Flash Fiction Fills (Take 53)
a/n: Whew. After a long week of working long hours that frustrate me to no end, I was finally able to sit down and write these. Finally.
Enjoy!
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, MegatronxOptimus, messages
Fandom: Transformers Animated. Warnings: Nothing outright.
This is a sequel to A Prime Problem and Inescapable.
Megatron did not become the leader of the Decepticons because he was an idiot and a fool. The Autobots may think this of him, but it was not true. So he was quite aware of every opportunity the Prime took to try and send out a distress call.
It was cute and a little amusing, how the little Prime would hack into the system, bypass the obvious tracing log, and send out his signal. He wouldn't know that it was being re-routed to Megatron's personal console, read and then discarded. He only held to the hope that some passing Autobot would pick up on the call for aid and respond accordingly.
He was quite naïve for a Prime, Megatron mused. To think that the Autobots would actually care that one of their own was missing when the Prime had been gone for more than a stellar cycle. His own team would probably never cease searching, but none of them had rank or influence.
Optimus Prime would soon be listed as killed-in-action, if he wasn't already. Hmm. Something to consider. Megatron would put that forth to Shockwave at their next scheduled contact.
“Glorious leader,” Lugnut rumbled, nearly genuflecting. “The Autobot must be punished! He is spitting on your generosity.”
Megatron's lips curled upward. “All in due time, Lugnut. Allow him to have his hope. It will make it all the more crushing when he realizes there is none.”
Lugnut blinked his primary and secondary optics, a trace of confusion echoing in his gaze before he bowed, quite a feat for an unlimber mech. “As his lordship commands.”
Megatron smirked, dismissed Lugnut, and tapped his console, bringing up the surveillance on his Autobot once again. Prime was roaming the halls of the vessel, keeping to the unrestricted areas as he'd been bid. He luxuriated in his freedom, perhaps aware perhaps not, that he was always being watched. If not by camera, than by one of many smaller spies that Megatron kept in his employ.
In this, Soundwave had become quite useful. Megatron was glad that he'd found and repaired the Allspark-built mech not long before acquiring Prime as his captive.
One day he might return to Earth, if only to see what new and strange allies he might acquire. Because if Prime turned out to be halfway useful, perhaps the rest of his teammates might prove to be as well.
Megatron zoomed in on the Prime. He usually did not take much notice in Autobot designs, but there was something of interest to the Prime's utilitarian take. His narrow waist and long legs, capped off with broad shoulders. The colors could do with a change, red and white not at all attractive. Megatron imagined him in shades of black, grey and dark purple. The idea was rather more appealing.
Perhaps once Prime was convinced to join the Decepticons, Megatron could convince him to a repaint as well. The idea had merit.
Megatron smiled, leaned back in his chair, and continued to watch the Prime. The plan taking shape in the back of his processor proved more and more possible.
He would have Prime. And after that, Cybertron.
It was only a matter of time.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, “turnabout is fair play”
Fandom: Justice League Animated Universe. Warnings: None
This is set in my Numerology 'verse and is a sequel to Fourth Base Addendum
When the doorbell rings, Martha blinks in surprise. She isn't expecting any visitors today. So she turns off the tap, dries her hands on her apron, and heads to the front door. Perhaps it is a delivery? Jonathon hadn't told her to expect one but that man, she sighs. Sometimes, he forgets to mention the little things.
She checks her hair in the mirror, tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and then opens the front door. Only to blink yet again.
Her first thought is salesman. But no, that suit is no cheap department store purchase and his shoes are far too shiny for that. The gleaming sports car, sitting not inconspicuously in the driveway next to her mud-spattered Ford, is further proof otherwise.
Besides, she has never seen a salesman this handsome. Those eyes! Lord help her. Martha is a happily married woman but this unexpected visitor seems to have come from all the best ends of the gene pool. He's also carrying some kind of gift basket.
“Can I help you?” she asks, smiling, all pleasant and not once stammering.
The man shifts, mouth opening and closing as though disconcerted, before he seems to regain control of himself. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Beg pardon?” Why would a stranger want to thank her?
A hint of red dusts the man's cheeks. Just a hint. The cellophane-wrapped basket in his hand crinkles noisily.
“I wanted to thank you,” he repeats in that deep voice. “The apple pie was delicious and I wanted to express my appreciation.” He held the basket out to her.
Politeness had her reflexively accepting it. Apple pie? Martha's confusion grows stronger. This man certainly doesn't look like a member of the local church.
