Vortex's Five Most Epic Hangovers, Part 2
It’s really weird waking up not knowing where you are.
Now, making other people wake up not knowing where they are is great. They get disorientated, scared, they need reassurance. They’ll try not to show it, but you give them anything familiar, anything at all and they’ll be grateful for it. You just need to keep them off balance. Isolate them for long enough, and they’ll start to share. They’ll tell you anything if you’re careful, even though they know who you are. What you are.
But as for doing it myself?
Used to happen all the time back on Earth. One moment, I’d be happily chugging the high grade, the next I’d wake up in a cell with no idea how I got there. Always takes me a while to piece things together when I’ve been drowning my databanks. But I’d get there eventually, work out what was going on, and try to find some way to pass the time.
It was four Earth months before I knew all the places Onslaught could have me locked up on the Nemesis. Not that I cared all that much. One cell’s pretty much the same as another. I’d get the silent treatment for a while, a few solar cycles in solitary. Probably meant to teach me a lesson or something. Frag, it was dull.
He didn’t lock me up so much when we got our own base. Probably ‘cause there weren’t so many mechs around to get offended. Blast Off was never there, Swindle was always off somewhere trying to make money, and Brawl doesn’t have a problem with fighting for fun.
But there was this one time when it was different. It wasn’t the Nemesis I woke up in, for a start, and it certainly wasn’t Combaticon HQ. It was weird.
First thing I remember was grey. Grey walls, grey floor, grey ceiling a long way overhead. It was all concrete, no metal, except this long grey shutter thing over on one wall. Looked squishy-made. And there was the scent of them, everywhere. That chemical-over-animal reek they trail along after themselves, as though they’re trying to deny where they came from.
I was in alt mode. I couldn’t remember how I’d got there. I couldn’t even remember where I’d been when I’d gone into recharge.
And slag, my processors hurt. Like ow. Worse fragging processor ache I’ve had since Screamer got us out of the box. And it didn’t stop there, no. As soon as it began to register, it spread into every stupid last part of me, even my rotors. I mean, what the frag?
Made thinking pretty hard.
Didn’t help that I wanted to purge. I mean seriously wanted to purge. It was like my tanks were on fire or something. Only not actually on fire ‘cause that’s happened a few times and it’s kidna fun. But this? This was emphatically not fun.
It’s not like I can purge in alt mode. At least, it’s kinda hard to. Fuel intake’s a bit too small, which makes for a really high pressure release of liquids. Which is… yeah, kinda nasty. Not that I wouldn’t have done it if I’d seen a squishy. High pressure energon plus squishies is actually really funny. But there weren’t any squishies, just the smell of them.
There weren’t any cameras either. Now, I’m not Soundwave, but I know what bugging tech looks and sounds like, and I couldn’t find any.
So, I wasn’t being monitored. Not that I could tell, anyway.
And I couldn’t smell Cybertonium anywhere. Not a trace of it. Which meant no Autobots. At least, no Autobots that weren’t constructed on Earth.
Not that I gave the Dinobots or anyone all that much thought. Too busy wondering what the frag I’d done to ache all over. I mean, it must have been something pretty epic or it wouldn’t hurt like that, right?
Took about four breems before I finally gave in, transformed to root mode, and turned that boring grey concrete floor all kinds of bright, happy pink.
A bright, happy, high grade pink. Which explained a lot.
That wasn’t my finest hour. Made me feel better though. And I did manage to miss the walls. Well, most of them.
Only trouble was, it hadn’t exactly been quiet. Purging seldom is. While I was busy trying to work out whether there was any more excess that needed to come up, that boring grey shutter opened and a load of squishies came in.
Happily, I’ve got decent reactions. And arm mounted guns. Don’t even ask where my glue gun was, I have no idea. But the gattling guns seem to be enough to scare the scrap out of most sentient organics.
Hell of a lot scarier than watching me hurl, anyway.
The squishies all kinda froze, their little jaws dropping and their eyes all bulgy. One of them wet itself. Obviously not expecting me, then.
