Prompt 3 response
Optimus glowered on the screen. “I asked for results, Drift.”
Drift shrugged, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. “And you’ll get them. Be patient.” He burst out laughing, as though it were a joke to tell Optimus to be patient.
It was.
“I demand to know what the delay is.”
“It’s not a delay. It’s just time for style.”
“Style.”
Drift shifted his weight in his seat, the light of the screen glossing off his red armor. “You know. Make them learn a lesson.”
“Before you kill them.”
“That’s right.” These things mattered. Because killing was just...killing. A bullet through the brain module, a blade biting through a throat.Boring, unless you realized it was an art. And Drift cared about his art.
“I don’t care if they learn anything,” Optimus said, red optics dangerous. “I just want them dead.”
Optimus, Drift thought, didn't care about art. Perhaps art was a luxury for those who weren't leaders.“Oh, he is dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.” A clack, as he drove the bolt back into the receiver.
“One day,” Optimus muttered, “You’ll push me too far.”
“One day you’ll push me too far,” Drift echoed, only half-mocking. The rest was pure threat. He knew he got away with as many liberties as he took for one reason: because he was every bit as good as he said he was.
Optimus growled, low and dangerous himself, acknowledging the threat. “Don’t get ideas you’re special.”
Drift grinned. “I am special, Optimus Prime.” No one else could sense the rifts like he could. No one else could move with his speed, his accuracy, and his skill.
A nod, and a snort. “I just might test that.”
“Oh,” Drift said, his grin turning sharp as one of his blades. “Please do.”
Drift shrugged, looking up from the gun he was cleaning. “And you’ll get them. Be patient.” He burst out laughing, as though it were a joke to tell Optimus to be patient.
It was.
“I demand to know what the delay is.”
“It’s not a delay. It’s just time for style.”
“Style.”
Drift shifted his weight in his seat, the light of the screen glossing off his red armor. “You know. Make them learn a lesson.”
“Before you kill them.”
“That’s right.” These things mattered. Because killing was just...killing. A bullet through the brain module, a blade biting through a throat.Boring, unless you realized it was an art. And Drift cared about his art.
“I don’t care if they learn anything,” Optimus said, red optics dangerous. “I just want them dead.”
Optimus, Drift thought, didn't care about art. Perhaps art was a luxury for those who weren't leaders.“Oh, he is dead. He just doesn’t know it yet.” A clack, as he drove the bolt back into the receiver.
“One day,” Optimus muttered, “You’ll push me too far.”
“One day you’ll push me too far,” Drift echoed, only half-mocking. The rest was pure threat. He knew he got away with as many liberties as he took for one reason: because he was every bit as good as he said he was.
Optimus growled, low and dangerous himself, acknowledging the threat. “Don’t get ideas you’re special.”
Drift grinned. “I am special, Optimus Prime.” No one else could sense the rifts like he could. No one else could move with his speed, his accuracy, and his skill.
A nod, and a snort. “I just might test that.”
“Oh,” Drift said, his grin turning sharp as one of his blades. “Please do.”