Prompt One Response
“And.”
It was probably the most ominous ‘and’ ever uttered, Skids thought. And he had a feeling he had a master’s degree in ominous utterances. Then again, it struck him that Ultra Magnus always did do things in superlatives. Just a different kind of ‘extreme’ than the kind Whirl espoused.
He…didn’t think he should share that observation with Ultra Magnus.
“And, well, the Death Worm is dead.” Good plan, Skids: stick to the facts, and then winnow the facts to the facts Ultra Magnus won’t glower at.
Only a slight miscalculation: Ultra Magnus glowered at everything.
“It seems to me that there is an extraordinary amount of skipped narrative.”
Probably merely an ordinary one, as far as Whirl was concerned, Skids thought. “There was, uh, a lot of shooting.”
“Whirl was there. I presumed that much.” The frown sank into even darker folds.
“You know,” Skids said, motivated by some admittedly unfounded desire to give Whirl credit where it was due. Like Whirl wasn’t capable enough of grabbing it for himself, even with his claws. “He’s great in a firefight.” Whirl only screamed and flailed like a crazy mech-he’d managed, and Skids knew it was more skill than luck-to fire a 360 firefan, somehow managing not to hit Skids. Skids knew enough math to know that was more than his usual preternatural luck.
“I am aware of his combat skills.” The words were flatter and dryer than the Seccan Plains. “I am also aware even his…impressive,” the word seemed to stick in his craw, the very craw Skids and Whirl had first fought together. “ firepower wouldn’t be enough to take down a Death Worm.”
“Yeah, well,” Skids said, ducking his head. “He’s maybe better than you think.”
“No one is better than I think they are.” As though that would be a personal affront. As though the very idea were an affront. “Skids,” Ultra Magnus said, tilting his helm down to look up at the tactician under the blue rim. “I have read your files. Thoroughly.”
Ultra Magnus did everything thoroughly, so at first the adverb struck Skids as a bit redundant. And Ultra Magnus, he figured, would scorn redundance as waste. But then it hit him that the ‘thoroughly’ was for his benefit. Oh. “Those files,” he said. He remembered those.
Ultra Magnus didn’t move, not even to tilt his helm.
“Yeah,” Skids said, shuffling one foot, and wondering if this feeling of discomfiture was a new experience for him or just one he’d forgotten. He’d like to forget it. It didn’t feel very good. “Well, I may have, you know, assisted.” Thing with being a superlearner: it was sometimes hard not to learn.
“As I thought.” A tiny, infinitesimal note of triumph-even Ultra Magnus had an iota of pride, it seemed, and Skids’s admission had just brushed it. He seemed extra pleased that Whirl wouldn’t be able to take sole credit for the kill. Which, well, Skids wouldn’t put it past him. Part of his reputation as Super Unvincible Deathiraptor or whatever he was calling himself.
“Yeah,” Skids said. “So that’s about it. We,” he hit the pronoun a little hard, “shot up the Death Worm, it’s dead now, and…all’s right with the world.” Well, for now. Until the next disast-er-adventure.
Ultra Magnus didn’t smile, he did manage to unfrown his mouth by about three micronometers. Huge progress and at least he didn’t look mental, like he had when his face got frozen in that smile from the nanobots. “It is, indeed.”
[***]
After that little rencontre, Skids figured he’d earned a drink, and maybe some light conversation. Light on his end, anyway-he was counting on Swerve to take over all the word-duty, as he ducked into the bar.
It looked like a usual crowd, tables buzzing with conversation, the small eruptions of laughter, the little knots of conviviality. It looked nice and normal and…good. Yeah. Good. That was the word he’d use.
It didn’t take long to find Whirl’s table-the copter was sitting on the table, for one thing, gesticulating, mimicking gunfire with his claws. And the sound effects. Yeah they were kind of noticeable, too, the ‘pew pew pew’ and ‘raaaaaaaaaargh’s stood out over the usual bustle. Story time, it seemed. Skids ambled over to listen-he had a morbid fascination with how Whirl’s mind worked. Probably due to Glitch, he realized. He’d been good friends with the other mech and he couldn’t help but wonder how the empurata would have effected Glitch, after all these years of war. As badly as Whirl? He could hope not.
“Sounds pretty badaft!” Swerve said. “Fighting your way out of a Barranian Death Worm’s mouth.”
“MOUTH?!” Whirl scoffed. “That’s beginner stuff. Nah, we fought our way out of its first stomach. Cause we like a challenge.”
Which…was true, but also a total accident, Skids knew, from when Skids had tried to level his weapon and grazed it against what was apparently a nerve cluster in one of the fleshy tendons it had in its mouth. Still it was interesting to hear this spin.
