Fic: Great Destinies
Title: Great Destinies
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: None
Summary: Sam and the Allspark have a discussion. Sort of.
Author's Note: I challenged lyricality to write a flash!fic (about one page), and she turned it back on me. This is the result.
Optimus had tried to take it from him, once. And despite not knowing exactly why he was so hesitant about it, Sam had willingly handed over the last remnant of the Allspark.
That..had not gone well. No one that had been present at the time could quite agree on exactly what happened, but everyone did see Optimus standing one moment, shard in hand, and on the floor in the next, brought down in a crumpled heap as as he dropped the shard and it rolled across the floor to come to a stop at Sam’s feet.
“Call me crazy,” Will had said. “But I think it likes Sam.”
Epps had walked away, shaking his head and murmuring about "weird-ass robot alien shit."
Sam picked up the shard, and despite Ratchet’s alarm, it remained cool and quiet in his grasp while Optimus still shook with slight tremors from his electrocution. Sam receieved several strange and suspicious looks from the Autobots, but it was still the last time any of them had tried to take it back.
And now here he sat, at four o’clock in the morning and sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the shard on his nightstand when he could have sworn that he had left it in his backpack. His night had been sleepless-not necessarily filled with bad dreams but with restless ones, with foggy images fading in and out like ghosts and whispering amongst voices he thought he could almost understand if only they just spoke a little louder.
“My great-grandfather once went crazy,” Sam said aloud.
Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Never once did Sam believe that the Allspark had ever been alive, per se, or even had any sort of sentience, let alone sapience, but still, the answering quiet was still a little too perfect.
“All right, if you want to stay, we gotta have some rules. No more following me, all right? I tell you to stay in my room, you stay. No more getting into my pockets or backpack or anything or freaking me the hell out, okay? Rule two: No more electrocuting Optimus, got it? He’s one of the good guys. Rule three: no more maps or running around deserts or jumping through space bridges or dying. You got something to tell me, just go ahead and tell me. So I can be prepared, you know?”
It was late, and Sam was tired, but there was almost a soft, answering buzz, like a vibration from a cell phone buried under blankets.
Sighing, Sam lied back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of his fan and waiting for sleep to return. It was easier said than done, as his thoughts refused to quiet, circling like a whirlwind through his head. It was too hard to ignore the silent presence on his nighstand, or the journal that he had hidden under his mattress-the one written by Archibald Witwicky during his stay in the mental institution and the one in which Sam thought he could find clues to the strange visions he would sometimes catch out of the corner of his eyes. The journal had been mostly useless, filled as it was only halfway with ramblings and drawings with nothing but empty pages separating a madman’s ravings and one abrupt, uniquely lucid sentence:
Some men have great destinies.
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Transformers and all related characters therein do not belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended.
Pairing: None
Summary: Sam and the Allspark have a discussion. Sort of.
Author's Note: I challenged lyricality to write a flash!fic (about one page), and she turned it back on me. This is the result.
Optimus had tried to take it from him, once. And despite not knowing exactly why he was so hesitant about it, Sam had willingly handed over the last remnant of the Allspark.
That..had not gone well. No one that had been present at the time could quite agree on exactly what happened, but everyone did see Optimus standing one moment, shard in hand, and on the floor in the next, brought down in a crumpled heap as as he dropped the shard and it rolled across the floor to come to a stop at Sam’s feet.
“Call me crazy,” Will had said. “But I think it likes Sam.”
Epps had walked away, shaking his head and murmuring about "weird-ass robot alien shit."
Sam picked up the shard, and despite Ratchet’s alarm, it remained cool and quiet in his grasp while Optimus still shook with slight tremors from his electrocution. Sam receieved several strange and suspicious looks from the Autobots, but it was still the last time any of them had tried to take it back.
And now here he sat, at four o’clock in the morning and sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the shard on his nightstand when he could have sworn that he had left it in his backpack. His night had been sleepless-not necessarily filled with bad dreams but with restless ones, with foggy images fading in and out like ghosts and whispering amongst voices he thought he could almost understand if only they just spoke a little louder.
“My great-grandfather once went crazy,” Sam said aloud.
Nothing. Of course there was nothing. Never once did Sam believe that the Allspark had ever been alive, per se, or even had any sort of sentience, let alone sapience, but still, the answering quiet was still a little too perfect.
“All right, if you want to stay, we gotta have some rules. No more following me, all right? I tell you to stay in my room, you stay. No more getting into my pockets or backpack or anything or freaking me the hell out, okay? Rule two: No more electrocuting Optimus, got it? He’s one of the good guys. Rule three: no more maps or running around deserts or jumping through space bridges or dying. You got something to tell me, just go ahead and tell me. So I can be prepared, you know?”
It was late, and Sam was tired, but there was almost a soft, answering buzz, like a vibration from a cell phone buried under blankets.
Sighing, Sam lied back and stared up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of his fan and waiting for sleep to return. It was easier said than done, as his thoughts refused to quiet, circling like a whirlwind through his head. It was too hard to ignore the silent presence on his nighstand, or the journal that he had hidden under his mattress-the one written by Archibald Witwicky during his stay in the mental institution and the one in which Sam thought he could find clues to the strange visions he would sometimes catch out of the corner of his eyes. The journal had been mostly useless, filled as it was only halfway with ramblings and drawings with nothing but empty pages separating a madman’s ravings and one abrupt, uniquely lucid sentence:
Some men have great destinies.