Fanfic -- Common Cause (3/6)
Sep. 22nd, 2007 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinManaged to get this edited and typed up today before work; going to try and work on Chapter Four tonight at work but I make no guarentees that I'll get it up as quickly. Glad folks are liking this so far!
Title: Common Cause (3/6)
Rating: PG
Fandom: GI Joe and Transformers
Author's Note: Originally started for Caring Combaticons back in June 2006; takes place in approximately 1993. This story is in the same universe as my other main Transformers universe (which is not the same universe as my other GI Joe fics). Uses a mix of GI Joe cartoon and comic canon as well as my usual cherry picked Transformerly goodness.
Thanks to: CalyhexInmate, ChaosAngel, EagleEyeJoe, Newsy, Amykay73 and Nightfire99201 for beta-reading services.
Common Cause -- Chapter One
Common Cause -- Chapter Two
Chapter Three:
Hawk prided himself on being unflappable. One had to be when leading the Joes, and not only because Cobra favored schemes better suited to Hollywood blockbusters than to military campaigns. Anyone who commanded a unit with Shipwreck as a member couldn’t afford to be flappable.
But seeing a Leopard 1 main battle tank stand up and throw a Honda Civic at his people was almost enough to flap him like a flag in the breeze.
“Steeler! Keep firing! Zap, Short Fuse! Push them back away from the building!” Hawk ordered, twisting the wheel of his Desert Fox to avoid a blast from Vortex’s glue gun. “This is just like training, people! Just like practice! Keep it together!”
As Hawk watched, a shell flew toward Brawl. The trajectory was good; it would be a solid hit, possibly enough to knock the big lummox out of the fight. Or it would have been, if the damned robot hadn’t reverted to tank mode, sending the shell flying uselessly over the top of him.
“He ducked!” Beside Hawk, Dial-Tone’s jaw dropped. “The bastard ducked! Hawk, they’re playing with us! This is like a game to them!”
“I know and we can’t stop playing,” Hawk said. “We just have to make this game unfun and fast!”
# # #
So far, Onslaught was unimpressed by the Joes. Oh, they fought fiercely to be sure, but they were clearly hampered by their need to protect the hostages. The Combaticons had no such restraints. Just the opposite, in fact -- they were taking turns using the building as cover of a sort, standing in front or beside it to fire at the Joes, knowing that their opponents would be loathe to risk missing and hitting the hostages inside. The humans distress -- both Joe and hostage -- was adding to his brothers' enjoyment; the Combaticons' common frequency was full of jokes and taunts as they bantered with each other.
Still, they'd gathered more than enough data; it was time to end things once and for all.
"Combaticons! Merge into Bruticus!"
# # #
“Combaticons! Merge into Bruticus!”
Those were the words they’d been trained to listen for. Even the Autobots couldn’t explain precisely why the command to merge was always shouted, but Armadillo wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not if it meant they had a better chance of stopping this thing.
As he watched, the Combaticons leapt into the air, moving together as if drawn by a magnet. Their bodies twisted and changed as they shifted from vehicles to robots to limbs. Beside him, he could hear his gunner Jorgenson swearing. Or praying. Or maybe both. Not that Armadillo blamed him. No amount of training could have prepared them for this -- Defensor and Superion were big scary robots, but they were big scary robots who didn’t want to hurt them. Bruticus’s components were unfriendly enough on their own; merged chances were slim that they’d mellow out.
“Wait for Steeler’s signal,” Armadillo said, marveling at how calm he sounded. “When he gives the word, then we let loose.”
“Yeah, okay.” Jorgenson sounded young and scared, but he did as he was told, holding his shot until Steeler’s “Fire!” came over the radio.
The MOBAT and the Rolling Thunder’s main guns roared to life, their shells hitting Bruticus’s chest like a one-two punch, knocking the giant robot to the ground.
As the echo of the shots and the vibrations from Bruticus’s collapse faded, Jorgenson blinked. “Holy -- did we get him?” he asked in a small, awed voice.
“Dunno,” Armadillo said, working his jaw in hopes of making his ears pop. “But Lord, I hope it was that easy.”
# # #
"What's the word on the scene, Streetwise?" Hot Spot asked as he followed behind his fellow Protectobot. They were making good time, thanks to Streetwise's knowledge of the area and the fact that only the most foolhardy driver would ignore a convoy of emergency vehicles with their sirens blaring.
"Scanners indicate minimal casualties, 'least among the civilians," Streetwise said, easing into the center lane, lights flashing and siren blaring. "Hostages are talking to a couple reporters and the cops by phone. They're scared, but so far the building's intact. Biggest problem the local cops got are the rubberneckers and the quote-unquote Wolf Blitzer wannabes trying to sneak in closer to the action."
"Okay." Hot Spot rolled along in silence, thinking carefully. The situation wasn't ideal, but it was better than he'd feared. "Streets, I want you and Groove to assist with crowd control. First Aid, you're on to assist the local paramedics -- you 're fully loaded, right?"
"Restocked my inventory this morning," First Aid said, speeding along behind Hot Spot. "Even have extras, though I really hope I don't need any of it."
