(no subject)
Today’s preamble topic: the Land Military Team. And, by extension, their Night Attack counterparts.
Every now and again I remember just how much I like these guys, and yesterday was one of them. Usually my psychotic fansqueeing episodes manifest in rantings and the urge to write fanfic about the characters/situation in question. This time is slightly different. Last night, caught up in the sheer awesomeness, I vowed to get 2007 Bonecrusher and Wreckage and then repaint them into 2007 Scattor and Fetch. (They would, of course, be the good clones. How’s the ironymeter looking there?)
But then I hit a snag: there is no movie-verse Knockout, damnit! My new pet trine is incomplete! And while Blackout might do (heheh, Armada Broadside would love it) he’s already nearly in Night Attack Team colours, and there’s Scorponok as a complicating factor. (Although, thinking about it, there’s Evac - and a Broadside with a little raft would make a neat little G1 reference…) Alternatively, there’s Brawl, who has no particular resemblance to the Land Militaries besides looking a little like Armada Wreckage - but he’d be another really background Decepticon and continue the, well, Land Military theme.
All of which ignores the practical difficulties of finding said toys around here (hell, Wreckage and Brawl are the only ones I already have, though my brother has Blackout and Bonecrusher).
I can hope.
And now, a silly fic.
Series: RiD
Summary: Movor swears there’s something rotten in the local physics…
(Continuing something of another theme, and disclaimered to death at the end…)
Ro-tor was going to burn out his vocaliser if he laughed any harder.
Movor looked up at him in exasperation. “Will you stop that?”
“I can’t,” the ‘copter-bot snickered honestly. But he managed to quiet down, shaking with contained laughter while his partner lifted his hand again.
The tiny lump of metal rolled across the floor. Ro-tor broke down again.
“What the slag are you making so much noise about?” Armorhide stood in the doorway, staring at them. Ro-tor was laughing too hard to answer him.
“OK, that’s plain weird.” Movor was giving the object a spooked look. “It shouldn’t keep doing that! There’s got to be something wrong with it.”
Armorhide strode in and scanned the little thing. He wasn’t enlightened. “It’s a lump of scrapmetal with numbers on the sides. What’s it supposed to do, bark?”
Movor scowled. “Look, every time you throw it, there chances of it landing with any particular side up are equal, right?”
“Right.”
“And even if they’re not, the odds’re pretty good for each side, right?”
“I guess so,” Armorhide said, staring at him and wondering if this was supposed to explain anything. “What’s your point?”
“Just watch.” The shuttle retrieved the die and tossed it again. And again. And again.
“Huh.” Armorhide eyed the results. “Maybe there is something wrong with it.”
“That doesn’t happen when I do it,” Ro-tor said gleefully. “Movor was trying it for twenty minutes.” He folded his arms, tilting his head in the very slight way that meant he was smirking. “You try.”
Armorhide shrugged, scooped it up and rolled. Twelve, three, seven, thirteen, three…
Movor cursed. Armorhide eyed the die and reached a conclusion. “Scourge ever challenges the Autobots to a board game, you’re not allowed to play.”
“Give the stupid thing back,” Movor growled. Armorhide tossed it at him. The shuttle caught it, fumbled with the tiny object and dropped it.
The top side read one. Movor groaned and covered his visor. Ro-tor sniggered.
Armorhide shook his head with an amused snort. “Just got one question. Why’n Megatron’s name were you screwing around with that anyway?”
“Don’t ask.”
Ro-tor informed him gleefully what Movor was supposed to be doing. Armorhide gave him a blank look, and decided he’d rather go have his sandbath than hear them try to explain.
After all, he thought, as he tramped off down the hall, what kind of idiot ran a spot check on numbered dice?
Disclaimer, as promised: Tom Stoppard made the primary joke long ago, and countless people have made at least one of the others. They’re there because they tied in nicely, that’s all.
Every now and again I remember just how much I like these guys, and yesterday was one of them. Usually my psychotic fansqueeing episodes manifest in rantings and the urge to write fanfic about the characters/situation in question. This time is slightly different. Last night, caught up in the sheer awesomeness, I vowed to get 2007 Bonecrusher and Wreckage and then repaint them into 2007 Scattor and Fetch. (They would, of course, be the good clones. How’s the ironymeter looking there?)
But then I hit a snag: there is no movie-verse Knockout, damnit! My new pet trine is incomplete! And while Blackout might do (heheh, Armada Broadside would love it) he’s already nearly in Night Attack Team colours, and there’s Scorponok as a complicating factor. (Although, thinking about it, there’s Evac - and a Broadside with a little raft would make a neat little G1 reference…) Alternatively, there’s Brawl, who has no particular resemblance to the Land Militaries besides looking a little like Armada Wreckage - but he’d be another really background Decepticon and continue the, well, Land Military theme.
All of which ignores the practical difficulties of finding said toys around here (hell, Wreckage and Brawl are the only ones I already have, though my brother has Blackout and Bonecrusher).
I can hope.
And now, a silly fic.
Series: RiD
Summary: Movor swears there’s something rotten in the local physics…
(Continuing something of another theme, and disclaimered to death at the end…)
Ro-tor was going to burn out his vocaliser if he laughed any harder.
Movor looked up at him in exasperation. “Will you stop that?”
“I can’t,” the ‘copter-bot snickered honestly. But he managed to quiet down, shaking with contained laughter while his partner lifted his hand again.
The tiny lump of metal rolled across the floor. Ro-tor broke down again.
“What the slag are you making so much noise about?” Armorhide stood in the doorway, staring at them. Ro-tor was laughing too hard to answer him.
“OK, that’s plain weird.” Movor was giving the object a spooked look. “It shouldn’t keep doing that! There’s got to be something wrong with it.”
Armorhide strode in and scanned the little thing. He wasn’t enlightened. “It’s a lump of scrapmetal with numbers on the sides. What’s it supposed to do, bark?”
Movor scowled. “Look, every time you throw it, there chances of it landing with any particular side up are equal, right?”
“Right.”
“And even if they’re not, the odds’re pretty good for each side, right?”
“I guess so,” Armorhide said, staring at him and wondering if this was supposed to explain anything. “What’s your point?”
“Just watch.” The shuttle retrieved the die and tossed it again. And again. And again.
“Huh.” Armorhide eyed the results. “Maybe there is something wrong with it.”
“That doesn’t happen when I do it,” Ro-tor said gleefully. “Movor was trying it for twenty minutes.” He folded his arms, tilting his head in the very slight way that meant he was smirking. “You try.”
Armorhide shrugged, scooped it up and rolled. Twelve, three, seven, thirteen, three…
Movor cursed. Armorhide eyed the die and reached a conclusion. “Scourge ever challenges the Autobots to a board game, you’re not allowed to play.”
“Give the stupid thing back,” Movor growled. Armorhide tossed it at him. The shuttle caught it, fumbled with the tiny object and dropped it.
The top side read one. Movor groaned and covered his visor. Ro-tor sniggered.
Armorhide shook his head with an amused snort. “Just got one question. Why’n Megatron’s name were you screwing around with that anyway?”
“Don’t ask.”
Ro-tor informed him gleefully what Movor was supposed to be doing. Armorhide gave him a blank look, and decided he’d rather go have his sandbath than hear them try to explain.
After all, he thought, as he tramped off down the hall, what kind of idiot ran a spot check on numbered dice?
Disclaimer, as promised: Tom Stoppard made the primary joke long ago, and countless people have made at least one of the others. They’re there because they tied in nicely, that’s all.