And then. Realization.
Her eyes round. “Oh,” she says, her turn now to crinkle the cellophane. “Oh. You're very welcome. I am glad you enjoyed it.”
Clark is going to be jealous. So very jealous.
“Would you like to come in?” Martha adds because she'll be darned if she's going to let this opportunity slide. Clark can barely manage to hold a civil conversation with the elusive Batman and could use all the help Martha can provide.
And because she has no doubt Batman is already contemplating how to escape, she sweetens the deal. “I have muffins in the oven. Blueberry yogurt.”
“I...” He pauses as though considering before he continues, “Yes. I would. Thank you very much.”
Martha grins and holds the door open, remarking to herself that it is no small wonder Clark has become so fascinated by Batman.
He stays for an hour. Martha learns a great many things about him, including his name, where he's from, the tragic loss of his parents, and his affection for apple pie. She also learns of Alfred and before Bruce -- she's giddy with this knowledge - leaves, Martha gives him a tray of muffins to take home to his butler slash father figure.
She tells him that he's welcome to come back anytime he wishes. She gives him her number, so he can call and see if Clark is here first, if he wants to continue to avoid Superman.
He thanks her. He smiles, and it's such a handsome look for a handsome man that Martha almost blushes herself.
She tells him to bring Alfred next time or at least allow them to exchange numbers.
And he tells her that between the two of them, she and Alfred, they might take over the world. It's an honest joke and Martha laughs, but secretly plots to get a hold of Alfred Pennyworth anyway. Because Bruce is right. She and Alfred, working together, would be a force neither Clark nor Bruce could deny.
Bruce finally leaves in that slick, shiny car and Martha waits almost two hours before calling Clark to brag. He doesn't answer, so she leaves him a message, and is almost but not really surprised when Clark shows up on her doorstep less than twenty minutes later. His hair is ruffled, his tie askew, and there's an inkstain on his left cuff.
Martha serves him a muffin and goes back to peeling potatoes. “Yes, he was here,” she confirms. “And no, I won't tell you who he is or what he looks like.”
“But--”
“No.”
Clark wilts like a week-old bunch of Valentines roses. “You are supposed to be on my side,” he says and bites into his muffin. Crumbs drip onto his shirt and Martha sighs, tossing him a handtowel.
Boys. She shakes her head.
“I am, dear. That does not mean that I am going to ruin all your hard work by breaking his trust. When he wants you to know, he will tell you.”
Clark huffs, consoling himself with a muffin.
“He's turned you against me.”
Martha laughs. “Not quite.” She pauses, giving her son a sideways look. “He's very handsome.”
Clark almost chokes on his next bite. “Ma!” he protests in the midst of coughing. “Why does that even matter?”
“Oh. No reason.”
Martha grins to herself and sweeps a pile of peels into a bowl. No reason at all.
Things are about to get even more interesting.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, Nautica and Bob
Fandom: Transformers IDW MTMTE sometime after Dark Cybertron. Warnings: None
Bob's habit of tackling anyone he considered 'friendly' had become so commonplace aboard the Lost Light that it didn't bother anyone anymore. Well, exact for the most hardaft among them, but Bob wouldn't have tackled them anyway. Or he would, just to be a nuisance and because it amused Bob to watch them curse and swear vengeance, but know better than to shoot.
After all, when Rodimus said “you are not allowed to shoot the Insecticon” then he frag well meant “you can't shoot the fragging Insecticon, idiot!” Blades learned that the hard way.
So when Bob took off between one moment and the next, Sunstreaker didn't give chase. He was already nursing a damaged hip and he'd been told in no uncertain terms to go easy on it and since he was well-accustomed to what it felt like to not have use of his legs, Sunstreaker was inclined to obey. He just watched Bob take off and lit up the comm network with the broad watch out that everyone on the Lost Light had come to recognize as all the warning they'd get.
Sunstreaker followed the tracker he'd had Ratchet install on Bob (because the damn bug kept wandering when he wasn't supposed to and Sunstreaker got tired of sending out comms to track him down) and wondered who Bob tackled this time. He limped through crowds of mechs, some of them unfamiliar, some of them not, and right now, in the wake of whatever the frag that was (Metrotitans and Prowls and Constructions, Sunstreaker didn't even want to get started on comprehending that) Sunstreaker supposed it didn't matter.
They were all back at the same starting point.