"You and me both," Hot Spot said. "Groove, you're being awfully quiet back there, you keeping up?"
"Yeah, 'Spot, sure," Groove said. "Just worried about the Joes, y'know?"
"I know," Hot Spot said. "But we can't focus on that okay? They have their job to do and we've got ours."
"Yeah, 'Spot, sure," Groove said again, though he sounded unconvinced. Hot Spot didn't blame him, since he wasn't all that happy with their orders himself.
"Whoa!" Streetwise tapped his brakes, nearly causing Hot Spot to rear-end him. "The Joes just blasted Bruticus!"
"Great!" Blades moaned. "They're gonna get creamed and we're not there yet! C'mon, Spot! At least let me scout ahead!"
"There's not much you can do against an angry Bruticus, Blades," Hot Spot said, though part of him wanted to blare his sirens and charge ahead to the battle.
"Are the Joes okay?" First Aid asked. "What about the hostages?"
"Yeah, are they okay?" Groove asked.
"Joes are okay so far, but -- you guys aren't gonna believe this! They nailed him! Bruticus went down, they forced him to separate and the cop I'm listening to is saying that Bruticus looks like modern art right now! The Joes did it! They stopped him!"
# # #
"They did it!" Blaster's ecstatic whoop echoed around the Command Center, making Prime look up in time to see Red Alert jerk around, hand going for his side arm in a reflex reaction to being startled by the sudden noise.
"Who did what?" Red Alert asked as he tried to shift into a more relaxed pose.
Blaster grinned, feet tapping out a little dance. "The Joes just landed a strike on Bruticus! He's down like Garfield on a Monday! They dropped him like he was hot!"
"Amazing," Prime said, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “I’ve never been happier to be wrong.”
"You said it, Prime!" Ironhide's grin matched Blaster's. "Knew they could do it! Didn't doubt it for a second; those Joes have real fightin' spirit! Good for them!"
Red Alert scowled and turned back to his console. "Good for them," he said. "Whether it's good for us, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"
"Aww, Red, give it a rest will ya?" Ironhide said. "We could use the help. Only so many troops we can bring here from Cybertron before we weaken our lines there. What’s the harm in havin’ a few humans who can kick Decepti-keister?”
“They’ve seen today that they can hurt us; that knowledge will not simply fade away.” Red Alert turned back to the room, straightening up as if bracing himself for a blow. “I have no doubts about General Hawk’s intentions toward us. He’s an honorable man and whatever duplicity he uses, he uses toward the greater good. But Hawk does not lead this nation nor command its armed forces and it’s the people who do that worry me.”
# # #
“This just in! Amateur video footage from the scene of the Havefam Hostage crisis shows the GI Joe team striking a major blow against the Decepticon combiner unit, Bruticus!” Hector Ramirez was so excited as to be almost in tears; any semblance of journalistic detachment wiped away by the “This is a monumental event, ladies and gentlemen, truly we have seen David slay Goliath!”
“No.” Crowther gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white as he watched Bruticus drop to the ground. “That’s impossible! Not even Abernathy has that kind of luck!”
On screen, Bruticus lay on the now cracked and broken parking lot, looking like a broken toy tossed aside by some monstrously huge child. His limbs seemed intact, but his torso was mangled and twisted. If he’d been human, the fatality of the injury would have been obvious.
Crowther stared, only momentarily sickened to find himself hoping that the giant beast would stand up. He needed the Joes defeated; their victory would destroy all his careful plans, would push too much support to the wrong places. If he was to succeed -- and by extension, if the world was to survive this alien menace -- the Joes had to fail and had to fail now. Better they lost the battle in order that other forces could win the war.
He was by turns relieved and horrified when the monster began to stir.
# # #
Bruticus fought to keep control of his limbs as they began to return to their five-space forms. He was hurt, badly, but he’d been hurt before. What made him so desperate to maintain awareness was that he was frightened. Frightened not of sinking back into slumber, but of not being able to come back, of disappearing into nothingness.
His brother-limbs, on the other hand, were not afraid. They were angry, angrier than Bruticus could ever remember having seen them. Their minds battered at him as he fought them for control. They were too strong, too furious for him to maintain his hold on consciousness and they succeeded in pushing him roughly away as they forced him back down into inactivity.
“Smash ‘em! Annihilate the goo sacks!” Brawl snarled as Bruticus cowered, removing himself as a target of their fury.
# # #
Once, when she was eight, Cover Girl had been running through the yard on her family’s farm when she stepped on an underground beehive. At the time, she didn’t know that she’d killed the queen. All she’d known was that several hundred very angry bees were making their displeasure known by swarming over her in their own form of a honeybee jihad.
As she watched the Combaticons begin to rise and take notice of their leader’s body lying on the ground in a mangled heap, Cover Girl found herself missing the bees. At least she could have swatted them.
# # #
Brawl was the first to fully recover.
“Blast Off! Check on Onslaught!” Brawl ordered, snapping into action. “Vortex! Get up there and bring those squishy flyboys down! Swindle, you and me, we’re keeping the humans pinned down while Blast Off works! We’re gonna get Onslaught outta here!”
