insecuriosity: (Default)

This drabble is a continuation of Drone Blurr, a birthday gift for Harutemu. Featuring Drone!Blurr, and Scientist!Shockwave <3

Shockwave had never understood artists. They created things – sometimes amazing, and sometimes less than waste – but they all shared a similar set of ideas and necessities before they could work. Each and every one of them spoke about a ‘flow’, or a ‘muse’. Their art, the very thing that kept them alive, would sometimes just refuse to come to them. Some artists would lament their lack of creativity and spirit, even as they churned out painting after painting – sculpture after sculpture.
In Shockwave’s optic, they had been whimpering fools. Who could make so many things, and then complain that they were playing with slag?

Blurr-1 had finally shown him just what those artists truly meant.

The war had picked up. The scientists on the Autobot’s side were more numerous and were allocated more funds and energon than Megatron’s raids could keep up with, and Shockwave had been fighting to keep up.

Not necessarily to defeat the Autobots – but to keep Megatron convinced of his worth. Shockwave knew very well that nearly half the energon the Decepticons stole was fed right back to him and his lab. If he wanted to convince Megatron that he was more useful in a lab than on the battlefield, he needed to produce.

Oh, and hadn’t that been the only thing Shockwave wanted, before he made Blurr-1?
He did produce – he produced more than ever before in his life. Acid-based weaponry, acid-repelling paint coats, teleporting prototypes, EMP-bombs, super warrior upgrades, ununtrium, triple changer experiments….

And it all felt like an inferior joke, compared to his Blurr-1!

Shockwave’s claws had fallen still a few breems ago, and he tried to shake himself out of his tizzy. Blurr-1’s frame was still hooked up to its recharging station, damaged components repaired, and a brand-new cooling unit waiting to be installed.
It was painful for him to know just how much time he had wasted on other projects when he could have spent it on improving Blurr-1. The drone was a work of art that he could never replicate, and with every moment he spent working on something else, Shockwave feared that he would forget to finish it.

It was so very foolish to think of a prototype this way, Shockwave knew. It was in the very nature of prototypes to be expendable, and to be used as a learning experience to further improve newer versions or other ideas.
Other ideas and newer versions that were about as interesting to Shockwave as Starscream’s interfacing habits.

Artists. Foolish mecha. Shockwave hated that he could relate to them now. Whimpering about muses, rebelling against the commissions given to them to finish, returning to their selfish interests, only to justify it by saying it was necessary to keep their creativity flowing-…
Shockwave had no such luxuries – not if he wanted to keep Blurr-1 to himself. Not if he wanted to keep this special, miraculous creation out of Megatron’s plans. The warlord was practical, and Shockwave knew that Megatron treated prototypes the same way Shockwave did-  or… used to.

He couldn’t turn to the same ‘arguments’ that the artists used. MEcha would look at him the same way he had looked at the artists, and Megatron especially would spurn him for such notions… Or would he?

Megatron had written poetry. Megatron had written a book, and he had rewritten it so many times that the original version was lost to the ages, and a dustbin somewhere on Cybertron.  There was a chance that the warlord would understand – at least enough to grant Shockwave this one boon.
He didn’t even need to mention Blurr-1 directly! From one artist to another, Megatron might be willing to let him have a pet project if he was convinced that Shockwave’s productivity hinged on it.

In a significantly better mood, Shockwave hailed his leader, and angled the camera so that it could capture the abysmal mess that was his lab.
There was someone else occupying the line before him, but Shockwave knew he would not wait long. Megatron valued his work very much.

Shockwave took the extra time to look at his drone, hanging on its recharging station. It was still so bare – and there was place on its frame for so many things. It had been designed for easy breakdown and builup. What would happen, if he applied his ununtrium experiments on it? What kind of damage could it do, wielding one of Shockwave’s acid weapons? Would it weight it down too much?

By the time Megatron answered his hail it was difficult to appear inspirationless and tired, but Megatron granted his request.
As Shockwave hurried towards Blurr-1’s recharging station, he solemnly promised himself that Megatron would get Blurr-2, if he ever made it. 

insecuriosity: (Default)

Dedicated to @harutemu

Word Count: 3890
Pairing: Cyclonus/Tailgate
Fandom: Transformers
AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9723002

Summary: Cyclonus’ function is a taxing, unrewarding, and draining ordeal. His entire function has been working towards alt-mode exemption, or a different escape from serving under a mad tyrant. The Senate sends him a gift to try and keep him complacent; he gets to build his own dream-mech. A build-order Conjunx, tailored to his every wish.