Ahead of him, he heard a shout. The vocals weren't outright familiar, not that he knew all of the crewmembers that closely. He expected Bob to go after one of his favorites, Tailgate or Skids or Smokescreen or, weirdly enough, First Aid.
By the time Sunstreaker made it through the crowd, the shock had turned to laughter and something akin to giggling.
What Autobot with any respect for himself would giggle?
And then he got his answer. He didn't know this Autobot, but apparently Bob did. Or at least he wanted to.
“Oh my. He's so cute!” More laughter.
Bob chirped, wriggled his aft, and tried to climb further into the lap of the purple Autobot. He was ecstatic as hands petted over his helm and his plating because everyone knew that he was a neglected bug who never received the attention he deserved.
Sunstreaker rolled his optics and folded his arms. He almost didn't have words, and an apology definitely wasn't among them.
“Nautica, that's an Insecticon!” another Autobot said before Sunstreaker could speak, sounding horrified, and the sound of weapons being engaged overrode the laughter.
Sunstreaker bristled.
“But he's friendly!” Nautica argued and Sunstreaker only belated recognized who she was. Her name had lit up the Autobot network recently. “Aren't you?”
Bob chirped again, optics big and bright and innocent. That look, right there, is pretty much the one that won him First Aid.
“See? Friendly!”
The other Autobot, blue and white, huffed a ventilation. “Yes. Until he bites your arm off.”
“He doesn't bite,” Sunstreaker said, limping closer and drawing Bob's attention. “Unless you aim a gun at him, that is.” Brawn had learned that particular lesson. “Bob. Come here.”
Bob chirred and hunkered down.
Sunstreaker revved his engine, letting the bug know he was serious.
“Aw, he doesn't want to,” Nautica said, patting Bob on the helm again. “Can I keep him?”
Sunstreaker absolutely did not panic. “No!” he snapped just as the blue Autobot sneered, “Absolutely not.”
Nautica cycled her optics. The blue Autobot checked her blaster again.
Sunstreaker performed a systems check. Had that been an alarmed shout? He would never admit it. “He's not for adopting,” Sunstreaker added, lamely, and looked his bug in the optics. “Bob. Here. Now.” The implied 'bad boy' lingered in his tone.
Bob obeyed, though not without dramatics. He climbed ever so slowly off Nautica's lap and slunked over to Sunstreaker, helm lowered and frame tucked close to his legs. His optics even dimmed. Primus. It would be irritating if it wasn't so fragging cute.
“I don't think I could have kept him anyway,” Nautica said, getting up and brushing off her frame. She sounded disappointed.
“Honestly, Nautica. What would you do with an Insecticon?” the blue Autobot demanded, her frown disapproving.
Bob pressed against Sunstreaker's legs, every bit the dejected bug. He absently reached down, patting Bob on the helm.
“You said I need a hobby,” Nautica countered, shrugging. “And one that wasn't quantum mechanics.”
“I didn't mean for you to adopt a glitched piece of Decepticon warfare!”
Sunstreaker was insulted on Bob's behalf. “Hey!” He bristled, reminded himself of his healing hip, and gritted his denta. “He's not glitched!”
“Of course he isn't.” The blue Autobot's optics raked Sunstreaker up and down, measuring and then dismissing, before hooking Nautica's elbow and turning her away. “Come on. We have work to do.”
Nautica sighed and waved back at them. “Duty calls. Goodbye, Bob.”
He chirred at her.
“Traitor,” Sunstreaker muttered.
Bob blinked at him.
“You always go for the shiny ones,” Sunstreaker added, turning away from Nautica, her friend, and the now dispersing crowd they'd gathered. “With the pretty paint jobs.”
Bob chirped as if to say 'well, duh' as he looked at his master.
Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Let's go,” he said. “Maybe I can find some energon treats for you.”
Bob's excited leap almost sent him sprawling. Stupid bug.
a/n: It's looking like TFA Megatron and Optimus are trying to become a series on me. I have no idea where it's going to go. *cries* I giggled the whole time I wrote the SuperBat prompt. I think Martha's POV is almost more fun to write than Alfred's. Almost. And I hope I did okay with Nautica. All I know of her is like a two second impression I got from Dark Cybertron and skimming her tf-wiki article.
I don't think I ever announced this or anything, but I've gathered all of the Transformers flash fiction under "Database in Transmission" on my AO3 and all of the Justice League ones under "Capes and Capers". This probably bore mentioning sooner but I'm dense and think readers are psychic, lol.
Next Flash Fiction Friday will be on October 10th.
