[Animated] Interaction
a/n: Update, update, update. Enjoy! Oh, and self-beta'ed.
Title: Interaction
Universe: TFA, The Art of Self-Destruction
Characters: Optimus, Barricade, Onslaught
Rating: K+
Description: Optimus tries to befriend a Decepticon. It goes as well as can be expected.
For dellessa's flash fic prompt “decisions”
The storage deck is off-limits, not in so many words but since Optimus had been found there, taken back to his room, and summarily gifted with a console to keep him occupied, he understood the picture. He doesn't want to stretch the limits of Megatron's generous nature. He stays away.
They don't mind his presence in the training room. They have no issues with finding him in the medbay. In fact, Flatline always looks happy to see him which as strange as everything else on this ship.
There are several common areas. Optimus tries to avoid them on principle. He is an Autobot amongst Decepticons, most of which are far larger, skilled, and intimidating. While he is protected by holding Megatron's regard, that doesn't say much for “accidents.” Megatron isn't that attached to him.
But after two weeks of the same routine, of Optimus hiding in his assigned room when he's not training with Megatron, enough is enough. He can't wait for rescue. He's going to have to save himself.
The question now is: how?
The first step, perhaps, is interaction. So Optimus eschews his normal routine, gathers his courage, and heads for the nearest common room. That he's relying on Megatron's implicit protection grinds his gears, but he can't keep hiding in his room either. He can't wait for the Autobots to save him.
Sometimes, the princess has to save herself, or so Sari liked to say when they watched all those musical animated movies.
Optimus expects noise, but he is pleasantly surprised when he walks in and finds that it is not even occupied by half. The Decepticons that are present have gathered in small groups, sharing conversation over cubes of the low-grade available from the dispensers.
Optimus has already had his cube for the day. He wonders if Megatron will have him barred or if he would have anticipated Optimus venturing from the safety of his room.
He glances at the gathered Decepticons, a few having noticed his presence, but no one acknowledges him. Yet. He doesn't recognize any of them, but he is very aware that as a majority, they are taller and heavier than he is. They are all also armed, which Optimus is not.
Optimus holds his helm high and strides to the dispensers with a confidence he does not truly feel. Nothing to see here, Cons. Just your Autobot prisoner, here for a daily stroll that hopefully does not get him killed.
The nearest dispenser reacts to his proximity and scans Optimus from helm to pede, perhaps reading his spark energy or ident code or whatever the Decepticons use. It makes a strange noise and offers nothing.
“Since when does Megatron let his pet Autobot go underfueled?”
Optimus startles at the unexpected voice but forces himself to calm down. This is his purpose in coming here now. Interaction is the key.
He turns to find a dark gray and black Decepticon with multiple optics staring up at him. That he is taller than the mech is the first surprise.
“He doesn't,” Optimus replies warily as the mech - a grounder he realizes by the tires - moves past him, presses a button, and the dispenser spits out a cube, albeit a small one. “I was curious.”
Four optics blink at him in arrhythmic succession. “Curious,” he repeats. “See where that got you in the storage decks.”
Yes. Cuffed and marched back to his room like a human child who had been caught misbehaving.
Optimus' faceplates heat. “It's a big warship.”
The mech laughs at him. “So it is.” He pushes the cube toward Optimus, tilting his helm. “And I guess you came here because you were curious.”
“You could say that.” He takes the cube, though now he's uncertain whether or not he should consume it.
“That was pretty stupid.” The grounder leans against the dispenser, crossing his awkwardly long arms. “If I had to count the number of mechs in here who'd love to have a go at you, well, I'd run out of digits.”
Optimus forces himself not to turn around, to look at each and every Decepticon in turn. Weakness, he knows, is not tolerated amongst the Decepticons. Neither is fear.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Hah. I'd like to see that.” The mech pushes himself up and leans closer to Optimus, his field drizzling against Optimus' in a manner that's not unpleasant, but is quite unwelcome. “Watch your back, Autobot. You're in way over your helm.”
And then he snatches the cube from Optimus' hands and stalks away, without so much as a parting word or a designation. Instead he leaves behind a warning that feels more like a threat.
Optimus watches him join a table of Decepticons, three others. Two of them are grounders, but the third is a rotary, bigger than all the others at the table. He pats the dark gray 'Con on the helm, heedless to the growl the smallest of them snarls his direction.
“You don't have access to the dispensers because the system doesn't recognize you as one of us. But you should be able to draw some oil.”
Optimus lifts his helm, optics tracing the voice to a Decepticon who is sitting at the table nearest the dispensers. This one, he remembers, had been alone when Optimus had first arrived. And he's still alone now.
