TF - Mesh Wounds

Title: TF - Mesh Wounds
Rating: G (Major Character Injury)
Relationships: Multi
Summary: Engarde isn't the only martyr on the team; Blowtorch has been overprotective from the start and he thinks none of them have noticed. Now he has some explaining to do.
 

Blowtorch was always throwing himself into the line of fire. The upside was that it worked; the downside was that he could never inform his teammates of it. The habit undoubtedly went back to the battle where he’d lost his sight, though one optic had since been repaired. The other loss in that battle, his mechling, would never heal and he didn’t expect it to, but it was at least a reason for his need to intervene.

It was rare that Screwloose was out in the field but when he was, it was easy to see when he needed someone to watch his back. His first weapon of choice was his vibrational disruptor, but that could work against him; it muffled his senses so he wouldn’t see something coming. Then his grid guns came out and made the situation as clear as an S.O.S. written in the sky: Help me.

Nightspeed was a different matter. He didn’t need protecting per se—and he could easily put down anyone who implied otherwise—but in the nanoklik before and after he found his sniping perch, when he was looking for a target, he was just distracted enough for a surprise to be a risk and Blowtorch would be gladly be fragged instead if it spared his Amica getting hurt.

Pacemaker rarely needed help; as a combat medic, he was trained to know how and where to move when he was in the field, but nothing was predictable. There were those instants of medical stupidity; he might refuse to move a wounded mech. The good doctor was quite vulnerable then and the Cons would take advantage of it as soon as they noticed.

Then there was Fishtail—Commander Fishtail. He tried to take far too much on himself, something Blowtorch could respect because Fishtail was trying to protect the others just as much as he was, but oftentimes it would put the Towersmech in several dangerous, idiotic positions. His rank didn’t make him invincible, after all; contrarily, it made him even more of a target.

This was how Blowtorch had ended up in the rec room at an obscene time in the morning; a couple of joors ago, the team had returned from a mission that had almost gone horribly wrong. Engarde was much better at infiltrating the medical bay while Pacemaker was in there, so Blowtorch had requested he borrow some medical supplies that the medic wouldn’t miss for treating burns.

In their last battle, Decepticon scientist Tempest had armed some drone soldiers with photon cluster bursts. Fortunately it had still been ridiculously easy to take them down—until one of them had aimed at Backscatter’s turned back. Blowtorch remembered clenching his teeth as the blast hit him; for a klik or two it had shorted the circuits in the shoulder that had taken the brunt of it.

Another blast had followed much too soon, burning with a vengeance down his side and outstretched arm, but nonetheless he’d unsheathed his vibroaxes and hit back twice as hard. There hadn’t been much left in the end and then he had separated from the others to comb the area for any stragglers. From there he’d returned to base and gone to his berthroom to file reports, thus hiding his condition until now.

As well as being the most covert mech on base, Engarde was the only mech who would treat Blowtorch’s wounds without any questions or judgments. As a fellow martyr, he could entirely sympathize with Blowtorch’s goals in battle, though both of them understood that the other felt the protection of the team was his job and his alone. Blowtorch would always remind Engarde that he outranked him, so his job held precedence, and Engarde would simply retort that he was made a bigger target because of that, just like Fishtail.

Right now, however, Engarde seemed legitimately troubled by the sight of him, suggesting he sit in a tone that informed him it wasn’t a suggestion. Blowtorch obeyed, propping an elbow on the tabletop so the guardian could examine the burns down his side  and forearm.

“From what I deem, you’re fortunate you still have use of this arm,” Engarde commented tersely.

“I’m ambidextrous,” Blowtorch answered in the same tone. Engarde said nothing more, revealing some nanite-riddled gel which he carefully swept over the officer’s side. Blowtorch grimaced but he didn’t look away or recoil, groping for the gel canister with his good hand to spread over the injured one. As Engarde heightened his sensory net to better sense the wound, Blowtorch was distracted by the hiss of his vents contracting and thus didn’t notice the hiss of the rec room doors.

“Engarde? Hey, would it be possible for me to grab a stiff…” Fishtail’s optics widened as he distinguished the two mechs at the table. “…cube?”

Engarde gave Fishtail a wordless glance and then returned to his work and Blowtorch did his best to emulate him, keeping his voice level as he called, “We’ll be done in a nanoklik and then I’ll join you for that.”

“What in the Pits happened?!” Fishtail burst out belatedly, crossing the room in a few strides and gripping Blowtorch’s shoulder in concern—the undamaged one, fortunately.

“Just a mesh wound,” Blowtorch answered indifferently. “It’s nothin’.”

“‘Nothing’ my skidplate!” Fishtail barked, surprising his SIC slightly with his tone as he glared at the streaks of blue and silver marring black paint before he straightened and jammed his audial. “Pacemaker, medical emergency in the rec room!”

