Burn It To The Ground, Chapter 1
Title: Burn It To the Ground
Rating: T
Series: IDW
Summary: Five Terrorcons, five short stories. Chapter 1: Just because Blot tries doesn't mean it's going to get him anywhere.
A/N: This is set sometime during the early events of Megatron: Origin, while Cybertron is slowly gearing itself up for all out war. The Terrorcons aren't quite the Terrorcons just yet, still fighting for themselves rather than for a cause.
The air stunk of artificial weapons discharge, acidic with a hint of spent energon. Blot had never spent much time around guns before, but at the rate Cybertron was going, they were becoming fairly common. The shooting range they were in was still considered highly illegal, as civilians had no rights to weapons of any kind. Except they weren't really civilians anymore, Hun-Grrr had told him, because the Senate pretended the unemployed working class didn't exist.
Blot liked Hun-Grrr. He was nice to him, at least as nice as anyone had ever been to Blot. Instead of discarding him or ignoring him after a fight in the arena, Hun-Grrr had kept him around and told him he was a good fighter. He said he wanted Blot to fight for him again, which meant he wouldn't have to worry about where to recharge or when he was going to refuel. The compliments had been unexpected, and he occasionally thought Hun-Grrr was going to take it all back and laugh at him.
Sinnertwin hadn't been very happy about his presence, since it had been just him and Hun-Grrr for as long as either of them could remember. Blot was an unwelcome guest so far as Sinnertwin had been concerned, but he never made him leave. He just said nasty things when he thought Blot wasn't listening or wouldn't understand him. Sometimes Hun-Grrr told him to shut up. Sometimes he didn't.
When Rippersnapper and Cutthroat had joined their group, it turned into three against one. Hun-Grrr was the only one that stood up for him, even if he had to make Blot leave for awhile occasionally, until the others calmed down. Blot didn't care what they thought of him. He had come before Rippersnapper and Cutthroat, which meant he was more important than them. Besides that, Hun-Grrr tended to pay him the most attention. Like right now; Blot was the only one he had wanted to take to the firing range.
Blot wanted to make Hun-Grrr proud, to prove to him that he was as capable as anyone else. The only problem with that plan so far was that he was a terrible, miserable, awful shot. His target was largely untouched, but the space around it was riddled with scorch marks from the plasma rifle he was using. There was one burn near the center of the target, but that had only happened when someone bumped Blot while walking by.
He didn't know how many charges he had gone through, or how many he would go through since Hun-Grrr kept handing him fresh cartridges. Blot had wanted to give up a long time ago, around the time his poor aim had garnered the attention of an amused audience. Hun-Grrr had done nothing to dispel them other than the occasional dirty look, but many of them lost interest after awhile. The ones that stayed made comments at Blot's expense, and he started to think whoever had messed up his shot by bumping him had done so on purpose.
After nicking the lower corner of the target, Blot lowered the rifle and glanced at Hun-Grrr. Without looking at him, Hun-Grrr held out a full cartridge, which Blot took without thinking about it. When he paused before inserting the cartridge, Hun-Grrr prodded him into action with one word:
“Again.”
The cartridge clicked into place easily, a simple motion he could perform in his recharge now. He lifted the rifle, took aim, squeezed the trigger - and missed.
“I'm not getting any better,” Blot said, automatically checking the charge on the rifle, like he'd been instructed. Hun-Grrr had painstakingly taught him everything there was to know about the rifle, from loading it to cleaning it. Given enough time, Blot figured he could probably take it apart and put it back together. The marksmanship was the part that he couldn't quite seem to pick up on.
He risked looking at Hun-Grrr, dropping his optics again when he was met with a hard stare.
“Again.”
There were a few snickers from behind them, but the crowd of hecklers finally decided to call it a night after that. One of them told Hun-Grrr he'd see him around, which was pointedly ignored. Feeling better without an audience, Blot took his time, lining up his sights with the target. This time he actually hit it, but nowhere near where he'd been aiming. He had no idea what went wrong between taking aim and pulling the trigger.
Blot fought best with his hands - all four of them if things got really messy. Close quarters were his forte, and putting a gun in his grip seemed like endangering everyone around him. If it ever came down to it, Blot supposed he could use the rifle to bludgeon his opponent, but he'd never hit his target from a distance. Conventional weapons like handguns and rifles weren't allowed in the arena fights anyways, but Hun-Grrr insisted it was important to learn. He wouldn't give Blot a straight answer when he asked why.
After nicking another corner with his last shot, Blot looked down at his rifle, as if it could give him an answer about his terrible aim. While taking the spent cartridge out, the mech that ran the firing range walked up to Hun-Grrr, an irritated scowl camped on his face.
“You gonna do this all night?” the mech asked, giving a pointed look at Blot's mostly-intact target.
“I'm paying you, aren't I?” Hun-Grrr snapped back.
“That's not the problem,” the mech said, frowning as Blot took the time to scratch some grim off his chassis, flicking it to the floor. “Just wondering when I can go home.”
“When he hits the fragging bulls-eye,” Hun-Grrr said, pushing a handful of credits towards the mech. He took them, looking less irritated, and then left them alone.
Blot felt a hot wash of guilt at that exchange; their resources were limited, and he hated to think Hun-Grrr was spending it all on watching him miss every time he took a shot. Noticing his hesitation, Hun-Grrr held out a fresh cartridge.
“Again, Blot.”
He took it without looking at it, ejecting the empty one and replacing it in one fluid motion. At least he could do that right. If he hit the bulls-eye Hun-Grrr would let them leave, and he wouldn't be wasting any more of their time or currency. Blot lifted the rifle with new found purpose and confidence, determined to hit the target dead-on and prove he could handle the firearm.
This time he went through every step, hint, suggestion and tip that had been given to him over the long hours at the firing range. He hardly noticed Hun-Grrr fidgeting in impatience next to him, focused solely on getting every detail correct. He would hit the bulls eye this time - he was certain of it. Bolstered by his confidence, Blot lined up the scope with his target, squeezed the trigger -
And missed.