Speedwriting Fills
Title: Improvements
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Red Alert, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 1. Home improvements
Red Alert was not someone who could usually be found outside of his Security Station. So it was a rather surprised Bumblebee that came across the Security Director, very much not in his dark sanctuary.
“Um... Red Alert? Sir? What are you doing?” the minibot asked, blinking rapidly.
Red Alert didn't even look up as he answered. “Improvements.”
“Uh... Here?”
“Why not here?”
“Because... well, it's an air vent, sir.”
Red Alert shot a dirty look at the spy. “Of course it's an air vent.”
Bumblebee blinked again. “I... okay. Um. What is it you're doing, exactly?”
“Improvements. Like I already told you.”
“Yes, but-” Bumblebee cut himself off, then shook his head. “Improvements to the security camera, um, security?”
“What else?”
There was a moment of silence as Bumblebee watched the red and white mech tie a few wires off, then deftly maneuver his way down the vent.
“Um, Sir?”
“Yes, Bumblebee?” Red Alert sighed.
“Would... Would you like some help? I can get through the vents much easier than you can...”
The Security Director glanced back at the yellow minibot, then vented heavily. “I suppose you can be trusted.”
“Thanks,” Bumblebee said, only a hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. To be considered trustworthy by Red Alert was very high praise.
The red and white mech gave the spy the tiniest hint of a smile as he pinged him with a location.
Bumblebee returned the smile, then slithered down through the vents. The few details of the improvements Red Alert had shared were actually... Well, perhaps a tiny bit paranoid, but Red Alert would be anything but himself if everything he touched did not contain some measure of cautiousness.
Title: Never Forget
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Smokescreen, Aerialbots
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. Master List Prompt.
Jan. 12: A picture.
He never forgot flying. Never forgot what it felt like to soar through the clouds, weightless, defying everything that held everyone else to the ground far below.
He could still recall the smooth slide of air over his wings, over his chassis, through the thin gaps in his armor, cooling overheated internals.
He remembered the lights of the cities far below, little, twinkling stars come to rest on the ground.
He could still smell the crisp, sharp air, could taste it on his tongue. He could hear it rushing over his audios, the sharp hiss of it as it caught and eddied around him.
Up here, on the top of Mt. St. Hillary, he could remember... he could remember it all, and, for a few long moments, allowed himself to be immersed in the memories.
Then, he brought himself back to the present. He still had his wings, but they were no longer capable of carrying him through the sky. He still had the heavy sensors, but they now fed him information that, while useful as a tactician and soldier, was not what was needed for flight.
He was Ground-Bound.
He had made the decision for a few reasons. Chief among them was that he did not want to follow the other Seekers to the Decepticons, and the best way to do that, the most effective way, was to separate from the fliers in a way they would never look for. Because no Seeker ever willingly grounded himself.
His doorwings drooped and his shoulders slumped as a breeze played across his plating.
“Hey! Smokey!” a cheery voice called from above, and he glanced upward.
Air Raid. And his brothers were swooping and spinning above him.
Smokescreen forced a smile over his face. “Hiya, Air Raid! How're you doing?” he shouted back, twitching his doorwings in a friendly greeting that was only half faked. The five young fliers were wonderful. He loved them. But they often did remind him of what he had lost, which lead to a rather convoluted relationship between them.
For he had given up the sky, and they still had it.
Title: Searching for Sparks
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1?
Characters: Prowl, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 3. Setting: In a junk yard.
Prowl stumbled as his foot caught on a broken shard of metal, and his doorwings flared out to compensate for the sudden shift in balance. He knew it was rather stupid to come out here alone, but a flyover patrol had reported a spark signature.
The tactician could handle a single mech easily enough. He had also not been on patrol in quite some time, and, despite the rumors, did occasionally get a bit stir-crazy. So he had volunteered to investigate.
Which had brought him to this scrap yard.
Once, it had been a small town, out on the very edge of Iacon's borders. Now, all that remained was bombed out shells of buildings, ruined shards of metal, and the occasional empty frame. Nothing but waste and garbage.
And one, lonely spark signature.
Prowl continued on, heedless of the multitude of scrapes he was suffering on his legs and feet from the jagged spikes of scorched metal littering the ground. The sensors in his doorwings had picked up the spark signature, and he was determined to follow it, to find it.
If it was a Decepticon, he would kill him. If it was an Autobot, he would lead him back to base. If it was a Neutral, he would either leave him be or take him back to base for relocation.
The spark signature was close, now.
A curse echoed through the still air, and Prowl froze, save for his doorwings, which flicked even more erratically. The spark signature. The mech. Right in front of him.