“So there was like…acid and stuff?” Trailcutter leaned forward, almost dubious.
“Of course!” Whirl said, almost offended. “What kind of Death Worm stomach doesn’t have acid? Or tentacles?”
Certainly not the one they’d run into.
Whirl surveyed his audience, his optic suddenly landing on Skids’s blue bulk. If he had a face, Skids would have no doubt that it would have run through some fascinating permutations of expression. “Yeah, well, that’s it. We fought it out, it was epic, it was dead and I am awesome.” He shrugged. “The usual.”
That didn’t sound quite like ‘the usual’ to Skids-well it did sound like the theme of like, all of Whirl’s stories-but the delivery was lacking a bit. Even more when the copter sucked down the last of his engex through its pulse-straw, and scooted off the table, with a showy stretch. “All this badaftery has earned me some serious rack,” Whirl said. “You mechs can just sit and admire in my wake.”
The others seemed to pick up on something a bit off about the sudden truncation, turning to Skids. “Is that how it went down?” Swerve said-almost exploded. Holding in questions was hard for him.
“Well, yeah, pretty much.” He ticked it off on his fingers. “Epic, dead, awesome.” Sounded good enough. “It’s Whirl.”
“Yeah?” Swerve looked at the retreating copter back. “Not what he was saying. He’s putting you in for a Rodimus star. Apparently you did your thing on his thing and, you know, multiplied the badaft-ery.” He seemed unsure about that word, but hey, it was a pretty good word, Skids had to admit.
“That…yeah. That happened. But you don’t get a Rodimus star for doing what you do naturally,” Skids said, optics flicking over to Trailcutter. Breaker. Whatever. Trailwhatever. He was still kind of stunned that Whirl gave him any credit. Guess those lessons in cool were for real?
“That’s just the thing,” Pipes said. “He showed me the paperwork-apparently he’s, you know, not so great at spelling. And he was all about it wasn’t you doing your thing, but doing his thing.”
“Which, actually?” Swerve tilted his helm. “Sounds kinda pervy. Wonder if they give Rodimus stars for that?” He seemed to be down with the idea.
“Or at least for double entendre?” Trailcutter mused, fingering his own star.
“This is Rodimus we’re talking about,” Skids said, with a wry shrug. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about getting an award for unintentional double-entendre in the application form. But it looked like he was going to find out.
It was probably the most ominous ‘and’ ever uttered, Skids thought. And he had a feeling he had a master’s degree in ominous utterances. Then again, it struck him that Ultra Magnus always did do things in superlatives. Just a different kind of ‘extreme’ than the kind Whirl espoused.
He…didn’t think he should share that observation with Ultra Magnus.
“And, well, the Death Worm is dead.” Good plan, Skids: stick to the facts, and then winnow the facts to the facts Ultra Magnus won’t glower at.
Only a slight miscalculation: Ultra Magnus glowered at everything.
“It seems to me that there is an extraordinary amount of skipped narrative.”
Probably merely an ordinary one, as far as Whirl was concerned, Skids thought. “There was, uh, a lot of shooting.”
“Whirl was there. I presumed that much.” The frown sank into even darker folds.
“You know,” Skids said, motivated by some admittedly unfounded desire to give Whirl credit where it was due. Like Whirl wasn’t capable enough of grabbing it for himself, even with his claws. “He’s great in a firefight.” Whirl only screamed and flailed like a crazy mech-he’d managed, and Skids knew it was more skill than luck-to fire a 360 firefan, somehow managing not to hit Skids. Skids knew enough math to know that was more than his usual preternatural luck.
“I am aware of his combat skills.” The words were flatter and dryer than the Seccan Plains. “I am also aware even his…impressive,” the word seemed to stick in his craw, the very craw Skids and Whirl had first fought together. “ firepower wouldn’t be enough to take down a Death Worm.”
“Yeah, well,” Skids said, ducking his head. “He’s maybe better than you think.”
“No one is better than I think they are.” As though that would be a personal affront. As though the very idea were an affront. “Skids,” Ultra Magnus said, tilting his helm down to look up at the tactician under the blue rim. “I have read your files. Thoroughly.”
Ultra Magnus did everything thoroughly, so at first the adverb struck Skids as a bit redundant. And Ultra Magnus, he figured, would scorn redundance as waste. But then it hit him that the ‘thoroughly’ was for his benefit. Oh. “Those files,” he said. He remembered those.
Ultra Magnus didn’t move, not even to tilt his helm.
“Yeah,” Skids said, shuffling one foot, and wondering if this feeling of discomfiture was a new experience for him or just one he’d forgotten. He’d like to forget it. It didn’t feel very good. “Well, I may have, you know, assisted.” Thing with being a superlearner: it was sometimes hard not to learn.
