Prompts 3 and 5
Title: The Down Low
Rating: PG
Continuity: IDW, Drift Series
Characters: Lockdown
Warnings: Mention of canon character death, spoilers for Drift series?
Lockdown snarled, as Deadlock spun away from him, rushing to where Braid stood over the body of the other Cybertronian. Deadlock’s white armor-too new-flashed in the sunlight as he pounded over, both swords drawn and ready like fangs.
Neutrals. Worse: Idealists.
This is what idealism got you, he thought, sheathing his weapon. Dead. Dead on some pointless foreign dirtball, in a battle set up because you were too naïve to realize that Deadlock was…Deadlock. Ruthless, driven, almost entirely without principle.
Who knew what Deadlock’s game was, now, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he had feigned compliance. Lockdown felt almost a flash of regret-almost-for Turmoil, who’d had to try to deal with Deadlock as a Second. Suddenly, his death-order didn’t seem that farfetched.
Which was why Lockdown worked alone. Others brought…complications. Entanglements. Trouble. Just so much simpler to keep life uncluttered, from others and from their messy ideals.
Deadlock had always had something of the zealot in him, a true believer from way back. One of those who would light up at the mention of Megatron’s name, who seemed restless, discontent, burning from within.
Idealism.
Unmoored, now, he thought, as Deadlock turned on Braid, swords clashing against Braid’s staff weapon. Not his business. Not his concern. He’d been sent by Megatron to bring Deadlock back. What happened to the Slavers wasn’t his business. Might as well let Deadlock wear himself down on Braid. Since he was inclined to be difficult, Deadlock can be difficult all over the Slaver, and Lockdown can just wait in the wings for a more opportune moment. Lockdown hadn’t gotten as successful as he was by taking risks when there was some other fool to take them for him.
And to be honest, Braid grated.
His orders had just said to bring Deadlock back. They said nothing about his condition. Lockdown knew better than to return to Megatron empty-handed: one thing Lockdown would never do was suffer on account of some ridiculous principle. Least of all someone else’s principles.
So, he’d be patient, wait his chance. Deadlock would misstep.
And one bad move already was the mech’s attachment to the jet Braid had killed. Whatever was between them was personal. Lockdown didn’t like personal. Look at the messy ties it caused. Look at Deadlock, wearing himself down.
Lockdown fingered the inhibitor claws in his storage. Distasteful job, he thought, but not a bad one. And if Deadlock did manage to off Braid, it would be even better. There were, after all, some satisfactions beyond money. He’d take the latter, every time, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying the former as a little garnish.
Or. As it looked like, Braid would go two-for-two. Deadlock crashed to the ground, weaponless. A red-letter day: Deadlock, taken down. Even better.
And then the earth shook, the ground under his feet thrumming from distant, powerful hydraulics. Braid froze, turning, and Lockdown found himself following the gesture, rotating backward to see the sand begin spilling inward, and a pinnacle of blue jutting slowly into the sky.
A city. An entire city. And Deadlock had only spoken of a few. He’d lied.
Deep game, Deadlock, Lockdown thought. He couldn’t fight an entire city: let Braid and the others be living shields for his escape. He’d take his intel back to Megatron. He’d think of something. Surely the fact that Deadlock had finally stepped too far-surely Turmoil would want that information.
Yes. There were ways.
He cast one last glance over the churning battlefield, and in it all, a weary Deadlock meet his gaze, leaning heavily on his sword. This, they both knew, wasn’t over.
Title: Check
Rating: PG-13 for language
Continuity: Bayverse
Character: Salazar
Prompt: Checkpoint
Warnings: one f-bomb, but ROTF was rated as PG-13 and had one, too.
The sun was just beginning to bleed over the horizon, a drunkard staggering home. This, Salazar thought, under the high-key light of the latrine, as he tugged the stupid white gloves over his scabbed knuckles, was ridiculous. Humiliating. Fucking stupid.
Which all translated to: Reg’lar Army. Come on. Just one little bar fight. No big.
He stepped in front of the mirror. Or what, you know, might be argued to be a mirror-a brushed piece of aluminum that gave back such a blurred and distorted image that Salazar had to remind himself that, nope, wasn’t drunk. He straightened the hat on his head. Parallel to the goddam marching surface, right? All nice and squared away, with his Mickey Mouse gloves and old-school cover.
Sal, they can do what they want to you, but you are still devilishly handsome. He nodded at himself in the smeary mirror. Ready to spend your beautiful Saturday saluting the cars of fat-bottomed Army wives?
“Best revenge is livin’ well,” he muttered, turning crisply on his heel, as he stepped of the barracks, aiming for the post’s perimeter guardshack. Try to punish the Salamander for having a gentleman’s disagreement? Bring it. Salamanders dig the heat.