Slowly, the tactician crept up to the broken wall and peered around it. A red mech was standing with his back to Prowl, shoulders hunched, crouched low, both hands in front of him.
Stifling a vent, Prowl pulled back. This was where things got tricky. He could see no symbol, and no faction identity was registering on his sensors. The faction ident could be hidden easily enough. The symbol could simply be on his front, where Prowl couldn't see it.
Numbers were already streaming from his battle computer. Possibilities, probabilities...
The best course of action, he decided barely a klik later, would be to show himself but have a weapon ready.
So he unsubspaced his rifle, but kept it pointed at the ground as he stepped around the corner.
The red mech whirled around immediately, before Prowl had a chance to announce himself. There was a long knife in his hands, and a snarl on his face.
“Who are you?” he growled as he settled into a practiced, natural fighting stance.
Prowl stopped and tucked his doorwings behind his back. The mech knew his way around a fight. Not that the tactician didn't, but he did want to avoid altercations, if at all possible. “I am Prowl,” he answered softly, keeping his voice low and steady.
“What are you doing here?” he snarled, side-stepping to the left. The slow, deliberate steps were telling, even if only that he knew the ground around him.
“I merely came to investigate a spark signature,” Prowl said, moving only enough to keep the mech directly in front of him. He did not want that knife anywhere out of his field of vision, and, though he could sense what was behind himself perfectly well with his doorwings, he was more comfortable if we was facing the threat.
Then something caught his attention. Movement, quiet, close.
And a knife was pressed up to the cabling in the back of his neck, and a frame pressed against his doorwings, pinning them to his back.
“Why?” the red mech snarled as Prowl fought off a lock-up. There was only one spark signature. He was still reading only one! But he could, now, clearly sense the mech pressed up against him. But there was only one signature!
The tactician blinked. “You are in Autobot territory,” he stated, slowly overcoming the surprise. Bondmates, maybe, with a high level of spark synchronicity? “It is prudent to identify strangers in your protected land,” he added.
The mech at his back stiffened, as did the red mech.
“Autobots? You're an Autobot?”
Prowl wasn't sure what to make of the tone. He couldn't decide if it was hostile or hopeful or something else entirely. “Yes,” he said, concentrating on making sure his doorwings did not twitch. “I am Prowl, Chief Tactical Officer and Second in Command.”
The pressure at the back of his neck lessened. “They send the Primus fragging Second in Command out to look for a strange spark signature?” the red mech practically laughed, optics wide, expression somewhere between stunned surprise and disbelief.
“I volunteered. I... needed to get out of the base.”
The knife pulled away entirely, and the mech stepped back. Prowl twitched his wings up, then stepped to the side, moving to take in both of them.
It was then that he realized why he could only sense one spark. The similar frames, the way they so easily moved next to each other, the way that, now that he was scanning, their sparks registered as two halves of a whole...
“Twins,” he breathed, staring.
The yellow mech, the one who had been standing behind him, snarled, his beautiful face twisting into an ugly expression. “So what?”
A touchy subject, then. “I have never encountered Twins before,” he said carefully. “It explains the single spark signature.”
The two did not exchange any sort of glance or words, but they moved together, slowly stalking toward the tactician. Prowl did not allow himself to back up.
Instead, he straightened as they approached, doorwings flaring out. “I came to do one of three things. Had you been a Decepticon, I would have killed you. Had you been an Autobot, I would have brought you back to base. But you are Neutral, which means I can leave you alone if you wish. Or I can take you back to base for relocation.”
Now, the Twins exchanged a glance. “How about something else?” the yellow one suggested, smirking slightly.
“Yeah. How about you take us back to base, but you don't ship us out. Instead, how 'bout you keep us.”
“Keep... You mean to imply that you wish to become Autobots?”
The yellow mech snorted, air gusting noisily from his vents. “We want revenge. Best way to do that is joining up.”
“What Sunny said. So. You'll take us?”
Prowl took a fraction of a moment to let his battle computer update. They both held themselves like warriors. Both stood like they knew how to fight.
The Autobots were in desperate need of good fighters.
“I will,” he said, nodding slightly. “Welcome to the Autobots.”
Title: What You Wish For
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Cliffjumper, Mirage
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 4. A character works up a fantasy about another character. This may be of friendship, love, lust, capture, revenge, hurt, torture, anything. Lo and behold, an opportunity presents itself for the fantasy to come true. What happens?
I hated him. Loathed him. I always imagined him crawling up to me, injured, alone, broken, and me turning away, leaving him, like he left me.
Some people would say that I was over-reacting. That he hadn't left me broken on the dirty ground of Earth, but... he had. He had left me alone, broken, bent and busted and not wanting to go on. Perhaps it was more metaphorical than they could imagine, but the injuries he left me were just as valid, just as hurtful, as any physical wound.
