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Res barely made it back. She pressed a hand against her wounded side in hopes of it stemming the oil flow. Through gritted teeth, she muttered curses under her breath. By the time she reached the bunker entrance, static began to cloud her vision, her limbs sluggish from oil loss. She had tried to clean herself up—wiping away the worst of the mess, straightening her posture in hopes of nobody, especially Wesson noticing—but there was no hiding the damage.
She froze immediately as she heard the familiar heavy thud of boots approaching her, recognizing them as Wesson’s.
Res knew she had to play it cool. She had to act normal. But the pain began to intensify as time went on. The oil loss took its toll, her legs growing weaker beneath her by the second. As her body began to betray her, she grabbed onto the wall, using all of her remaining strength to keep herself standing. A sharp buzz began to flood her audio receptors, drowning out everything around her—Wesson’s boots, her own shaky breaths, even the pounding in her head. Suddenly, her knees began to buckle before she even realized she was falling.
Her body lurched, then stopped, a firm grip jolting her to a halt. Then, she felt herself be pulled forward, a pair of metallic arms tightly wrapped around her.
“ Res? ” His voice was sharp. His single optic flicked down to the dark oil trailing behind her and staining her light blue hoodie. His hand pressed against hers to put extra pressure on her wound.
“I didn’t…” Her voice faded into a barely audible whisper.
Wesson’s grip loosened slightly as he examined Res’s body for worse injuries.
“I’m fine,” she slurred, reaching her free hand to weakly grip the other’s jacket. She tried to pull away, but her body refused to listen. “Just—just a scratch—”
“A scratch ?” His tone was stern and his grip was shaking. “You’re bleeding out , Res. That’s not a scratch—that’s a ‘you could’ve died’ kind of injury!” He let out a sharp sigh and tried to stop his body from trembling.
Res opened her mouth before closing it back. She tried to wriggle out of Wesson’s grasp but it was no use. Wesson already found her out. Before she could form another thought, Res felt herself be lifted off the ground. Wesson’s grip around her was strong, protective almost. It was like he was keeping someone from snatching her from his arms.
“You— you absolute little idiot —what were you thinking? No—scratch that—you weren’t thinking at all!” Wesson snapped, causing Res to wince at the volume. He knew he had to be quick. His boots slammed against the metal floor, each step shaking Res slightly, causing her to let out a pained whine. Though the sounds of Res suffering hurt him, he had to keep moving, even though it made him hate himself.
Finally, Wesson made it to his quarters. He loosened his grip on Res briefly, opening the door and rushing inside. He laid Res down on his bed, not caring about the oil that began to stain the sheets.
With careful and steady hands, Wesson pried Res’s fingers away from her wound one by one. “Shit…” The word slipped out before he could stop it. His optic shifted back to Res. She didn’t seem to react to him moving her hand at all. She laid still, her limbs splayed out almost like a ragdoll. Res’s head turned ever so slightly to face Wesson. Her mouth opened, but no words came out. All that came out was a faint static-laced breath as her processors failed to catch up.
“I just—I wanted to see one up close—” Her voice came out weak and raspy, almost as if she were on the verge of tears.
Wesson pulled the oil-stained hoodie off Res’s body then paused.
“…You what ?” Wesson’s optic widened, his stare piercing into Res’s core. Another sharp sigh escaped him as he pinched the bridge of his nonexistent nose. He was silent for a moment. Then, in a voice quieter than before—
“they almost killed you .”
Res tried her hardest to muster up the words but her processor struggled to form any.
Wesson leaned back, rubbing a hand down his faceplate. His vents were heavy, trying to steady himself. “…You don’t get it,” he muttered. “You really don’t get it.” His voice no longer had its harsh bite to it. He sounded exhausted.
Res fidgeted, her optics drifting away from her concerned guardian. “I do get it,” she mumbled. “You don’t have to—”
“ Yes, I do. ” His gaze snapped back to her, and for a moment, Res saw something raw behind it. “You think you’re just… playing scientist , but those things don’t care if you wanna ‘learn’ about them. They’ll rip you apart. They almost did .”
She looked away, the guilt finally creeping in.
“You— you’re all I’ve got left, Res ,” Wesson admitted, his voice quieter now. “If I lost you, too…” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
A long and awkward silence stretched between them.
Finally, Res sighed. “…I won’t go out again.”
Wesson narrowed his optic skeptically at Res’s words.
“Okay—maybe not never , but—I won’t do something this dumb again. Promise.” Res blurted out after a moment of hesitation.
He still didn’t look convinced. But he also looked too tired to argue.
“Your wound is deep. I need to weld it shut.” He sounded firm, but his voice had a hint of tightness to it. He left the bed to gather supplies, his hand trembling as he reached for his toolbox. He hesitated, briefly retracting his hand, clenching his fist to steady himself. After regaining his composure, he grabbed his toolbox and rushed back to his bed.
“I’m sorry, but this isn’t going to be pleasant.” Wesson said as he dropped to his knees beside the bed, wrenching the toolbox open with unnecessary force. The metal lid clattered against its hinges as he rummaged through its contents. His hands moved fast, pulling out the necessary tools: A welding torch and a rag to wipe away excess oil. He laid them out in a neat but hasty line on the bed.
Res glanced at the tools, cringing at the sight of them. After Wesson gently wiped the excess oil from around Res’s wound, her vents hitched as she watched Wesson power on the welder. Her body locked up, limbs stiff despite being sluggish from oil loss. She wanted to pull away, but her body wouldn’t allow her to move. The faint crackling of the welder made her want to squirm. She gripped the sheets tightly, her optics squeezing shut. “Wesson… wait–”
There was no waiting, though. Wesson readied himself, a warm orange glow reflecting on his visor as the tool hummed to life. “Hold still.”
As the welding torch met Res’s torn, metal plating, Res let out a whimper of pain, tensing as the intense heat met her body. Her hands gripped the bed sheets increasingly tighter as the pain persisted. She tried her hardest not to scream as molten metal sealed her wound shut.
Wesson’s grip on the torch tightened. His hand began trembling as he tried his best to push his emotions back. His jaw clenched, hating the pain he was causing her. "I know," he murmured, his voice softening. "I know it hurts. Just hang in there."
His free hand pressed against Res’s shoulder to keep her steady, his grip never loosening. He had to be precise, as too much heat would damage her internals. It would only make things worse.
Wesson turned off the torch, a newly sealed scar of welded metal left behind on Res’s abdomen, a permanent reminder of her close call with the Disassembly Drone.
Res’s grip on the sheets loosened, all her joints relaxing at once. Her optics closed slowly as her head shifted to the side.
Wesson sighed as he removed the glasses from Res’s face.
“…Just rest now.” he muttered, pushing himself to his feet. “You lost a lot of oil.”
Res nodded feeling the ache settle into her joints.
As Wesson turned away, she could just barely hear him whisper—
“ Stupid kid. ”
There was not a hint of anger in his voice. Only relief.