Robot Big Bang Art Post
Title: Corruption
Author: ultharkitty
Artist: casusfere
Fandom: G1 Transformers
Warnings + Content Notes: Art contains gore, sexual implications, and fic spoilers. Fic contains sticky and non-sticky, consent issues, dark.
Link to fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/524467
---
I need to stop shivering. Vortex will wake, he'll want to know what's wrong. I'll tell him, and he'll get that look on his face, that impatience. Disappointment. We've been over this before. Blades is dead. Blades is a drone. Blades is outside in the hallway, guarding the door to the Combaticon intelligence compound because if anyone saw me for what I really am they would take me away and execute me...
---
I'll never forget Onslaught's response. He cocked his head to one side, said, "Do you think I'm stupid?" and punched Vortex through the wall.
I couldn't help it, I got between them. I was sure I was headed for the smelter, but I was equally sure Onslaught wasn't done. I can't countenance that kind of violence, especially not from a commander to his subordinate, let alone within a gestalt. I had to try something.
Onslaught stared for a long moment, then he laughed at me. But at least he lowered his fist.
---
Vortex let them into the office, a rounded protrusion on the side of the tower with one long, wide window showing a reddish tinted view of Kaon. Banks of computers stood silent and inert, their aeons-old circuitry as yet untested. Vortex took the chair closest to the single working computer, and spun it slowly as he re-arranged his rotors. First Aid tried to disentangle himself and get up, but Vortex grabbed him around the waist, and tugged him onto his lap.
"I can work around you." He kicked the chair closer to the console, and pulled a datapad from a shelf underneath.
---
At first, I couldn't process what I was seeing. Vortex gave me a gentle nudge, getting me over the threshold. My olfactory receptors did better than my visual analysers. The odour was strong; old energon, spoiled oil, impurities of all kinds. The smell of sickness and decay. And of injury; the acrid stench of burnt copper and melted plastic. It took a second or two for my optical processors to catch up. Oh, Smokescreen.
He lay on a platform in the centre of the room, a jumble of parts only nominally connected. His helm sparked, and I could see his fuel pump clearly through a hole in his chassis.
---
Sometimes I wonder how I can trust him. Then he does something like this.
"A few more joors," he said, "and you can be the medic again."
---
“Sixteen million credits earns a lot of interest over fifty thousand vorns,” Swindle continued. “And you're going to pay it back. All of it. Sure, it'll take you the rest of forever, but you never cut and run, do you? You'll stick around. Partners, wasn't that what you said?”
---
But First Aid slipped out from between the Sweeps and threw himself in front of the cannon. “It wasn't their fault!” he cried. “It was me. They thought I had processor damage. I faked the readings when they scanned me. They didn't know.”
---
First Aid sat on the floor with his back to the wall, no telling how long he'd been there. The Blades drone stood over him, guard or mourner Vortex didn't know. In his hands, First Aid held the fragments of Smokescreen's personality component and his damaged databanks. There was no life left in in the Praxian's frame.
Vortex joined him on the floor, just as battered as the heliformer drone. First Aid clung to him.
“We won,” Vortex said. “For now. The Quints have gone.”
---
Author: ultharkitty
Artist: casusfere
Fandom: G1 Transformers
Warnings + Content Notes: Art contains gore, sexual implications, and fic spoilers. Fic contains sticky and non-sticky, consent issues, dark.
Link to fic: http://archiveofourown.org/works/524467
---
I need to stop shivering. Vortex will wake, he'll want to know what's wrong. I'll tell him, and he'll get that look on his face, that impatience. Disappointment. We've been over this before. Blades is dead. Blades is a drone. Blades is outside in the hallway, guarding the door to the Combaticon intelligence compound because if anyone saw me for what I really am they would take me away and execute me...
---
I'll never forget Onslaught's response. He cocked his head to one side, said, "Do you think I'm stupid?" and punched Vortex through the wall.
I couldn't help it, I got between them. I was sure I was headed for the smelter, but I was equally sure Onslaught wasn't done. I can't countenance that kind of violence, especially not from a commander to his subordinate, let alone within a gestalt. I had to try something.
Onslaught stared for a long moment, then he laughed at me. But at least he lowered his fist.
---
Vortex let them into the office, a rounded protrusion on the side of the tower with one long, wide window showing a reddish tinted view of Kaon. Banks of computers stood silent and inert, their aeons-old circuitry as yet untested. Vortex took the chair closest to the single working computer, and spun it slowly as he re-arranged his rotors. First Aid tried to disentangle himself and get up, but Vortex grabbed him around the waist, and tugged him onto his lap.
"I can work around you." He kicked the chair closer to the console, and pulled a datapad from a shelf underneath.
---
At first, I couldn't process what I was seeing. Vortex gave me a gentle nudge, getting me over the threshold. My olfactory receptors did better than my visual analysers. The odour was strong; old energon, spoiled oil, impurities of all kinds. The smell of sickness and decay. And of injury; the acrid stench of burnt copper and melted plastic. It took a second or two for my optical processors to catch up. Oh, Smokescreen.
He lay on a platform in the centre of the room, a jumble of parts only nominally connected. His helm sparked, and I could see his fuel pump clearly through a hole in his chassis.
---
Sometimes I wonder how I can trust him. Then he does something like this.
"A few more joors," he said, "and you can be the medic again."
---
“Sixteen million credits earns a lot of interest over fifty thousand vorns,” Swindle continued. “And you're going to pay it back. All of it. Sure, it'll take you the rest of forever, but you never cut and run, do you? You'll stick around. Partners, wasn't that what you said?”
---
But First Aid slipped out from between the Sweeps and threw himself in front of the cannon. “It wasn't their fault!” he cried. “It was me. They thought I had processor damage. I faked the readings when they scanned me. They didn't know.”
---
First Aid sat on the floor with his back to the wall, no telling how long he'd been there. The Blades drone stood over him, guard or mourner Vortex didn't know. In his hands, First Aid held the fragments of Smokescreen's personality component and his damaged databanks. There was no life left in in the Praxian's frame.
Vortex joined him on the floor, just as battered as the heliformer drone. First Aid clung to him.
“We won,” Vortex said. “For now. The Quints have gone.”
---