Mechs have died of broken sparks before.
Because we had once been together, as strange as that may sound now. Then he had decided that we weren't right for each other, and that he belonged to someone else.
And he left. Left me for the scout, for Hound, who, as much as I tried, I couldn’t hate. Jealousy, yes. Hate, no.
Because it wasn't Hound who had left me alone. Broken. Lying in the dirt with no one there to help me back to my feet, while he was off cavorting with the mech he loved, the mech who wasn't me.
So I had struggled up on my own. I had learned how to do things again, to not rely on anyone or anything but myself.
But now that it was happening, now that my wish was coming true...
Mirage was there, vents stuttering, sounding ragged and broken, plating more dents than armor. His optics flickered with intermittent charge.
He was injured, alone, broken - just the way I had wished him to be...
And I didn't like it. It was wrong. So, so wrong.
He lifted a hand. “Cliff,” he stuttered, and his gold optics dimmed.
“Slag it all, Mirage,” I growled as I stepped forward and took the offered appendage. I opened a comm link. ::Ratchet. Mirage needs you.::
::Frag it all to-! I'll be right there! Slagging-:: Ratchet snarled, and the comm link closed.
Slowly, I sat down next to him. Silence filled the space between us, only the sounds the distant rapport of blasters and explosions and Mirage's broken vents.
“Why?” he asked after a moment, voice filled with static.
I glanced down, my blue optics meeting his gold. “Why what?” I asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
“Wh-hy would y-you help m-me?”
Offlining my optics was easy. Speaking, however, was not. “I... You...”
I felt his hand move slightly in mine; just the barest hint of a twitch.
“It felt wrong!” I finally said, voice low and urgent. “I wanted it for so long! I wanted to hurt you! That's why I called you a traitor, that's why I... I... Mirage, I...”
“I know.”
And that... I suddenly felt... peaceful.
“I know, Cliff. What-t I did was w-wrong. I h-hurt you. I... I’m sor-rry.”
With those words, I knew that all was settled between us, and I onlined my optics again. “I hurt you, too.”
The former noble just shook his helm.
Silence stretched between us once again, all the way up until Ratchet got to us. But it wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. We would never be the lovers, the Intendeds, that we had once been, but... the hurt, the painful barbs that had been separating us... they were gone.
Title: Due Warning
Rating: T
Continuity: G1
Characters: Jazz, Soundwave, Megatron, Starscream, Decepticon Ensemble
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 5. “Don't say I didn't warn you...”
Jazz's visor glimmered an eerie purple in the shadowy darkness of the Nemesis's bridge. His incessant, insane giggling filled the otherwise silent air. His once black and white paint glimmered a flayed, dull silver.
Red optics watched him warily from the edges of the room. None would cross him. Not after what they had already seen him do. After what he had done.
Capturing Jazz had seemed quite the accomplishment. The saboteur rarely allowed himself to be caught, so this had seemed like a boon from Primus. The Autobots' greatest saboteur, here, in their grasp, theirs for the torturing, theirs for the eventual, slow, lingering killing.
Then things had gone, to use a human phrase, south. Way south.
Megatron had ordered the saboteur to be brought to him, and ordered the entire Decepticon army to the throne room. There, he had brought out his favored electrowhip and proceeded to flay every inch of the Autobot's plating, tearing off the black and white paint, leaving him the burnished, dull silver of the living metal they were made of.
Then he had ordered Soundwave to search the broken mech's mind.
Those were the words he used.
“Soundwave,” he boomed, voice loud and proud and arrogant. “Search the... broken mech's processor. I am sure there are some precious Autobot secrets still accessible.”
Jazz didn't like being called broken.
The blue host had stepped forward and placed one hand on the now silver saboteur's helm.
Two minutes later, the telepath was reeling backward, visor more white than red, vents whirring at full blast, vocalizer hissing static.
That was when Jazz started giggling.
“Don' say Ah didn' warn ya,” he said, mouth twisting into a sadistic grin. “'Cause Ah did when ya first brought meh in. Ah tol'ja, ya wouldn' like what'd happ'n when ya did what ya were thinkin' a' doin'.”
Starscream stepped up next, turning up his nose at the Communications Specialist, who had collapsed in a heap of overheated metal on the floor. “Fool,” he sneered.