Frag, I laughed. Come on, it was hilarious! The looks on their faces, like I wasn’t about to give them a five astrosecond head start.
Well, OK, I gave them a three astrosecond head start, and you should’a seen the fraggers run! Ha! Took the edge off the processor ache, that did, and the everything else ache too.
And they’d left the shutter open.
I snatched one of the ones that hadn’t wet itself. A femme, by the shape of it. Got those tiny, hard pointy feet things, and cushioning. She struggled a fair bit, and screamed all kinds of curses. But she didn’t threaten me with Autobots, and she didn’t seem to know who I was. Which was reassuring.
I wandered outside with her and powered up the root mode thrusters. I don’t care much for flying in robot mode, but I’m not about to have some nasty little squishy vent fluids in my alt.
She stopped struggling after a while, the world of fear and hate in her round, wet eyes. Still, she answered my questions. Probably ‘cause I had one gun aimed at the crowd of squishies back on the ground. One of them had found a rocket launcher; it was kinda cute. He didn’t seem to know how to use it though.
So yeah, turned out they’d found me in the desert somewhere, saw the ‘con insignia, and figured that ‘cause I didn’t get up and slag ‘em all that I was some kind of decoy or something. So they hauled me in. They were weapons traders, black market scrap. They were gonna sell me on to the highest bidder. Apparently, some squishies go in for having a copter decced out to look like a Decepticon.
I can see the appeal. I mean, who wouldn’t want to ride around in me? But slag. All that scrap with Swindle and the spare parts was a bit too recent, and I still ached all over.
It was time to do something else to make myself feel better.
You know my favourite thing about high grade? I mean, aside from the taste and the intoxicating effect.
It’s volatile. Not just flammable, but highly explosive.
You should’ve seen that place go up.
I left the squishies on the roof, all of them. Except the guy who tried to slag me with the rocket launcher. I put him inside.
Made a really nice scene, that did. Sounded good too. I got back into alt mode and let the thermals shove me around for a bit. That was fun.
Still can’t remember what I did before I got so slagfaced that I went offline in the desert. Maybe someone can fill me in on that sometime.
Now, making other people wake up not knowing where they are is great. They get disorientated, scared, they need reassurance. They’ll try not to show it, but you give them anything familiar, anything at all and they’ll be grateful for it. You just need to keep them off balance. Isolate them for long enough, and they’ll start to share. They’ll tell you anything if you’re careful, even though they know who you are. What you are.
But as for doing it myself?
Used to happen all the time back on Earth. One moment, I’d be happily chugging the high grade, the next I’d wake up in a cell with no idea how I got there. Always takes me a while to piece things together when I’ve been drowning my databanks. But I’d get there eventually, work out what was going on, and try to find some way to pass the time.
It was four Earth months before I knew all the places Onslaught could have me locked up on the Nemesis. Not that I cared all that much. One cell’s pretty much the same as another. I’d get the silent treatment for a while, a few solar cycles in solitary. Probably meant to teach me a lesson or something. Frag, it was dull.
He didn’t lock me up so much when we got our own base. Probably ‘cause there weren’t so many mechs around to get offended. Blast Off was never there, Swindle was always off somewhere trying to make money, and Brawl doesn’t have a problem with fighting for fun.
But there was this one time when it was different. It wasn’t the Nemesis I woke up in, for a start, and it certainly wasn’t Combaticon HQ. It was weird.
First thing I remember was grey. Grey walls, grey floor, grey ceiling a long way overhead. It was all concrete, no metal, except this long grey shutter thing over on one wall. Looked squishy-made. And there was the scent of them, everywhere. That chemical-over-animal reek they trail along after themselves, as though they’re trying to deny where they came from.
I was in alt mode. I couldn’t remember how I’d got there. I couldn’t even remember where I’d been when I’d gone into recharge.
And slag, my processors hurt. Like ow. Worse fragging processor ache I’ve had since Screamer got us out of the box. And it didn’t stop there, no. As soon as it began to register, it spread into every stupid last part of me, even my rotors. I mean, what the frag?
Made thinking pretty hard.
