Prompt 1 Response
Why yes, rounding out the Every Mod Writes A Prompt Full House we've got going on!
Title: Rec Room
Continuity: IDW/G1
Characters: Sixshot, Onslaught
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1300
Time: 1:40
Summary: Sixshot fails at social interaction
Sixshot tried not to notice the sudden silence the fell as he entered the common room. Even the vidcast seemed to stutter into an abrupt silence. Slag. He crossed over, already committed, behind the couch, optics focused on the high-grade dispenser on the far wall, pretending that no one was staring at him. It had seemed so different here when he’d walked past, a knot of Combaticons griping companionably about their last mission, Hook and Scrapper playing some game that involved balancing little bits of metal in odd shapes, Breakdown and Drag Strip laughing at the intercepted television broadcast from Earth. It had seemed…like fun.
Not anymore. Well, Sixshot, what next? Tactical retreat…really wasn’t in his lexicon. So. Do what you do best, Phase Sixer. You wanted this, huh? Wanted to be set apart, special, better than anyone else? This is the price you pay. This is the downside.
He crossed to the dispenser, grabbing himself a cube, filling it slowly, buying time before he had to turn around. Still, there was only so long one could draw that out before it looked conspicuous. Well, more conspicuous than a large white and green and purple mech clomping over everyone else’s happy fun time for no apparent reason.
His optics scouted a chair in the back of the room, out of the way.
Good firing position, full coverage on the six, he thought, then…no. Dumb thought. Part of the problem, really. Hard to put that aside.
Well, in his defense, it was hard to put down the whole killer business, when one’s optics were fitted with targeting range finders, with no programming for ‘friend/foe’. Everyone read as a target, safe the very few on his hard no kill list.
Which did not include anyone in this room.
Drag Strip and Breakdown were turned around entirely in their seats, staring at him. He met their gaze steadily, optics feeding him range, picking vulnerabilities. He nodded, slowly. That was friendly, right?
Apparently not. They exchanged some strange look, and Drag Strip bristled, shoulder tires spinning, as though he was contemplating coming over and starting something.
Which…was not the kind of socializing Sixshot wanted right now. Frag. Can’t they just go back to their conversations so he could listen in? And pretend, at least? He looked over at the Combaticons, but they’d turned into a central knot, mumbling something he couldn’t hear. Yeah, clear message there that even he could read in the rigid X of Vortex’s rotors, Blast Off’s too-erect posture. And Hook and Scrapper were bent in intent silence over their tower of scrap bits. Possibly the best thing: at least they were ignoring him. Still, no openings there.
Frag. Sixshot took a discontented swig of his high grade, barely feeling the warm tingle of it over his systems. The Stunticons had turned back to their show, and he watched it, surreptitiously, from under his helm. Some racing thing, cars running around and around in an endless oval. Well, no wonder they’d been making fun of it. Pointless. Stupid humans. He struggled for something…original to say. Maybe he could say something and they’d laugh at his joke and…
Right. Sixshot, actually pulling off a joke. What the frag was in this high-grade?
He lowered the cube to his lap, resting it on one white thigh. He felt…useless. And conspicuous. And bored. And that he was completely killing this place. Look, not even any weapons. New skill: Sixshot, can kill amusement dead just by sitting still.
Frag. He snatched one of his pistols, reaching with his other hand to hook a small table. If he had to get drunk alone, he might as well do weapons maintenance. Give him something to do. Something to look at that wasn’t trying to shut him out. Closest thing he had to a friend, anyway.
He frowned, cracking the hand guards open. Been a long time, and the gas tube had cracked, leaking a powdery corrosion across the interior of the gun. Huh. He swept his finger through it, looking at the glittery copper dust, and then dropped his facemask, running it across his glossa. It was bitter and sharp, but nothing dangerous. His other hand pulled the cube from his thigh, washing the taste down with the sweet-sour taste of the high grade, idly rebalancing it on his thigh as he bent over the gun in earnest, tugging his maintenance kit from one of his panniers.
He got lost in the task for a long time, spray-cleaning the dried gunk out, scraping some solidified corrosion, using a microsprayer to seal the split tube as he sent a requisition to Stores for a new gas tube. He'd wear this one out in the range in practice tomorrow, replace the tube before his next mission. Whenever the frag that was.
A shadow fell over his work. He looked up, noticing suddenly that the cube was empty and the room was bustling with noise again. Wildrider had joined the other Stunticons, perching on the back of the couch, idly poking one or the other of his teammates.
He looked up.
"Stimulating conversation you're having," Onslaught said.
Sixshot shrugged. "Maintenance." Better than staring at the wall. Better to connect with his gun than…nothing.
Onslaught tilted his head. “Always drink while handling firepower?”
Sixshot grunted. “Can handle it.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t.” Onslaught gave a strange look and then moved, walking past Sixshot.
