Drabblefic; Familiarity
He finds himself walking through the City. By now, he has learned of what is common fashion for this world; to wear the clothing he was Ported in with would attract attention. Today, he does not wish for such, and so he has changed into an outfit more befitting a human of this world. The fabric feels strange on him, but it is the least of the strangeness that he has encountered since coming here.
Clothing, at least, is somewhat familiar to him. The purpose, role, function and fashion. He sticks to the colors closest to his true ones that he can find, and though it may gain him a few strange looks, it is a comfort he is stubbornly unwilling to give up. His true body has already been taken from him; he will do no more blending than required to pass him off as a standard human.
His eyes, though...his eyes make it difficult. As he walks the sidewalk, he cannot help but notice things about humans that he never had before - their own varied color choices, the subtle nuances of walking, the way that one rests on the bench waiting for transportation - and none of them hold red eyes. Some, blue. Some, a rich brown...but none red. Those that notice the color on him have mixed reactions; some are startled. A child points and speaks to his mother, who is quick to usher the boy on. Suspicion clouds the features of others. The (once-)guardian takes this in stride; of all species other than Cybertronians, he would dare to presume that he knows humans best. Eons of watching their interactions with the children of Primus...
'Wary' of the unfamiliar can be an understatement. But he holds with himself the knowledge that they can be just as excited and appreciative of differences, and walks on.
The day passes from morning to afternoon and to evening. He takes the time to purchase a meal, and also the time to marvel over how different refueling is from what he's used to. He was used to going without straight energon for years at a time; such efficiency was required, for longer stretches of work. These bodies...they operate on a much different cycle. Some, such as regular sleep, are pleasant. Others, well...
He continues his exploration. His mental mapping of the city. The sky darkens, but not the City; some lights come on while yet others dim, signifying the closing of businesses. One still open catches his attention, and after a moment's thought, he steps inside.
tick. tick. tick.
Clocks. Of all kinds. It is a small store, but it is filled to brim with the devices; by the looks of things, the owner is engrossed with another visitor and does not seem to notice his entrance. He takes advantage of this to explore, and is not disappointed.
tick. tick. tick.
Quickly, he learns that some are far superior pieces than others; it is in their make, their design, the craftmanship. Others...others annoy him, and he can't quite place why at first until he takes one down to hold, examining it in his hands and then realizes-
tick. tick. tick.
It is barely perceptible, but it is there. Less than an astroscond's difference, and yet-to him, it is glaring. He frowns, turning it over, trying to find some way of manipulation, some way to fix it, some-
"Do you need something?"
tick. tick. tick.
tick. tick. tick.
He leaves the shop with not only the piece in hand, but the owner's name - apparently, he is one of those who is not afraid of those different...nor those who fall under the banner of 'imPorts'. He also carries with him a small black bag. And when he returns to the apartments that serve as the Autobots' base, he returns to his room and spreads it all over the small table within.
From the bag he withdraws some tools. A key. A wrench. Screwdrivers to assist in removing the back of the piece, to expose the delicate mechanisms within; delicate but off, and with everything set he sits down and and he performs a task so different and yet so similar to what is his function.
tick. tick. tick.
And for now, it is enough to hold his attention through the rest of the night.
Inspired by Corny.
Clothing, at least, is somewhat familiar to him. The purpose, role, function and fashion. He sticks to the colors closest to his true ones that he can find, and though it may gain him a few strange looks, it is a comfort he is stubbornly unwilling to give up. His true body has already been taken from him; he will do no more blending than required to pass him off as a standard human.
His eyes, though...his eyes make it difficult. As he walks the sidewalk, he cannot help but notice things about humans that he never had before - their own varied color choices, the subtle nuances of walking, the way that one rests on the bench waiting for transportation - and none of them hold red eyes. Some, blue. Some, a rich brown...but none red. Those that notice the color on him have mixed reactions; some are startled. A child points and speaks to his mother, who is quick to usher the boy on. Suspicion clouds the features of others. The (once-)guardian takes this in stride; of all species other than Cybertronians, he would dare to presume that he knows humans best. Eons of watching their interactions with the children of Primus...
'Wary' of the unfamiliar can be an understatement. But he holds with himself the knowledge that they can be just as excited and appreciative of differences, and walks on.
The day passes from morning to afternoon and to evening. He takes the time to purchase a meal, and also the time to marvel over how different refueling is from what he's used to. He was used to going without straight energon for years at a time; such efficiency was required, for longer stretches of work. These bodies...they operate on a much different cycle. Some, such as regular sleep, are pleasant. Others, well...
He continues his exploration. His mental mapping of the city. The sky darkens, but not the City; some lights come on while yet others dim, signifying the closing of businesses. One still open catches his attention, and after a moment's thought, he steps inside.
tick. tick. tick.
Clocks. Of all kinds. It is a small store, but it is filled to brim with the devices; by the looks of things, the owner is engrossed with another visitor and does not seem to notice his entrance. He takes advantage of this to explore, and is not disappointed.
tick. tick. tick.
Quickly, he learns that some are far superior pieces than others; it is in their make, their design, the craftmanship. Others...others annoy him, and he can't quite place why at first until he takes one down to hold, examining it in his hands and then realizes-
tick. tick. tick.
It is barely perceptible, but it is there. Less than an astroscond's difference, and yet-to him, it is glaring. He frowns, turning it over, trying to find some way of manipulation, some way to fix it, some-
"Do you need something?"
tick. tick. tick.
tick. tick. tick.
He leaves the shop with not only the piece in hand, but the owner's name - apparently, he is one of those who is not afraid of those different...nor those who fall under the banner of 'imPorts'. He also carries with him a small black bag. And when he returns to the apartments that serve as the Autobots' base, he returns to his room and spreads it all over the small table within.
From the bag he withdraws some tools. A key. A wrench. Screwdrivers to assist in removing the back of the piece, to expose the delicate mechanisms within; delicate but off, and with everything set he sits down and and he performs a task so different and yet so similar to what is his function.
tick. tick. tick.
And for now, it is enough to hold his attention through the rest of the night.
Inspired by Corny.