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HOLY SHIT I'M NOT DEAD
I'm enjoying a sudden burst of writing again. If you've missed me for some reason, I'm still shitposting over on Twitter as @leximuth. But hey look, I'm writing again for the first time in years??
Title: Field Aid
Series: Transformers IDW/Lost Light
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, trauma, graphic surgical procedure
Wordcount: 1536
"I don't think," Swerve gasped, "that I'm gonna, um, make it back to the ship."
Whirl ducked back behind the upturned display of some organic's market stall that was serving as surprisingly adequate cover. Laser fire splattered tiny dots of molten metal over Swerve's head. Tin, Whirl noted with distaste. The organic had definitely been claiming it was solid platinum, not plated.
"Well, stop dying." That pretty much covered Whirl's thoughts on the whole... Swerve situation.
Swerve did not, somehow, find that advice useful. He continued to bleed out all over Whirl's feet, optics bleaching out in panic. "Oh shit, I'm dying? I'm dying. I kinda figured but it's um. Something else to hear it from a guy who knows what dying looks like. I was just uh. Trying to sound cool about not being able to walk right now. Because I'm dizzy, not..."
"Yeah, that's the fluid loss," Whirl told him. The laser fire had a rhythm to it - security drones, not actual officers, then. He took a couple potshots over the display to keep them locked into their current mode for a minute. He could work in short bursts; he'd have to until backup showed up. IF backup showed up. Rodimus talked big about no bot left behind but rescues were never that easy. Not that Whirl needed to be rescued. Swerve though...
Swerve was ventilating in gasps between long pauses, a sudden rush of gurgling fans and then silence. No huge obvious wounds, more's the pity - Whirl knew how to staunch a gushing wound, who didn't? But this was tiny pinpricks and leaking joints. Internal bleeding from shrapnel. Perfect.
"Alright, here's what we're gonna do," Whirl said. He paused to take another volley of wild shots; one of the drones squealed and went down. A good luck omen, awesome! "I'm gonna take these big ol' Whirl claws, jam them into your transformation seams, and tear you open."
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT," Swerve asked in an entirely reasonable tone of voice.
Someone else's plasma rifle ripped across the street and a familiar voice yelled a challenge at the drones. Whirl popped his head up - no medibots come to the rescue, slag it to the Core and back. But at least it was his own side even if they were useless on the Operation Save Swerve front. "Well, I gotta get at your insides. People keep the really gushy bits inside their armor, you know? And I really only know the one way of getting inside people."
"THIS IS NOT OKAY," Swerve said and alright, that was less reasonable, Whirl was trying here.
"Hey, I'm trying here," Whirl told him, and that was pretty much it because then he did the tearing open thing.
Okay, maybe calling it tearing open was overstating it, but he had kinda hoped Swerve would faint or something like in the movies instead of all this screaming. No one said field aid was so LOUD. But the laser fire wasn't peppering their shelter at least, redirected to the reinforcements. So Whirl kept his optic back from that one really gushing coolant line and took a hard look at Swerve's gushy bits.
Obvious problem: gushy things gushing. Whirl tossed his rifle onto a puddle of melted supposedly-solid-platinum and got both claws in there, prying Swerve's belly plates up a little farther with a dual shriek of metal and voice. The thrashing was definitely not making things easy; he swung a leg over Swerve's face to pin him down. Better. He pinched the worst of the gushing lines and grabbed the rifle again, getting the still-hot barrel into Swerve's guts before the definitely-not-platinum-but-totally-lead cooled, dripping and smearing it awkwardly over the rent line. Then the next, and the next, until the gushing was just a slow seep. Swerve's voice cracked and fell silent. Whirl checked real quick - yeah, spark still spinning. Finally out cold was all.
The laser fire was winding down; the part of his thoughts still listening to the fight figured just one drone left. Good. Whirl squinted into Swerve, trying to catch sight of the shrapnel that had been the problem in the first place. He wasn't gonna be able to get it out in the field, that was medbay surgery business, but transporting a casualty required a stabilized casualty. He'd picked up that much from Ratchet's eternal scolding, at least. "Not actively dying faster than the trip to the medbay" apparently didn't count as stable.
