Fanfic -- Kick-Ass Combaticons
Aug. 3rd, 2007 03:50 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinTitle: Untitled (Kick-Ass Combaticons)
Originally Posted: June 4, 2006
Note: Takes place sometime after 1992 due to songs chosen. Lyrics to “High Speed Dirt” and “Tornado of Souls” are copyright to Megadeth. My apologies to the Aerialbots for raking them over the coals in this one, but c’mon, the Dirty Half-Dozen deserves a *little* dignity once in a while…
Air Raid let out a whoop as he fired at Swindle who was speeding away from him in jeep mode. Or at least trying to speed away. The runty little Combaticon was no match for a sleek jet such as himself. Poor little groundpounder, it was almost unfair.
Almost.
“Gotcha!” Air Raid yelled as he fired at Swindle’s rear tires, hitting close enough to make Swindle yelp and cut sharply to the left, flipping himself in the process.
Laughing, Air Raid banked hard, coming back around for a strafing run on Swindle’s exposed undercarriage.
“Now, Brawl! NOW!” Swindle transformed back to robot mode, diving for cover before Air Raid could react. The next thing Air Raid knew, he’d taken a falling tank square in the middle of his fuselage. As they fell, Brawl transformed to robot mode and aimed them both toward the ground.
# # #
“See the Earth below! Soon to make a crater! Blue Skies! Black Death! I’m off to meet my maker!”
Silverbolt had to give Vortex credit. Megadeth’s “High Speed Dirt” certainly did have an effect on him. Just not the one the Combaticon interrogator was probably hoping for.
“You’re losing your touch, Vortex!“ Silverbolt yelled. “Every single half-sparked glitch thinks that song freaks me out, Vortex! Instead, it just makes me madder!”
“Who says I’m playing it for you?” Vortex yelled back, his rotors starting to whip faster and faster, churning the air around him into a wind funnel. “Just a little mood music while I play Autobot Lawn Darts!”
Silverbolt struggled to maintain his control, fighting to break free of the cyclone before the sudden stab of panic overwhelmed him. It took an effort not to scream as the windstorm wrapped around him and tossed him like a child’s toy.
“You’ll grow to loathe my name.” Silverbolt could hear Vortex singing -- if shrieking along with “Tornado of Souls” counted as singing -- as he hit the high tension wires. “You’ll hate me just the same! You wont need your breath and soon you’ll meet your death!”
# # #
Fireflight was down, having gotten a blast of his own fire fog straight in the nosecone thanks to Vortex’s windstorm. Skydive was circling back, hoping to drive Onslaught away from his fallen comrade -- and then to go assist his other fallen comrades.
As he flew, he kept note of what he’d learned so far. “Right, first rule: all Combaticons can fly,” he said to himself as he locked onto Onslaught’s position. He was using a variation on an eagle’s hunting dive. “Second rule: all Combaticons are nuts.”
Onslaught’s missile turret turned, firing two shells. One punctured Skydive’s wing, sending him into a spiraling dive that augured him into the ground.
“Third,” he thought as he transformed. “Combaticons watch National Geographic too.”
# # #
Slingshot knew he was too high, but he didn’t care. No way was he going to be taken down by a stinking Combaticon. Wherever Blast Off led, he would follow or shake himself apart trying.
“Give up!” he yelled. “You can run all you want, but I’ll still catch you!”
“Oh really?” Blast Off asked. The shuttle fired his engines, driving himself higher. “That’s the problem with you atmosphere addled flyboys. You think because you control the air, you know anything about real flying.”
“I can do anything you can, Space Cadet!” Slingshot said, his engines screaming as he drove himself higher.
“Please! You’re just like all the rest: nothing but a dabbler,” Blast Off sneered. “Dependent on your fluffy blanket of air for your security.”
Before he could reply, Slingshot’s engines coughed and sputtered, dying in the thinning atmosphere.
“My point exactly,” Blast Off said, moving higher, up into the stratosphere. “That is the sound of hubris, Autobot -- otherwise known as engine failure. Have a nice fall, poseur.”
