"Run, Run, Run, As Fast As You Can"
Title: “Run, Run, Run, As Fast As You Can”
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence
Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Prowl, Megatron
Prompt: (from the bunny farm somewhere, lost the link) 59. "If they're ever serious... run."
One thing that could always be counted on was Sideswipe’s cheeriness. Even in some of the most dangerous, stressful, insane situations, you could always count on Sideswipe for a joke, for a sarcastic comment, for a grin, for a prank. Sideswipe was never serious.
Sunstreaker really wasn’t, either. Once one got to know him, it was easy to see that though he put on a scary face and a grouchy countenance, that was really more to get people to leave him alone, antisocial as he was, rather than a genuine feeling of aggression. He rarely actually got really angry.
Not many had seen them serious. Only the command staff of those stuck on Earth knew what the two were capable of.
It was really a normal battle. Optimus and Megatron had at it, other mechs engaged in minor skirmishes and shootouts. Then, there was a shout. A mech fell to the ground.
The Twins disengaged from the Seekers they had managed to drag to the ground, abandoning tearing them apart to race to the fallen mech.
“Bluestreak!” the red Twin cried as he ran, so hasty he tripped over the uneven ground.
Sunstreaker reached the fallen Praxian first, falling on his knees and sliding over the last foot of ground, careless of his pristine paint job. Sideswipe arrived not a second after, falling similarly at the prone form of their lover.
“Ratchet!” Sunstreaker called. “Get over here!”
The call was unnecessary, as Ratchet was already rushing to the gunner. He immediately began working on the massive blast hole - a stray shot from Megatron’s fusion cannon - in the mech’s side. It had missed most vital systems, but it had severed the connections to his left appendages. His doorwing was missing a large chunk along its leading edge. The initial blast had cauterized most of the lines, but a few of the larger ones were beginning to break through the melted ends, and a pool of the glowing pink liquid began to form under the gray mech.
“Will he be okay?” Sideswipe asked the medic.
“Give me room to work.”
The short response was answer enough. Ratchet didn’t know.
“Can we do anything?” the yellow Twin asked softly, optics beginning to take on a purple tinge.
“No. Just let me work.”
With that, they stood smoothly in unison. A few mechs around them took notice. They looked different. The way they held themselves wasn’t familiar, nor were their faces. Something had changed in their optics. Instead of their normal deep navy, they were purple, dark and glimmering, more red than blue.
They didn’t look at each other, didn’t show any signs of communication, but together, they fell into step, striding confidently toward where Megatron and Optimus were still duking it out. The closer they got, the faster they went, until they were charging at full speed toward the two leaders.
Sideswipe was slightly faster than his Twin. He reached the two first, unsheathed dual swords flashing with an eerie glow as he inserted himself between Optimus and Megatron.
The Autobot leader was pushed out of the way, and he stumbled back, watching with wide optics.
Sideswipe’s swords did little against the heavy breastplate of the Decepticon Warlord, but his sudden arrival took the mech by surprise.
Sunstreaker, the heavier and stronger of the two, crashed into Megatron’s back, in a full body tackle. Sideswipe leapt out of the way as the yellow mech and the gray mech fell to the ground. The yellow Twin jumped off the Decepticon leader as they collapsed, rolling into a crouch. Sideswipe was back in the fray immediately, swords glimmering as they flicked and poked, never causing much damage, but always making contact.
Sunstreaker unsheathed his swords as Megatron rose to his feet. His blades joined his brother’s in a deadly dance against the Decepticon.
They spun and whirled around him, the two of them against the mech twice their size. He never touched them. They poked and prodded and scratched and nicked and continued on, giving him no rest or chance to recover his balance or guard.
In a matter of minutes, he was covered in lightly seeping scratches, tiny holes in his armor, hundreds of scrapes. And he was tiring. Anyone could see it. The Twins were impossible to keep up with, fighting as they were. They acted as one, optics purple and shining, expressions molded into an unchanging, unflinching visage of anger, rage, and calm determination to destroy.
Sideswipe landed the first heavy blow, to the back of the Warlord’s knee, severing tension wires and energon lines. A rivulet of glowing pink energon tracked down his calf armor, leaving a clean track on the dirt-caked living metal.
After that, the blows landed quickly, heavily, and with a surgical precision. They were done toying with him, done wearing him down. They went to work, with an accuracy and speed that displayed a viciousness none had seen in the two before. Tension wires severed neatly. Energon lines spewed their contents. Armor was bent and broken and made useless.
The Warlord fell to his knees. He tried to stand, but couldn’t muster enough strength.
“You should have run,” Sunstreaker rumbled, his voice nearly unrecognizable.
They stood over him, blades shining with his spilled energon, avenging angels in yellow and red.
“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” Sideswipe growled, absolutely still as he stared into the crimson optics of Megatron, save for the sadistic grin twisting his face. “We’d catch you before you even began.”
The whole battle had stopped to watch the grudge match between the Twins and the Warlord. What had once been a chaotic tumble of booms, crashes, and shouts had turned into a silent circle of spectators, Autobots and Decepticons alike staring in horror and fascination. Only Ratchet and Bluestreak remained outside the circle, the medic frantically working over the injured gunner.