Aaaaand that was shrapnel in a fuel pump. Frag him backwards. Whirl tried to remember the insides of a fuel pump - was that one of the chambers? A valve? A supply line? He'd only pulled apart two of the fiddly things with any attention to detail and that had been before he got on the Lost Light and he really hadn't been paying enough attention to do field surgery and Swerve was probably running low on bodily fluids at this point and all the damn patching and screaming and shooting was going to be for --
Ratchet's hand landed heavy on his shoulder, gave him a weird squeeze, and then moved into Swerve's chest and started molding plastigel around the shrapnel, steadily stabilizing each piece before moving on methodically to the next. It seemed like an instant before he was transforming, back hatch open, calm voice directing Whirl to slide their patient (their fragging patient, like that was a thing they had in common, like that was a thing at all) onto a slab and pull him in and then they were going.
"You did good," Ratchet said, still mild and calm.
"I'm gonna hurl," Whirl told him. It had been a while since he'd last ridden in a wheeled transport. Potholes sucked. At least turbulence didn't smack his head into a too-low ceiling.
"Don't you slagging dare," Ratchet said, so he didn't. The frag was he doing in Ratchet anyway, hunched over next to Swerve's limp body, staring at the damn plastigel in fury because he had the same thing in his own subspace and he'd just forgotten.
He'd worked into a nice peeve when the back hatch opened and First Aid was there, field bright in a chipper smile, and then it was Whirl can you get his shoulders, Whirl take this clamp, Whirl pinch that leak, until suddenly it wasn't. Swerve was still out cold but whole, Ratchet finishing up a last weld where Whirl's claws had dug too hard into his chestplate, and First Aid had a hand on Whirl's upper arm and was gently guiding him to a stool.
"Here, let me help you wash up," First Aid said, and it was weird how suddenly everything was normal speed. He hadn't realized it wasn't. First Aid had the sense not to go for his claws at least - almost worse, he went for the head, quickly wiping a spatter off Whirl's optic.
Whirl shuttered his optic rapidly, shaking off the touch, but Aid was still in sped-up-time or something because those hands kept gently touching him, a brief moment on his chin or finial or throat, and every time he flinched away it was delayed or something because First Aid's hands were already where he was flinching to until he gave up on flinching altogether and just endured it.
"You did great," Aid told him earnestly. Whirl was getting more praise from having had his claws in an Autobot's guts than he did his whole time in the Wreckers. "Swerve wouldn't have made it without you. You did a good job with what you had available-"
"I have plastigel," Whirl interrupted, suddenly mad.
Ratchet's hand fell on his shoulder (again, what was with all this touching) and First Aid took advantage of his automatic flinch to start on the claws. Sneaky. But Ratchet just told him, "You'll remember it next time," and fetched his own cleansing cloths to start detailing the energon and soft lead from his fingers.
First Aid made a noise of agreement, spreading Whirl's claws to get at their hinges. He could just squeeze and... "The first time's the toughest. Field surgery is never easy, but it gets easier."
"Datapad next to you has instructions on how to gain frame access," Ratchet said, then added "and if you want practice at it, Brainstorm's coming in for a coolant line replacement tomorrow. Leg line, nothing too fiddly." As if that were a thing that made sense.
First Aid finally let him go, sitting back with a considering look that made Whirl bristle automatically. "We can always use more healers," he said gently.
"I kill Cons," Whirl snarled. Neither of them flinched at that, or when he burst onto his feet with his rotors rattling.
"Just think about it," Ratchet said, and First Aid held out the rust-licking datapad as if it were a gift.
"Get bent." Whirl spun on a heel and left. Slag them, the Medibay, Swerve, and the entire circuit-bending ship. Enough of this disgusting well-meaning slag about him finding meaning or trying new things or whatever slag dripped out of their mouths when Whirl's very existence offended them.