Originally Posted: June 4, 2006
Note: Takes place sometime after 1992 due to songs chosen. Lyrics to “High Speed Dirt” and “Tornado of Souls” are copyright to Megadeth. My apologies to the Aerialbots for raking them over the coals in this one, but c’mon, the Dirty Half-Dozen deserves a *little* dignity once in a while…
Air Raid let out a whoop as he fired at Swindle who was speeding away from him in jeep mode. Or at least trying to speed away. The runty little Combaticon was no match for a sleek jet such as himself. Poor little groundpounder, it was almost unfair.
Almost.
“Gotcha!” Air Raid yelled as he fired at Swindle’s rear tires, hitting close enough to make Swindle yelp and cut sharply to the left, flipping himself in the process.
Laughing, Air Raid banked hard, coming back around for a strafing run on Swindle’s exposed undercarriage.
“Now, Brawl! NOW!” Swindle transformed back to robot mode, diving for cover before Air Raid could react. The next thing Air Raid knew, he’d taken a falling tank square in the middle of his fuselage. As they fell, Brawl transformed to robot mode and aimed them both toward the ground.
# # #
“See the Earth below! Soon to make a crater! Blue Skies! Black Death! I’m off to meet my maker!”
Silverbolt had to give Vortex credit. Megadeth’s “High Speed Dirt” certainly did have an effect on him. Just not the one the Combaticon interrogator was probably hoping for.
“You’re losing your touch, Vortex!“ Silverbolt yelled. “Every single half-sparked glitch thinks that song freaks me out, Vortex! Instead, it just makes me madder!”
“Who says I’m playing it for you?” Vortex yelled back, his rotors starting to whip faster and faster, churning the air around him into a wind funnel. “Just a little mood music while I play Autobot Lawn Darts!”
Silverbolt struggled to maintain his control, fighting to break free of the cyclone before the sudden stab of panic overwhelmed him. It took an effort not to scream as the windstorm wrapped around him and tossed him like a child’s toy.
“You’ll grow to loathe my name.” Silverbolt could hear Vortex singing -- if shrieking along with “Tornado of Souls” counted as singing -- as he hit the high tension wires. “You’ll hate me just the same! You wont need your breath and soon you’ll meet your death!”
# # #
Fireflight was down, having gotten a blast of his own fire fog straight in the nosecone thanks to Vortex’s windstorm. Skydive was circling back, hoping to drive Onslaught away from his fallen comrade -- and then to go assist his other fallen comrades.
As he flew, he kept note of what he’d learned so far. “Right, first rule: all Combaticons can fly,” he said to himself as he locked onto Onslaught’s position. He was using a variation on an eagle’s hunting dive. “Second rule: all Combaticons are nuts.”
Onslaught’s missile turret turned, firing two shells. One punctured Skydive’s wing, sending him into a spiraling dive that augured him into the ground.
“Third,” he thought as he transformed. “Combaticons watch National Geographic too.”
# # #
Slingshot knew he was too high, but he didn’t care. No way was he going to be taken down by a stinking Combaticon. Wherever Blast Off led, he would follow or shake himself apart trying.
“Give up!” he yelled. “You can run all you want, but I’ll still catch you!”
“Oh really?” Blast Off asked. The shuttle fired his engines, driving himself higher. “That’s the problem with you atmosphere addled flyboys. You think because you control the air, you know anything about real flying.”
“I can do anything you can, Space Cadet!” Slingshot said, his engines screaming as he drove himself higher.
“Please! You’re just like all the rest: nothing but a dabbler,” Blast Off sneered. “Dependent on your fluffy blanket of air for your security.”
Before he could reply, Slingshot’s engines coughed and sputtered, dying in the thinning atmosphere.
“My point exactly,” Blast Off said, moving higher, up into the stratosphere. “That is the sound of hubris, Autobot -- otherwise known as engine failure. Have a nice fall, poseur.”
