Fic: Broken Washracks
Aug. 27th, 2011 08:16 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
applecrumbleTitle: Broken Washracks
Characters: Arcee (small bit of Bumblebee and Cliffjumper)
Rating: K+
Summary: After the events of Darkness Rising, Arcee grieves.
Warnings: Angst angst! Oh the angst >.< AND SPOILERS. For serious.
“Go take a decontamination bath. Now.”
Arcee was only half conscious of Bumblebee’s hand on her back as he led her away. She wasn’t sure she’d have moved if he hadn’t. Her mind was numb and still spinning from the rancid liquid on her hand.
She stopped when a serious of beeps to her right chimed. Arcee looked up to meet Bumblebee’s large blue orbs surveying her with clear concern. She didn’t smile but offered a soft pat to his arm in reassurance.
“I’m fine Bee. You head back.”
He hesitated before giving a slow nod and turning back to the control-room. She sighed silently, stepping through the door and letting it slide shut behind her.
Almost blindly she made her way across the wash-room, bypassing the wash-rack cubicles to head straight to the decontamination chamber. She punched in the cleaning sequence and stepped in.
A second later, searing hot water spilled down onto her from above. The liquid’s cleaning properties were reinforced by the addition of several chemicals. Were a human to step under the water, they would begin to corrode within seconds. For her, it was like a treatment that had been long overdue.
She lifted her hand into view, watching the water trickle over the metal and wear away at the purple slime. Arcee sighed and let her helm fall back slightly, content to just let the chamber do its work.
When the cleaning sequence had ended, the driers clicked into action. Within moments they were throwing hot air at her frame from all directions. The condensation on the glass began to clear and the wash-racks on the far end of the room came into view. The door from one lay open enough for her to see it had been damaged.
She squinted. The hose was bent almost in half, dangling away from the wall with water still leaking from the broken pipes out onto the floor. When had that-
A sick feeling hit her fuel pump like an Eradicon punch.
“Ah scrap!”
Arcee cocked her helm towards the cubicle next to her.
“Problems?”
Cliffjumper growled.
“It’s givin’ me nothin’ but cold water in here! How the heck do I make it hot?!”
A sound like snapping metal and ‘…scrap’ sounded. She shook her helm.
“My guess is, not that way.”
“Heh… I’ll fix that.”
“Right.”
“No need to tell Ratch’ or Prime right?”
Arcee rolled her optics, quirking the subtlest of smiles.
“Cross my spark Cliff.”
She stood outside the cubicle now, drying sequence over. The hose remained broken. He’d never fixed it. It had been less than a week ago. She’d never said anything to Prime or Ratchet.
Arcee crossed her arms and ducked her helm. Cliff had been a soldier. A great soldier. Soldiers die. Most die young. It could have just as easily been her, or Bee, or Bulkhead.
She was a soldier. She couldn’t let herself succumb to…
A stifled hitch of intakes rent the air.
“….S-scrap.”
She held a hand over her face, optics shuttered tight. No. Not now. Not…
Arcee’s shoulders shook with a silent sob and she clenched her jaw. Her optics slid back open a fraction, their light dim. She quickly wiped away some moisture that had gathered under them. It reformed again soon after.
“Scrap”, she whispered again.
Characters: Arcee (small bit of Bumblebee and Cliffjumper)
Rating: K+
Summary: After the events of Darkness Rising, Arcee grieves.
Warnings: Angst angst! Oh the angst >.< AND SPOILERS. For serious.
“Go take a decontamination bath. Now.”
Arcee was only half conscious of Bumblebee’s hand on her back as he led her away. She wasn’t sure she’d have moved if he hadn’t. Her mind was numb and still spinning from the rancid liquid on her hand.
She stopped when a serious of beeps to her right chimed. Arcee looked up to meet Bumblebee’s large blue orbs surveying her with clear concern. She didn’t smile but offered a soft pat to his arm in reassurance.
“I’m fine Bee. You head back.”
He hesitated before giving a slow nod and turning back to the control-room. She sighed silently, stepping through the door and letting it slide shut behind her.
Almost blindly she made her way across the wash-room, bypassing the wash-rack cubicles to head straight to the decontamination chamber. She punched in the cleaning sequence and stepped in.
A second later, searing hot water spilled down onto her from above. The liquid’s cleaning properties were reinforced by the addition of several chemicals. Were a human to step under the water, they would begin to corrode within seconds. For her, it was like a treatment that had been long overdue.
She lifted her hand into view, watching the water trickle over the metal and wear away at the purple slime. Arcee sighed and let her helm fall back slightly, content to just let the chamber do its work.
When the cleaning sequence had ended, the driers clicked into action. Within moments they were throwing hot air at her frame from all directions. The condensation on the glass began to clear and the wash-racks on the far end of the room came into view. The door from one lay open enough for her to see it had been damaged.
She squinted. The hose was bent almost in half, dangling away from the wall with water still leaking from the broken pipes out onto the floor. When had that-
A sick feeling hit her fuel pump like an Eradicon punch.
“Ah scrap!”
Arcee cocked her helm towards the cubicle next to her.
“Problems?”
Cliffjumper growled.
“It’s givin’ me nothin’ but cold water in here! How the heck do I make it hot?!”
A sound like snapping metal and ‘…scrap’ sounded. She shook her helm.
“My guess is, not that way.”
“Heh… I’ll fix that.”
“Right.”
“No need to tell Ratch’ or Prime right?”
Arcee rolled her optics, quirking the subtlest of smiles.
“Cross my spark Cliff.”
She stood outside the cubicle now, drying sequence over. The hose remained broken. He’d never fixed it. It had been less than a week ago. She’d never said anything to Prime or Ratchet.
Arcee crossed her arms and ducked her helm. Cliff had been a soldier. A great soldier. Soldiers die. Most die young. It could have just as easily been her, or Bee, or Bulkhead.
She was a soldier. She couldn’t let herself succumb to…
A stifled hitch of intakes rent the air.
“….S-scrap.”
She held a hand over her face, optics shuttered tight. No. Not now. Not…
Arcee’s shoulders shook with a silent sob and she clenched her jaw. Her optics slid back open a fraction, their light dim. She quickly wiped away some moisture that had gathered under them. It reformed again soon after.
“Scrap”, she whispered again.
