169 words - yay?
It's a start? Urg. I know where I want the next chapter to go, I just can't get it to go there! *scowls at* But, I have a nifty new writing toy and it's WAY COOL! Thanks to 
nkfloofiepoof for recommending the Scrivener program - it took me a whole day to get through the tutorial, but once you get the hang of it, it's really quite handy, especially if you're trying to organize a lot of information and snippets of writing and character notes and links to websites and figure out timelines and such. You can download and try out for free for 30 days (nonconsecutive, even), but after that it's $40. I haven't forked out yet, but I'm thinking I just might. It even has an automatic character name generator! Here's what you get if you specify Ancient Assyrian first names and Dutch last names:
Shullay Nickel
Samsi Vanderzee
Zimrilim Verley
Yangi Burkart
Ashurreshishi Bosson
Mithridates Bitters
Ili-Hadda Cloos
Sammu-Ramat Dierks
Tehuteshub Jansing
Tudiya Pettersen
Sadly, there is no setting for generating Cybertronian OC names *sigh*
In lieu of Chapter 4, here's a Project Reset Prequel-Squared ficlet thingy:
Barricade staggered as he forced himself out of alt mode, trying not to reopen the tears where his self-repair had finally halted the leaking energon, ignoring the pain and system warnings. He’d gotten this far by simply…not thinking. Not thinking about Soundwave’s deactivated frame being torn apart, not that he’d mourn the slagger overmuch, but still…and then Megatron, torn apart by Optimus Prime with one terrible blow. Himself, being torn apart by a mob of vengeful, screaming humans. Especially not thinking about Cybertron. He hadn’t thought about Cybertron as more than a distant memory, a distant dream for so long…and then, that brief glimpse. So beautiful. He had forgotten. He could forget again. He had to.
Starscream’s transmission was the beacon, the lifeline he gripped with whatever dregs of sanity and strength that remained to him. That it had been Starscream’s last and final transmission, he didn’t think about that part. Only that it must have been important, vital, that Starscream would have sent it, especially to him. Starscream could be counted on to have a plan. A weapon, supplies, an instrument of revenge, a means of escape. Something worth forcing his battered alt mode along forty miles of strut-jarring road to a deserted human fueling station in the middle of nowhere.
The ground shifted suddenly, and Barricade cursed as his damaged legs buckled and sent him crashing painfully to the pavement. He stayed there until the planetary convulsions calmed again. Slaggin’ geologically active dirtball of a planet. At least the earthquakes and sudden eruptions of magma in central Chicago had provided plenty of distraction to make good his escape, but it was still freaky as Pit. Starscream had muttered about Sentinel’s plan to gate Cybertron here, so close to Earth; presumably this was why. Barricade sighed and then groaned as he pulled himself slowly upright again. A shuttle. An escape pod. Surely that’s what Starscream would have hidden here, bless his cowardly, back-stabbing spark, and there would be a stash of energon, and a repair berth, and coordinates to…and here Barricade’s fantasy failed him. Where? Where would he go? Just…somewhere. Else. Not here. That would have to do. There would be no mercy from the Autobots; Optimus Prime had finally learned to be ruthless, it seemed, his speech-making about peace and second chances only so much self-delusional slag, as Megatron had always claimed. Just his luck.
His scanners were glitching unreliably, but there seemed to be a faint, fragmented energy reading echoing around several rusted sheets of metal that were stacked haphazardly near the hollow shell of the fueling station. It took most of his remaining strength to shift them aside, pausing to regather himself between each one. As he grasped the last sheet to lift it he heard small scrabbling, cheeping noises. Some sort of organic creatures nesting? The sight of a multitude of small, red, undeniably Cybertronian optics blinking at him from the dim compartment made him recoil with a startled rush of air through his vents and drop the sheet of metal. He cautiously lifted the edge again, illuminating the contents of the small chamber with his headlights. The contents pulled themselves to the farthest corner and hissed at him, bristling their pitiful bits of armor. They looked like…very small, clumsy versions of Frenzy. Hatchlings. These must be hatchlings.
Starscream had helped the Fallen spawn them a few years ago. The jet's expression had been equal parts haunted and exalted as he'd explained to Barricade where he'd been for so long. Barricade…hadn’t asked for details, and Starscream, thankfully, hadn’t supplied them. They were to be the future of the Decepticons, the salvation and survival of their race if only they could be kept alive, Starscream had said, with a strange, almost pleading light in his optics, as if hoping for Barricade to understand. He’d said many other things, things Barricade had ignored at the time, except to cringe in secret horror at the lengths Starscream was willing to go to keep the helpless, dependent (useless wastes of energon, in Barricade’s private opinion) spawnlings fueled. Barricade scanned the small chamber carefully, while the hatchlings continued to hiss and bristle. Nothing. No sign of weapons, or fuel, or supplies. One of the hatchlings made a different sound, a questioning, hopeful note. Barricade dropped the metal again with a clang and stood.
“Starscream! FRAG YOU!” he shouted at the sky. He spent a few breems searching the rest of the station, but there was nothing, no hope, no future. He threw himself into alt mode and drove, his vision fritzing with static, swerving dizzily with pain and exhaustion. They were probably hungry. Barricade felt his tires hit grass and let himself roll to a stop, half tilted into a ditch as the thought finally caught up to his churning, fevered processor. If they didn’t slowly starve to death first they would be discovered and taken by the humans.
Barricade transformed and let himself sprawl there, in the ditch under the roiling, angry clouds until he found strength to stand, to plod back to the fueling station where the hatchlings were hidden. At the very least he could give them a merciful deactivation. It was more than would be granted to him.