Then he was within reach of Jazz, who wasted no time in leaping up, clinging to the Seeker's shoulders with one hand, both legs wrapped around his waist. His free hand plunged through the cockpit on the Decepticon Second in Command's chest, through the thick shielding metal underneath it, and into the glittering spark chamber. A flare of light radiated from the deep gash, and Starscream gasped, his optics flickering brightly for a moment before going dark. Slowly, he toppled backward. Jazz leapt lightly from the Seeker as he fell, silently landing on his feet, claws extended fully, visor tinting a violent purple, vocalizer still emitting those haunting giggles.
“Who's next?” he snickered, and his visor flickered once.
Megatron was staring, horrified.
He was also the closest to Jazz.
“Ah warned ya,” the saboteur said. “Ah really, truly, did. Ya jus' didn' listen. Mm. Too bad.”
And he lunged. Megatron fought; he punched and kicked and lashed out with everything he had, as strongly as he could, snarling and growling and howling as claws dug into the cracks between his armor and wires and lines were ripped to shreds.
But Jazz was strong. Jazz was angry. And Jazz was a slight bit insane. Unbalanced. Every Autobot knew it. Without Prowl, Jazz was a loose cannon, wild and uncontrollable. Only the Second in Command could keep the Third tethered.
And Prowl wasn't there. Jazz had no leash. Nothing to hold him back. And he didn't hold back one iota.
It did not take long for Megatron's steely gray to fade to the dull, lifeless gray of death.
It was on top of the warlord's lifeless frame that Jazz perched, crouched like some alien monster, every flayed edge of his armor glittering in the half-light, once blue visor glowing a menacing purple, claws extended to full length, vents hissing gently with each cycle, still giggling like a maniac, as though this were the most fun game in the world.
The rest of the Decepticons were cowering into the darkened corners of the throne room. This mech, despite being beaten half to deactivation, had just taken out Soundwave, Starscream, and Megatron in less time than it took to make a call to Cybertron.
It was intimidating, to say the least. And that wasn't even taking into account the thin, almost childlike laughter that had filled the room while he did it.
To put it very simply, the Decepticons were scared out of their plating. It occurred to some of them that they might be able to stop the Autobot if they all charged, all attacked at the same time, but the chances that they would all get out alive were slim.
So they cowered, hoping to be overlooked, to be categorized as nonthreatening.
Jazz was having none of it. His gaze, shielded though it was, darted from 'Con to 'Con. His grin twitched.
“Ah warned ya,” he said suddenly, grin widening beyond what most mechs watching thought to be possible. “Ah really did.”
With that, he pulled something out of his subspace. The Decepticons instinctively leaned forward slightly, trying to see what it was.
“See, Ah while back, Megsy here shot at Prowler. Mah Prowler didn' make it.”
They all flinched as they recalled that last battle. The scream of anguish that had echoed across the battlefield after the sharp blast of Megatron's fusion cannon had been one not easily forgotten.
“So, see, Ah have no more reason fer livin'. Prowler ain't here no more. Ah had t' take care o' th' mechs respons'ble fer that. An' Ah figured, why not take 'em all out?”
With a swift movement, Jazz tossed the object in his hands toward one cluster of cowering Decepticons.
A moment later, they were so much ash and scorched metal. The grenade had exploded as it hit them, igniting the energon in their lines, burning them up from the inside.
Jazz cackled, visor brightening, grin stretching into a horrid grimace. More grenades appeared in his hands, and he tossed them through the room. Screams began to echo through the bangs around him, his psychotic cackling ringing above everything else.
The last trick, he thought to himself. Always knew I'd go out with a bang.
A set of protocols he had written long ago engaged. A little timer flicked down on his HUD.
A few kliks later, he was naught but a writhing mass of flames and shrapnel, matching exactly the Decepticon forces around him.
Title: Lazy Day
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Spike, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 6. Lazy
Spike, when Bumblebee found him, was lying on the couch in the Rec Room, limbs sprawled in all directions, head pillowed on his backpack, watching a kid's cartoon on the massive TV.
“Spike?” he asked, trying to work out what his charge was doing.
“Mm?”
“What's going on?”
The boy turned his head, barely enough to see the yellow mech. “Lazy day.”
“... What?” This was odd. Spike was usually up and moving around. He didn't like being still.
“Lazy day. It's Saturday, I’ve got Monday off because it's a teacher-in-service day, and I haven't watched these cartoons since I was, like, seven.”
“So... why are you watching them now?”
The boy grinned and flopped his hand in a lazy wave. “'Cause I can. I mean, why not? C'mon, come watch them with me.”
Hesitantly, Bumblebee eased himself down onto the portion of the couch his charge was not occupying and turned his attention to the screen. The shows he found to be wildly illogical and nonsensical, but he had no qualms toward spending a lazy day with his charge.
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Red Alert, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 1. Home improvements
Red Alert was not someone who could usually be found outside of his Security Station. So it was a rather surprised Bumblebee that came across the Security Director, very much not in his dark sanctuary.