He is large, equal to Lugnut at the very least, with massive tank turrets protruding from his backplate. He is also hidden by both a visor and a blast mask.
“Oil?” Optimus repeats.
One large hand, easily capable of shoving Optimus helm first into the wall, gestures to the dispenser nearest to him. “Courtesy of Octane.”
The designation is unfamiliar to Optimus, but as this is the closest thing to a friendly conversation he's had, it's a start. He dares approach, helping himself to the oil dispenser, which does indeed grant him access. What emerges is light in color, but rich in taste according to his olfactory sensors. It's not unlike what could be found on Earth actually.
“Thank you,” he says, not that Decepticons abide politeness.
The mech sits back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath his weight. “Don't mind Barricade. He's got a classic case of small mech syndrome. His mouth is the largest part on him.”
Optimus grins behind the safety of his face mask. “I noticed.” He tilts his helm. “And what about you?”
“Me?” The mech spreads his hands, field extending with a polite greeting. “I happen to like Autobots. They have a certain... aesthetic quality that I find appealing.”
Aesthetic. Really. Optimus goes looking for a possible ally and what does he find? Someone in search of a frag. Which is the least possible outcome he could have expected.
Well, he supposes with an internal sigh, beggars can't be choosers. Right now, he'll take what he can get.
Optimus invites himself to the open seat, pretending that he's not intimidated by the fact his new friend looms over him without trying. “You know my name,” he says, allowing his face mask to open in a show of trust he doesn't feel. “But I don't know yours.”
The mech curls fingers around his own container of oil, the brightness of his visor hinting to a smile beneath the mask. “Onslaught.”
It doesn't ring familiar, but it is a name that Optimus can research later. Provided his sanitized console will give him the answers.
Optimus makes himself comfortable. “I would say it's nice to meet you but considering the circumstances, it wouldn't be honest.”
There's a rumble of laughter. “That, my new friend, is always subject to change.”
***
a/n: So I've got another piece to write before I can post the one I wrote for the most recent flash fiction. lol. For some reason, I'm totally writing this out of order. Heh.
Oh, and I've figured out where this diverges. Right during A Bridge Too Close, Part II. I'll go into more detail in future updates though. ;)
And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. I'm still kind of new to TFA and I love feedback.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/270789.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.
Title: Interaction
Universe: TFA, The Art of Self-Destruction
Characters: Optimus, Barricade, Onslaught
Rating: K+
Description: Optimus tries to befriend a Decepticon. It goes as well as can be expected.
For dellessa's flash fic prompt “decisions”
The storage deck is off-limits, not in so many words but since Optimus had been found there, taken back to his room, and summarily gifted with a console to keep him occupied, he understood the picture. He doesn't want to stretch the limits of Megatron's generous nature. He stays away.
They don't mind his presence in the training room. They have no issues with finding him in the medbay. In fact, Flatline always looks happy to see him which as strange as everything else on this ship.
There are several common areas. Optimus tries to avoid them on principle. He is an Autobot amongst Decepticons, most of which are far larger, skilled, and intimidating. While he is protected by holding Megatron's regard, that doesn't say much for “accidents.” Megatron isn't that attached to him.
But after two weeks of the same routine, of Optimus hiding in his assigned room when he's not training with Megatron, enough is enough. He can't wait for rescue. He's going to have to save himself.
The question now is: how?
The first step, perhaps, is interaction. So Optimus eschews his normal routine, gathers his courage, and heads for the nearest common room. That he's relying on Megatron's implicit protection grinds his gears, but he can't keep hiding in his room either. He can't wait for the Autobots to save him.
Sometimes, the princess has to save herself, or so Sari liked to say when they watched all those musical animated movies.
Optimus expects noise, but he is pleasantly surprised when he walks in and finds that it is not even occupied by half. The Decepticons that are present have gathered in small groups, sharing conversation over cubes of the low-grade available from the dispensers.
Optimus has already had his cube for the day. He wonders if Megatron will have him barred or if he would have anticipated Optimus venturing from the safety of his room.
He glances at the gathered Decepticons, a few having noticed his presence, but no one acknowledges him. Yet. He doesn't recognize any of them, but he is very aware that as a majority, they are taller and heavier than he is. They are all also armed, which Optimus is not.
Optimus holds his helm high and strides to the dispensers with a confidence he does not truly feel. Nothing to see here, Cons. Just your Autobot prisoner, here for a daily stroll that hopefully does not get him killed.
The nearest dispenser reacts to his proximity and scans Optimus from helm to pede, perhaps reading his spark energy or ident code or whatever the Decepticons use. It makes a strange noise and offers nothing.
