State of the copter
It’s been a while since Blast Off pulled his ‘ space: have some’ trick, and Vortex is still twitchy. The freezing emptiness of outer space is nothing like the numb oblivion of the Detention Centre, but the feeling of isolation that accompanies Blast Off’s reprimand is far too close.
And it is a reprimand. Vortex seethes at the memory.
“Frag you, thrusters,” he mutters aloud. “Who died and made you Combaticon SIC?”
It doesn’t help that Swindle’s very obviously out cold. His energy signature is strong, the bond still open, but he appears to have been subject to some kind of involuntary shutdown. Vortex sighs, hauling in air to cool his processors, trying to get a grip on the automatic activation of his weapons systems. The buzzing is beginning to really torque him off; especially as his hands are still cuffed at the small of his back, his feet still shackled together. He couldn’t aim if he tried, and still he has no ammo.
No ammo, no grenades, no glue gun, no hope of re-arming without Cyclonus’ good graces, and no way to get to Swindle.
“Frag!” He kicks the floor, the only surface he can reach without falling over. He could shuffle to the window, or to the door, but what would be the point? Perhaps he could rile the Terrorcon again, get him to eat his way through the wall. But there would still be the problem of the cuffs.
He has to get to Swindle. The imperative burns. It is an effect of the gestalt programming, augmented by his and Swindle’s recent reconciliation. But he doesn’t recognise it as such; he only recognises the need to find Swindle, to get him repaired, rearmed, refuelled, to get him out of medbay.
The need for action is paramount, any kind of action, for doing something that isn’t just sitting around in his prison cell watching the light change outside the window and wishing he could move his hands.
But the need for revenge is very much present, making his fingers ache for the rounded warmth of an Autobot’s throat, making his rotors quiver and his engine rev.
It isn’t for Slinky’s sake. The two of them never had got on.
And not exactly for Swindle’s sake either, although that certainly comes into it. It’s for the sake of the team. While the sparkbond did nothing to drive them apart - and may, in some odd way have been instrumental in pushing him and Swindle together - the destruction of the spark bond threatens every good thing he’s so recently gained, and jeopardises the integrity of the gestalt.
All that pain, that grief, an intensity of feeling that Vortex had never suspected Swindle was even capable of, and had certainly never experienced himself. It’s put Swindle out of action, his anguished mind falling in on itself until nothing remains on the other side of the bond but his energy signature, and the faint echo of anguish.
And that is entirely the Autobots’ fault.
He pings Cyclonus on a private frequency. //I know he’s down there. I want to see him.//
And it is a reprimand. Vortex seethes at the memory.
“Frag you, thrusters,” he mutters aloud. “Who died and made you Combaticon SIC?”
It doesn’t help that Swindle’s very obviously out cold. His energy signature is strong, the bond still open, but he appears to have been subject to some kind of involuntary shutdown. Vortex sighs, hauling in air to cool his processors, trying to get a grip on the automatic activation of his weapons systems. The buzzing is beginning to really torque him off; especially as his hands are still cuffed at the small of his back, his feet still shackled together. He couldn’t aim if he tried, and still he has no ammo.
No ammo, no grenades, no glue gun, no hope of re-arming without Cyclonus’ good graces, and no way to get to Swindle.
“Frag!” He kicks the floor, the only surface he can reach without falling over. He could shuffle to the window, or to the door, but what would be the point? Perhaps he could rile the Terrorcon again, get him to eat his way through the wall. But there would still be the problem of the cuffs.
He has to get to Swindle. The imperative burns. It is an effect of the gestalt programming, augmented by his and Swindle’s recent reconciliation. But he doesn’t recognise it as such; he only recognises the need to find Swindle, to get him repaired, rearmed, refuelled, to get him out of medbay.
The need for action is paramount, any kind of action, for doing something that isn’t just sitting around in his prison cell watching the light change outside the window and wishing he could move his hands.
But the need for revenge is very much present, making his fingers ache for the rounded warmth of an Autobot’s throat, making his rotors quiver and his engine rev.
It isn’t for Slinky’s sake. The two of them never had got on.
And not exactly for Swindle’s sake either, although that certainly comes into it. It’s for the sake of the team. While the sparkbond did nothing to drive them apart - and may, in some odd way have been instrumental in pushing him and Swindle together - the destruction of the spark bond threatens every good thing he’s so recently gained, and jeopardises the integrity of the gestalt.
All that pain, that grief, an intensity of feeling that Vortex had never suspected Swindle was even capable of, and had certainly never experienced himself. It’s put Swindle out of action, his anguished mind falling in on itself until nothing remains on the other side of the bond but his energy signature, and the faint echo of anguish.
And that is entirely the Autobots’ fault.
He pings Cyclonus on a private frequency. //I know he’s down there. I want to see him.//