Galvatron intercepts it, and Cyclonus is left with the aftermath.

-

From the very first moment that Cyclonus had powered up, he had been exposed to the caprices of his superior.

Officially, his squadron had been built to become Galvatron’s most trusted and valued team of warriors – the backstrut to his army. A great gift of elite newsparks, ready to be groomed and formed into whatever Galvatron desired.
Unofficially, the council hoped that one of the newsparks would learn to withstand Galvatron’s everchanging moods and violent tendencies so that there was a soldier that could handle the more sensitive documents.

Their plan B, Cyclonus suspected, had been a quiet assassination during Galvatron’s recharge.

If you asked Cyclonus, it wasn’t yet too late to set that plan into motion. Better late than never, after all. Maybe then he would finally have a full recharge cycle without interruptions.
He stared up at the ceiling of his suite, and cursed the ringing from his console.

He grunted as he stepped off his berth, and he had to swallow a wave anger as one of the recharge cables snagged on a plate of armour. His console was still insistently ringing, and Cyclonus clenched his jaws together so that they didn’t show just how tired he was.
It would be a mistake not to pick up. Even if Scourge often took his duties during Cyclonus’ recharge, Galvatron would be enraged if Cyclonus didn’t respond to his every beck and call.

He accepted the call, and watched the screen flicker through security checks. Surprisingly enough, the contact information was not Galvatron’s – but… a commercial number? How odd.

“Hello, am I in contact with Commander Cyclonus of Tetrahex military? Hi!” A mech on the other side of the screen greeted him, sitting primly behind a desk that looked like it had never been used for actual office work.
The logo at the front of the desk was from one of the factories respondible for harvesting sparks and building frames. A newspark factory. Strangely enough, it did not appear to be a factory that specialised in warbuilds, or even any type of military-fit mech at all.

“…Hello.” Cyclonus said. He couldn’t remember contacting this factory – perhaps Galvatron had commissioned something from them without his knowing. Or, Primus forbid, he had been woken up in the middle of his recharge for an ad . “How did you access this number? This is an encrypted frequency.”

The mech on the other side of the camera blinked, clearly taken aback. “I’m sorry sir! This was the encryption that was filled into the contact-forms in your specifications document.”

“What kind of document.” If there was anything that Cyclonus knew, it was that documents and signatures were life’s worst traps. Especially ones that showed up out of nowhere.

“Your specially constructed-for-you conjunx enduera?” The mech on the other side had lost much of his confidence. “We- I called you to let you know that it’s been finished and shipped to you. You had some… unique choices, I should say, and I wanted to let you know we were able to fulfil them regardless of some minor issues.”

Cyclonus was dumbstruck. Of all the things to… – a mail-order Conjunx?!

He had heard of this practice, of course. In richer circles, people occasionally contacted a specialised bureau that would allow them to construct the mech of their dreams. Custom designs, custom optic-colours, custom personality cores, custom SPARKS even!
Cyclonus found it a distasteful affair – mostly because of the name that had been given to it. A Conjunx was not someone you bought, and modified to suit your tastes. Most likely, the name ‘disposable frag toy’didn’t sound quite as glamorous and expensive.

There was only one bureau on all of Cybertron that handled mail-order mecha, simply for how outrageously expensive it was.
One had to buy a spark from one of the hot spots, buy a frame design or commission a team of artists to make one, pick out bits of programming and personality traits - … And of course, a certified alt-mode exemption. Even though it could be argued that being someone’s personal shareware was a function, the laws said otherwise.

“I never ordered a conjunx.” Cyclonus said, and there was a flash of cold fear as he thought about the cost of the service. Was this some elaborate scam?! “Where did you send it to! I want you to cancel it!”

“Military base Tetrahex, sir!” The mech scrambled to reply. “It has been packaged in such a way that it can only be opened by you, or by an employee in case there was a defect. I- I am afraid I cannot cancel it- Did - was it not you who filled in the forms?”

