught dozing when she's reading to him, afraid she might think him bored of her.

"No," She says quietly, smiling and brushing a hand over his plating soothingly, "No. Go relax. Rest. I'll be here."

Not remotely insulted. Letting him relax and doze off was kinda the point anyways. She's more flattered that she would even manage a level of comforting.

"Ah..."

He relaxes once more, letting his head rest back against the berth, focusing on the comforting weight of her on his chest. This is good. He feels, at least for the moment, some measure of safety. Enough that he can allow himself to slip back into his doze.

"Thank you."

"Any time, hun."

With him finally settled and at least somewhat at ease, she relaxes on him, taking a tiny little nap herself.

Even if he's all torn up, she still feels safe.

He can't help the others. It's too late. He was too late. It seemed no matter where he went or what he did, he couldn't keep everyone safe. They were slipping through his fingers and no matter how much he clutched with desperate hands, he couldn't save or protect then all.

But here, this was something he could do. He didn't know Perceptor very well, but that didn't matter in the end. He'd comforted the injured during the early war without even knowing their names. And this mech was friend to Drift and to Vandal. Whatever small effort he could do here would be worth it.

Assuming it was welcome. He wouldn't press if not, it's understandable to want solitary peace after great trauma.

The gentle click-hush of his smooth gait brings Wing to the door where he stops. The sight of the mech's condition makes his flight surfaces flutter in dismay. He puts as much warmth into his voice as he possibly can.

"Perceptor?" A pause, "It's Wing. I hope I'm not intruding?"

He tenses at the sound of approaching footfalls, a brief surge of panic seizing him before he calms himself, reassures himself that the footsteps are far too light to be Overlord's. He's in the medbay. He's safe.

Except he doesn't feel safe. Not blind and immobile and groggy. Not after what Overlord did. Just thinking about it makes his fuel tank roil, the meager rations he'd taken in earlier fighting to rise in his intakes.

"Wing," he starts, vocalizer crackling as he tries to steady his voice. "No, you're not."

Wing. Drift's beautiful, capable friend. Everything Perceptor can't be. Why would he come?

"Did you need something? The medics are tending to the others right now, if you're looking for them."

He hopes his voice is level, calm, conversation, but he can feel it wavering and rasping in his vocalizer.

It pained him to see this amount of violence inflicted upon another. It was far from the first time: Helping to rescue and evacuate refugees during the early war, tending to those neither side took responsibility for, meant witnessing some grisly things. But it never stopped being dismaying.

"I'm sorry, if I startled you." His tone remains soft, as if all the sharp or harsh edges have been carefully removed for safety's sake. "But no, I came to see you actually. I thought you might like some company?"

Wing hovers near the door awaiting invitation, because as with everything else, this is about choice. Even more so here: the degree of helplessness Perceptor must feel is likely immense, so even the little things matter.

"But if you would prefer to rest, I can move on, or return later."

He turns, the sightless holes where his optic should be turning to where he thinks--hopes--Wing is standing.

"I would not be opposed to company, if you will forgive my current state."

The worst of his damage has been dealt with, exposed energon lines and cabling neatly crimped, his inner workings replaced in his torso and the gaping wound sealed with temporary plating. He does not begrudge the medics for not immediately setting about reconstructing him--there are too many severely damaged mechs to deal with--but it is still a humbling, terrifying experience to lay blind and limbless on a berth, at the mercy of any who might pass by. He feels exposed like this, afraid, but at the same time he's craves the company of friends, even if they are merely friends of friends.

"No forgiveness is necessary." He says warmly.

Wing enters, flight panels shuffling softly as he approaches. He does his best to let sound announce his actions, so Perceptor can track him.

"Can I get you anything? To ease the hurt or pass the time?" It's clear his meaning goes beyond physical pain. Medics could tend to the frame and apply sensor blocks, but the body was only a portion of a mech's being.

"No request is too big or too small." Assuming it's within Wing's power, though that does go without saying. Wing wants to impress that it's no trouble, if anything, it's part of why he's here.

Perceptor is grateful for the noise, if only because it allows him to feel some faint grasp of his surroundings. His head tilts slightly as Wing approaches, trying to follow where he judges the other mech to be standing.

"Your company is more than enough, but thank you."

He can't think of anything else he wants, honestly. All he could ask for his proximity and... perhaps contact, but that is beyond his ability to ask for. He's too shy, too prideful, to be caught acting so childishly.

"I... Would like to talk, if that is alright. Conversation is one of the few pastimes I have at my disposal."

"That's an easy request to fulfill. And gladly at that." It's what Wing is here for so knowing he can be helpful, even in this most basic of ways, is gratifying.

Wing perches with one hip on the side of the berth, close enough that his presence can be felt through his field, chaste and comforting.

"That I can certainly do. Given our life experiences are so different, I'm sure we have plenty of things to share that are of interest."

That faint sensation, the brush of another EM field, is comfort enough that Perceptor relaxes slightly, some of the tension easing from his... well, torso.

"Would you be willing to tell me about where you're from? What you did there?"

It seems like a safe enough topic, one that will take his mind off things and satisfy his curiosity at the same time.

Wing can gratefully sense some of that easement through Perceptor's EM field: it's one of the benefits of his training, being a master of his frame and the space it occupies.

The knight smiles and its warmth can be heard in his voice. "I'd be happy to. It's not something I speak of much, mostly because I know it may not be a comfortable subject for some." It was like flaunting good fortune while also asking for recrimination for abandoning the war. But Perceptor seems honestly curious and Wing will never cease being proud of the Circle's accomplishments.

"When it became clear how far the war could stretch, we sought a remote world on which to seek refuge. Theophany was new, just an alpha-numeric on a star chart then. The planet is not terribly hospitable to organics and was unoccupied at the time, making it suitable for our needs. It seemed to beckon us though. Even from space the blonde sandy dunes when lit by a trio of suns made the world look like it was gilded with light, earning the planet its name." It's a pleasant memory for Wing, seeing golden Theophany from the cruiser's bridge after searching for a suitable home for so long. "We took it as a sign, and settled in the planet's embrace, deep underground where it was cool and easy to avoid detection."

There's a richness to Wing's descriptions, making it easy to get lost in the other mech's voice, to focus on him rather than himself. While not normally one to indulge in storytelling, his finds himself eager to engross himself in Wing's tale of place he's never seen.

"It sounds beautiful. What was life there like?"

He can't quite keep an edge of eagerness out of his voice, almost desperate to hear more.

Wing can't help but smile at that eagerness; he enjoys telling the tale, so to have it well received is gratifying.

"The city was designed akin to what were used to on Cybertron, but light and bright to make up for the lack of open space. However society had to be different, not just because we knew the former system had failed, but out of sheer necessity." It's still interesting to him, that their efforts went into preserving Cybertronian culture, yet they had to leave behind the one thing that defined so much of contemporary life.

"You see, during the early war, the Circle focused on rescuing non-combatants and other neutrals, and when we left among the refugees were many scientists, scholars, historians and artisans. Most of the manual classes had taken up arms. When it came time to build on Theophany, that meant all of us had to work, knight, intellectual or other, regardless of class. Survival became the great equalizer."

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And this is where I shotgun you with headcanon.

Delicious headcanon.

:D