“Um... Red Alert? Sir? What are you doing?” the minibot asked, blinking rapidly.
Red Alert didn't even look up as he answered. “Improvements.”
“Uh... Here?”
“Why not here?”
“Because... well, it's an air vent, sir.”
Red Alert shot a dirty look at the spy. “Of course it's an air vent.”
Bumblebee blinked again. “I... okay. Um. What is it you're doing, exactly?”
“Improvements. Like I already told you.”
“Yes, but-” Bumblebee cut himself off, then shook his head. “Improvements to the security camera, um, security?”
“What else?”
There was a moment of silence as Bumblebee watched the red and white mech tie a few wires off, then deftly maneuver his way down the vent.
“Um, Sir?”
“Yes, Bumblebee?” Red Alert sighed.
“Would... Would you like some help? I can get through the vents much easier than you can...”
The Security Director glanced back at the yellow minibot, then vented heavily. “I suppose you can be trusted.”
“Thanks,” Bumblebee said, only a hint of sarcasm coloring his tone. To be considered trustworthy by Red Alert was very high praise.
The red and white mech gave the spy the tiniest hint of a smile as he pinged him with a location.
Bumblebee returned the smile, then slithered down through the vents. The few details of the improvements Red Alert had shared were actually... Well, perhaps a tiny bit paranoid, but Red Alert would be anything but himself if everything he touched did not contain some measure of cautiousness.
Title: Never Forget
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Smokescreen, Aerialbots
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 2. Master List Prompt.
Jan. 12: A picture.
He never forgot flying. Never forgot what it felt like to soar through the clouds, weightless, defying everything that held everyone else to the ground far below.
He could still recall the smooth slide of air over his wings, over his chassis, through the thin gaps in his armor, cooling overheated internals.
He remembered the lights of the cities far below, little, twinkling stars come to rest on the ground.
He could still smell the crisp, sharp air, could taste it on his tongue. He could hear it rushing over his audios, the sharp hiss of it as it caught and eddied around him.
Up here, on the top of Mt. St. Hillary, he could remember... he could remember it all, and, for a few long moments, allowed himself to be immersed in the memories.
Then, he brought himself back to the present. He still had his wings, but they were no longer capable of carrying him through the sky. He still had the heavy sensors, but they now fed him information that, while useful as a tactician and soldier, was not what was needed for flight.
He was Ground-Bound.
He had made the decision for a few reasons. Chief among them was that he did not want to follow the other Seekers to the Decepticons, and the best way to do that, the most effective way, was to separate from the fliers in a way they would never look for. Because no Seeker ever willingly grounded himself.
His doorwings drooped and his shoulders slumped as a breeze played across his plating.
“Hey! Smokey!” a cheery voice called from above, and he glanced upward.
Air Raid. And his brothers were swooping and spinning above him.
Smokescreen forced a smile over his face. “Hiya, Air Raid! How're you doing?” he shouted back, twitching his doorwings in a friendly greeting that was only half faked. The five young fliers were wonderful. He loved them. But they often did remind him of what he had lost, which lead to a rather convoluted relationship between them.
For he had given up the sky, and they still had it.
Title: Searching for Sparks
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1?
Characters: Prowl, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 3. Setting: In a junk yard.
Prowl stumbled as his foot caught on a broken shard of metal, and his doorwings flared out to compensate for the sudden shift in balance. He knew it was rather stupid to come out here alone, but a flyover patrol had reported a spark signature.
The tactician could handle a single mech easily enough. He had also not been on patrol in quite some time, and, despite the rumors, did occasionally get a bit stir-crazy. So he had volunteered to investigate.
Which had brought him to this scrap yard.
Once, it had been a small town, out on the very edge of Iacon's borders. Now, all that remained was bombed out shells of buildings, ruined shards of metal, and the occasional empty frame. Nothing but waste and garbage.
And one, lonely spark signature.
Prowl continued on, heedless of the multitude of scrapes he was suffering on his legs and feet from the jagged spikes of scorched metal littering the ground. The sensors in his doorwings had picked up the spark signature, and he was determined to follow it, to find it.
If it was a Decepticon, he would kill him. If it was an Autobot, he would lead him back to base. If it was a Neutral, he would either leave him be or take him back to base for relocation.
The spark signature was close, now.
A curse echoed through the still air, and Prowl froze, save for his doorwings, which flicked even more erratically. The spark signature. The mech. Right in front of him.
Slowly, the tactician crept up to the broken wall and peered around it. A red mech was standing with his back to Prowl, shoulders hunched, crouched low, both hands in front of him.