Didn’t help that I wanted to purge. I mean seriously wanted to purge. It was like my tanks were on fire or something. Only not actually on fire ‘cause that’s happened a few times and it’s kidna fun. But this? This was emphatically not fun.
It’s not like I can purge in alt mode. At least, it’s kinda hard to. Fuel intake’s a bit too small, which makes for a really high pressure release of liquids. Which is… yeah, kinda nasty. Not that I wouldn’t have done it if I’d seen a squishy. High pressure energon plus squishies is actually really funny. But there weren’t any squishies, just the smell of them.
There weren’t any cameras either. Now, I’m not Soundwave, but I know what bugging tech looks and sounds like, and I couldn’t find any.
So, I wasn’t being monitored. Not that I could tell, anyway.
And I couldn’t smell Cybertonium anywhere. Not a trace of it. Which meant no Autobots. At least, no Autobots that weren’t constructed on Earth.
Not that I gave the Dinobots or anyone all that much thought. Too busy wondering what the frag I’d done to ache all over. I mean, it must have been something pretty epic or it wouldn’t hurt like that, right?
Took about four breems before I finally gave in, transformed to root mode, and turned that boring grey concrete floor all kinds of bright, happy pink.
A bright, happy, high grade pink. Which explained a lot.
That wasn’t my finest hour. Made me feel better though. And I did manage to miss the walls. Well, most of them.
Only trouble was, it hadn’t exactly been quiet. Purging seldom is. While I was busy trying to work out whether there was any more excess that needed to come up, that boring grey shutter opened and a load of squishies came in.
Happily, I’ve got decent reactions. And arm mounted guns. Don’t even ask where my glue gun was, I have no idea. But the gattling guns seem to be enough to scare the scrap out of most sentient organics.
Hell of a lot scarier than watching me hurl, anyway.
The squishies all kinda froze, their little jaws dropping and their eyes all bulgy. One of them wet itself. Obviously not expecting me, then.
Frag, I laughed. Come on, it was hilarious! The looks on their faces, like I wasn’t about to give them a five astrosecond head start.
Well, OK, I gave them a three astrosecond head start, and you should’a seen the fraggers run! Ha! Took the edge off the processor ache, that did, and the everything else ache too.
And they’d left the shutter open.
I snatched one of the ones that hadn’t wet itself. A femme, by the shape of it. Got those tiny, hard pointy feet things, and cushioning. She struggled a fair bit, and screamed all kinds of curses. But she didn’t threaten me with Autobots, and she didn’t seem to know who I was. Which was reassuring.
I wandered outside with her and powered up the root mode thrusters. I don’t care much for flying in robot mode, but I’m not about to have some nasty little squishy vent fluids in my alt.
She stopped struggling after a while, the world of fear and hate in her round, wet eyes. Still, she answered my questions. Probably ‘cause I had one gun aimed at the crowd of squishies back on the ground. One of them had found a rocket launcher; it was kinda cute. He didn’t seem to know how to use it though.
So yeah, turned out they’d found me in the desert somewhere, saw the ‘con insignia, and figured that ‘cause I didn’t get up and slag ‘em all that I was some kind of decoy or something. So they hauled me in. They were weapons traders, black market scrap. They were gonna sell me on to the highest bidder. Apparently, some squishies go in for having a copter decced out to look like a Decepticon.
I can see the appeal. I mean, who wouldn’t want to ride around in me? But slag. All that scrap with Swindle and the spare parts was a bit too recent, and I still ached all over.
It was time to do something else to make myself feel better.
You know my favourite thing about high grade? I mean, aside from the taste and the intoxicating effect.
It’s volatile. Not just flammable, but highly explosive.
You should’ve seen that place go up.
I left the squishies on the roof, all of them. Except the guy who tried to slag me with the rocket launcher. I put him inside.
Made a really nice scene, that did. Sounded good too. I got back into alt mode and let the thermals shove me around for a bit. That was fun.
Still can’t remember what I did before I got so slagfaced that I went offline in the desert. Maybe someone can fill me in on that sometime.