Because I really should be in bed.
But I have angsty headchars being angsty at me, and vodka does nothing to banish them. And so I inflict upon you, dear readers, the birth of the wingthing. With special thanks to lunatron, who figured out how all this got started in the first place.
*
The sky above Mission City that day was cloudless and clear, etched only by the occasional vapor trail from passing jets on exercise. It was a sky that invited dreaming.
Mom, are you watching? I'm going to fly. I'm going to lift right off the sidewalk, leap into the air and get utterly lost in the fathomless blue. Just watch me, I will.
It was a sky that rained fire, when the Autobots and Decepticons named it their battleground for possession of the Allspark. There was no time to evacuate the people of the city or even prepare them - as if such a thing could possibly be prepared for - and the casualties suffered that day would reach to nearly one thousand.
Amid the chaos, the Allspark spoke.
What's - oh god...
It spoke to a vending machine, filled it with wicked rage for all the kicks it had weathered in its lifetime. It spoke to a video game console, fresh from the factory and bursting with curiosity. It spoke to a van who was more than ready to choose its own master. And it spoke into the cochlear implant of a human girl who dreamed of flying.
Her very being screamed its reply. Metal erupted from her back in a shower of blood and sparks, sending her into spasms of pain that only grew in violence as alien circuitry tied itself into her spinal cord. I've been hit, she thought desperately, clawing at the metal that wrapped itself around her head and thrummed against the back of her neck. I've been hit by shrapnel and I'm going to die.
The growing alloy the Allspark sang into being reached her heels, shaped itself into thrusters that fired without her direction. They sent her leaping off the pavement in an agonized arc, spun her through the dusty, booming air, careened her crazily into a streetlight. As the Autobots and Decepticons raged in battle and the Allspark sang its final aria, the winged girl rocketed uncontrollably into the sun.
*
The sky above Mission City that day was cloudless and clear, etched only by the occasional vapor trail from passing jets on exercise. It was a sky that invited dreaming.
Mom, are you watching? I'm going to fly. I'm going to lift right off the sidewalk, leap into the air and get utterly lost in the fathomless blue. Just watch me, I will.
It was a sky that rained fire, when the Autobots and Decepticons named it their battleground for possession of the Allspark. There was no time to evacuate the people of the city or even prepare them - as if such a thing could possibly be prepared for - and the casualties suffered that day would reach to nearly one thousand.
Amid the chaos, the Allspark spoke.
What's - oh god...
It spoke to a vending machine, filled it with wicked rage for all the kicks it had weathered in its lifetime. It spoke to a video game console, fresh from the factory and bursting with curiosity. It spoke to a van who was more than ready to choose its own master. And it spoke into the cochlear implant of a human girl who dreamed of flying.
Her very being screamed its reply. Metal erupted from her back in a shower of blood and sparks, sending her into spasms of pain that only grew in violence as alien circuitry tied itself into her spinal cord. I've been hit, she thought desperately, clawing at the metal that wrapped itself around her head and thrummed against the back of her neck. I've been hit by shrapnel and I'm going to die.
The growing alloy the Allspark sang into being reached her heels, shaped itself into thrusters that fired without her direction. They sent her leaping off the pavement in an agonized arc, spun her through the dusty, booming air, careened her crazily into a streetlight. As the Autobots and Decepticons raged in battle and the Allspark sang its final aria, the winged girl rocketed uncontrollably into the sun.