And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/258254.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Enjoy!
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, MegatronxOptimus, messages
Fandom: Transformers Animated. Warnings: Nothing outright.
This is a sequel to A Prime Problem and Inescapable.
Megatron did not become the leader of the Decepticons because he was an idiot and a fool. The Autobots may think this of him, but it was not true. So he was quite aware of every opportunity the Prime took to try and send out a distress call.
It was cute and a little amusing, how the little Prime would hack into the system, bypass the obvious tracing log, and send out his signal. He wouldn't know that it was being re-routed to Megatron's personal console, read and then discarded. He only held to the hope that some passing Autobot would pick up on the call for aid and respond accordingly.
He was quite naïve for a Prime, Megatron mused. To think that the Autobots would actually care that one of their own was missing when the Prime had been gone for more than a stellar cycle. His own team would probably never cease searching, but none of them had rank or influence.
Optimus Prime would soon be listed as killed-in-action, if he wasn't already. Hmm. Something to consider. Megatron would put that forth to Shockwave at their next scheduled contact.
“Glorious leader,” Lugnut rumbled, nearly genuflecting. “The Autobot must be punished! He is spitting on your generosity.”
Megatron's lips curled upward. “All in due time, Lugnut. Allow him to have his hope. It will make it all the more crushing when he realizes there is none.”
Lugnut blinked his primary and secondary optics, a trace of confusion echoing in his gaze before he bowed, quite a feat for an unlimber mech. “As his lordship commands.”
Megatron smirked, dismissed Lugnut, and tapped his console, bringing up the surveillance on his Autobot once again. Prime was roaming the halls of the vessel, keeping to the unrestricted areas as he'd been bid. He luxuriated in his freedom, perhaps aware perhaps not, that he was always being watched. If not by camera, than by one of many smaller spies that Megatron kept in his employ.
In this, Soundwave had become quite useful. Megatron was glad that he'd found and repaired the Allspark-built mech not long before acquiring Prime as his captive.
One day he might return to Earth, if only to see what new and strange allies he might acquire. Because if Prime turned out to be halfway useful, perhaps the rest of his teammates might prove to be as well.
Megatron zoomed in on the Prime. He usually did not take much notice in Autobot designs, but there was something of interest to the Prime's utilitarian take. His narrow waist and long legs, capped off with broad shoulders. The colors could do with a change, red and white not at all attractive. Megatron imagined him in shades of black, grey and dark purple. The idea was rather more appealing.
Perhaps once Prime was convinced to join the Decepticons, Megatron could convince him to a repaint as well. The idea had merit.
Megatron smiled, leaned back in his chair, and continued to watch the Prime. The plan taking shape in the back of his processor proved more and more possible.
He would have Prime. And after that, Cybertron.
It was only a matter of time.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, “turnabout is fair play”
Fandom: Justice League Animated Universe. Warnings: None
This is set in my Numerology 'verse and is a sequel to Fourth Base Addendum
When the doorbell rings, Martha blinks in surprise. She isn't expecting any visitors today. So she turns off the tap, dries her hands on her apron, and heads to the front door. Perhaps it is a delivery? Jonathon hadn't told her to expect one but that man, she sighs. Sometimes, he forgets to mention the little things.
She checks her hair in the mirror, tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and then opens the front door. Only to blink yet again.
Her first thought is salesman. But no, that suit is no cheap department store purchase and his shoes are far too shiny for that. The gleaming sports car, sitting not inconspicuously in the driveway next to her mud-spattered Ford, is further proof otherwise.
Besides, she has never seen a salesman this handsome. Those eyes! Lord help her. Martha is a happily married woman but this unexpected visitor seems to have come from all the best ends of the gene pool. He's also carrying some kind of gift basket.
“Can I help you?” she asks, smiling, all pleasant and not once stammering.
The man shifts, mouth opening and closing as though disconcerted, before he seems to regain control of himself. “I wanted to thank you.”
“Beg pardon?” Why would a stranger want to thank her?
A hint of red dusts the man's cheeks. Just a hint. The cellophane-wrapped basket in his hand crinkles noisily.
“I wanted to thank you,” he repeats in that deep voice. “The apple pie was delicious and I wanted to express my appreciation.” He held the basket out to her.
Politeness had her reflexively accepting it. Apple pie? Martha's confusion grows stronger. This man certainly doesn't look like a member of the local church.
And then. Realization.