“I get to waste two squishies? Oh, Brawly, you do love me!” Vortex giggled as he leapt into the air, transforming to helicopter mode.
“Quit playing around, Vortex!” Swindle yelled. “C’mon, Twitchy, this ain’t a game!”
“Funny,” Vortex said, tone bitingly serious. “I thought that’s exactly what all this was. Just another one of Megatron’s keep-us-busy games. Onslaught should know better by now.”
“Settle down!” Brawl said. “Focus on the objective: defend Onslaught. You two can argue later!”
“Yessir!” Swindle and Vortex chorused as they took off. Part of Brawl was smugly satisfied with how quickly and easily the others snapped to and followed his orders. Could get used to this, he thought, opening a private channel to Blast Off. “How’s Onslaught? Can we move him?”
“I need more time,” Blast Off said. “I just started working here, Brawl. As he is, Onslaught can’t transform and there’s no way I can stretch myself enough to fit him in my cargo bay. The humans’ missiles fused him in mid-transformation. If I can manage to clear the damage enough, I might be able to manually force a transformation. But I will need time for that, Brawl. More than a few astroseconds.”
“How much time?”
“As much as you can get me,” Blast Off said. “For preference by letting me get to work instead of nattering at me!”
“We’ll do our best; you do yours,” Brawl said, switching back to the team channel. “Swindle, we gotta shift attention away from Blast Off while he works on Onslaught. You’re faster than me an’ ‘Tex is busy in the air. I want you to run up close on the humans, spray ‘em with fire and keep them down while I cover Blast Off and Onslaught.”
# # #
Blast Off dampened his external audial sensors, turning the roar of battle into a distant whisper as he focused his full efforts on repairing Onslaught’s wounds.
It wasn’t fair. He’d never asked to be the team medic. His medical training was perfunctory at best; just enough to repair minor injuries or keep a severely wounded comrade alive until the real help could arrive.
By rights, Vortex was more skilled than he was but none of them wanted Vortex as a medic since the little sadist was all too apt to get distracted and do more damage just to see what happened. With Swindle there was the risk of waking up to find yourself sold for scrap. Again. And Brawl’s idea of repairs was ‘hit it until it does what I want’ -- which admittedly worked well for recalcitrant teammates but not so much for delicate internal components.
Still, life wasn’t fair, Blast Off reminded himself as he clamped off split fuel lines and mopped excess fluids out of Onslaught’s chest cavity. The lines were important but nothing that couldn’t wait until Onslaught was back at base and under the Constructicons’ tender care.
Right now, the crucial thing was to get Onslaught transformed. To do that, Blast Off would have to get to Onslaught’s transformation cogs, patch his own transformation circuits in to Onslaught’s systems and shunt the correct commands to Onslaught’s cogs and, likely, give a few pieces a good, Brawl-style thumping to bend bits back into place enough to forcibly transform Onslaught back at least to vehicle mode.
And then he saw it: a bright, pinkish glow where no glow should be. A crack the length of his smallest finger in Onslaught’s personality component; damage that could only be repaired by a fully qualified medic, not someone with a few slapdash training courses.
It wasn’t fair.
# # #
Flying a helicopter, according to Lift-Ticket's instructor back at Ft. Rucker, was as simple as riding a bike -- while juggling three balls and reciting Shakespeare.
Flying a helicopter in combat was like doing all of the above while somebody threw rocks at you.
Flying a helicopter in combat against another helicopter that was also a sentient being was like doing all of the above while you had a weasel down your pants. An angry weasel.
Lift-Ticket's hands and feet flew over his controls, years of practice and muscle memory leaving his mind free to focus on tactics. And keeping out of Wild Bill's way.
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. If anyone would enjoy a fight against a sentient helicopter, it would be Wild Bill. Lift-Ticket hadn't heard this many 'yee-haws' out of his fellow chopper pilot since the Cowboys had won the Super Bowl.
"Wild Bill, have you lost it completely?" Lift-Ticket grinned as Airborne radioed Wild Bill from his gunnery position. "You can tell us, really."
"Shoot, Airborne, this ain't nothing!" Wild Bill sounded like a kid on an amusement park ride. "Ol' boy here's a Super Seasprite! If we was subs, I'd be worried but we're flying tank killers!"
"He's a Seahawk that can think for itself," Lift Ticket said.
"Yeah, but he ain't that bright. C'mon, boys, this is just like playin' Cowboys and Indians! Y'all played Cowboys and Indians, right?"
"When we played it, it was Native Americans and Paleface Oppressors." Airborne's tone was as dry as his native Arizona.
Wild Bill didn't seem to miss a beat. "Well, hell, I'm one-eighth Lipan Apache! Let's show this paleface oppressor how it's done!"
# # #
Vortex was angry, sore and beginning to fear that he was outclassed by the humans currently tormenting him.
The problem was Vortex had limited experience fighting against his own design. The only Autobot helicopter he faced on a regular basis was Blades, and when they fought it was usually as gestalt components. To make matters worse, there were no Decepticon choppers currently stationed on Earth -- and Onslaught had never seen the need to send Vortex to Cybertron for personal instruction.