He tucked the snatched datapad against his side, though.
He'd remember the damn plastigel next time.
Title: Field Aid
Series: Transformers IDW/Lost Light
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence, trauma, graphic surgical procedure
Wordcount: 1536
"I don't think," Swerve gasped, "that I'm gonna, um, make it back to the ship."
Whirl ducked back behind the upturned display of some organic's market stall that was serving as surprisingly adequate cover. Laser fire splattered tiny dots of molten metal over Swerve's head. Tin, Whirl noted with distaste. The organic had definitely been claiming it was solid platinum, not plated.
"Well, stop dying." That pretty much covered Whirl's thoughts on the whole... Swerve situation.
Swerve did not, somehow, find that advice useful. He continued to bleed out all over Whirl's feet, optics bleaching out in panic. "Oh shit, I'm dying? I'm dying. I kinda figured but it's um. Something else to hear it from a guy who knows what dying looks like. I was just uh. Trying to sound cool about not being able to walk right now. Because I'm dizzy, not..."
"Yeah, that's the fluid loss," Whirl told him. The laser fire had a rhythm to it - security drones, not actual officers, then. He took a couple potshots over the display to keep them locked into their current mode for a minute. He could work in short bursts; he'd have to until backup showed up. IF backup showed up. Rodimus talked big about no bot left behind but rescues were never that easy. Not that Whirl needed to be rescued. Swerve though...
Swerve was ventilating in gasps between long pauses, a sudden rush of gurgling fans and then silence. No huge obvious wounds, more's the pity - Whirl knew how to staunch a gushing wound, who didn't? But this was tiny pinpricks and leaking joints. Internal bleeding from shrapnel. Perfect.
"Alright, here's what we're gonna do," Whirl said. He paused to take another volley of wild shots; one of the drones squealed and went down. A good luck omen, awesome! "I'm gonna take these big ol' Whirl claws, jam them into your transformation seams, and tear you open."
"WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT," Swerve asked in an entirely reasonable tone of voice.
Someone else's plasma rifle ripped across the street and a familiar voice yelled a challenge at the drones. Whirl popped his head up - no medibots come to the rescue, slag it to the Core and back. But at least it was his own side even if they were useless on the Operation Save Swerve front. "Well, I gotta get at your insides. People keep the really gushy bits inside their armor, you know? And I really only know the one way of getting inside people."
"THIS IS NOT OKAY," Swerve said and alright, that was less reasonable, Whirl was trying here.
"Hey, I'm trying here," Whirl told him, and that was pretty much it because then he did the tearing open thing.
Okay, maybe calling it tearing open was overstating it, but he had kinda hoped Swerve would faint or something like in the movies instead of all this screaming. No one said field aid was so LOUD. But the laser fire wasn't peppering their shelter at least, redirected to the reinforcements. So Whirl kept his optic back from that one really gushing coolant line and took a hard look at Swerve's gushy bits.
Obvious problem: gushy things gushing. Whirl tossed his rifle onto a puddle of melted supposedly-solid-platinum and got both claws in there, prying Swerve's belly plates up a little farther with a dual shriek of metal and voice. The thrashing was definitely not making things easy; he swung a leg over Swerve's face to pin him down. Better. He pinched the worst of the gushing lines and grabbed the rifle again, getting the still-hot barrel into Swerve's guts before the definitely-not-platinum-but-totally-lead cooled, dripping and smearing it awkwardly over the rent line. Then the next, and the next, until the gushing was just a slow seep. Swerve's voice cracked and fell silent. Whirl checked real quick - yeah, spark still spinning. Finally out cold was all.
The laser fire was winding down; the part of his thoughts still listening to the fight figured just one drone left. Good. Whirl squinted into Swerve, trying to catch sight of the shrapnel that had been the problem in the first place. He wasn't gonna be able to get it out in the field, that was medbay surgery business, but transporting a casualty required a stabilized casualty. He'd picked up that much from Ratchet's eternal scolding, at least. "Not actively dying faster than the trip to the medbay" apparently didn't count as stable.