“As I thought.” A tiny, infinitesimal note of triumph-even Ultra Magnus had an iota of pride, it seemed, and Skids’s admission had just brushed it. He seemed extra pleased that Whirl wouldn’t be able to take sole credit for the kill. Which, well, Skids wouldn’t put it past him. Part of his reputation as Super Unvincible Deathiraptor or whatever he was calling himself.
“Yeah,” Skids said. “So that’s about it. We,” he hit the pronoun a little hard, “shot up the Death Worm, it’s dead now, and…all’s right with the world.” Well, for now. Until the next disast-er-adventure.
Ultra Magnus didn’t smile, he did manage to unfrown his mouth by about three micronometers. Huge progress and at least he didn’t look mental, like he had when his face got frozen in that smile from the nanobots. “It is, indeed.”
[***]
After that little rencontre, Skids figured he’d earned a drink, and maybe some light conversation. Light on his end, anyway-he was counting on Swerve to take over all the word-duty, as he ducked into the bar.
It looked like a usual crowd, tables buzzing with conversation, the small eruptions of laughter, the little knots of conviviality. It looked nice and normal and…good. Yeah. Good. That was the word he’d use.
It didn’t take long to find Whirl’s table-the copter was sitting on the table, for one thing, gesticulating, mimicking gunfire with his claws. And the sound effects. Yeah they were kind of noticeable, too, the ‘pew pew pew’ and ‘raaaaaaaaaargh’s stood out over the usual bustle. Story time, it seemed. Skids ambled over to listen-he had a morbid fascination with how Whirl’s mind worked. Probably due to Glitch, he realized. He’d been good friends with the other mech and he couldn’t help but wonder how the empurata would have effected Glitch, after all these years of war. As badly as Whirl? He could hope not.
“Sounds pretty badaft!” Swerve said. “Fighting your way out of a Barranian Death Worm’s mouth.”
“MOUTH?!” Whirl scoffed. “That’s beginner stuff. Nah, we fought our way out of its first stomach. Cause we like a challenge.”
Which…was true, but also a total accident, Skids knew, from when Skids had tried to level his weapon and grazed it against what was apparently a nerve cluster in one of the fleshy tendons it had in its mouth. Still it was interesting to hear this spin.
“So there was like…acid and stuff?” Trailcutter leaned forward, almost dubious.
“Of course!” Whirl said, almost offended. “What kind of Death Worm stomach doesn’t have acid? Or tentacles?”
Certainly not the one they’d run into.
Whirl surveyed his audience, his optic suddenly landing on Skids’s blue bulk. If he had a face, Skids would have no doubt that it would have run through some fascinating permutations of expression. “Yeah, well, that’s it. We fought it out, it was epic, it was dead and I am awesome.” He shrugged. “The usual.”
That didn’t sound quite like ‘the usual’ to Skids-well it did sound like the theme of like, all of Whirl’s stories-but the delivery was lacking a bit. Even more when the copter sucked down the last of his engex through its pulse-straw, and scooted off the table, with a showy stretch. “All this badaftery has earned me some serious rack,” Whirl said. “You mechs can just sit and admire in my wake.”
The others seemed to pick up on something a bit off about the sudden truncation, turning to Skids. “Is that how it went down?” Swerve said-almost exploded. Holding in questions was hard for him.
“Well, yeah, pretty much.” He ticked it off on his fingers. “Epic, dead, awesome.” Sounded good enough. “It’s Whirl.”
“Yeah?” Swerve looked at the retreating copter back. “Not what he was saying. He’s putting you in for a Rodimus star. Apparently you did your thing on his thing and, you know, multiplied the badaft-ery.” He seemed unsure about that word, but hey, it was a pretty good word, Skids had to admit.
“That…yeah. That happened. But you don’t get a Rodimus star for doing what you do naturally,” Skids said, optics flicking over to Trailcutter. Breaker. Whatever. Trailwhatever. He was still kind of stunned that Whirl gave him any credit. Guess those lessons in cool were for real?
“That’s just the thing,” Pipes said. “He showed me the paperwork-apparently he’s, you know, not so great at spelling. And he was all about it wasn’t you doing your thing, but doing his thing.”
“Which, actually?” Swerve tilted his helm. “Sounds kinda pervy. Wonder if they give Rodimus stars for that?” He seemed to be down with the idea.
“Or at least for double entendre?” Trailcutter mused, fingering his own star.
“This is Rodimus we’re talking about,” Skids said, with a wry shrug. He wasn’t sure how he’d feel about getting an award for unintentional double-entendre in the application form. But it looked like he was going to find out.