Her eyes round. “Oh,” she says, her turn now to crinkle the cellophane. “Oh. You're very welcome. I am glad you enjoyed it.”
Clark is going to be jealous. So very jealous.
“Would you like to come in?” Martha adds because she'll be darned if she's going to let this opportunity slide. Clark can barely manage to hold a civil conversation with the elusive Batman and could use all the help Martha can provide.
And because she has no doubt Batman is already contemplating how to escape, she sweetens the deal. “I have muffins in the oven. Blueberry yogurt.”
“I...” He pauses as though considering before he continues, “Yes. I would. Thank you very much.”
Martha grins and holds the door open, remarking to herself that it is no small wonder Clark has become so fascinated by Batman.
He stays for an hour. Martha learns a great many things about him, including his name, where he's from, the tragic loss of his parents, and his affection for apple pie. She also learns of Alfred and before Bruce -- she's giddy with this knowledge - leaves, Martha gives him a tray of muffins to take home to his butler slash father figure.
She tells him that he's welcome to come back anytime he wishes. She gives him her number, so he can call and see if Clark is here first, if he wants to continue to avoid Superman.
He thanks her. He smiles, and it's such a handsome look for a handsome man that Martha almost blushes herself.
She tells him to bring Alfred next time or at least allow them to exchange numbers.
And he tells her that between the two of them, she and Alfred, they might take over the world. It's an honest joke and Martha laughs, but secretly plots to get a hold of Alfred Pennyworth anyway. Because Bruce is right. She and Alfred, working together, would be a force neither Clark nor Bruce could deny.
Bruce finally leaves in that slick, shiny car and Martha waits almost two hours before calling Clark to brag. He doesn't answer, so she leaves him a message, and is almost but not really surprised when Clark shows up on her doorstep less than twenty minutes later. His hair is ruffled, his tie askew, and there's an inkstain on his left cuff.
Martha serves him a muffin and goes back to peeling potatoes. “Yes, he was here,” she confirms. “And no, I won't tell you who he is or what he looks like.”
“But--”
“No.”
Clark wilts like a week-old bunch of Valentines roses. “You are supposed to be on my side,” he says and bites into his muffin. Crumbs drip onto his shirt and Martha sighs, tossing him a handtowel.
Boys. She shakes her head.
“I am, dear. That does not mean that I am going to ruin all your hard work by breaking his trust. When he wants you to know, he will tell you.”
Clark huffs, consoling himself with a muffin.
“He's turned you against me.”
Martha laughs. “Not quite.” She pauses, giving her son a sideways look. “He's very handsome.”
Clark almost chokes on his next bite. “Ma!” he protests in the midst of coughing. “Why does that even matter?”
“Oh. No reason.”
Martha grins to herself and sweeps a pile of peels into a bowl. No reason at all.
Things are about to get even more interesting.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: IDW, Nautica and Bob
Fandom: Transformers IDW MTMTE sometime after Dark Cybertron. Warnings: None
Bob's habit of tackling anyone he considered 'friendly' had become so commonplace aboard the Lost Light that it didn't bother anyone anymore. Well, exact for the most hardaft among them, but Bob wouldn't have tackled them anyway. Or he would, just to be a nuisance and because it amused Bob to watch them curse and swear vengeance, but know better than to shoot.
After all, when Rodimus said “you are not allowed to shoot the Insecticon” then he frag well meant “you can't shoot the fragging Insecticon, idiot!” Blades learned that the hard way.
So when Bob took off between one moment and the next, Sunstreaker didn't give chase. He was already nursing a damaged hip and he'd been told in no uncertain terms to go easy on it and since he was well-accustomed to what it felt like to not have use of his legs, Sunstreaker was inclined to obey. He just watched Bob take off and lit up the comm network with the broad watch out that everyone on the Lost Light had come to recognize as all the warning they'd get.
Sunstreaker followed the tracker he'd had Ratchet install on Bob (because the damn bug kept wandering when he wasn't supposed to and Sunstreaker got tired of sending out comms to track him down) and wondered who Bob tackled this time. He limped through crowds of mechs, some of them unfamiliar, some of them not, and right now, in the wake of whatever the frag that was (Metrotitans and Prowls and Constructions, Sunstreaker didn't even want to get started on comprehending that) Sunstreaker supposed it didn't matter.
They were all back at the same starting point.
Ahead of him, he heard a shout. The vocals weren't outright familiar, not that he knew all of the crewmembers that closely. He expected Bob to go after one of his favorites, Tailgate or Skids or Smokescreen or, weirdly enough, First Aid.