Both Twins lifted their swords and placed them against the Decepticon’s neck cables.
“We could kill you if we wanted,” they said together, their voices creating an eerie echo of each other.
“But we’re better than that,” the red Twin said alone.
“We like to think we are, anyway.”
“You hurt Bluestreak-”
“-so we hurt you-”
“-what we deemed was equal-”
“-to the damage-”
“-you caused him.”
“If he dies-”
“-you can rest assured that-”
“-you’ll be next.”
“Got it?” they said together once again.
Megatron blinked.
The Twins pulled back, then drove their swords forward again, sinking them deep into the Warlord’s shoulder joints. He grunted, optics flaring almost white with pain. The swords pulled out, grating loudly as the Twins gave them a slight twist. Still, Megatron made no noise, though his optics blacked out and his frame shuddered unnaturally.
“We’re done here,” Sunstreaker said, optics returning somewhat to normal, though they were still more purple than usual.
“For now,” Sideswipe added, giving one of his swords a quick spin before he sheathed it.
They turned and walked away, back to the side of their gunner. Bluestreak’s wounds had mostly been patched, the temporary silvery material showing brightly against his gray plating. The energon around him on the ground, painted over his plating, and smeared over Ratchet’s hands was mostly dull, dried, deactivated orangey-pink. Very little was fresh.
“He’ll be okay,” Ratchet said quietly. “He’ll have a lot of recovering to do, but his spark and critical systems are stable.”
“Good.”
“That was quite impressive,” a soft voice said behind them. Prowl, standing a short distance away, twitched his wings.
The Twins said nothing, just exchanged a glance and gave the tactician a nod.
“Thank you for taking care of my creation,” Prowl said, even more quietly than before, this time as he knelt down and laid a careful hand over the gray Praxian’s chest.
“We love him. Of course we’ll take care of him.”
“I see. In that case, I approve your request to court my creation. He’ll be safe with you two.”
With that, Prowl stood and left the four mechs alone to help organize the Autobots’ return home. Ratchet soon stood as well, saying that he could do no more here on the battlefield, and Bluestreak was ready for transport back to the Arc.
It was three days before Bluestreak woke up. When he did, it was with the Twins on one side, Prowl and Jazz at his other, and for once, his creator seemed content at that arrangement, for he wasn’t scowling at the Twins.
“What happened?” was the first thing he asked.
The four mechs above him laughed and smiled.
“Not much, Blue,” Prowl answered with a smile. “The Twins just showed me how serious they were.”
Rating: T
Warnings: Violence
Characters: Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, Prowl, Megatron
Prompt: (from the bunny farm somewhere, lost the link) 59. "If they're ever serious... run."
One thing that could always be counted on was Sideswipe’s cheeriness. Even in some of the most dangerous, stressful, insane situations, you could always count on Sideswipe for a joke, for a sarcastic comment, for a grin, for a prank. Sideswipe was never serious.
Sunstreaker really wasn’t, either. Once one got to know him, it was easy to see that though he put on a scary face and a grouchy countenance, that was really more to get people to leave him alone, antisocial as he was, rather than a genuine feeling of aggression. He rarely actually got really angry.
Not many had seen them serious. Only the command staff of those stuck on Earth knew what the two were capable of.
It was really a normal battle. Optimus and Megatron had at it, other mechs engaged in minor skirmishes and shootouts. Then, there was a shout. A mech fell to the ground.
The Twins disengaged from the Seekers they had managed to drag to the ground, abandoning tearing them apart to race to the fallen mech.
“Bluestreak!” the red Twin cried as he ran, so hasty he tripped over the uneven ground.
Sunstreaker reached the fallen Praxian first, falling on his knees and sliding over the last foot of ground, careless of his pristine paint job. Sideswipe arrived not a second after, falling similarly at the prone form of their lover.
“Ratchet!” Sunstreaker called. “Get over here!”
The call was unnecessary, as Ratchet was already rushing to the gunner. He immediately began working on the massive blast hole - a stray shot from Megatron’s fusion cannon - in the mech’s side. It had missed most vital systems, but it had severed the connections to his left appendages. His doorwing was missing a large chunk along its leading edge. The initial blast had cauterized most of the lines, but a few of the larger ones were beginning to break through the melted ends, and a pool of the glowing pink liquid began to form under the gray mech.
“Will he be okay?” Sideswipe asked the medic.
“Give me room to work.”
The short response was answer enough. Ratchet didn’t know.
“Can we do anything?” the yellow Twin asked softly, optics beginning to take on a purple tinge.
“No. Just let me work.”
With that, they stood smoothly in unison. A few mechs around them took notice. They looked different. The way they held themselves wasn’t familiar, nor were their faces. Something had changed in their optics. Instead of their normal deep navy, they were purple, dark and glimmering, more red than blue.
They didn’t look at each other, didn’t show any signs of communication, but together, they fell into step, striding confidently toward where Megatron and Optimus were still duking it out. The closer they got, the faster they went, until they were charging at full speed toward the two leaders.