Oh, that was awesome, Sixshot. Nice work. First attempt someone’s made in vorns to actually talk to you and in four fraggin’ words, you manage to blow it. You are a conversational detonator.
Sixshot growled at himself, reassembling the gun quickly, snapping the bolt back together, sliding it in the bolt receiver and snapping the handguard down. Stupid.
He cast a look around the room-everyone wrapped in their own little conversations again, everyone connecting. Good. Maybe this time they wouldn’t notice when he left.
He put his hands on the table to push up to his feet, but stopped, a hand on his shoulder. And then, a cube placed in front of him.
Onslaught moved, dragging another chair with him, sitting down across the table, holding another cube. He lifted it. “You were empty.”
“Done,” Sixshot said, gesturing at the bare table, his maintenance kit packed up. What was Onslaught doing?
Onslaught shrugged. “Seems to me you have two guns.”
Sixshot cocked his head. “What do you want.”
Onslaught laughed. “Nothing. Bored. And I don’t like drinking alone.”
“Not good at talking,” Sixshot admitted. He just wanted to watch. Just enough he could pretend he still belonged.
“Seems like you’re good at plenty,” Onslaught said, coolly.
Sixshot’s optics slid off Onslaught, confused. He snatched at his other gun and slapped it on the table.
Onslaught laughed at some…something Sixshot did not get. He jerked his chin. “Drink.”
“Why.”
Onslaught shook his head. “You are really bad at this, aren’t you?”
“Said I was.” Still, Sixshot bridled. He’d only wanted to watch. To see others do it, where, for once, he didn’t have to perform. Where he could be…entertained. Slag-all was doing that for him right now.
Onslaught laughed again. “Good to start out agreeing on something, right?” It was…some joke Sixshot didn’t get. At least…he thought it was a joke. Onslaught tipped his chin. “How ‘bout we start easy, Sixshot. Why don’t you talk me through stripping that gun.”
Sixshot stared at Onslaught for a moment, trying to figure out his game, what he was up to. He debated challenging Onslaught but…. Yeah, his conversational initiatives…hadn’t gone so well. “Handguards,” he said, quietly, slowly. “Slide.” He turned the gun over.
“No safety?”
Sixshot blinked. “What would I need one of those for?”
Onslaught slapped a hand on the table, loud, throwing his head back, roaring with laughter. Sixshot froze as the room fell into a stunned silence, heads swiveling to Onslaught.
Onslaught recovered himself, one hand rubbing at his chassis as if that much laughter hurt. “You,” he said, “are too funny.”
I am?
Title: Rec Room
Continuity: IDW/G1
Characters: Sixshot, Onslaught
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Wordcount: 1300
Time: 1:40
Summary: Sixshot fails at social interaction
Sixshot tried not to notice the sudden silence the fell as he entered the common room. Even the vidcast seemed to stutter into an abrupt silence. Slag. He crossed over, already committed, behind the couch, optics focused on the high-grade dispenser on the far wall, pretending that no one was staring at him. It had seemed so different here when he’d walked past, a knot of Combaticons griping companionably about their last mission, Hook and Scrapper playing some game that involved balancing little bits of metal in odd shapes, Breakdown and Drag Strip laughing at the intercepted television broadcast from Earth. It had seemed…like fun.
Not anymore. Well, Sixshot, what next? Tactical retreat…really wasn’t in his lexicon. So. Do what you do best, Phase Sixer. You wanted this, huh? Wanted to be set apart, special, better than anyone else? This is the price you pay. This is the downside.
He crossed to the dispenser, grabbing himself a cube, filling it slowly, buying time before he had to turn around. Still, there was only so long one could draw that out before it looked conspicuous. Well, more conspicuous than a large white and green and purple mech clomping over everyone else’s happy fun time for no apparent reason.
His optics scouted a chair in the back of the room, out of the way.
Good firing position, full coverage on the six, he thought, then…no. Dumb thought. Part of the problem, really. Hard to put that aside.
Well, in his defense, it was hard to put down the whole killer business, when one’s optics were fitted with targeting range finders, with no programming for ‘friend/foe’. Everyone read as a target, safe the very few on his hard no kill list.
Which did not include anyone in this room.
Drag Strip and Breakdown were turned around entirely in their seats, staring at him. He met their gaze steadily, optics feeding him range, picking vulnerabilities. He nodded, slowly. That was friendly, right?
Apparently not. They exchanged some strange look, and Drag Strip bristled, shoulder tires spinning, as though he was contemplating coming over and starting something.
Which…was not the kind of socializing Sixshot wanted right now. Frag. Can’t they just go back to their conversations so he could listen in? And pretend, at least? He looked over at the Combaticons, but they’d turned into a central knot, mumbling something he couldn’t hear. Yeah, clear message there that even he could read in the rigid X of Vortex’s rotors, Blast Off’s too-erect posture. And Hook and Scrapper were bent in intent silence over their tower of scrap bits. Possibly the best thing: at least they were ignoring him. Still, no openings there.