Stifling a vent, Prowl pulled back. This was where things got tricky. He could see no symbol, and no faction identity was registering on his sensors. The faction ident could be hidden easily enough. The symbol could simply be on his front, where Prowl couldn't see it.
Numbers were already streaming from his battle computer. Possibilities, probabilities...
The best course of action, he decided barely a klik later, would be to show himself but have a weapon ready.
So he unsubspaced his rifle, but kept it pointed at the ground as he stepped around the corner.
The red mech whirled around immediately, before Prowl had a chance to announce himself. There was a long knife in his hands, and a snarl on his face.
“Who are you?” he growled as he settled into a practiced, natural fighting stance.
Prowl stopped and tucked his doorwings behind his back. The mech knew his way around a fight. Not that the tactician didn't, but he did want to avoid altercations, if at all possible. “I am Prowl,” he answered softly, keeping his voice low and steady.
“What are you doing here?” he snarled, side-stepping to the left. The slow, deliberate steps were telling, even if only that he knew the ground around him.
“I merely came to investigate a spark signature,” Prowl said, moving only enough to keep the mech directly in front of him. He did not want that knife anywhere out of his field of vision, and, though he could sense what was behind himself perfectly well with his doorwings, he was more comfortable if we was facing the threat.
Then something caught his attention. Movement, quiet, close.
And a knife was pressed up to the cabling in the back of his neck, and a frame pressed against his doorwings, pinning them to his back.
“Why?” the red mech snarled as Prowl fought off a lock-up. There was only one spark signature. He was still reading only one! But he could, now, clearly sense the mech pressed up against him. But there was only one signature!
The tactician blinked. “You are in Autobot territory,” he stated, slowly overcoming the surprise. Bondmates, maybe, with a high level of spark synchronicity? “It is prudent to identify strangers in your protected land,” he added.
The mech at his back stiffened, as did the red mech.
“Autobots? You're an Autobot?”
Prowl wasn't sure what to make of the tone. He couldn't decide if it was hostile or hopeful or something else entirely. “Yes,” he said, concentrating on making sure his doorwings did not twitch. “I am Prowl, Chief Tactical Officer and Second in Command.”
The pressure at the back of his neck lessened. “They send the Primus fragging Second in Command out to look for a strange spark signature?” the red mech practically laughed, optics wide, expression somewhere between stunned surprise and disbelief.
“I volunteered. I... needed to get out of the base.”
The knife pulled away entirely, and the mech stepped back. Prowl twitched his wings up, then stepped to the side, moving to take in both of them.
It was then that he realized why he could only sense one spark. The similar frames, the way they so easily moved next to each other, the way that, now that he was scanning, their sparks registered as two halves of a whole...
“Twins,” he breathed, staring.
The yellow mech, the one who had been standing behind him, snarled, his beautiful face twisting into an ugly expression. “So what?”
A touchy subject, then. “I have never encountered Twins before,” he said carefully. “It explains the single spark signature.”
The two did not exchange any sort of glance or words, but they moved together, slowly stalking toward the tactician. Prowl did not allow himself to back up.
Instead, he straightened as they approached, doorwings flaring out. “I came to do one of three things. Had you been a Decepticon, I would have killed you. Had you been an Autobot, I would have brought you back to base. But you are Neutral, which means I can leave you alone if you wish. Or I can take you back to base for relocation.”
Now, the Twins exchanged a glance. “How about something else?” the yellow one suggested, smirking slightly.
“Yeah. How about you take us back to base, but you don't ship us out. Instead, how 'bout you keep us.”
“Keep... You mean to imply that you wish to become Autobots?”
The yellow mech snorted, air gusting noisily from his vents. “We want revenge. Best way to do that is joining up.”
“What Sunny said. So. You'll take us?”
Prowl took a fraction of a moment to let his battle computer update. They both held themselves like warriors. Both stood like they knew how to fight.
The Autobots were in desperate need of good fighters.
“I will,” he said, nodding slightly. “Welcome to the Autobots.”
Title: What You Wish For
Rating: K+
Continuity: G1
Characters: Cliffjumper, Mirage
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Prompt: 4. A character works up a fantasy about another character. This may be of friendship, love, lust, capture, revenge, hurt, torture, anything. Lo and behold, an opportunity presents itself for the fantasy to come true. What happens?
I hated him. Loathed him. I always imagined him crawling up to me, injured, alone, broken, and me turning away, leaving him, like he left me.
Some people would say that I was over-reacting. That he hadn't left me broken on the dirty ground of Earth, but... he had. He had left me alone, broken, bent and busted and not wanting to go on. Perhaps it was more metaphorical than they could imagine, but the injuries he left me were just as valid, just as hurtful, as any physical wound.