Sideswipe was slightly faster than his Twin. He reached the two first, unsheathed dual swords flashing with an eerie glow as he inserted himself between Optimus and Megatron.
The Autobot leader was pushed out of the way, and he stumbled back, watching with wide optics.
Sideswipe’s swords did little against the heavy breastplate of the Decepticon Warlord, but his sudden arrival took the mech by surprise.
Sunstreaker, the heavier and stronger of the two, crashed into Megatron’s back, in a full body tackle. Sideswipe leapt out of the way as the yellow mech and the gray mech fell to the ground. The yellow Twin jumped off the Decepticon leader as they collapsed, rolling into a crouch. Sideswipe was back in the fray immediately, swords glimmering as they flicked and poked, never causing much damage, but always making contact.
Sunstreaker unsheathed his swords as Megatron rose to his feet. His blades joined his brother’s in a deadly dance against the Decepticon.
They spun and whirled around him, the two of them against the mech twice their size. He never touched them. They poked and prodded and scratched and nicked and continued on, giving him no rest or chance to recover his balance or guard.
In a matter of minutes, he was covered in lightly seeping scratches, tiny holes in his armor, hundreds of scrapes. And he was tiring. Anyone could see it. The Twins were impossible to keep up with, fighting as they were. They acted as one, optics purple and shining, expressions molded into an unchanging, unflinching visage of anger, rage, and calm determination to destroy.
Sideswipe landed the first heavy blow, to the back of the Warlord’s knee, severing tension wires and energon lines. A rivulet of glowing pink energon tracked down his calf armor, leaving a clean track on the dirt-caked living metal.
After that, the blows landed quickly, heavily, and with a surgical precision. They were done toying with him, done wearing him down. They went to work, with an accuracy and speed that displayed a viciousness none had seen in the two before. Tension wires severed neatly. Energon lines spewed their contents. Armor was bent and broken and made useless.
The Warlord fell to his knees. He tried to stand, but couldn’t muster enough strength.
“You should have run,” Sunstreaker rumbled, his voice nearly unrecognizable.
They stood over him, blades shining with his spilled energon, avenging angels in yellow and red.
“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” Sideswipe growled, absolutely still as he stared into the crimson optics of Megatron, save for the sadistic grin twisting his face. “We’d catch you before you even began.”
The whole battle had stopped to watch the grudge match between the Twins and the Warlord. What had once been a chaotic tumble of booms, crashes, and shouts had turned into a silent circle of spectators, Autobots and Decepticons alike staring in horror and fascination. Only Ratchet and Bluestreak remained outside the circle, the medic frantically working over the injured gunner.
Both Twins lifted their swords and placed them against the Decepticon’s neck cables.
“We could kill you if we wanted,” they said together, their voices creating an eerie echo of each other.
“But we’re better than that,” the red Twin said alone.
“We like to think we are, anyway.”
“You hurt Bluestreak-”
“-so we hurt you-”
“-what we deemed was equal-”
“-to the damage-”
“-you caused him.”
“If he dies-”
“-you can rest assured that-”
“-you’ll be next.”
“Got it?” they said together once again.
Megatron blinked.
The Twins pulled back, then drove their swords forward again, sinking them deep into the Warlord’s shoulder joints. He grunted, optics flaring almost white with pain. The swords pulled out, grating loudly as the Twins gave them a slight twist. Still, Megatron made no noise, though his optics blacked out and his frame shuddered unnaturally.
“We’re done here,” Sunstreaker said, optics returning somewhat to normal, though they were still more purple than usual.
“For now,” Sideswipe added, giving one of his swords a quick spin before he sheathed it.
They turned and walked away, back to the side of their gunner. Bluestreak’s wounds had mostly been patched, the temporary silvery material showing brightly against his gray plating. The energon around him on the ground, painted over his plating, and smeared over Ratchet’s hands was mostly dull, dried, deactivated orangey-pink. Very little was fresh.
“He’ll be okay,” Ratchet said quietly. “He’ll have a lot of recovering to do, but his spark and critical systems are stable.”
“Good.”
“That was quite impressive,” a soft voice said behind them. Prowl, standing a short distance away, twitched his wings.
The Twins said nothing, just exchanged a glance and gave the tactician a nod.
“Thank you for taking care of my creation,” Prowl said, even more quietly than before, this time as he knelt down and laid a careful hand over the gray Praxian’s chest.
“We love him. Of course we’ll take care of him.”
“I see. In that case, I approve your request to court my creation. He’ll be safe with you two.”
With that, Prowl stood and left the four mechs alone to help organize the Autobots’ return home. Ratchet soon stood as well, saying that he could do no more here on the battlefield, and Bluestreak was ready for transport back to the Arc.
It was three days before Bluestreak woke up. When he did, it was with the Twins on one side, Prowl and Jazz at his other, and for once, his creator seemed content at that arrangement, for he wasn’t scowling at the Twins.
“What happened?” was the first thing he asked.
The four mechs above him laughed and smiled.
“Not much, Blue,” Prowl answered with a smile. “The Twins just showed me how serious they were.”