Because I can't get it out of my head B|

[rungout]

There weren't many that were cut from his mold; not many that took on the task of dealing with the psychiatric needs of others. It was that fact that made him special in a way, but Rung was also good at what he did.

One of the best really.

He'd been doing it for years, working with patient after patient, solving problem after problem, and helping others move on with their lives. He had never once given up on a patient, which helped his reputation, and while moving forward may not have been an option for all of them, Rung stuck with them and kept working with them, even years later.

But, over time, playing head shrink to countless others took it's toll on an individual.

Rung was still good at what he did and had new patients coming in all the time, but what went on behind closed doors had changed.

Drastically.

Under the guise of helping others, he began to use his patients, abusing them in a way that seemed like it was still therapy. But instead of ultimately helping them, he was helping himself, taking what he wanted from others, manipulating them into thinking that this was how it was supposed to be.

To everyone else, he still seemed like the sane, kind-sparked individual that he'd always been.

But there was a darkness there, forged from years of dealing with the problems of others, a darkness that came out in a way that could ruin him forever.

If anyone ever found out that is.

Comments

[gunfondlingbattlestat]

He isn't allowed to be tardy. Rung might cancel his appointment if he isn't prompt and punctual; he's done it before. Setting boundaries. It's logical.

He shouldn't have allowed Ultra Magnus to trap him in that conversation for so long. Perceptor jogs briskly down the corridor as the numbers tick down on his chronometer. Next time, he'll just lock himself in his lab to keep anyone from ambushing him before his appointments. He can't risk being late.

Fortunately, he's right on time as he slows to a stop and presses the chine to request entry at the office door.

[fuckinstoplights]

He still wasn't sure if this was going to work out. Maybe he wasn't meant to be "normal" as others were. But some shred of hope existed that this Autobot was going to sort everything out. So he kept coming.

He would do anything, he thought, to be able to feel alive -- to feel he was worth something in this world. This had to help, somehow.

He was always right on time. And always waited, patiently, in the hallway once he'd knocked. It didn't matter if the Autobot was busy. He'd wait. He'd wait as long as it took.

This was supposed to help -- to fix everything, after all.