This entry was originally posted at http://playswithworms.dreamwidth.org/70748.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
nkfloofiepoof for recommending the Scrivener program - it took me a whole day to get through the tutorial, but once you get the hang of it, it's really quite handy, especially if you're trying to organize a lot of information and snippets of writing and character notes and links to websites and figure out timelines and such. You can download and try out for free for 30 days (nonconsecutive, even), but after that it's $40. I haven't forked out yet, but I'm thinking I just might. It even has an automatic character name generator! Here's what you get if you specify Ancient Assyrian first names and Dutch last names:
Shullay Nickel
Samsi Vanderzee
Zimrilim Verley
Yangi Burkart
Ashurreshishi Bosson
Mithridates Bitters
Ili-Hadda Cloos
Sammu-Ramat Dierks
Tehuteshub Jansing
Tudiya Pettersen
Sadly, there is no setting for generating Cybertronian OC names *sigh*
In lieu of Chapter 4, here's a Project Reset Prequel-Squared ficlet thingy:
Barricade staggered as he forced himself out of alt mode, trying not to reopen the tears where his self-repair had finally halted the leaking energon, ignoring the pain and system warnings. He’d gotten this far by simply…not thinking. Not thinking about Soundwave’s deactivated frame being torn apart, not that he’d mourn the slagger overmuch, but still…and then Megatron, torn apart by Optimus Prime with one terrible blow. Himself, being torn apart by a mob of vengeful, screaming humans. Especially not thinking about Cybertron. He hadn’t thought about Cybertron as more than a distant memory, a distant dream for so long…and then, that brief glimpse. So beautiful. He had forgotten. He could forget again. He had to.
Starscream’s transmission was the beacon, the lifeline he gripped with whatever dregs of sanity and strength that remained to him. That it had been Starscream’s last and final transmission, he didn’t think about that part. Only that it must have been important, vital, that Starscream would have sent it, especially to him. Starscream could be counted on to have a plan. A weapon, supplies, an instrument of revenge, a means of escape. Something worth forcing his battered alt mode along forty miles of strut-jarring road to a deserted human fueling station in the middle of nowhere.
The ground shifted suddenly, and Barricade cursed as his damaged legs buckled and sent him crashing painfully to the pavement. He stayed there until the planetary convulsions calmed again. Slaggin’ geologically active dirtball of a planet. At least the earthquakes and sudden eruptions of magma in central Chicago had provided plenty of distraction to make good his escape, but it was still freaky as Pit. Starscream had muttered about Sentinel’s plan to gate Cybertron here, so close to Earth; presumably this was why. Barricade sighed and then groaned as he pulled himself slowly upright again. A shuttle. An escape pod. Surely that’s what Starscream would have hidden here, bless his cowardly, back-stabbing spark, and there would be a stash of energon, and a repair berth, and coordinates to…and here Barricade’s fantasy failed him. Where? Where would he go? Just…somewhere. Else. Not here. That would have to do. There would be no mercy from the Autobots; Optimus Prime had finally learned to be ruthless, it seemed, his speech-making about peace and second chances only so much self-delusional slag, as Megatron had always claimed. Just his luck.
His scanners were glitching unreliably, but there seemed to be a faint, fragmented energy reading echoing around several rusted sheets of metal that were stacked haphazardly near the hollow shell of the fueling station. It took most of his remaining strength to shift them aside, pausing to regather himself between each one. As he grasped the last sheet to lift it he heard small scrabbling, cheeping noises. Some sort of organic creatures nesting? The sight of a multitude of small, red, undeniably Cybertronian optics blinking at him from the dim compartment made him recoil with a startled rush of air through his vents and drop the sheet of metal. He cautiously lifted the edge again, illuminating the contents of the small chamber with his headlights. The contents pulled themselves to the farthest corner and hissed at him, bristling their pitiful bits of armor. They looked like…very small, clumsy versions of Frenzy. Hatchlings. These must be hatchlings.
Starscream had helped the Fallen spawn them a few years ago. The jet's expression had been equal parts haunted and exalted as he'd explained to Barricade where he'd been for so long. Barricade…hadn’t asked for details, and Starscream, thankfully, hadn’t supplied them. They were to be the future of the Decepticons, the salvation and survival of their race if only they could be kept alive, Starscream had said, with a strange, almost pleading light in his optics, as if hoping for Barricade to understand. He’d said many other things, things Barricade had ignored at the time, except to cringe in secret horror at the lengths Starscream was willing to go to keep the helpless, dependent (useless wastes of energon, in Barricade’s private opinion) spawnlings fueled. Barricade scanned the small chamber carefully, while the hatchlings continued to hiss and bristle. Nothing. No sign of weapons, or fuel, or supplies. One of the hatchlings made a different sound, a questioning, hopeful note. Barricade dropped the metal again with a clang and stood.
“Starscream! FRAG YOU!” he shouted at the sky. He spent a few breems searching the rest of the station, but there was nothing, no hope, no future. He threw himself into alt mode and drove, his vision fritzing with static, swerving dizzily with pain and exhaustion. They were probably hungry. Barricade felt his tires hit grass and let himself roll to a stop, half tilted into a ditch as the thought finally caught up to his churning, fevered processor. If they didn’t slowly starve to death first they would be discovered and taken by the humans.
Barricade transformed and let himself sprawl there, in the ditch under the roiling, angry clouds until he found strength to stand, to plod back to the fueling station where the hatchlings were hidden. At the very least he could give them a merciful deactivation. It was more than would be granted to him.
This entry was originally posted at http://playswithworms.dreamwidth.org/70748.html. Please comment there using OpenID.