Rating: PG
Continuity: IDW, Drift Series
Characters: Lockdown
Warnings: Mention of canon character death, spoilers for Drift series?
Lockdown snarled, as Deadlock spun away from him, rushing to where Braid stood over the body of the other Cybertronian. Deadlock’s white armor-too new-flashed in the sunlight as he pounded over, both swords drawn and ready like fangs.
Neutrals. Worse: Idealists.
This is what idealism got you, he thought, sheathing his weapon. Dead. Dead on some pointless foreign dirtball, in a battle set up because you were too naïve to realize that Deadlock was…Deadlock. Ruthless, driven, almost entirely without principle.
Who knew what Deadlock’s game was, now, though. It wouldn’t be the first time he had feigned compliance. Lockdown felt almost a flash of regret-almost-for Turmoil, who’d had to try to deal with Deadlock as a Second. Suddenly, his death-order didn’t seem that farfetched.
Which was why Lockdown worked alone. Others brought…complications. Entanglements. Trouble. Just so much simpler to keep life uncluttered, from others and from their messy ideals.
Deadlock had always had something of the zealot in him, a true believer from way back. One of those who would light up at the mention of Megatron’s name, who seemed restless, discontent, burning from within.
Idealism.
Unmoored, now, he thought, as Deadlock turned on Braid, swords clashing against Braid’s staff weapon. Not his business. Not his concern. He’d been sent by Megatron to bring Deadlock back. What happened to the Slavers wasn’t his business. Might as well let Deadlock wear himself down on Braid. Since he was inclined to be difficult, Deadlock can be difficult all over the Slaver, and Lockdown can just wait in the wings for a more opportune moment. Lockdown hadn’t gotten as successful as he was by taking risks when there was some other fool to take them for him.
And to be honest, Braid grated.
His orders had just said to bring Deadlock back. They said nothing about his condition. Lockdown knew better than to return to Megatron empty-handed: one thing Lockdown would never do was suffer on account of some ridiculous principle. Least of all someone else’s principles.
So, he’d be patient, wait his chance. Deadlock would misstep.
And one bad move already was the mech’s attachment to the jet Braid had killed. Whatever was between them was personal. Lockdown didn’t like personal. Look at the messy ties it caused. Look at Deadlock, wearing himself down.
Lockdown fingered the inhibitor claws in his storage. Distasteful job, he thought, but not a bad one. And if Deadlock did manage to off Braid, it would be even better. There were, after all, some satisfactions beyond money. He’d take the latter, every time, but there was nothing wrong with enjoying the former as a little garnish.
Or. As it looked like, Braid would go two-for-two. Deadlock crashed to the ground, weaponless. A red-letter day: Deadlock, taken down. Even better.
And then the earth shook, the ground under his feet thrumming from distant, powerful hydraulics. Braid froze, turning, and Lockdown found himself following the gesture, rotating backward to see the sand begin spilling inward, and a pinnacle of blue jutting slowly into the sky.
A city. An entire city. And Deadlock had only spoken of a few. He’d lied.
Deep game, Deadlock, Lockdown thought. He couldn’t fight an entire city: let Braid and the others be living shields for his escape. He’d take his intel back to Megatron. He’d think of something. Surely the fact that Deadlock had finally stepped too far-surely Turmoil would want that information.
Yes. There were ways.
He cast one last glance over the churning battlefield, and in it all, a weary Deadlock meet his gaze, leaning heavily on his sword. This, they both knew, wasn’t over.
Title: Check
Rating: PG-13 for language
Continuity: Bayverse
Character: Salazar
Prompt: Checkpoint
Warnings: one f-bomb, but ROTF was rated as PG-13 and had one, too.
The sun was just beginning to bleed over the horizon, a drunkard staggering home. This, Salazar thought, under the high-key light of the latrine, as he tugged the stupid white gloves over his scabbed knuckles, was ridiculous. Humiliating. Fucking stupid.
Which all translated to: Reg’lar Army. Come on. Just one little bar fight. No big.
He stepped in front of the mirror. Or what, you know, might be argued to be a mirror-a brushed piece of aluminum that gave back such a blurred and distorted image that Salazar had to remind himself that, nope, wasn’t drunk. He straightened the hat on his head. Parallel to the goddam marching surface, right? All nice and squared away, with his Mickey Mouse gloves and old-school cover.
Sal, they can do what they want to you, but you are still devilishly handsome. He nodded at himself in the smeary mirror. Ready to spend your beautiful Saturday saluting the cars of fat-bottomed Army wives?
“Best revenge is livin’ well,” he muttered, turning crisply on his heel, as he stepped of the barracks, aiming for the post’s perimeter guardshack. Try to punish the Salamander for having a gentleman’s disagreement? Bring it. Salamanders dig the heat.