Mechs have died of broken sparks before.
Because we had once been together, as strange as that may sound now. Then he had decided that we weren't right for each other, and that he belonged to someone else.
And he left. Left me for the scout, for Hound, who, as much as I tried, I couldn’t hate. Jealousy, yes. Hate, no.
Because it wasn't Hound who had left me alone. Broken. Lying in the dirt with no one there to help me back to my feet, while he was off cavorting with the mech he loved, the mech who wasn't me.
So I had struggled up on my own. I had learned how to do things again, to not rely on anyone or anything but myself.
But now that it was happening, now that my wish was coming true...
Mirage was there, vents stuttering, sounding ragged and broken, plating more dents than armor. His optics flickered with intermittent charge.
He was injured, alone, broken - just the way I had wished him to be...
And I didn't like it. It was wrong. So, so wrong.
He lifted a hand. “Cliff,” he stuttered, and his gold optics dimmed.
“Slag it all, Mirage,” I growled as I stepped forward and took the offered appendage. I opened a comm link. ::Ratchet. Mirage needs you.::
::Frag it all to-! I'll be right there! Slagging-:: Ratchet snarled, and the comm link closed.
Slowly, I sat down next to him. Silence filled the space between us, only the sounds the distant rapport of blasters and explosions and Mirage's broken vents.
“Why?” he asked after a moment, voice filled with static.
I glanced down, my blue optics meeting his gold. “Why what?” I asked, already knowing what the answer would be.
“Wh-hy would y-you help m-me?”
Offlining my optics was easy. Speaking, however, was not. “I... You...”
I felt his hand move slightly in mine; just the barest hint of a twitch.
“It felt wrong!” I finally said, voice low and urgent. “I wanted it for so long! I wanted to hurt you! That's why I called you a traitor, that's why I... I... Mirage, I...”
“I know.”
And that... I suddenly felt... peaceful.
“I know, Cliff. What-t I did was w-wrong. I h-hurt you. I... I’m sor-rry.”
With those words, I knew that all was settled between us, and I onlined my optics again. “I hurt you, too.”
The former noble just shook his helm.
Silence stretched between us once again, all the way up until Ratchet got to us. But it wasn't awkward. It was comfortable. We would never be the lovers, the Intendeds, that we had once been, but... the hurt, the painful barbs that had been separating us... they were gone.
Title: Due Warning
Rating: T
Continuity: G1
Characters: Jazz, Soundwave, Megatron, Starscream, Decepticon Ensemble
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 5. “Don't say I didn't warn you...”
Jazz's visor glimmered an eerie purple in the shadowy darkness of the Nemesis's bridge. His incessant, insane giggling filled the otherwise silent air. His once black and white paint glimmered a flayed, dull silver.
Red optics watched him warily from the edges of the room. None would cross him. Not after what they had already seen him do. After what he had done.
Capturing Jazz had seemed quite the accomplishment. The saboteur rarely allowed himself to be caught, so this had seemed like a boon from Primus. The Autobots' greatest saboteur, here, in their grasp, theirs for the torturing, theirs for the eventual, slow, lingering killing.
Then things had gone, to use a human phrase, south. Way south.
Megatron had ordered the saboteur to be brought to him, and ordered the entire Decepticon army to the throne room. There, he had brought out his favored electrowhip and proceeded to flay every inch of the Autobot's plating, tearing off the black and white paint, leaving him the burnished, dull silver of the living metal they were made of.
Then he had ordered Soundwave to search the broken mech's mind.
Those were the words he used.
“Soundwave,” he boomed, voice loud and proud and arrogant. “Search the... broken mech's processor. I am sure there are some precious Autobot secrets still accessible.”
Jazz didn't like being called broken.
The blue host had stepped forward and placed one hand on the now silver saboteur's helm.
Two minutes later, the telepath was reeling backward, visor more white than red, vents whirring at full blast, vocalizer hissing static.
That was when Jazz started giggling.
“Don' say Ah didn' warn ya,” he said, mouth twisting into a sadistic grin. “'Cause Ah did when ya first brought meh in. Ah tol'ja, ya wouldn' like what'd happ'n when ya did what ya were thinkin' a' doin'.”
Starscream stepped up next, turning up his nose at the Communications Specialist, who had collapsed in a heap of overheated metal on the floor. “Fool,” he sneered.
