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tamingthemuseTitle: untitled
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Transformers (2007/09 movie)
Prompt: #183 - Bullock
Summary: What is life, but an endless journey to the other side?
“Are you sure this is the right place? Because, you know, they look a bit...”
“Organic?”
“Yes. You said we would find Cybertronian colonists here, but all I can see is a bar full of squishies.”
“Scan the room, sir.”
“Why do I have the feeling you are laughing at me?”
“Just do the scan, my lord. I do not like how the cleaning crew is looking at me.”
“They seemed pretty competent to me.”
“Oh, they most definitely are.”
Silence. Nothing but the stoic cackling of a dead comm line. Just bloody perfect for the ship to leave his only passenger stranded in a savage land without the dignity of active communication running between them.”
He tries to suppress a shudder when he sees some individuals copulating in a corner of the room. Or at least, he thinks that is what they are doing. One can never know whether going at each other with fake claws could be their thing in these situations.
“Sit down before you fall on somebody, big guy.” A kick to the knee makes following this polite request all the more logical. It is though a bit disconcerting to learn that the speaker barely reaches mentioned knee when standing.
“You new here, kid?” Nobody has called him 'kid' in a very long time. Trion is not sure if he likes this or not.
The look he gives his new 'friend' could have made the entire Cybertronian army tremble in fear.
“You won't impress anybody here with your shiny exo-lines. They don't like fresh meat in these parts.”
This confuses him. What fresh meat? “I don't have any meat on me.”
“Of course, no. Let's just ignore the pulsing thing inside your armour, eh? No harm done if you can't see it.”
While he trying to think of a reply some kind of food is placed in front of him. It looks to still be alive.
“Tuck in. You'll need all the reserves you can find once you're out there on your own.”
“What is it?” With barely a moment of hesitation he treads where probably none of his species has gone before and tries it. The consistence of the stuff is something to get used to. He wonders if it will be poisonous for his metabolism. Most organic foods are of no use to replace the more usual energy providers.
“Salad.” The word is hard and sibilant like the shot of a weapon into an enemy's face. It reminds him of cherished tutors and the calm humour of his personal guard. It sounds like home.
On the other hand, home is not a topic he particularly likes to think about. To imagine what his dear Prime brother trains their heirs to become... From these shores nightmares are drawn.
Oh, his gentle boys. Not even the eternal protection of his Weapons Master will be enough to keep them from their probable fate.
Then why did he not take them with him? Why steal an experimental shuttle prototype and let all people believe him dead? Why go through with a farce that can only end in tears?
It is moments like these where he is far too aware of the so-called First Line's Curse, this mythical penchant to madness carried by all members of his family. After all, there is a reason why Prime and Protector always try to avoid direct procreation.
A knock on the head brings him out of this thoughts. Reflex demands a sword placed under his attacker's chin. In the back of his mind he congratulates himself for the smooth technique of his retaliation.
That his blade hand never reaches the other's neck is not important. A Lord Protector never a mistake after all, right?
“Let me guess,” he is told. “You came here to find adventure and glory. Someone spent a long time training you, but they neglected the most important lesson, kid.” Small hands pinch his arm at exactly that point which activates the automatic weapon retraction. “Armour makes no warrior immortal.”
There is only one thing Trion can say.
“You are wrong.” He actually had to learn this lesson more than once. He remembers standing over the smoking remains of a friend who was not fast enough. A friend who chose to die to teach him the rules of a Protector's reign.
Before the other can get a reply out, the comforting noise of another's message returns to his ears.
“It is highly recommended, sir, that you return as soon as possible. I don't think the colony's administration will allow us to stay.”
This comes as such a surprise that he speaks his answer out loud. “What did you do, Pollux?”
“I disintegrated this station's commanding officer. His fingers were leaving greasy marks on my hull plating.”
Trion can only shake his head in annoyance. In all his years as a Prime's brother, he never imagined how hard it would be to keep control over a single ship. They should have written a manual about the proper care for a deranged freighter craft.
Just his luck that he now has to wade through many lengths of bureaucratic nonsense to produce a fitting apology. Squishies are so easy to anger. Even easier to destroy.