So, to his embarrassment, Vortex found himself being teased and tormented by the human pilots. Half the time, they weren't even shooting at him; instead, they would fly in close, forcing him to turn and bank to avoid a mid-air collision. One of them, the red-haired one with the hairy face, had already flown in so close that their rotors almost intertwined.
Part of him knew he should transform to robot mode, where he could easily bloop the humans into submission. But doing so would be tantamount to admitting to being out-flown by squishies. And that would be an unforgivable insult added to the numerous injuries the humans had already heaped upon them all.
# # #
As the Combaticons attacked, Hawk weighed his options. They couldn’t use the main guns on either the MOBAT or the Rolling Thunder. The risk of hitting the office building was too great and separately the Combaticons were too small and too fast. The only luck the Joes had was that Onslaught and Blast Off were out of the fight.
“That’s it!” Reaching for his radio, Hawk began barking orders. “Wild Bill, Lift Ticket, continue focusing on Vortex! Force him down if you can. Corral him in the air if you can’t! Cover Girl! Haul Grand Slam and the HAL in closer and concentrate fire on Swindle, drive that little SOB back! Salvo, Zap, concentrate your fire on Brawl! Short-Fuse, I want you dropping mortars on all of them! No pattern! Everyone else, concentrate laser fire on Blast Off and Onslaught! Force the others to group up to protect them! Armadillo, Steeler, be ready to fire a second volley from your main guns on my mark! Yo Joe!”
“Yo Joe!” The call was ragged, but defiant. Hawk’s confidence bolstered his team.
# # #
Swindle charged the humans' defenses, pulling his wheels sharply to the right, causing himself to shift to the left. Rocking on his wheels, he whipped his scatter-blaster around and fired three blasts in quick succession. Red-hot pellets, each the size of a tennis ball, soared through the air, sending the humans diving for cover behind their vehicles.
For all the good it did them. Swindle grinned, the expression hidden deep within his chassis, as he heard several humans cry out in pain. Even more gratifying was the sight of one luckless soldier dropping to the ground as one of her legs was knocked out from under her.
His gloating was cut short by a volley of laser fire -- heavy stuff this time. Squealing his tires, Swindle threw himself into reverse and spun to face this new enemy.
It was a stationary laser cannon, manned by a single human soldier. Swindle almost laughed at the sandbags that were meant to serve as protection as he prepared to ram the cannon. "Can't even transform and run!"
# # #
Cover Girl raced for the nearest A.W.E. Striker, a plan forming even as she was clambering into the vehicle and starting it up.
It was a crazy, stupid plan, one that she'd never have done if she hadn't just watched Swindle drop one of the Greenshirt medics.
She floored the A.W.E. Striker, slamming into Swindle and attempting to push him away from Grand Slam and the Heavy Artillery Laser. The A.W.E. Striker was a lighter vehicle, but Swindle clearly hadn't been expecting the attack, giving her the advantage of surprise.
"Hey, fine sweetheart! If you want me to kill you first, that can be arranged." Swindle's cocky, condescending tone reminded Cover Girl of -- well, too many men to count.
"Drop dead, sleazebag," she snarled. It wasn't one of her better comebacks, but following it up by tossing a pair of flash bangs before she veered off more than made up for her lack of wordplay.
The flash bangs distracted Swindle, frightening him too if his yelps were anything to go by. Cover Girl grinned hugely as she passed Grand Slam. "Hit him again!" she yelled. "Flip the little jerk!"
# # #
Brawl watched the human general. He didn’t need Academy training to tell him they were in trouble. Onslaught’s injuries had given the humans an edge against them -- not just because they’d also eliminated Bruticus. Their morale was up, they weren’t about to back down now. It was Generistan all over again.
“How’s Onslaught?” Brawl radioed Blast Off, while firing back at the humans’ tank.
Blast Off didn’t answer at first. Not a good sign, bad enough that Brawl hesitated on his next shot. “Blast Off, how is he? What’s going on?”
Again, Blast Off didn’t answer immediately. Brawl growled, angry and more scared than he wanted to admit. A quiet Combaticon was an evasive Combaticon, one trying to decide what to say and how best to deflect any anger and blame.
“Blast Off, tell me what’s going on or so help me, I’m gonna use you as a club!”
“Onslaught is dying,” Blast Off snarled back. “His personality component has a crack in it the length of my smallest finger. There is nothing I can do for him, particularly when I keep having to stop to shield him from the humans’ attacks! I can’t force a transformation and we can’t move him like this! You’re in charge, Brawl, make a dammed decision and tell me what do we do?”
Brawl looked over at the Joes, his gaze focusing on the tank and the assault vehicle Swindle had called the Rolling Thunder. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the humans were planning. Brawl could have admired the plan, if it wasn’t being used against him.
“Alright, listen up,” Brawl said over the team channel. “Vortex, when I give the order, I want you to transform and land behind me on my right flank. Swindle, you get back here and transform too, left flank. Blast Off, stay where you are, but keep your hands where the Joes can see ‘em.”
“What’s going on?” Swindle asked. “Ons okay? We retreating?”
“No, surrendering,” Brawl said. “Blast Off, fill ‘em in!”
