Hi, there! So this my first story posted here on this amazing website. Later on, it will be based on Autobot Chromia's story Ratchet's Sick Days, so there's your fair warning.
Title: Plagued
Rating: T for safety
Warnings: violence, death, gore. Dark first chapter.
Summary: The darkness poisoning his mind was always there, no matter his external appearance. He was haunted by gruesome memories, things that would and could not leave no matter how hard he tried. His new team is the best there is, no doubt about it, and treat him perfectly fine. But would they feel the same if they knew his horrible past-one that was catching up much too fast? An old condition resurfaces, putting him in even more danger. Will they ever be safe from the horror that is their New Recruit?
Author Notes: Updating rates will be irregular. I apologize in advance for any inconveniences and/or rages this may cause.
Anyways...enjoy! :D
The sky was screaming.
It was filled with the horrible sound, a sound that grated his audio receptors. It was horrible, and it drove him insane, making him wish he could tear out the pain-inducing parts and throw them to the ground to crush beneath his bloody pedes.
The ground was soaked with the sickening blue life-blood of the dead and the dying. Their screams were blazed into his mind, an infection with no hope of a cure. The sight of the bombs landing on them was still fresh in his mind-the shocked shouting, the inane point of the finger, the bone-rattling impact, the screaming as the first house was decimated to nothing but rubble and the only survivor crawled out with melted armor and protoform and Energon-gushing wounds. The way the ground had lurched and cracked as if it were a monster coming from an eternal slumber to unleash its wrath upon the world, the way it had groaned and sighed and screamed with the same, if not more, intensity of those who fell dead upon it-it was a gruesome, rancorous event.
He stumbled through the streets. The metal was cracked like some ancient's dry lips, lips that were continually refused a quenching liquid. Only here, the liquid was not water-it was the blood of the dead.
The smell of smoke burned his insides. Ash inflamed his respiratory systems, scorching and charring the sensitive parts. His harsh coughing and rasping intakes only incensed the wounds. The agonizing pain tore through his systems, a fire trapped within as its excruciating tongues of flame licked and burned his insides. There was a crack in his left optic that impaired his vision, a mere mockery of a relief, as the horrific scene turned from a horrifyingly clear image frightening enough to make him want to rip out his optics to a cracked, near imperceptible abstract image that barely lessened the detrimental horror that clothed him in its deadly embrace.
His intakes rattled through his chassis. Black darted in and out of his vision. No, he couldn't give up now, he couldn't! There was too much at stake. He had to get free, to find help in any way possible. His injuries were near-fatal, the cracked vision and burned throat, armor, and protoform being the least painful. His internals were badly damaged; he could feel it: a blazing, shrieking fire that coursed through everything. The temptation to lie down and declare that there was nothing else to live for was strong, nearly overpowering.
But that one thing, the one thing that kept him going was hope.
There was hope for tomorrow.
As cruel of a mockery it seemed, if he died, his strong city would never live on. It would be a mere shadow in the great wake of the world. He had to live. He had to keep moving on. It would be what his family wanted.
Tears stung his optics, but he was too weak to wipe them away.
His family.
His carrier, warm and kind, gentle and caring for anyone who needed it-a provider of comfort and love for anyone lacking it.
His father, strong and tall, brave and with a nearly overpowering presence-he was someone who would give protection and sacrifice himself for the weak at any costs.
His older brother, who always had his olfactory buried in a datapad and was considered emotionless with the cold, impassive way he approached everything.
His little brother.
The tears were streaming now, burning a trail down his scarred cheeks. Acid fire tore through his broken optic.
His little brother, always talkative, always excited, always loud. Oh, how he was so loud, so curious, so intent on getting into everything that sparked curiosity.
His intakes were heaving, his steps shaky and unsteady. He couldn't make it, he wouldn't. It was too far, too far...
With one last, broken vent, his entire world collapsed into darkness.
Something rammed into the side of my helm, jarring me from my horrific daydream. I groaned as the processor ache I had worsened.
"Wake up, Praxian." The hit happened again, and the owner of the action received a static-laced moan. My thoughts were hazy. Where was I? Why was it so dark? Why couldn't I see? Why did I feel like I was floating? Who was-?
"I said, wake up!"
Electricity surged through my frame. I gave a strangled scream and my optics on-lined, my doorwings jerking violently and connecting with a hard object. It took me a moment to realize that someone was holding me and I struggled to get free.
I instantly regretted the action.
My body erupted in pain, overheating almost immediately. My vents were strangled and short, rattling through my frame. It was dark and I could only see out of one optic. Something warm and wet dripped down my back and arms, aggravating the wounds there.
"Ah told ya it would hurt 'im! Look at 'im, barely able to see in a straight line!" A heavily accented voice sounded near me, too close. I jerked away, panic settling into my mind and body. Who was it? Why did it hurt so much to move?
"Easy, kid." A faint outline of someone was heading towards me. "We're not going to hurt you." A gentle, warm servo was suddenly on mine.
"Who...?" My vocalizer refused to work properly, emitting burst of static instead of words. Primus, I sounded like a sparkling.
"No, don't talk. You've been badly injured." The voice belonged to a mech, it seemed, and he was leading me to a surprisingly comfortable berth.
"Where am I?" The question came out barely distinguishable through the static.
"On a med-ship," the mech answered. "Now relax. It'll all be over soon."
Warmth washed over me, and I fell into a dreamless stasis.