(no subject)
Songtext Drabbles 5
Underdog, Kasabian
"Hey, give me a mission."
Prowl merely cocked one irritated optic ridge at the black mech, a 'wing sliding to one side. "Why?"
"Because. And because I'm tired of playing gopher for Ratchet, fraggit. Give me a mission." Dizzy leant forward, hands braced on Prowl's desk, still-red optics intense and his mouth a firm line.
"Call yourself an Autobot now, do you?"
"Do I look like a frickin' 'Con to you? It's been how long under your bloody thumb now?"
The Nissan barely bit back a snort, finally raising his eyes from data entry to study the mech. No, that undercurrent of distrust had long since passed into familiarity, and with that, a certain acceptance among the rank and file. "In that case." He jerked his chin at a 'pad near Dizzy's hand. "Go with Heatseek. Information is on that datapad."
Dissever vented hot air, relieved. He took up the 'pad, thumbing it thoughtfully. "Won't let you down. Promise." He snapped off a surprisingly crisp salute.
"See to that."
Electric Romeo, Immediate Music
Dissever had always been good. In hand to hand, close quarters battle, the medic was a serious force to reckon with, the infamous saw and twin wrist blades working to his advantage - and his greater bulk and lack of speed factors that served to counteract those advantages. Added to a decidedly thorny persona, a tendency to mouth off and a scrappy, dirty way of fighting combined with medical knowledge, and one had an interesting equation of checks and balances in just the one mech; Dissever often took nearly as much damage as he dealt out.
But it had been so long. So, very long, that in fact, now he had some difficulty in recognizing the slick black mech before him as the former Decepticon. There was a grace in his movements that hadn't been there before, an uncanny speed and economy to the manner in which he dispatched the drones. He rose, unable to stop himself from laying a hand on the monitor as he watched the former medic dance through and vanish into shadow, then as one by one, all the screens went blank, dead underhand.
So, he had found strength beyond what he used to have. How intriguing and annoying that he had found it, being the attack dog of the Autobots. And yet the afterimages whirled across his processor, comparing the mech he used to know with the one he had seen and nearly not recognised; the rhythmic moves, the nonchalant attitude, the confidence in every strike.
He supposed the Autobots couldn't have had sent a better assassin.
Satellite, BT
Light glinted off the edge of silky metal, flowing over curves to drop flat colour on smooth planes, changing to a shifting dapple-gray of shadow that echoed the twisting movement of leaves above him. Where plating met grass, the creamy white colour took on hints of green and brown, echoed the living colour of the trees in their sacred little bower. The sun teased the scent of leaf and earth out onto the breeze, curling it around sleek finials and over the shape of a black Benz, draped half over a fallen log with a white mech nestled in his lap. They'd come to spend so much time there that they had a little joke about the imprints of their frames being left in the ground, on the trees, where each scrape and mark stood as a silent testament to the intimacy shared between them, of nights spent in talk and mornings watching the sunrise. The little clearing had witnessed them coming together, had seen moon-silvered shapes dance in play, in serious sparring, in the tentative first touches of wary strangers turned friends, and then lovers; had kept secrets and promises and sharp-edged fear, the aching sense of vague hope. And when a strange, lonely circle began when one left, it closed in the same spot with his return; battered, worn, but whole and entire. To them, the clearing was home, more so than any other place in the universe; it was love and safety, security and protection. It was home, and more than that, it was theirs - and theirs alone.
Underdog, Kasabian
"Hey, give me a mission."
Prowl merely cocked one irritated optic ridge at the black mech, a 'wing sliding to one side. "Why?"
"Because. And because I'm tired of playing gopher for Ratchet, fraggit. Give me a mission." Dizzy leant forward, hands braced on Prowl's desk, still-red optics intense and his mouth a firm line.
"Call yourself an Autobot now, do you?"
"Do I look like a frickin' 'Con to you? It's been how long under your bloody thumb now?"
The Nissan barely bit back a snort, finally raising his eyes from data entry to study the mech. No, that undercurrent of distrust had long since passed into familiarity, and with that, a certain acceptance among the rank and file. "In that case." He jerked his chin at a 'pad near Dizzy's hand. "Go with Heatseek. Information is on that datapad."
Dissever vented hot air, relieved. He took up the 'pad, thumbing it thoughtfully. "Won't let you down. Promise." He snapped off a surprisingly crisp salute.
"See to that."
Electric Romeo, Immediate Music
Dissever had always been good. In hand to hand, close quarters battle, the medic was a serious force to reckon with, the infamous saw and twin wrist blades working to his advantage - and his greater bulk and lack of speed factors that served to counteract those advantages. Added to a decidedly thorny persona, a tendency to mouth off and a scrappy, dirty way of fighting combined with medical knowledge, and one had an interesting equation of checks and balances in just the one mech; Dissever often took nearly as much damage as he dealt out.
But it had been so long. So, very long, that in fact, now he had some difficulty in recognizing the slick black mech before him as the former Decepticon. There was a grace in his movements that hadn't been there before, an uncanny speed and economy to the manner in which he dispatched the drones. He rose, unable to stop himself from laying a hand on the monitor as he watched the former medic dance through and vanish into shadow, then as one by one, all the screens went blank, dead underhand.
So, he had found strength beyond what he used to have. How intriguing and annoying that he had found it, being the attack dog of the Autobots. And yet the afterimages whirled across his processor, comparing the mech he used to know with the one he had seen and nearly not recognised; the rhythmic moves, the nonchalant attitude, the confidence in every strike.
He supposed the Autobots couldn't have had sent a better assassin.
Satellite, BT
Light glinted off the edge of silky metal, flowing over curves to drop flat colour on smooth planes, changing to a shifting dapple-gray of shadow that echoed the twisting movement of leaves above him. Where plating met grass, the creamy white colour took on hints of green and brown, echoed the living colour of the trees in their sacred little bower. The sun teased the scent of leaf and earth out onto the breeze, curling it around sleek finials and over the shape of a black Benz, draped half over a fallen log with a white mech nestled in his lap. They'd come to spend so much time there that they had a little joke about the imprints of their frames being left in the ground, on the trees, where each scrape and mark stood as a silent testament to the intimacy shared between them, of nights spent in talk and mornings watching the sunrise. The little clearing had witnessed them coming together, had seen moon-silvered shapes dance in play, in serious sparring, in the tentative first touches of wary strangers turned friends, and then lovers; had kept secrets and promises and sharp-edged fear, the aching sense of vague hope. And when a strange, lonely circle began when one left, it closed in the same spot with his return; battered, worn, but whole and entire. To them, the clearing was home, more so than any other place in the universe; it was love and safety, security and protection. It was home, and more than that, it was theirs - and theirs alone.