To Be Continued
Title: Common Cause (3/6)
Rating: PG
Fandom: GI Joe and Transformers
Author's Note: Originally started for Caring Combaticons back in June 2006; takes place in approximately 1993. This story is in the same universe as my other main Transformers universe (which is not the same universe as my other GI Joe fics). Uses a mix of GI Joe cartoon and comic canon as well as my usual cherry picked Transformerly goodness.
Thanks to: CalyhexInmate, ChaosAngel, EagleEyeJoe, Newsy, Amykay73 and Nightfire99201 for beta-reading services.
Common Cause -- Chapter One
Common Cause -- Chapter Two
Hawk prided himself on being unflappable. One had to be when leading the Joes, and not only because Cobra favored schemes better suited to Hollywood blockbusters than to military campaigns. Anyone who commanded a unit with Shipwreck as a member couldn’t afford to be flappable.
But seeing a Leopard 1 main battle tank stand up and throw a Honda Civic at his people was almost enough to flap him like a flag in the breeze.
“Steeler! Keep firing! Zap, Short Fuse! Push them back away from the building!” Hawk ordered, twisting the wheel of his Desert Fox to avoid a blast from Vortex’s glue gun. “This is just like training, people! Just like practice! Keep it together!”
As Hawk watched, a shell flew toward Brawl. The trajectory was good; it would be a solid hit, possibly enough to knock the big lummox out of the fight. Or it would have been, if the damned robot hadn’t reverted to tank mode, sending the shell flying uselessly over the top of him.
“He ducked!” Beside Hawk, Dial-Tone’s jaw dropped. “The bastard ducked! Hawk, they’re playing with us! This is like a game to them!”
“I know and we can’t stop playing,” Hawk said. “We just have to make this game unfun and fast!”
So far, Onslaught was unimpressed by the Joes. Oh, they fought fiercely to be sure, but they were clearly hampered by their need to protect the hostages. The Combaticons had no such restraints. Just the opposite, in fact -- they were taking turns using the building as cover of a sort, standing in front or beside it to fire at the Joes, knowing that their opponents would be loathe to risk missing and hitting the hostages inside. The humans distress -- both Joe and hostage -- was adding to his brothers' enjoyment; the Combaticons' common frequency was full of jokes and taunts as they bantered with each other.
Still, they'd gathered more than enough data; it was time to end things once and for all.
"Combaticons! Merge into Bruticus!"
“Combaticons! Merge into Bruticus!”
Those were the words they’d been trained to listen for. Even the Autobots couldn’t explain precisely why the command to merge was always shouted, but Armadillo wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Not if it meant they had a better chance of stopping this thing.
As he watched, the Combaticons leapt into the air, moving together as if drawn by a magnet. Their bodies twisted and changed as they shifted from vehicles to robots to limbs. Beside him, he could hear his gunner Jorgenson swearing. Or praying. Or maybe both. Not that Armadillo blamed him. No amount of training could have prepared them for this -- Defensor and Superion were big scary robots, but they were big scary robots who didn’t want to hurt them. Bruticus’s components were unfriendly enough on their own; merged chances were slim that they’d mellow out.
“Wait for Steeler’s signal,” Armadillo said, marveling at how calm he sounded. “When he gives the word, then we let loose.”
“Yeah, okay.” Jorgenson sounded young and scared, but he did as he was told, holding his shot until Steeler’s “Fire!” came over the radio.
The MOBAT and the Rolling Thunder’s main guns roared to life, their shells hitting Bruticus’s chest like a one-two punch, knocking the giant robot to the ground.
As the echo of the shots and the vibrations from Bruticus’s collapse faded, Jorgenson blinked. “Holy -- did we get him?” he asked in a small, awed voice.
“Dunno,” Armadillo said, working his jaw in hopes of making his ears pop. “But Lord, I hope it was that easy.”
"What's the word on the scene, Streetwise?" Hot Spot asked as he followed behind his fellow Protectobot. They were making good time, thanks to Streetwise's knowledge of the area and the fact that only the most foolhardy driver would ignore a convoy of emergency vehicles with their sirens blaring.
"Scanners indicate minimal casualties, 'least among the civilians," Streetwise said, easing into the center lane, lights flashing and siren blaring. "Hostages are talking to a couple reporters and the cops by phone. They're scared, but so far the building's intact. Biggest problem the local cops got are the rubberneckers and the quote-unquote Wolf Blitzer wannabes trying to sneak in closer to the action."
"Okay." Hot Spot rolled along in silence, thinking carefully. The situation wasn't ideal, but it was better than he'd feared. "Streets, I want you and Groove to assist with crowd control. First Aid, you're on to assist the local paramedics -- you 're fully loaded, right?"
"Restocked my inventory this morning," First Aid said, speeding along behind Hot Spot. "Even have extras, though I really hope I don't need any of it."
"You and me both," Hot Spot said. "Groove, you're being awfully quiet back there, you keeping up?"
"Yeah, 'Spot, sure," Groove said. "Just worried about the Joes, y'know?"
"I know," Hot Spot said. "But we can't focus on that okay? They have their job to do and we've got ours."