Frag. Sixshot took a discontented swig of his high grade, barely feeling the warm tingle of it over his systems. The Stunticons had turned back to their show, and he watched it, surreptitiously, from under his helm. Some racing thing, cars running around and around in an endless oval. Well, no wonder they’d been making fun of it. Pointless. Stupid humans. He struggled for something…original to say. Maybe he could say something and they’d laugh at his joke and…
Right. Sixshot, actually pulling off a joke. What the frag was in this high-grade?
He lowered the cube to his lap, resting it on one white thigh. He felt…useless. And conspicuous. And bored. And that he was completely killing this place. Look, not even any weapons. New skill: Sixshot, can kill amusement dead just by sitting still.
Frag. He snatched one of his pistols, reaching with his other hand to hook a small table. If he had to get drunk alone, he might as well do weapons maintenance. Give him something to do. Something to look at that wasn’t trying to shut him out. Closest thing he had to a friend, anyway.
He frowned, cracking the hand guards open. Been a long time, and the gas tube had cracked, leaking a powdery corrosion across the interior of the gun. Huh. He swept his finger through it, looking at the glittery copper dust, and then dropped his facemask, running it across his glossa. It was bitter and sharp, but nothing dangerous. His other hand pulled the cube from his thigh, washing the taste down with the sweet-sour taste of the high grade, idly rebalancing it on his thigh as he bent over the gun in earnest, tugging his maintenance kit from one of his panniers.
He got lost in the task for a long time, spray-cleaning the dried gunk out, scraping some solidified corrosion, using a microsprayer to seal the split tube as he sent a requisition to Stores for a new gas tube. He'd wear this one out in the range in practice tomorrow, replace the tube before his next mission. Whenever the frag that was.
A shadow fell over his work. He looked up, noticing suddenly that the cube was empty and the room was bustling with noise again. Wildrider had joined the other Stunticons, perching on the back of the couch, idly poking one or the other of his teammates.
He looked up.
"Stimulating conversation you're having," Onslaught said.
Sixshot shrugged. "Maintenance." Better than staring at the wall. Better to connect with his gun than…nothing.
Onslaught tilted his head. “Always drink while handling firepower?”
Sixshot grunted. “Can handle it.”
“Didn’t say you couldn’t.” Onslaught gave a strange look and then moved, walking past Sixshot.
Oh, that was awesome, Sixshot. Nice work. First attempt someone’s made in vorns to actually talk to you and in four fraggin’ words, you manage to blow it. You are a conversational detonator.
Sixshot growled at himself, reassembling the gun quickly, snapping the bolt back together, sliding it in the bolt receiver and snapping the handguard down. Stupid.
He cast a look around the room-everyone wrapped in their own little conversations again, everyone connecting. Good. Maybe this time they wouldn’t notice when he left.
He put his hands on the table to push up to his feet, but stopped, a hand on his shoulder. And then, a cube placed in front of him.
Onslaught moved, dragging another chair with him, sitting down across the table, holding another cube. He lifted it. “You were empty.”
“Done,” Sixshot said, gesturing at the bare table, his maintenance kit packed up. What was Onslaught doing?
Onslaught shrugged. “Seems to me you have two guns.”
Sixshot cocked his head. “What do you want.”
Onslaught laughed. “Nothing. Bored. And I don’t like drinking alone.”
“Not good at talking,” Sixshot admitted. He just wanted to watch. Just enough he could pretend he still belonged.
“Seems like you’re good at plenty,” Onslaught said, coolly.
Sixshot’s optics slid off Onslaught, confused. He snatched at his other gun and slapped it on the table.
Onslaught laughed at some…something Sixshot did not get. He jerked his chin. “Drink.”
“Why.”
Onslaught shook his head. “You are really bad at this, aren’t you?”
“Said I was.” Still, Sixshot bridled. He’d only wanted to watch. To see others do it, where, for once, he didn’t have to perform. Where he could be…entertained. Slag-all was doing that for him right now.
Onslaught laughed again. “Good to start out agreeing on something, right?” It was…some joke Sixshot didn’t get. At least…he thought it was a joke. Onslaught tipped his chin. “How ‘bout we start easy, Sixshot. Why don’t you talk me through stripping that gun.”
Sixshot stared at Onslaught for a moment, trying to figure out his game, what he was up to. He debated challenging Onslaught but…. Yeah, his conversational initiatives…hadn’t gone so well. “Handguards,” he said, quietly, slowly. “Slide.” He turned the gun over.
“No safety?”
Sixshot blinked. “What would I need one of those for?”
Onslaught slapped a hand on the table, loud, throwing his head back, roaring with laughter. Sixshot froze as the room fell into a stunned silence, heads swiveling to Onslaught.
Onslaught recovered himself, one hand rubbing at his chassis as if that much laughter hurt. “You,” he said, “are too funny.”
I am?