Untitled Younger Pee-Dee Piece
This is duende at work.
The slight bit of framing takes place at some undetermined time in the future of the Deadzone. All of the other action takes place fifty to seventy-five years before the invention of human TV.
---
"Please don't show this," Pee-Dee whispered. "Not this."
The system ignored her plea and once more the Autobots were plunged into a memory made all-too-real.
-
Slabs, plates, pieces, shreds of metal formed the ground. Most of it was colored with rust and corrosion, and it quickly became easier on the optic to take the ground as one piece rather than view each and every jagged piece. Black sky stretched from horizon to broken horizon. The stars gleamed and twinkled in perfect clarity; there was no atmosphere here to cloud them.
Sunlight caught on splatters of bright violet. It was such a refreshing change from the endless signs of corrosion that it took a moment for it to sink in that they were spilled vital fluids.
Then, the hand can be picked out from the background material. It's not attached to anything, but now that it's revealed, other parts became easier to pick out. The smashed shoulder-joints, crushed by a blunt weapon slapped hard against either side. The jaggedly cut open abdomen, carved with something that might have been a saw. And so very many parts that just looked like they had been torn from their owner in a frenzy of violence.
A trail of purple led from the scene of violence, and it quickly became obvious that not all of the mech-fluids were from the victim. Divots dug in the metal, places where older layers of corroded metal were exposed to the surface, strongly implied that whoever was bleeding had been dragged away. Fought every inch of the way, too.
At the end of the trail, a dozen Junkions had gathered. Very recognizably, Wreck-Gar stood in the center of it all. He stared down at the mech forced to kneel before him, expression a mixture of sorrow and consternation. Tension sharpened his lines, and he held his axe as if ready to use it.
Everyone here was tense. It could be read in their lines, in the readied weapons.
Off to Wreck-Gar's right, a female Junkion wrung her hands. Sharp spikes jutted from her outer forearms, and long falls of rusty-looking metal plating gave the impression that she wore long skirts. Her wheels folded over her rear with a strong resemblence to a bustle.
Two burly mechs forced the prisoner in a kneeling position, her arms drawn back to their fullest extent. It looked like either one of them could rip an arm off at the slightest reason. Both were battered, dents in their plating, and the one on the left favored one leg. His ankle had been smashed almost past usefulness.
A few others stood around, all of them also bearing signs of attack.
The prisoner seemed to have it the worst. She still bled out of a long slash on her leg. Her wheels had been torn off, leaving jagged stumps raised over her shoulders. Dents made it difficult to determine where her edges ought to be. One of her legs had been torn off at the knee, and her shoulders had been smashed to uselessness. A Cybertronian Autobot would find the forced rotation of her arms through that damage agonizing.
But the brimmed helm and the shape of her face was very, very recognizable. No charm rested on her forehead, but underneath the brim, Pee-Dee snarled in a fury that was almost madness.
"You are accused of six counts of murders," Wreck-Gar finally said. The tremor in his voice was almost unnoticeable. "How do you plead?"
"Does it matter?" Snapped one of the others. "We grabbed her right off Pile-Up! Caught her red-handed!"
The spikes on the female's arms lengthened with a shing. "She is my only daughter, Derby. She will have justice and not a lynching."
"You can make another one!"
"Order in the court! Or she's not going to be the one getting axed!" Wreck-Gar snapped. The other Junkions settled immediately, though the female's arm-spikes did not retract a single millimeter. "You." He stepped forward and swung his axe gently to rest against the prisoner's cheek. "How do you plead?"
Pee-Dee stared up at him, saw-teeth bared.
The silence stretched for a minute, two minutes, three before Wreck-Gar spoke again. "Say something! Anything!" He was not quite pleading, not quite commanding. "At least prove you understood what you were doing!"
She stared up at him without a word.
The female Junkion stepped in, hands 'smoothing' her skirts. "Let me have her, chieftain. Give us both the mercy of not executing a mother's only daughter."
"You've had her all her life," one of the guards growled. "Look where she is now, Mama Mia."
"Why'd you even build the bitch?" One of the other Junkions demanded. "She's crazy!"
A murmur of agreement swept through the others. Only Wreck-Gar and Mama Mia stood outside of it.