Only halfway back to the shuttle docks does he realize he is being followed.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Transformers (2007/09 movie)
Prompt: #183 - Bullock
Summary: What is life, but an endless journey to the other side?
“Are you sure this is the right place? Because, you know, they look a bit...”
“Organic?”
“Yes. You said we would find Cybertronian colonists here, but all I can see is a bar full of squishies.”
“Scan the room, sir.”
“Why do I have the feeling you are laughing at me?”
“Just do the scan, my lord. I do not like how the cleaning crew is looking at me.”
“They seemed pretty competent to me.”
“Oh, they most definitely are.”
Silence. Nothing but the stoic cackling of a dead comm line. Just bloody perfect for the ship to leave his only passenger stranded in a savage land without the dignity of active communication running between them.”
He tries to suppress a shudder when he sees some individuals copulating in a corner of the room. Or at least, he thinks that is what they are doing. One can never know whether going at each other with fake claws could be their thing in these situations.
“Sit down before you fall on somebody, big guy.” A kick to the knee makes following this polite request all the more logical. It is though a bit disconcerting to learn that the speaker barely reaches mentioned knee when standing.
“You new here, kid?” Nobody has called him 'kid' in a very long time. Trion is not sure if he likes this or not.
The look he gives his new 'friend' could have made the entire Cybertronian army tremble in fear.
“You won't impress anybody here with your shiny exo-lines. They don't like fresh meat in these parts.”
This confuses him. What fresh meat? “I don't have any meat on me.”
“Of course, no. Let's just ignore the pulsing thing inside your armour, eh? No harm done if you can't see it.”
While he trying to think of a reply some kind of food is placed in front of him. It looks to still be alive.
“Tuck in. You'll need all the reserves you can find once you're out there on your own.”
“What is it?” With barely a moment of hesitation he treads where probably none of his species has gone before and tries it. The consistence of the stuff is something to get used to. He wonders if it will be poisonous for his metabolism. Most organic foods are of no use to replace the more usual energy providers.
“Salad.” The word is hard and sibilant like the shot of a weapon into an enemy's face. It reminds him of cherished tutors and the calm humour of his personal guard. It sounds like home.
On the other hand, home is not a topic he particularly likes to think about. To imagine what his dear Prime brother trains their heirs to become... From these shores nightmares are drawn.
Oh, his gentle boys. Not even the eternal protection of his Weapons Master will be enough to keep them from their probable fate.
Then why did he not take them with him? Why steal an experimental shuttle prototype and let all people believe him dead? Why go through with a farce that can only end in tears?
It is moments like these where he is far too aware of the so-called First Line's Curse, this mythical penchant to madness carried by all members of his family. After all, there is a reason why Prime and Protector always try to avoid direct procreation.
A knock on the head brings him out of this thoughts. Reflex demands a sword placed under his attacker's chin. In the back of his mind he congratulates himself for the smooth technique of his retaliation.
That his blade hand never reaches the other's neck is not important. A Lord Protector never a mistake after all, right?
“Let me guess,” he is told. “You came here to find adventure and glory. Someone spent a long time training you, but they neglected the most important lesson, kid.” Small hands pinch his arm at exactly that point which activates the automatic weapon retraction. “Armour makes no warrior immortal.”
There is only one thing Trion can say.
“You are wrong.” He actually had to learn this lesson more than once. He remembers standing over the smoking remains of a friend who was not fast enough. A friend who chose to die to teach him the rules of a Protector's reign.
Before the other can get a reply out, the comforting noise of another's message returns to his ears.
“It is highly recommended, sir, that you return as soon as possible. I don't think the colony's administration will allow us to stay.”
This comes as such a surprise that he speaks his answer out loud. “What did you do, Pollux?”
“I disintegrated this station's commanding officer. His fingers were leaving greasy marks on my hull plating.”
Trion can only shake his head in annoyance. In all his years as a Prime's brother, he never imagined how hard it would be to keep control over a single ship. They should have written a manual about the proper care for a deranged freighter craft.
Just his luck that he now has to wade through many lengths of bureaucratic nonsense to produce a fitting apology. Squishies are so easy to anger. Even easier to destroy.
Only halfway back to the shuttle docks does he realize he is being followed.