"Yeah, 'Spot, sure," Groove said again, though he sounded unconvinced. Hot Spot didn't blame him, since he wasn't all that happy with their orders himself.
"Whoa!" Streetwise tapped his brakes, nearly causing Hot Spot to rear-end him. "The Joes just blasted Bruticus!"
"Great!" Blades moaned. "They're gonna get creamed and we're not there yet! C'mon, Spot! At least let me scout ahead!"
"There's not much you can do against an angry Bruticus, Blades," Hot Spot said, though part of him wanted to blare his sirens and charge ahead to the battle.
"Are the Joes okay?" First Aid asked. "What about the hostages?"
"Yeah, are they okay?" Groove asked.
"Joes are okay so far, but -- you guys aren't gonna believe this! They nailed him! Bruticus went down, they forced him to separate and the cop I'm listening to is saying that Bruticus looks like modern art right now! The Joes did it! They stopped him!"
"They did it!" Blaster's ecstatic whoop echoed around the Command Center, making Prime look up in time to see Red Alert jerk around, hand going for his side arm in a reflex reaction to being startled by the sudden noise.
"Who did what?" Red Alert asked as he tried to shift into a more relaxed pose.
Blaster grinned, feet tapping out a little dance. "The Joes just landed a strike on Bruticus! He's down like Garfield on a Monday! They dropped him like he was hot!"
"Amazing," Prime said, feeling a sense of relief wash over him. “I’ve never been happier to be wrong.”
"You said it, Prime!" Ironhide's grin matched Blaster's. "Knew they could do it! Didn't doubt it for a second; those Joes have real fightin' spirit! Good for them!"
Red Alert scowled and turned back to his console. "Good for them," he said. "Whether it's good for us, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?"
"Aww, Red, give it a rest will ya?" Ironhide said. "We could use the help. Only so many troops we can bring here from Cybertron before we weaken our lines there. What’s the harm in havin’ a few humans who can kick Decepti-keister?”
“They’ve seen today that they can hurt us; that knowledge will not simply fade away.” Red Alert turned back to the room, straightening up as if bracing himself for a blow. “I have no doubts about General Hawk’s intentions toward us. He’s an honorable man and whatever duplicity he uses, he uses toward the greater good. But Hawk does not lead this nation nor command its armed forces and it’s the people who do that worry me.”
“This just in! Amateur video footage from the scene of the Havefam Hostage crisis shows the GI Joe team striking a major blow against the Decepticon combiner unit, Bruticus!” Hector Ramirez was so excited as to be almost in tears; any semblance of journalistic detachment wiped away by the “This is a monumental event, ladies and gentlemen, truly we have seen David slay Goliath!”
“No.” Crowther gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles went white as he watched Bruticus drop to the ground. “That’s impossible! Not even Abernathy has that kind of luck!”
On screen, Bruticus lay on the now cracked and broken parking lot, looking like a broken toy tossed aside by some monstrously huge child. His limbs seemed intact, but his torso was mangled and twisted. If he’d been human, the fatality of the injury would have been obvious.
Crowther stared, only momentarily sickened to find himself hoping that the giant beast would stand up. He needed the Joes defeated; their victory would destroy all his careful plans, would push too much support to the wrong places. If he was to succeed -- and by extension, if the world was to survive this alien menace -- the Joes had to fail and had to fail now. Better they lost the battle in order that other forces could win the war.
He was by turns relieved and horrified when the monster began to stir.
Bruticus fought to keep control of his limbs as they began to return to their five-space forms. He was hurt, badly, but he’d been hurt before. What made him so desperate to maintain awareness was that he was frightened. Frightened not of sinking back into slumber, but of not being able to come back, of disappearing into nothingness.
His brother-limbs, on the other hand, were not afraid. They were angry, angrier than Bruticus could ever remember having seen them. Their minds battered at him as he fought them for control. They were too strong, too furious for him to maintain his hold on consciousness and they succeeded in pushing him roughly away as they forced him back down into inactivity.
“Smash ‘em! Annihilate the goo sacks!” Brawl snarled as Bruticus cowered, removing himself as a target of their fury.
Once, when she was eight, Cover Girl had been running through the yard on her family’s farm when she stepped on an underground beehive. At the time, she didn’t know that she’d killed the queen. All she’d known was that several hundred very angry bees were making their displeasure known by swarming over her in their own form of a honeybee jihad.
As she watched the Combaticons begin to rise and take notice of their leader’s body lying on the ground in a mangled heap, Cover Girl found herself missing the bees. At least she could have swatted them.
Brawl was the first to fully recover.
“Blast Off! Check on Onslaught!” Brawl ordered, snapping into action. “Vortex! Get up there and bring those squishy flyboys down! Swindle, you and me, we’re keeping the humans pinned down while Blast Off works! We’re gonna get Onslaught outta here!”
“I get to waste two squishies? Oh, Brawly, you do love me!” Vortex giggled as he leapt into the air, transforming to helicopter mode.
“Quit playing around, Vortex!” Swindle yelled. “C’mon, Twitchy, this ain’t a game!”