Wreck-Gar scowled at everyone equally and hefted his axe. "I am not Shah-Doe. We're doing this my way. If you've got a problem with it, you know where the highway is."
He waited until silence fell once again, before stepping up to Pee-Dee again. "Now. How. Do. You. Plead."
Amid all the arguing, some of the fury had drained from Pee-Dee's face. The threat of madness no longer loomed so imminent, but her optics watch the world too-brightly. And still, she did not speak.
"This is a waste of time," Derby said. "With all due respect, chieftain, she ain't going to give you anything. Mama Mia may have been trying to give birth to a pretty little girl to dress in ribbons, but she got a monster."
"How dare you speak ill of her?" Mama Mia hissed. "She saved your life when the accursed five-faces attacked."
Derby stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the female Junkion. "Yeah, she did, but that doesn't change that she's killed half a dozen people, maybe more. She's just as dangerous to us as she is to raiders!"
Wreck-Gar stepped between them before they came to blows. Only the barest flicker of expression revealed how much he really did not want to be in that position. "Look, folks-"
"-He deserved it."
Everyone froze at that soft-spoken, raw statement.
"My little girl-" Mama Mia's skirts shifted as she 'gathered' them up, exposing her lower legs, before the Junkion woman knelt in front of her offspring. She reached out as if to touch her face, and Pee-Dee flinched away.
"Shut up, Mama Mia." Wreck-Gar stepped forward and shoved her aside, raising one hand to cup Pee-Dee's cheek. "Why did he deserve it? Tell me what happened."
Fury rapidly drained from Pee-Dee's face, leaving her looking exhausted and confused. She opened her mouth several times as if to speak, but not a sound came from her vocoder. Not even the crackle of static.
"You have to give me something," Wreck-Gar insisted.
Pee-Dee stared at him, exhaustion blanking her expression. She had nothing left to give. Not a single other word came from her vocoder, and at last Wreck-Gar stood up.
"I'm sorry it has to be this way."
Mama Mia inhaled sharply and twisted away, hands covering her face.
Wreck-Gar's axe swung.
End
The slight bit of framing takes place at some undetermined time in the future of the Deadzone. All of the other action takes place fifty to seventy-five years before the invention of human TV.
---
"Please don't show this," Pee-Dee whispered. "Not this."
The system ignored her plea and once more the Autobots were plunged into a memory made all-too-real.
-
Slabs, plates, pieces, shreds of metal formed the ground. Most of it was colored with rust and corrosion, and it quickly became easier on the optic to take the ground as one piece rather than view each and every jagged piece. Black sky stretched from horizon to broken horizon. The stars gleamed and twinkled in perfect clarity; there was no atmosphere here to cloud them.
Sunlight caught on splatters of bright violet. It was such a refreshing change from the endless signs of corrosion that it took a moment for it to sink in that they were spilled vital fluids.
Then, the hand can be picked out from the background material. It's not attached to anything, but now that it's revealed, other parts became easier to pick out. The smashed shoulder-joints, crushed by a blunt weapon slapped hard against either side. The jaggedly cut open abdomen, carved with something that might have been a saw. And so very many parts that just looked like they had been torn from their owner in a frenzy of violence.
A trail of purple led from the scene of violence, and it quickly became obvious that not all of the mech-fluids were from the victim. Divots dug in the metal, places where older layers of corroded metal were exposed to the surface, strongly implied that whoever was bleeding had been dragged away. Fought every inch of the way, too.
At the end of the trail, a dozen Junkions had gathered. Very recognizably, Wreck-Gar stood in the center of it all. He stared down at the mech forced to kneel before him, expression a mixture of sorrow and consternation. Tension sharpened his lines, and he held his axe as if ready to use it.
Everyone here was tense. It could be read in their lines, in the readied weapons.
Off to Wreck-Gar's right, a female Junkion wrung her hands. Sharp spikes jutted from her outer forearms, and long falls of rusty-looking metal plating gave the impression that she wore long skirts. Her wheels folded over her rear with a strong resemblence to a bustle.