“No. I have no credits for these kinds of luxuries!” Cyclonus replied, even as he checked into his credits account. It was an insane relief to find his funds still intact. The numbers ticked high for a mech of his caste and position, but he was still saving up for caste-exemption. A build-order conjunx would easily be ten times as much. “I never purchased a build-order conjunx. Show me the documents.”

“Yes sir!” The mech on the other side nodded quickly, and he lifted another datapad to his face. “It says right here that it was all paid for in advance by the Council. With, and I quote: “…a maximum credit use of 10.000.000, to be distributed by the receiver of the contract. Any unused credit will return to Council accounts.””

“The Council-?” Cyclonus blinked. Well, that explained. It wouldn’t be the first gift that he’d been given by the Council, but they had never gifted him something so expensive, nor had they ever failed to contact him just to have him repeat over and over how grateful and happy he was with his new gift. “The Council paid for everything.” Cyclonus mumbled, more to himself than to the mech on the other side of the screen.

“The frame, spark, and personality you requested were all paid for, yes. I will forward the necessary papers so you can see for yourself.” The factory mech said, and his fingers began to skitter over his console. His easy sales-mecha persona was starting to come back up, now that he could continue his usual spiel.“It was a surprisingly difficult mech to assemble, but we really hope to have pleased you, sir. We hope that your custom order Conjunx will bring you a lifetime of joy! I’m here to help answer any questions you might have about your custom built-”
Cyclonus tuned the mech out, and quickly skimmed the document that the mech had forwarded. Indeed, everything was official. The right marks and ecryptions were in all the right places, and every bills had been paid - to the last shanix.

“- countless other options still available to you! There are still plenty of funds allotted for you to mod your conjunx in any way that you’d like. We offer a great range of interface mods, from enhanced silicone structures to additional ‘parts’, to-”

“Thank you.” Cyclonus interrupted the mech. “But I have urgent business to attend to. Please do not call this frequency again.”

“Oh, I-!”

The vidscreen blinked off, and Cyclonus took a moment to savor the silence before he closed his optics and let his head roll back. Time for yet another call to the Senate. Better get it over with right now, as opposed to adding it to his ever growing list.

He opened his most used contacts, and let his commlink dial directly to Senator Shockwave’s personal line. He needed the mech’s service and advice so often that they had long since decided to leave out Shockwave’s secretary.
“Ah. Hello Commander Cyclonus.” Senator Shockwave practically sighed his greeting, and Cyclonus was tempted to do the same. “Is there a problem with lord Galvatron?”

When wasn’t there a problem with lord Galvatron? Cyclonus didn’t have the luxury of making a simple house call, unless it was to warn someone of what Galvatron was ABOUT to do. “Just now I got a call from a mech- factory. The service mech on the other side of the line told me that my custom-built mech was finished, and that the Council has paid for it.”

“What-? Oh! That is quite fast!” Senator Shockwave’s exhaustion lifted, and his optics seemed to light up as he looked into the camera. “I hadn’t expected to hear back from you so soon, or at all, really. I am happy to hear that it is not a crisis for once.”

“I suppose that means it is not a scam then.” Cyclonus replied dryly.

“It is all fully legal.” The Senator said jovially. “I know how much your work weighs on you, so I lobbyed for a fitting reward to be sent to you! I will say that I’ve been very curious as to what kind of frame you’d pick – though I wish I could have helped you with selecting a paintjob… It didn’t take you very long to decide on what you wanted if it is already being shipped!”

“Actually,” Cyclonus growled. “I was unaware that this gift had been sent to me, up until a few moments ago. I never received a form. Or a confirmation of any order.”

“You didn’t know we sent?…” Shockwave blinked slowly. “…Something must have gone wrong-… Your personal commlink is MIL.C-SND-987.08764.0993, isn’t it?”

It was his military commlink. Cyclonus offlined his optics again, and forcefully kept his venting slow and deep.
“No. It is my military commlink code.”

Senator Shockwave furrowed his brows, the lighting playing off his polished faceplate. “I -… Forgive me if this is an ignorant question, but isn’t that much the same as your personal frequency?”

“Lord Galvatron’s senses are honed to sense any and all threats of betrayal.” Cyclonus replied stiffly. He would not swear, but the name of his commander served as a curse in itself. “Loyal as I might be, I am not excluded from his inspections.”