“Funny,” Vortex said, tone bitingly serious. “I thought that’s exactly what all this was. Just another one of Megatron’s keep-us-busy games. Onslaught should know better by now.”
“Settle down!” Brawl said. “Focus on the objective: defend Onslaught. You two can argue later!”
“Yessir!” Swindle and Vortex chorused as they took off. Part of Brawl was smugly satisfied with how quickly and easily the others snapped to and followed his orders. Could get used to this, he thought, opening a private channel to Blast Off. “How’s Onslaught? Can we move him?”
“I need more time,” Blast Off said. “I just started working here, Brawl. As he is, Onslaught can’t transform and there’s no way I can stretch myself enough to fit him in my cargo bay. The humans’ missiles fused him in mid-transformation. If I can manage to clear the damage enough, I might be able to manually force a transformation. But I will need time for that, Brawl. More than a few astroseconds.”
“How much time?”
“As much as you can get me,” Blast Off said. “For preference by letting me get to work instead of nattering at me!”
“We’ll do our best; you do yours,” Brawl said, switching back to the team channel. “Swindle, we gotta shift attention away from Blast Off while he works on Onslaught. You’re faster than me an’ ‘Tex is busy in the air. I want you to run up close on the humans, spray ‘em with fire and keep them down while I cover Blast Off and Onslaught.”
Blast Off dampened his external audial sensors, turning the roar of battle into a distant whisper as he focused his full efforts on repairing Onslaught’s wounds.
It wasn’t fair. He’d never asked to be the team medic. His medical training was perfunctory at best; just enough to repair minor injuries or keep a severely wounded comrade alive until the real help could arrive.
By rights, Vortex was more skilled than he was but none of them wanted Vortex as a medic since the little sadist was all too apt to get distracted and do more damage just to see what happened. With Swindle there was the risk of waking up to find yourself sold for scrap. Again. And Brawl’s idea of repairs was ‘hit it until it does what I want’ -- which admittedly worked well for recalcitrant teammates but not so much for delicate internal components.
Still, life wasn’t fair, Blast Off reminded himself as he clamped off split fuel lines and mopped excess fluids out of Onslaught’s chest cavity. The lines were important but nothing that couldn’t wait until Onslaught was back at base and under the Constructicons’ tender care.
Right now, the crucial thing was to get Onslaught transformed. To do that, Blast Off would have to get to Onslaught’s transformation cogs, patch his own transformation circuits in to Onslaught’s systems and shunt the correct commands to Onslaught’s cogs and, likely, give a few pieces a good, Brawl-style thumping to bend bits back into place enough to forcibly transform Onslaught back at least to vehicle mode.
And then he saw it: a bright, pinkish glow where no glow should be. A crack the length of his smallest finger in Onslaught’s personality component; damage that could only be repaired by a fully qualified medic, not someone with a few slapdash training courses.
It wasn’t fair.
Flying a helicopter, according to Lift-Ticket's instructor back at Ft. Rucker, was as simple as riding a bike -- while juggling three balls and reciting Shakespeare.
Flying a helicopter in combat was like doing all of the above while somebody threw rocks at you.
Flying a helicopter in combat against another helicopter that was also a sentient being was like doing all of the above while you had a weasel down your pants. An angry weasel.
Lift-Ticket's hands and feet flew over his controls, years of practice and muscle memory leaving his mind free to focus on tactics. And keeping out of Wild Bill's way.
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. If anyone would enjoy a fight against a sentient helicopter, it would be Wild Bill. Lift-Ticket hadn't heard this many 'yee-haws' out of his fellow chopper pilot since the Cowboys had won the Super Bowl.
"Wild Bill, have you lost it completely?" Lift-Ticket grinned as Airborne radioed Wild Bill from his gunnery position. "You can tell us, really."
"Shoot, Airborne, this ain't nothing!" Wild Bill sounded like a kid on an amusement park ride. "Ol' boy here's a Super Seasprite! If we was subs, I'd be worried but we're flying tank killers!"
"He's a Seahawk that can think for itself," Lift Ticket said.
"Yeah, but he ain't that bright. C'mon, boys, this is just like playin' Cowboys and Indians! Y'all played Cowboys and Indians, right?"
"When we played it, it was Native Americans and Paleface Oppressors." Airborne's tone was as dry as his native Arizona.
Wild Bill didn't seem to miss a beat. "Well, hell, I'm one-eighth Lipan Apache! Let's show this paleface oppressor how it's done!"
Vortex was angry, sore and beginning to fear that he was outclassed by the humans currently tormenting him.
The problem was Vortex had limited experience fighting against his own design. The only Autobot helicopter he faced on a regular basis was Blades, and when they fought it was usually as gestalt components. To make matters worse, there were no Decepticon choppers currently stationed on Earth -- and Onslaught had never seen the need to send Vortex to Cybertron for personal instruction.
So, to his embarrassment, Vortex found himself being teased and tormented by the human pilots. Half the time, they weren't even shooting at him; instead, they would fly in close, forcing him to turn and bank to avoid a mid-air collision. One of them, the red-haired one with the hairy face, had already flown in so close that their rotors almost intertwined.