“Since when does Megatron let his pet Autobot go underfueled?”
Optimus startles at the unexpected voice but forces himself to calm down. This is his purpose in coming here now. Interaction is the key.
He turns to find a dark gray and black Decepticon with multiple optics staring up at him. That he is taller than the mech is the first surprise.
“He doesn't,” Optimus replies warily as the mech - a grounder he realizes by the tires - moves past him, presses a button, and the dispenser spits out a cube, albeit a small one. “I was curious.”
Four optics blink at him in arrhythmic succession. “Curious,” he repeats. “See where that got you in the storage decks.”
Yes. Cuffed and marched back to his room like a human child who had been caught misbehaving.
Optimus' faceplates heat. “It's a big warship.”
The mech laughs at him. “So it is.” He pushes the cube toward Optimus, tilting his helm. “And I guess you came here because you were curious.”
“You could say that.” He takes the cube, though now he's uncertain whether or not he should consume it.
“That was pretty stupid.” The grounder leans against the dispenser, crossing his awkwardly long arms. “If I had to count the number of mechs in here who'd love to have a go at you, well, I'd run out of digits.”
Optimus forces himself not to turn around, to look at each and every Decepticon in turn. Weakness, he knows, is not tolerated amongst the Decepticons. Neither is fear.
“I can take care of myself.”
“Hah. I'd like to see that.” The mech pushes himself up and leans closer to Optimus, his field drizzling against Optimus' in a manner that's not unpleasant, but is quite unwelcome. “Watch your back, Autobot. You're in way over your helm.”
And then he snatches the cube from Optimus' hands and stalks away, without so much as a parting word or a designation. Instead he leaves behind a warning that feels more like a threat.
Optimus watches him join a table of Decepticons, three others. Two of them are grounders, but the third is a rotary, bigger than all the others at the table. He pats the dark gray 'Con on the helm, heedless to the growl the smallest of them snarls his direction.
“You don't have access to the dispensers because the system doesn't recognize you as one of us. But you should be able to draw some oil.”
Optimus lifts his helm, optics tracing the voice to a Decepticon who is sitting at the table nearest the dispensers. This one, he remembers, had been alone when Optimus had first arrived. And he's still alone now.
He is large, equal to Lugnut at the very least, with massive tank turrets protruding from his backplate. He is also hidden by both a visor and a blast mask.
“Oil?” Optimus repeats.
One large hand, easily capable of shoving Optimus helm first into the wall, gestures to the dispenser nearest to him. “Courtesy of Octane.”
The designation is unfamiliar to Optimus, but as this is the closest thing to a friendly conversation he's had, it's a start. He dares approach, helping himself to the oil dispenser, which does indeed grant him access. What emerges is light in color, but rich in taste according to his olfactory sensors. It's not unlike what could be found on Earth actually.
“Thank you,” he says, not that Decepticons abide politeness.
The mech sits back in his chair, the metal creaking beneath his weight. “Don't mind Barricade. He's got a classic case of small mech syndrome. His mouth is the largest part on him.”
Optimus grins behind the safety of his face mask. “I noticed.” He tilts his helm. “And what about you?”
“Me?” The mech spreads his hands, field extending with a polite greeting. “I happen to like Autobots. They have a certain... aesthetic quality that I find appealing.”
Aesthetic. Really. Optimus goes looking for a possible ally and what does he find? Someone in search of a frag. Which is the least possible outcome he could have expected.
Well, he supposes with an internal sigh, beggars can't be choosers. Right now, he'll take what he can get.
Optimus invites himself to the open seat, pretending that he's not intimidated by the fact his new friend looms over him without trying. “You know my name,” he says, allowing his face mask to open in a show of trust he doesn't feel. “But I don't know yours.”
The mech curls fingers around his own container of oil, the brightness of his visor hinting to a smile beneath the mask. “Onslaught.”
It doesn't ring familiar, but it is a name that Optimus can research later. Provided his sanitized console will give him the answers.
Optimus makes himself comfortable. “I would say it's nice to meet you but considering the circumstances, it wouldn't be honest.”
There's a rumble of laughter. “That, my new friend, is always subject to change.”
***
a/n: So I've got another piece to write before I can post the one I wrote for the most recent flash fiction. lol. For some reason, I'm totally writing this out of order. Heh.
Oh, and I've figured out where this diverges. Right during A Bridge Too Close, Part II. I'll go into more detail in future updates though. ;)
And as always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. I'm still kind of new to TFA and I love feedback.
This entry was originally posted at http://dracoqueen22.dreamwidth.org/270789.html. Feel free to comment wherever you find most convenient.