Two burly mechs forced the prisoner in a kneeling position, her arms drawn back to their fullest extent. It looked like either one of them could rip an arm off at the slightest reason. Both were battered, dents in their plating, and the one on the left favored one leg. His ankle had been smashed almost past usefulness.
A few others stood around, all of them also bearing signs of attack.
The prisoner seemed to have it the worst. She still bled out of a long slash on her leg. Her wheels had been torn off, leaving jagged stumps raised over her shoulders. Dents made it difficult to determine where her edges ought to be. One of her legs had been torn off at the knee, and her shoulders had been smashed to uselessness. A Cybertronian Autobot would find the forced rotation of her arms through that damage agonizing.
But the brimmed helm and the shape of her face was very, very recognizable. No charm rested on her forehead, but underneath the brim, Pee-Dee snarled in a fury that was almost madness.
"You are accused of six counts of murders," Wreck-Gar finally said. The tremor in his voice was almost unnoticeable. "How do you plead?"
"Does it matter?" Snapped one of the others. "We grabbed her right off Pile-Up! Caught her red-handed!"
The spikes on the female's arms lengthened with a shing. "She is my only daughter, Derby. She will have justice and not a lynching."
"You can make another one!"
"Order in the court! Or she's not going to be the one getting axed!" Wreck-Gar snapped. The other Junkions settled immediately, though the female's arm-spikes did not retract a single millimeter. "You." He stepped forward and swung his axe gently to rest against the prisoner's cheek. "How do you plead?"
Pee-Dee stared up at him, saw-teeth bared.
The silence stretched for a minute, two minutes, three before Wreck-Gar spoke again. "Say something! Anything!" He was not quite pleading, not quite commanding. "At least prove you understood what you were doing!"
She stared up at him without a word.
The female Junkion stepped in, hands 'smoothing' her skirts. "Let me have her, chieftain. Give us both the mercy of not executing a mother's only daughter."
"You've had her all her life," one of the guards growled. "Look where she is now, Mama Mia."
"Why'd you even build the bitch?" One of the other Junkions demanded. "She's crazy!"
A murmur of agreement swept through the others. Only Wreck-Gar and Mama Mia stood outside of it.
Wreck-Gar scowled at everyone equally and hefted his axe. "I am not Shah-Doe. We're doing this my way. If you've got a problem with it, you know where the highway is."
He waited until silence fell once again, before stepping up to Pee-Dee again. "Now. How. Do. You. Plead."
Amid all the arguing, some of the fury had drained from Pee-Dee's face. The threat of madness no longer loomed so imminent, but her optics watch the world too-brightly. And still, she did not speak.
"This is a waste of time," Derby said. "With all due respect, chieftain, she ain't going to give you anything. Mama Mia may have been trying to give birth to a pretty little girl to dress in ribbons, but she got a monster."
"How dare you speak ill of her?" Mama Mia hissed. "She saved your life when the accursed five-faces attacked."
Derby stepped forward and jabbed a finger at the female Junkion. "Yeah, she did, but that doesn't change that she's killed half a dozen people, maybe more. She's just as dangerous to us as she is to raiders!"
Wreck-Gar stepped between them before they came to blows. Only the barest flicker of expression revealed how much he really did not want to be in that position. "Look, folks-"
"-He deserved it."
Everyone froze at that soft-spoken, raw statement.
"My little girl-" Mama Mia's skirts shifted as she 'gathered' them up, exposing her lower legs, before the Junkion woman knelt in front of her offspring. She reached out as if to touch her face, and Pee-Dee flinched away.
"Shut up, Mama Mia." Wreck-Gar stepped forward and shoved her aside, raising one hand to cup Pee-Dee's cheek. "Why did he deserve it? Tell me what happened."
Fury rapidly drained from Pee-Dee's face, leaving her looking exhausted and confused. She opened her mouth several times as if to speak, but not a sound came from her vocoder. Not even the crackle of static.
"You have to give me something," Wreck-Gar insisted.
Pee-Dee stared at him, exhaustion blanking her expression. She had nothing left to give. Not a single other word came from her vocoder, and at last Wreck-Gar stood up.
"I'm sorry it has to be this way."
Mama Mia inhaled sharply and twisted away, hands covering her face.
Wreck-Gar's axe swung.
End