Part of him knew he should transform to robot mode, where he could easily bloop the humans into submission. But doing so would be tantamount to admitting to being out-flown by squishies. And that would be an unforgivable insult added to the numerous injuries the humans had already heaped upon them all.
As the Combaticons attacked, Hawk weighed his options. They couldn’t use the main guns on either the MOBAT or the Rolling Thunder. The risk of hitting the office building was too great and separately the Combaticons were too small and too fast. The only luck the Joes had was that Onslaught and Blast Off were out of the fight.
“That’s it!” Reaching for his radio, Hawk began barking orders. “Wild Bill, Lift Ticket, continue focusing on Vortex! Force him down if you can. Corral him in the air if you can’t! Cover Girl! Haul Grand Slam and the HAL in closer and concentrate fire on Swindle, drive that little SOB back! Salvo, Zap, concentrate your fire on Brawl! Short-Fuse, I want you dropping mortars on all of them! No pattern! Everyone else, concentrate laser fire on Blast Off and Onslaught! Force the others to group up to protect them! Armadillo, Steeler, be ready to fire a second volley from your main guns on my mark! Yo Joe!”
“Yo Joe!” The call was ragged, but defiant. Hawk’s confidence bolstered his team.
Swindle charged the humans' defenses, pulling his wheels sharply to the right, causing himself to shift to the left. Rocking on his wheels, he whipped his scatter-blaster around and fired three blasts in quick succession. Red-hot pellets, each the size of a tennis ball, soared through the air, sending the humans diving for cover behind their vehicles.
For all the good it did them. Swindle grinned, the expression hidden deep within his chassis, as he heard several humans cry out in pain. Even more gratifying was the sight of one luckless soldier dropping to the ground as one of her legs was knocked out from under her.
His gloating was cut short by a volley of laser fire -- heavy stuff this time. Squealing his tires, Swindle threw himself into reverse and spun to face this new enemy.
It was a stationary laser cannon, manned by a single human soldier. Swindle almost laughed at the sandbags that were meant to serve as protection as he prepared to ram the cannon. "Can't even transform and run!"
Cover Girl raced for the nearest A.W.E. Striker, a plan forming even as she was clambering into the vehicle and starting it up.
It was a crazy, stupid plan, one that she'd never have done if she hadn't just watched Swindle drop one of the Greenshirt medics.
She floored the A.W.E. Striker, slamming into Swindle and attempting to push him away from Grand Slam and the Heavy Artillery Laser. The A.W.E. Striker was a lighter vehicle, but Swindle clearly hadn't been expecting the attack, giving her the advantage of surprise.
"Hey, fine sweetheart! If you want me to kill you first, that can be arranged." Swindle's cocky, condescending tone reminded Cover Girl of -- well, too many men to count.
"Drop dead, sleazebag," she snarled. It wasn't one of her better comebacks, but following it up by tossing a pair of flash bangs before she veered off more than made up for her lack of wordplay.
The flash bangs distracted Swindle, frightening him too if his yelps were anything to go by. Cover Girl grinned hugely as she passed Grand Slam. "Hit him again!" she yelled. "Flip the little jerk!"
Brawl watched the human general. He didn’t need Academy training to tell him they were in trouble. Onslaught’s injuries had given the humans an edge against them -- not just because they’d also eliminated Bruticus. Their morale was up, they weren’t about to back down now. It was Generistan all over again.
“How’s Onslaught?” Brawl radioed Blast Off, while firing back at the humans’ tank.
Blast Off didn’t answer at first. Not a good sign, bad enough that Brawl hesitated on his next shot. “Blast Off, how is he? What’s going on?”
Again, Blast Off didn’t answer immediately. Brawl growled, angry and more scared than he wanted to admit. A quiet Combaticon was an evasive Combaticon, one trying to decide what to say and how best to deflect any anger and blame.
“Blast Off, tell me what’s going on or so help me, I’m gonna use you as a club!”
“Onslaught is dying,” Blast Off snarled back. “His personality component has a crack in it the length of my smallest finger. There is nothing I can do for him, particularly when I keep having to stop to shield him from the humans’ attacks! I can’t force a transformation and we can’t move him like this! You’re in charge, Brawl, make a dammed decision and tell me what do we do?”
Brawl looked over at the Joes, his gaze focusing on the tank and the assault vehicle Swindle had called the Rolling Thunder. It wasn’t hard to figure out what the humans were planning. Brawl could have admired the plan, if it wasn’t being used against him.
“Alright, listen up,” Brawl said over the team channel. “Vortex, when I give the order, I want you to transform and land behind me on my right flank. Swindle, you get back here and transform too, left flank. Blast Off, stay where you are, but keep your hands where the Joes can see ‘em.”
“What’s going on?” Swindle asked. “Ons okay? We retreating?”
“No, surrendering,” Brawl said. “Blast Off, fill ‘em in!”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-23 12:23 am (UTC)...because it would be very bad for the Combaticons to fall into the hands of I3 or RAAT instead of the Joes. I can see the Combaticons getting to play the parts of those 6 Autobots in the execution scenario, instead.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-23 12:52 am (UTC)the suspense!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-23 06:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2007-09-23 10:51 pm (UTC)