Substandard Deviation
WHO: BV Skywarp
WHAT: Continuing the Fail
WHERE: His Office of Consumer Review, Analysis and Protection
WHEN: Now-ish.
WARNING: May be potentially triggery to self-harm. Also, pathetic flailing angst.
BONUS: Soundtrack: OF FAIL
OOC: Notes of random and unimportantness: So, Dreadwing canon won. Hence, we must begin the whole ordeal of having Skywarp recover that. I suspect it will involve...angst. Yeah, he'll succeed at something...later. Right now, he's sort of bottoming out.
And yeah, it's more or less impossible to tag into this. :C Welcome to try, though! Help unfail Failwarp!
If you have any ideas/suggestions/volunteerisms for this mini plot, PM or IM me and let me know.
I should just shut up and post now, huh?
It 's been a decacycle, and Skywarp's ebullience is, needless to say, fading. In fact, it was getting replaced with two slightly too-familiar companions: despair and self-blame. Somewhere, he screwed up.
Yeah. Story of his life. Leitmotif of Story of His Life? He has no idea how. He's tried. He really, really tried. Somehow, that makes it worse.
His attempts to do his actual job have, how shall we say, not gone unpunished. Every contact he's made has ended hostilely, from polite demurrals (maybe later) to outright refusals (I don't need this slag) to outright refusals plus threats of bodily harm.
Then he had Velma call. Which had been...horrifying to ask. But would have been worth the way she slapped his aft when he walked by if she'd gotten results. Apparently her phone courtesy is about as winsome as his own.
And his 'brilliant' idea? Yeah, that had gone nowhere. Humiliated yourself for nothing. Nothing. Again.
So. He's done...nothing for the last decacycle but sit in his office.There's a festival going on outside--lights and colors and noises and probably everyone having fun. Yeah. He's not. And he's not up to enduring the snide behind-a-hand remarks they'll say about him. The old point-and-laugh. Not really...festive. Nothing to celebrate.
Instead, he'll marinate in his complete and utter inability. Yeah. You keep talking so big about if they just give you a chance to prove yourself, right? There's one common denominator in all of this, math genius. One thing all this has in common: YOU. Dividing by zero. Here's your chance to prove yourself at some piddling middle-management wageslave job and...look at this!
He looks. The desk calendar is empty, previous days listing only calls he's made and trying to reduce the negative responses to a pattern--algorithms set up for time of day when contacted, crossfiled with zone of business, with faction and type of refusal. Today, he hasn't even bothered to call anyone.
He tries, dully, to tidy up his desk, hating every form he sees. He put so much work into them. Likert scales, narrative sections, ticky boxes.... He'd worked out an entire formula for each of the criteria for his reviews. Standard deviations, rating codes. Anything he could think of to try to render data valuable, objective, scientific.
Stupid forms!
He throws them, letting the flimsies flutter to the floor. Another mess he's made. Another thing he'll have to try to clean up. He crushes his inbox--empty except for Velma's daily creepy note that she was going out to lunch even though she'd rather be nibbling on him.
Failure. Again. Before you can even start. What good's a plane that can't even achieve liftoff speeds? Everyone else has VTOL. You...don't even have a runway.
He throws the crumpled inbox, pretty sure he's going to have to pay for that, and the dent it makes in the wall, and throws himself back against the chair, tilting his head to the ceiling. Loser, Skywarp. They all know it. They can smell it on you like a bad ion charge. The reek of failure.
He knows that if he keeps thinking like this...well. He knows what happens next. And knows he really doesn't want to go there.
Frag. Distraction. ANY distraction.
He sits up, jerking open one of the panels on his thigh, tearing off an ovoid lump of machinery and throws it on the desk, jerking the drawer open for tools. He doesn't seem to notice the energon seeping from the torn hose, the fitful sparking of the broken wires contacting each other as he shifts forward. Oh, get them to notice me? Why bother. They all want to pretend I don't exist? I'm cool with that, he thinks bitterly. When I get this warp technology debugged, however, we'll just have to see, won't we?
He flips open the file under his blotter, the one Magnum had given him. Purple-pink droplets of energon spread over the edges of the paper. He looks back from the paper, to the warp transducer. He sees his face reflected back in the chromed shell of the transducer, staring up at him.
This is not my face. The thought comes to him, jarringly, in a voice dry and tangy like old rust. This is the face of the one who killed me.