Aaaaand that was shrapnel in a fuel pump. Frag him backwards. Whirl tried to remember the insides of a fuel pump - was that one of the chambers? A valve? A supply line? He'd only pulled apart two of the fiddly things with any attention to detail and that had been before he got on the Lost Light and he really hadn't been paying enough attention to do field surgery and Swerve was probably running low on bodily fluids at this point and all the damn patching and screaming and shooting was going to be for --
Ratchet's hand landed heavy on his shoulder, gave him a weird squeeze, and then moved into Swerve's chest and started molding plastigel around the shrapnel, steadily stabilizing each piece before moving on methodically to the next. It seemed like an instant before he was transforming, back hatch open, calm voice directing Whirl to slide their patient (their fragging patient, like that was a thing they had in common, like that was a thing at all) onto a slab and pull him in and then they were going.
"You did good," Ratchet said, still mild and calm.
"I'm gonna hurl," Whirl told him. It had been a while since he'd last ridden in a wheeled transport. Potholes sucked. At least turbulence didn't smack his head into a too-low ceiling.
"Don't you slagging dare," Ratchet said, so he didn't. The frag was he doing in Ratchet anyway, hunched over next to Swerve's limp body, staring at the damn plastigel in fury because he had the same thing in his own subspace and he'd just forgotten.
He'd worked into a nice peeve when the back hatch opened and First Aid was there, field bright in a chipper smile, and then it was Whirl can you get his shoulders, Whirl take this clamp, Whirl pinch that leak, until suddenly it wasn't. Swerve was still out cold but whole, Ratchet finishing up a last weld where Whirl's claws had dug too hard into his chestplate, and First Aid had a hand on Whirl's upper arm and was gently guiding him to a stool.
"Here, let me help you wash up," First Aid said, and it was weird how suddenly everything was normal speed. He hadn't realized it wasn't. First Aid had the sense not to go for his claws at least - almost worse, he went for the head, quickly wiping a spatter off Whirl's optic.
Whirl shuttered his optic rapidly, shaking off the touch, but Aid was still in sped-up-time or something because those hands kept gently touching him, a brief moment on his chin or finial or throat, and every time he flinched away it was delayed or something because First Aid's hands were already where he was flinching to until he gave up on flinching altogether and just endured it.
"You did great," Aid told him earnestly. Whirl was getting more praise from having had his claws in an Autobot's guts than he did his whole time in the Wreckers. "Swerve wouldn't have made it without you. You did a good job with what you had available-"
"I have plastigel," Whirl interrupted, suddenly mad.
Ratchet's hand fell on his shoulder (again, what was with all this touching) and First Aid took advantage of his automatic flinch to start on the claws. Sneaky. But Ratchet just told him, "You'll remember it next time," and fetched his own cleansing cloths to start detailing the energon and soft lead from his fingers.
First Aid made a noise of agreement, spreading Whirl's claws to get at their hinges. He could just squeeze and... "The first time's the toughest. Field surgery is never easy, but it gets easier."
"Datapad next to you has instructions on how to gain frame access," Ratchet said, then added "and if you want practice at it, Brainstorm's coming in for a coolant line replacement tomorrow. Leg line, nothing too fiddly." As if that were a thing that made sense.
First Aid finally let him go, sitting back with a considering look that made Whirl bristle automatically. "We can always use more healers," he said gently.
"I kill Cons," Whirl snarled. Neither of them flinched at that, or when he burst onto his feet with his rotors rattling.
"Just think about it," Ratchet said, and First Aid held out the rust-licking datapad as if it were a gift.
"Get bent." Whirl spun on a heel and left. Slag them, the Medibay, Swerve, and the entire circuit-bending ship. Enough of this disgusting well-meaning slag about him finding meaning or trying new things or whatever slag dripped out of their mouths when Whirl's very existence offended them.
He tucked the snatched datapad against his side, though.
He'd remember the damn plastigel next time.