Fanfic -- Exploring Combaticons
Aug. 3rd, 2007 04:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinTitle: Untitled; written for “Exploring Combaticons”
Originally Posted: December 18, 2006
Word Count: approximately 608
Rating: G/gen
Author’s Notes: Takes place sometime after Revenge of Bruticus, canon-wise and some time after Payback in my ficverse’s fanon.
All Blast Off's instincts cried out against the idea of going down the alleyway. Strategically, it was a nightmare: a near dead-end, broken only by the heavy, vault-like door at the end. The sides were sheer walls and half a dozen rubbish heaps, each large enough to provide a perfect ambush spot. And if all that weren't bad enough, it was also so narrow that they could only pass through in a single-file, shoot-us-down-like-drones fashion.
The rest of his brothers were equally wary. Swindle and Vortex fidgeted nervously, each one shifting position and staring at the alleyway as if to find some magical safe passage. Likewise, Onslaught kept studying the alleyway as if it were a campaign map. Brawl stood back, arms crossed over his chest as he revved his engines as he waited with uncharacteristic patience.
Finally, Blast Off broke the silence.
"We've only got five shifts worth of leave," he said. "We've wasted two of them finding this place and I'm not about to waste the other three watching the four of you twitter about like cleaning drones in a spotless room. I'm going down there and getting a drink -- and then I'm going to have someone wipe my fuel tank clean!"
With that, Blast Off started forward.
"Wait!" Onslaught reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.
Blast Off turned, optics bright. "I've been waiting, Onslaught," he said, pulling his shoulder free. "You four have been whining about this tacky little hole in the wall ever since we came off the spacebridge. You wanted to find it, we've found it and I'm going in."
The others hesitated, looking everywhere but at Blast Off. He snorted, turning away from them again. "I never thought I'd see the day when Combaticons were afraid of a bar."
That did it. If he'd had a mouth, Blast Off would have considered smiling at his brothers' outraged squawks.
"We're not scared!" Swindle, Vortex and Brawl chorused angrily.
"Apprehensive, perhaps," Onslaught said, evenly. "But you have to admit we've cause to be."
Blast Off looked upward, toward the ever-black skies of Cybertron, then nodded curtly. Onslaught was right -- they'd known that time had passed while they were imprisoned, but somehow the difference hadn't seemed so great during their time on Earth.
But, Cybertron had shown them the difference between knowing something and experiencing it. Ever since their arrival, the changes had been rubbed in their faces. Old comrades were dead, missing or simply unwilling to be seen with allegedly reformed traitors like them. Familiar landmarks were little more than heaps of rubble. Entire cities were gone, blasted off the map during battles they'd slept through.
Only Oiler's, out of all their old haunts, seemed to still remain. It had become a symbol to his brothers. If Oiler’s was still standing, their past wasn’t entirely gone.
The problem, Blast Off knew, was that there was very good chance that Oiler’s was gone, obliterated in one nameless battle or another. Not going in meant not having to face the likely and horrible truth. Uncertainty at least let them have the security of doubt.
Blast Off turned, looking back at his brothers. For a moment, he considered allowing them their illusions, of letting them wrap themselves in self-delusion and comfort themselves with possibilities.
He turned, disgusted with himself for even considering such an outcome. He started down the alley, taking long purposeful strides. “Wimps,” he said, loud enough to make the word echo in the narrow space.
He was three steps away from the heavy, vault-like door when he heard the sounds of four sets of footsteps approaching rapidly behind him.
Originally Posted: December 18, 2006
Word Count: approximately 608
Rating: G/gen
Author’s Notes: Takes place sometime after Revenge of Bruticus, canon-wise and some time after Payback in my ficverse’s fanon.
All Blast Off's instincts cried out against the idea of going down the alleyway. Strategically, it was a nightmare: a near dead-end, broken only by the heavy, vault-like door at the end. The sides were sheer walls and half a dozen rubbish heaps, each large enough to provide a perfect ambush spot. And if all that weren't bad enough, it was also so narrow that they could only pass through in a single-file, shoot-us-down-like-drones fashion.
The rest of his brothers were equally wary. Swindle and Vortex fidgeted nervously, each one shifting position and staring at the alleyway as if to find some magical safe passage. Likewise, Onslaught kept studying the alleyway as if it were a campaign map. Brawl stood back, arms crossed over his chest as he revved his engines as he waited with uncharacteristic patience.
Finally, Blast Off broke the silence.
"We've only got five shifts worth of leave," he said. "We've wasted two of them finding this place and I'm not about to waste the other three watching the four of you twitter about like cleaning drones in a spotless room. I'm going down there and getting a drink -- and then I'm going to have someone wipe my fuel tank clean!"
With that, Blast Off started forward.
"Wait!" Onslaught reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.
Blast Off turned, optics bright. "I've been waiting, Onslaught," he said, pulling his shoulder free. "You four have been whining about this tacky little hole in the wall ever since we came off the spacebridge. You wanted to find it, we've found it and I'm going in."
The others hesitated, looking everywhere but at Blast Off. He snorted, turning away from them again. "I never thought I'd see the day when Combaticons were afraid of a bar."
That did it. If he'd had a mouth, Blast Off would have considered smiling at his brothers' outraged squawks.
"We're not scared!" Swindle, Vortex and Brawl chorused angrily.
"Apprehensive, perhaps," Onslaught said, evenly. "But you have to admit we've cause to be."
Blast Off looked upward, toward the ever-black skies of Cybertron, then nodded curtly. Onslaught was right -- they'd known that time had passed while they were imprisoned, but somehow the difference hadn't seemed so great during their time on Earth.
But, Cybertron had shown them the difference between knowing something and experiencing it. Ever since their arrival, the changes had been rubbed in their faces. Old comrades were dead, missing or simply unwilling to be seen with allegedly reformed traitors like them. Familiar landmarks were little more than heaps of rubble. Entire cities were gone, blasted off the map during battles they'd slept through.
Only Oiler's, out of all their old haunts, seemed to still remain. It had become a symbol to his brothers. If Oiler’s was still standing, their past wasn’t entirely gone.
The problem, Blast Off knew, was that there was very good chance that Oiler’s was gone, obliterated in one nameless battle or another. Not going in meant not having to face the likely and horrible truth. Uncertainty at least let them have the security of doubt.
Blast Off turned, looking back at his brothers. For a moment, he considered allowing them their illusions, of letting them wrap themselves in self-delusion and comfort themselves with possibilities.
He turned, disgusted with himself for even considering such an outcome. He started down the alley, taking long purposeful strides. “Wimps,” he said, loud enough to make the word echo in the narrow space.
He was three steps away from the heavy, vault-like door when he heard the sounds of four sets of footsteps approaching rapidly behind him.
