by Yankee0 » Thu Feb 08, 2018 6:41 pm
Blades reclined in his chair, staring vacantly ahead at the bare, rusted walls. The other patrons of the inn were conspicuously avoiding his gaze, and despite the pub being rather empty in general, the wide berth given by all towards the lone Protectobot was very noticeable.
For the last 20 Earth minutes, Blades had sat in silence, barely moving aside from to take the odd sip from his glass. His tipple for the evening reflected his mood, a bitter drink which the bar tender would vehemently deny contained even the merest trace of dark energon should anyone in a position of authority ask. Indeed it was only the look on Blade’s face that prompted the bar tender to decide that the Protectobot was not merely making a test purchase when he ordered the drink.
Blades sighed in dissatisfaction. After five similar inns, each with a seedier reputation and clientele than the last, he was clearly not going to get what he came here for after all. Clearly the rumours of a lone Protectobot had permeated his current haunt. They started as jokes “An Autobot walks in to a bar.... Ouch” but as the root of the tales became apparent, it transpired that the Autobot was not the one saying ouch. Tales of bots, broken after making the mistake committing acts of indiscretion in the presence of the lone stranger, of crushed diodes, broken limbs and energon spattered walls. Never the aggressor but always the most aggressive, Blades’ legend had grown amongst those who frequented such dives and this was the source of his frustration
He could pinpoint the exact moment it happened to within a the blink of a spark. In this case said spark blinked and never shone again, as Blades tries everything he could to revive his fallen comrade, alone for what felt like eons until his fellow Protectobots arrived to assist him. But by then it was too late.
There was a glimmer of hope, First Aid had taken the near-sparkless shell of the fallen bot onboard and had managed to sustain him, long enough to get him back to the repair bay and to Ratchet, already waiting to receive him. Blades had allowed himself to hope. To believe that everything would be alright. He had stood vigil outside the repair bay, eagerly awaiting the good news, that his friend was safe, that he had saved him and that everything would be alright. And then he had seen the look on Ratchet’s face. Heard him say "I’m sorry but he did not make it. Your friend...."
By Primus! Blades silently exclaimed. I can’t even let his name flash through my cognitive processor. The merest thought of that day, that moment, sent a feeling through him as if he had been hit with a null ray. Indeed the first time it had happened, he had genuinely believed that he was under attack arming his weapons in an attempt to fight an enemy that existed only in his head. Had... his friend fallen in battle, that would have been something he could deal with, he had seen it before and would likely see it again. But on a what should have been a pleasant jaunt through a particularly scenic, if rather adventurous, part of the Sea of Rust, to fall from a mere malfunction – a build up on the main conduit causing a blockage preventing the flow of energon to the spark according to Ratchet – was unimaginable.
Since this day, Blades had suffered. During the most innocuous moments, he would suddenly feel a sense of doom spreading through him, often accompanied with physical sensations within his central chassis. He knew rationally that nothing was wrong, yet the feeling knew no bounds, consumed him and it was all he could do not to let the other Protectobots realise what was occurring, for whilst he loved them as comrades in arms, even as brothers, the only deeper fear he felt than the infernal, irrational dread was that one day, whilst their minds were merged when combined as Defensor, his darkest secret would be revealed.
For Blades only felt safe when he should not. The feeling of the energon flowing, rushing, cascading through his conduits as he faced situations that no sane bot should, where the overwhelming odds forced him to adopt a laser-like focus upon which the bad thoughts could not intrude. And that was why he came to bars, in bad parts of town, and sat alone, waiting.
A sudden noise caused Blades to snap out of his reverie, and from the corner of his optic he say a fresh group of rough looking bots enter the bar, clearly well over their daily recommended limit of plasma shots. He heard the bawdy comments levied towards a group of femme-bots who had clearly wandered into the wrong kind of establishment and only now begun to realise it, noted the way they shoved a pair of downtrodden looking minicons out of sheer spite. Looking down, Blades was startled to see nothing but an empty glass. By this point, one of the minicons was on the floor, nursing a torn audio receptor, as one of the newly arrived bots threatened to douse him in his lubricant. Musing upon how easily he had unconsciously emptied his cup, Blades thought for what must have been the hundredth time that maybe he should get Perceptor to take a look inside his cranial cavity for any loose wires. But before that, there was always time for one more round...