By the time Sunstreaker made it through the crowd, the shock had turned to laughter and something akin to giggling.
What Autobot with any respect for himself would giggle?
And then he got his answer. He didn't know this Autobot, but apparently Bob did. Or at least he wanted to.
“Oh my. He's so cute!” More laughter.
Bob chirped, wriggled his aft, and tried to climb further into the lap of the purple Autobot. He was ecstatic as hands petted over his helm and his plating because everyone knew that he was a neglected bug who never received the attention he deserved.
Sunstreaker rolled his optics and folded his arms. He almost didn't have words, and an apology definitely wasn't among them.
“Nautica, that's an Insecticon!” another Autobot said before Sunstreaker could speak, sounding horrified, and the sound of weapons being engaged overrode the laughter.
Sunstreaker bristled.
“But he's friendly!” Nautica argued and Sunstreaker only belated recognized who she was. Her name had lit up the Autobot network recently. “Aren't you?”
Bob chirped again, optics big and bright and innocent. That look, right there, is pretty much the one that won him First Aid.
“See? Friendly!”
The other Autobot, blue and white, huffed a ventilation. “Yes. Until he bites your arm off.”
“He doesn't bite,” Sunstreaker said, limping closer and drawing Bob's attention. “Unless you aim a gun at him, that is.” Brawn had learned that particular lesson. “Bob. Come here.”
Bob chirred and hunkered down.
Sunstreaker revved his engine, letting the bug know he was serious.
“Aw, he doesn't want to,” Nautica said, patting Bob on the helm again. “Can I keep him?”
Sunstreaker absolutely did not panic. “No!” he snapped just as the blue Autobot sneered, “Absolutely not.”
Nautica cycled her optics. The blue Autobot checked her blaster again.
Sunstreaker performed a systems check. Had that been an alarmed shout? He would never admit it. “He's not for adopting,” Sunstreaker added, lamely, and looked his bug in the optics. “Bob. Here. Now.” The implied 'bad boy' lingered in his tone.
Bob obeyed, though not without dramatics. He climbed ever so slowly off Nautica's lap and slunked over to Sunstreaker, helm lowered and frame tucked close to his legs. His optics even dimmed. Primus. It would be irritating if it wasn't so fragging cute.
“I don't think I could have kept him anyway,” Nautica said, getting up and brushing off her frame. She sounded disappointed.
“Honestly, Nautica. What would you do with an Insecticon?” the blue Autobot demanded, her frown disapproving.
Bob pressed against Sunstreaker's legs, every bit the dejected bug. He absently reached down, patting Bob on the helm.
“You said I need a hobby,” Nautica countered, shrugging. “And one that wasn't quantum mechanics.”
“I didn't mean for you to adopt a glitched piece of Decepticon warfare!”
Sunstreaker was insulted on Bob's behalf. “Hey!” He bristled, reminded himself of his healing hip, and gritted his denta. “He's not glitched!”
“Of course he isn't.” The blue Autobot's optics raked Sunstreaker up and down, measuring and then dismissing, before hooking Nautica's elbow and turning her away. “Come on. We have work to do.”
Nautica sighed and waved back at them. “Duty calls. Goodbye, Bob.”
He chirred at her.
“Traitor,” Sunstreaker muttered.
Bob blinked at him.
“You always go for the shiny ones,” Sunstreaker added, turning away from Nautica, her friend, and the now dispersing crowd they'd gathered. “With the pretty paint jobs.”
Bob chirped as if to say 'well, duh' as he looked at his master.
Sunstreaker shook his helm. “Let's go,” he said. “Maybe I can find some energon treats for you.”
Bob's excited leap almost sent him sprawling. Stupid bug.
a/n: It's looking like TFA Megatron and Optimus are trying to become a series on me. I have no idea where it's going to go. *cries* I giggled the whole time I wrote the SuperBat prompt. I think Martha's POV is almost more fun to write than Alfred's. Almost. And I hope I did okay with Nautica. All I know of her is like a two second impression I got from Dark Cybertron and skimming her tf-wiki article.
I don't think I ever announced this or anything, but I've gathered all of the Transformers flash fiction under "Database in Transmission" on my AO3 and all of the Justice League ones under "Capes and Capers". This probably bore mentioning sooner but I'm dense and think readers are psychic, lol.
Next Flash Fiction Friday will be on October 10th.
And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/258254.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.