Twisted Tales: Shorty and the Beast (Pt 7)
The entrance to the Tower held some shelter in the form of a wide overhang, but it was still bitterly cold. Smokescreen revved his engine in an effort to warm himself up, and then transformed to root mode. Mud and rain dripped down on to the clean stone porch and he winced at the mess. Hopefully whoever owns this place isn’t too upset with the mess, he mused to himself. Well, it couldn’t be helped now.
He raised his hand to knock on the overly large doors, but to his surprise, they opened before him with the barest touch. “Hello?” he called cautiously. “Please excuse the interruption, but I was hoping to beg shelter…”
The double-doors opened wider and soft light poured forth from inside. It seemed that someone was home. Steeling himself, Smokescreen pushed the one of the doors wider and stepped inside.
“Over here, mech. An’ close the door, will ya? No use lettin’ the storm in with you.”
Smokescreen started in surprise at the voice, his hand still on the door. He looked around the vast entrance hall warily, but there seemed to be no one present. Still, he did as the voice asked and pulled on the heavy door. It swung back towards him and he took a hasty step backwards as it shut with a low-voiced boom of finality.
“Come on in,” the voice said, and Smokescreen found himself reassured by the friendliness in it despite his misgivings. He turned away from the door and took a hesitant step forward. The floor was smooth with a bright finish and undoubtedly expensive from the look of it, with beautiful patterns inlaid in the tile that were quickly becoming marred by the mud and water he was dripping all over it. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess,” the voice said, seemingly reading his mind. “It’s easily cleaned. Come in where it’s warm. You shouldn’t stand in the door all night, it can’t be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Smokescreen finally said, his footfalls echoing heavily despite his careful steps. He winced at the squelching sounds his pedes made against the tiles. His gracious host may not mind the mud, but he was still making an awful mess. “Might I know whom I can thank for my timely rescue?” He paused in his inward trek, looking around almost helplessly. The room still seemed as empty as it had been to begin with. The voice, however, was immediately forthcoming.
“Down here!”
Smokescreen obediently looked down and then bit back a curse. There, standing on a polished table, stood a tiny figure no more than six inches tall. It looked like a toy model of a Transformer made out of plastic and paint, with tiny wheels on its shoulders and tiny decals stuck to its chassis.
It was also moving.
“Heya,” the toy said, smiling up at him. “The name’s Jazz. Welcome to our humble abode. ‘S kinda big and drafty, but at least it’s out of the rain, right?”
“Guh,” Smokescreen said intelligently.
On to Part 8!
He raised his hand to knock on the overly large doors, but to his surprise, they opened before him with the barest touch. “Hello?” he called cautiously. “Please excuse the interruption, but I was hoping to beg shelter…”
The double-doors opened wider and soft light poured forth from inside. It seemed that someone was home. Steeling himself, Smokescreen pushed the one of the doors wider and stepped inside.
“Over here, mech. An’ close the door, will ya? No use lettin’ the storm in with you.”
Smokescreen started in surprise at the voice, his hand still on the door. He looked around the vast entrance hall warily, but there seemed to be no one present. Still, he did as the voice asked and pulled on the heavy door. It swung back towards him and he took a hasty step backwards as it shut with a low-voiced boom of finality.
“Come on in,” the voice said, and Smokescreen found himself reassured by the friendliness in it despite his misgivings. He turned away from the door and took a hesitant step forward. The floor was smooth with a bright finish and undoubtedly expensive from the look of it, with beautiful patterns inlaid in the tile that were quickly becoming marred by the mud and water he was dripping all over it. “Don’t worry ‘bout the mess,” the voice said, seemingly reading his mind. “It’s easily cleaned. Come in where it’s warm. You shouldn’t stand in the door all night, it can’t be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” Smokescreen finally said, his footfalls echoing heavily despite his careful steps. He winced at the squelching sounds his pedes made against the tiles. His gracious host may not mind the mud, but he was still making an awful mess. “Might I know whom I can thank for my timely rescue?” He paused in his inward trek, looking around almost helplessly. The room still seemed as empty as it had been to begin with. The voice, however, was immediately forthcoming.
“Down here!”
Smokescreen obediently looked down and then bit back a curse. There, standing on a polished table, stood a tiny figure no more than six inches tall. It looked like a toy model of a Transformer made out of plastic and paint, with tiny wheels on its shoulders and tiny decals stuck to its chassis.
It was also moving.
“Heya,” the toy said, smiling up at him. “The name’s Jazz. Welcome to our humble abode. ‘S kinda big and drafty, but at least it’s out of the rain, right?”
“Guh,” Smokescreen said intelligently.
On to Part 8!