“Fishtail, there’s no need for that,” Blowtorch complained. “Engarde’s—”

“Engarde’s going to answer to our medic for stealing supplies—” Fishtail gestured sharply to the nanite gel and synthetic bandages. “—and for not reporting your injuries to him and I!”

Engarde looked up with the cold, blank look which served as a warning sign that he was going to say something potentially insubordinate, so Blowtorch spoke first. “He was followin’ orders. I ordered him not t’make a report, Fishtail, because I didn’t want—”

The doors were opening again to accommodate Pacemaker’s entry but, to Blowtorch’s chagrin, he wasn’t alone.

“Pacemaker said someone was hur—Primus Almighty, Blowtorch!” Nightspeed exclaimed in horror, sprinting ahead of the medic and crouching by Engarde, reaching across to grip the larger mech’s hand, apparently uncaring that it was slimy with the gel. “What were you doing?” the TIC demanded in the accusing tone he reserved for the times Blowtorch had done something incredibly stupid; he hadn’t used it in vorns.

“Move,” Pacemaker ordered. Engarde rose to stand silently at attention and Pacemaker took his place, lathering on a second coating of the gel and assessing the worst of the damage. “You won’t be able to use this hand much; it’s badly damaged. What happened?”

“I was shot by one o’ those blasted drones in the battle, that’s what,” Blowtorch growled, doing his best not to show how the medic’s touch hurt. His optic flicked guiltily toward Backscatter, who was standing at Fishtail’s side. “She was exposed.”

Backscatter took a step back in disbelief and Nightspeed pressed further, “And you stopped it from happening? Like you do when I’m finding a perch and a target?”

Blowtorch was sure his spark seized slightly. “You know about that?”

“I’m observant, Blowtorch, and you know it. It did take me a while to notice, though, and you shouldn’t be doing that!” Nightspeed’s dark green optics flared with fiery light. “You know that too.”

“Wait, why would you put yourself in front of me?” Backscatter demanded. “I could’ve taken it and Pacemaker would’ve patched me up—”

“No, I couldn’t just let you be hit! You’d have died!” Blowtorch gestured to his burnt mesh, crying, “D’you see this? If I wasn’t who I am, I’d be dead, I sure as Pits wasn’t goin’ to let that happen t’you! What else could I do? I could either let someone die or get in its way, I chose the latter, and if I got a do-over I would choose it again.”

As he finished talking, Blowtorch clenched his optics closed, tightly enough that his broken one spat static underneath its patch, his uninjured hand coming up to clutch Pacemaker’s arm, stopping the medic’s ministrations. Pacemaker stared at him in concern.

“Sorry,” Blowtorch ground out. “Moved wrong.”

“You’re not fooling me,” Pacemaker muttered, quickly wrapping some of the synthetic bandages around the SIC’s mangled arm.

“Blowtorch,” Backscatter sighed. “This needs to stop. You are as much a part of the team as the rest of us. We’re not stupid. If you are in danger, you tell us so we can watch your back! If we get in trouble, we rely on the whole team to help, not just you.”

“Backscatter’s right,” Fishtail chimed in sternly from where he stood, seemingly watching over the whole scene. “Do you know you can count on us?”

“I know, I know,” Blowtorch spat, panting lightly as Pacemaker touched his side, just under his vents. “S’just that—gah—”

“Take a klik,” Nightspeed advised quietly.

“I know I can count on you,” Blowtorch repeated through clenched teeth. “But you’re all mine to protect. The bots I’d sacrifice myself for…It’s a small list now. If I can’t save the bots on my team, am I even worth anythin’?”

Nightspeed’s face fell for a few kliks before he shook his head minutely. “Don’t say that, ’Torch. You’re worth…everything. You don’t need to break yourself to keep us safe! What does that accomplish?”

Seeking someone who understood, Blowtorch glanced at Engarde, who met his gaze steadily but still said nothing. The others noticed the look and followed his gaze, some with confusion, others with accusation. The guardian scanned each face in turn before querying, “Should he be moved somewhere more comfortable?”

Fishtail took it upon himself to shoulder Blowtorch to the lounge, the injured mech leaning on him heavily the entire way. Backscatter led the small party, going to sit on the far end of one couch. Fishtail deposited Blowtorch next to her and the SIC grumbled wearily but didn’t try to move.

One by one, the rest of the team found their spaces. Fishtail sat in front of the couch near Blowtorch’s feet, staying close and ready to jump into action should anything happen. Pacemaker took the end of the couch on Blowtorch’s other side and Engarde perched on the back of the second couch, in a position to see the whole room.

Nightspeed quietly flipped on a holovid, paying no attention to it. Blowtorch needed to feel safe to recharge and heal. Afterward, they would definitely talk. He watched his best friend vent erratically, thanking Primus that he was venting at all and silently vowing to ensure his full recovery.