Then he was within reach of Jazz, who wasted no time in leaping up, clinging to the Seeker's shoulders with one hand, both legs wrapped around his waist. His free hand plunged through the cockpit on the Decepticon Second in Command's chest, through the thick shielding metal underneath it, and into the glittering spark chamber. A flare of light radiated from the deep gash, and Starscream gasped, his optics flickering brightly for a moment before going dark. Slowly, he toppled backward. Jazz leapt lightly from the Seeker as he fell, silently landing on his feet, claws extended fully, visor tinting a violent purple, vocalizer still emitting those haunting giggles.
“Who's next?” he snickered, and his visor flickered once.
Megatron was staring, horrified.
He was also the closest to Jazz.
“Ah warned ya,” the saboteur said. “Ah really, truly, did. Ya jus' didn' listen. Mm. Too bad.”
And he lunged. Megatron fought; he punched and kicked and lashed out with everything he had, as strongly as he could, snarling and growling and howling as claws dug into the cracks between his armor and wires and lines were ripped to shreds.
But Jazz was strong. Jazz was angry. And Jazz was a slight bit insane. Unbalanced. Every Autobot knew it. Without Prowl, Jazz was a loose cannon, wild and uncontrollable. Only the Second in Command could keep the Third tethered.
And Prowl wasn't there. Jazz had no leash. Nothing to hold him back. And he didn't hold back one iota.
It did not take long for Megatron's steely gray to fade to the dull, lifeless gray of death.
It was on top of the warlord's lifeless frame that Jazz perched, crouched like some alien monster, every flayed edge of his armor glittering in the half-light, once blue visor glowing a menacing purple, claws extended to full length, vents hissing gently with each cycle, still giggling like a maniac, as though this were the most fun game in the world.
The rest of the Decepticons were cowering into the darkened corners of the throne room. This mech, despite being beaten half to deactivation, had just taken out Soundwave, Starscream, and Megatron in less time than it took to make a call to Cybertron.
It was intimidating, to say the least. And that wasn't even taking into account the thin, almost childlike laughter that had filled the room while he did it.
To put it very simply, the Decepticons were scared out of their plating. It occurred to some of them that they might be able to stop the Autobot if they all charged, all attacked at the same time, but the chances that they would all get out alive were slim.
So they cowered, hoping to be overlooked, to be categorized as nonthreatening.
Jazz was having none of it. His gaze, shielded though it was, darted from 'Con to 'Con. His grin twitched.
“Ah warned ya,” he said suddenly, grin widening beyond what most mechs watching thought to be possible. “Ah really did.”
With that, he pulled something out of his subspace. The Decepticons instinctively leaned forward slightly, trying to see what it was.
“See, Ah while back, Megsy here shot at Prowler. Mah Prowler didn' make it.”
They all flinched as they recalled that last battle. The scream of anguish that had echoed across the battlefield after the sharp blast of Megatron's fusion cannon had been one not easily forgotten.
“So, see, Ah have no more reason fer livin'. Prowler ain't here no more. Ah had t' take care o' th' mechs respons'ble fer that. An' Ah figured, why not take 'em all out?”
With a swift movement, Jazz tossed the object in his hands toward one cluster of cowering Decepticons.
A moment later, they were so much ash and scorched metal. The grenade had exploded as it hit them, igniting the energon in their lines, burning them up from the inside.
Jazz cackled, visor brightening, grin stretching into a horrid grimace. More grenades appeared in his hands, and he tossed them through the room. Screams began to echo through the bangs around him, his psychotic cackling ringing above everything else.
The last trick, he thought to himself. Always knew I'd go out with a bang.
A set of protocols he had written long ago engaged. A little timer flicked down on his HUD.
A few kliks later, he was naught but a writhing mass of flames and shrapnel, matching exactly the Decepticon forces around him.
Title: Lazy Day
Rating: K
Continuity: G1
Characters: Spike, Bumblebee
Disclaimer: Don't own
Prompt: 6. Lazy
Spike, when Bumblebee found him, was lying on the couch in the Rec Room, limbs sprawled in all directions, head pillowed on his backpack, watching a kid's cartoon on the massive TV.
“Spike?” he asked, trying to work out what his charge was doing.
“Mm?”
“What's going on?”
The boy turned his head, barely enough to see the yellow mech. “Lazy day.”
“... What?” This was odd. Spike was usually up and moving around. He didn't like being still.
“Lazy day. It's Saturday, I’ve got Monday off because it's a teacher-in-service day, and I haven't watched these cartoons since I was, like, seven.”
“So... why are you watching them now?”
The boy grinned and flopped his hand in a lazy wave. “'Cause I can. I mean, why not? C'mon, come watch them with me.”
Hesitantly, Bumblebee eased himself down onto the portion of the couch his charge was not occupying and turned his attention to the screen. The shows he found to be wildly illogical and nonsensical, but he had no qualms toward spending a lazy day with his charge.