In which a scorpion angsts
BW Scorponok
Scorponok is lounging in a patch of sun, almost about to cycle into recharge when another of the prompts come in. Rules, this time. Scorponok flicks his tail, then, after a moment of thought, starts to speak.
Rules are, in the minds of most, important. Don’t kill the mech next to you because he looked at you funny. Don’t shoot in the middle of a residential area. Don’t steal, don’t cheat, don’t jump in that fight.
Some rules aren’t like that, though. They are the unspoken rules, the ones no-one ever says aloud, yet everyone knows. Don’t buy from the Predacons, don’t hire the Predacons, don’t stand up for the Predacons. He snorts. Don’t attack a Maximal, even though he’s asking for it. Don’t think you can have the same rights, the same rations as the Maximals. Don’t ask why the younglings are starving, you’re a Predacon, you’re a Decpticon, never mind that most of our sins are that we had the bad luck to be formatted by a Predacon.
He falls silent, thinking about what it had been like, at the Academy. The warm sun, and the fact that he was completely alone were loosening his vocalizer far more than any rust stick of Hooks would have done.
And, even in the Academy, the pinnacle of enlightenment, where you think all of that wouldn’t apply, where Predacon and Maximal mean nothing, and you aren’t judged by your ancestors, but rather by your achievements, it’s still true. In my class of over three hundred mechs, only thirty were Predacons, the bare minimum they needed to say that they were achieving their ‘Outreach’ goals. And of those thirty, over ten dropped out in the first semester. The school claimed that it was because they couldn’t take the advanced material but everyone knows that it was because, well, the rules were different, if you were a Predacon. An essay, if it had been turned in by a Maximal, would have gotten a 92%, whereas if it had been turned in by a Predacon, it would have gotten an 83%. Most of the professors were like that, it was like they had resented having to teach us.
The world outside was worse. It took me two and a half orns to find a job, when those who had done even worse than I, my Maximal classmates, had been picked by companies even before graduation.
He turns, letting the sun hit him at a different angle
Under Megatron, the rules had been far more simple. Don’t betray him, or frag up, and he won’t slag you. That had pretty much been the only rule there, although some mechs found it harder to obey than others.
Scorponok falls silent for the last time, having fallen into memories of his time under Megatron, when he had followed a leader that he was sure could do no wrong and always had a plan.
(OOC: Yay, angst! *Grins* Nok is nowhere in particular, and this post is so open it’s almost painful.)
Scorponok is lounging in a patch of sun, almost about to cycle into recharge when another of the prompts come in. Rules, this time. Scorponok flicks his tail, then, after a moment of thought, starts to speak.
Rules are, in the minds of most, important. Don’t kill the mech next to you because he looked at you funny. Don’t shoot in the middle of a residential area. Don’t steal, don’t cheat, don’t jump in that fight.
Some rules aren’t like that, though. They are the unspoken rules, the ones no-one ever says aloud, yet everyone knows. Don’t buy from the Predacons, don’t hire the Predacons, don’t stand up for the Predacons. He snorts. Don’t attack a Maximal, even though he’s asking for it. Don’t think you can have the same rights, the same rations as the Maximals. Don’t ask why the younglings are starving, you’re a Predacon, you’re a Decpticon, never mind that most of our sins are that we had the bad luck to be formatted by a Predacon.
He falls silent, thinking about what it had been like, at the Academy. The warm sun, and the fact that he was completely alone were loosening his vocalizer far more than any rust stick of Hooks would have done.
And, even in the Academy, the pinnacle of enlightenment, where you think all of that wouldn’t apply, where Predacon and Maximal mean nothing, and you aren’t judged by your ancestors, but rather by your achievements, it’s still true. In my class of over three hundred mechs, only thirty were Predacons, the bare minimum they needed to say that they were achieving their ‘Outreach’ goals. And of those thirty, over ten dropped out in the first semester. The school claimed that it was because they couldn’t take the advanced material but everyone knows that it was because, well, the rules were different, if you were a Predacon. An essay, if it had been turned in by a Maximal, would have gotten a 92%, whereas if it had been turned in by a Predacon, it would have gotten an 83%. Most of the professors were like that, it was like they had resented having to teach us.
The world outside was worse. It took me two and a half orns to find a job, when those who had done even worse than I, my Maximal classmates, had been picked by companies even before graduation.
He turns, letting the sun hit him at a different angle
Under Megatron, the rules had been far more simple. Don’t betray him, or frag up, and he won’t slag you. That had pretty much been the only rule there, although some mechs found it harder to obey than others.
Scorponok falls silent for the last time, having fallen into memories of his time under Megatron, when he had followed a leader that he was sure could do no wrong and always had a plan.
(OOC: Yay, angst! *Grins* Nok is nowhere in particular, and this post is so open it’s almost painful.)