WHAT: Continuing the Fail
WHERE: His Office of Consumer Review, Analysis and Protection
WHEN: Now-ish.
WARNING: May be potentially triggery to self-harm. Also, pathetic flailing angst.
BONUS: Soundtrack: OF FAIL
OOC: Notes of random and unimportantness: So, Dreadwing canon won. Hence, we must begin the whole ordeal of having Skywarp recover that. I suspect it will involve...angst. Yeah, he'll succeed at something...later. Right now, he's sort of bottoming out.
And yeah, it's more or less impossible to tag into this. :C Welcome to try, though! Help unfail Failwarp!
If you have any ideas/suggestions/volunteerisms for this mini plot, PM or IM me and let me know.
I should just shut up and post now, huh?
It 's been a decacycle, and Skywarp's ebullience is, needless to say, fading. In fact, it was getting replaced with two slightly too-familiar companions: despair and self-blame. Somewhere, he screwed up.
Yeah. Story of his life. Leitmotif of Story of His Life? He has no idea how. He's tried. He really, really tried. Somehow, that makes it worse.
His attempts to do his actual job have, how shall we say, not gone unpunished. Every contact he's made has ended hostilely, from polite demurrals (maybe later) to outright refusals (I don't need this slag) to outright refusals plus threats of bodily harm.
Then he had Velma call. Which had been...horrifying to ask. But would have been worth the way she slapped his aft when he walked by if she'd gotten results. Apparently her phone courtesy is about as winsome as his own.
And his 'brilliant' idea? Yeah, that had gone nowhere. Humiliated yourself for nothing. Nothing. Again.
So. He's done...nothing for the last decacycle but sit in his office.There's a festival going on outside--lights and colors and noises and probably everyone having fun. Yeah. He's not. And he's not up to enduring the snide behind-a-hand remarks they'll say about him. The old point-and-laugh. Not really...festive. Nothing to celebrate.
Instead, he'll marinate in his complete and utter inability. Yeah. You keep talking so big about if they just give you a chance to prove yourself, right? There's one common denominator in all of this, math genius. One thing all this has in common: YOU. Dividing by zero. Here's your chance to prove yourself at some piddling middle-management wageslave job and...look at this!
He looks. The desk calendar is empty, previous days listing only calls he's made and trying to reduce the negative responses to a pattern--algorithms set up for time of day when contacted, crossfiled with zone of business, with faction and type of refusal. Today, he hasn't even bothered to call anyone.
He tries, dully, to tidy up his desk, hating every form he sees. He put so much work into them. Likert scales, narrative sections, ticky boxes.... He'd worked out an entire formula for each of the criteria for his reviews. Standard deviations, rating codes. Anything he could think of to try to render data valuable, objective, scientific.
Stupid forms!
He throws them, letting the flimsies flutter to the floor. Another mess he's made. Another thing he'll have to try to clean up. He crushes his inbox--empty except for Velma's daily creepy note that she was going out to lunch even though she'd rather be nibbling on him.
Failure. Again. Before you can even start. What good's a plane that can't even achieve liftoff speeds? Everyone else has VTOL. You...don't even have a runway.
He throws the crumpled inbox, pretty sure he's going to have to pay for that, and the dent it makes in the wall, and throws himself back against the chair, tilting his head to the ceiling. Loser, Skywarp. They all know it. They can smell it on you like a bad ion charge. The reek of failure.
He knows that if he keeps thinking like this...well. He knows what happens next. And knows he really doesn't want to go there.
Frag. Distraction. ANY distraction.
He sits up, jerking open one of the panels on his thigh, tearing off an ovoid lump of machinery and throws it on the desk, jerking the drawer open for tools. He doesn't seem to notice the energon seeping from the torn hose, the fitful sparking of the broken wires contacting each other as he shifts forward. Oh, get them to notice me? Why bother. They all want to pretend I don't exist? I'm cool with that, he thinks bitterly. When I get this warp technology debugged, however, we'll just have to see, won't we?
He flips open the file under his blotter, the one Magnum had given him. Purple-pink droplets of energon spread over the edges of the paper. He looks back from the paper, to the warp transducer. He sees his face reflected back in the chromed shell of the transducer, staring up at him.
This is not my face. The thought comes to him, jarringly, in a voice dry and tangy like old rust. This is the face of the one who killed me.