“He accesses your military commlink!?” Senator Shockwave said. He looked truly surprised, though it could have been an act. Shockwave was one of the nicer Senate-dwellers, but he was just as sly and slimy as his fellows.

“You cannot tell me you are surprised, Senator.”

“…I suppose I should have expected that he would do something like that, but surely he wouldn’t try to take your reward as his own…?”

Cyclonus felt like his silence was enough of an answer.

The Senator sighed, and brought up a hand to massage his short filials. “I am very sorry about this, Cyclonus. I’ll do what I can, but I suspect that the Senate will be unwilling to compensate for your lost gift. It was… well, let’s just say that we meant for this gift to be extraordinary, and it had a price to match. I will make sure you are still rewarded for your service.”

“You know what I wish for the most.” Cyclonus replied.

“Yes, yes I know.” Shockwave murmured. “And you will have your alt-mode exemption, as soon as it is possible.”

Cyclonus might have put more faith into that answer, if it hadn’t been given to him so many times before. The only one he trusted to help him with his future was himself. “Thank you for your time, Senator, but I have a recharge cycle to finish.”

Senator Shockwave heaved a sigh on the other side of the screen. He did not mention the time of day. Most mecha were wide awake at this time, but Galvatron kept odd schedules. “Of course. Please contact me again if there’s anything I can do. You are very overdue for a gift, after all your dedicated service.”

Cyclonus could not agree more, but he kept his lips pressed together. The senate’s gratitude was about as valuable as a gilded trophy. If they truly wanted to reward him, they would allow him to leave the military and take up a different function.
As kind as Senator Shockwave was, even he didn’t feel much for allowing Cyclonus his freedom. Galvatron was hard to control, and Cyclonus was one of the few mecha that could do it.

Galvatron’s power was nothing to underestimate. If he wanted to, he could destroy entire planets, and decimate star systems. He had a talent for destruction He was a terrific double edged blade, and Cyclonus had been handed the honour of trying to wield it without cutting off his own hands..

“I will keep that in mind.” He replied stiffly. Once he had his alt-mode exemption, he would milk them for favours for all that they were worth.

He ended the video call, and marched back to his berth, lying down with as much spite as his pride allowed him.

Of all the rewards they could have chosen, they picked a live interface toy. As if that could convince him to keep his job as Galvatron’s damage control! As if it wouldn’t be a potential source for Galvatron’s jealousy, and another burden on his day-to-day life!

Cyclonus slowed down his vents and kept himself perfectly still and relaxed on his berth. There was no reason to get needlessly angry. Everything had turned out for the better.
His ‘gift’ had been intercepted by Galvatron, and it was no longer Cyclonus’ responsibility. Hopefully it would keep Galvatron busy for a while so that Cyclonus would be able to get some work done without frantically asserting damage control behind his Lord’s aft.

Yes. It was a blessing that this ‘gift’ had made it to Galvatron’s hands instead of his own. Very unfortunate to the bot in question, most assuredly, but useful for Cyclonus.

Cyclonus turned onto his side, and searched for the recharge cables of his berth.

What a cruel fate for a mech; harvested from the fertile fields of Cybertron, already sold to someone before the sentio metallico had formed, surgically manipulated to satisfy someone’s bodily preferences… And then dumped with a mech like Galvatron!

Cyclonus shuddered, and fit the last of his recharge cables into place. He could only be grateful that he had been spared that fate.

-

In the days following the vidcall, Cyclonus’s life went on as it always had. Galvatron made no mention of the build-order mech, and Cyclonus did not mind that at all. The less he heard about Galvatron’s inclinations, the better.

It was at the end of a long, unplanned shift, that Cyclonus found a large pristine box blocking the doorway to his habsuite. Minimalistic, tasteful, and decorated with thin lines of ununtrium, there was no doubt that it contained something obscenely lavish.
Cyclonus offlined his optics, took a long invent, and initiated his commlink to Galvatron.

“What is it!” Galvatron growled on the other side of the line. “I am busy !”

“My excuses, Lord Galvatron, but I believe a package for you has been mis-delivered to my habsuite.” Cyclonus replied.

“A package?” Galvatron’s answered. His inflection immediately changed from annoyance to excitement. “How typical – the servants of this world are so lazy and stupid – misdelivery! What is it!”

“A mail-order Conjunx, my Lord.” – So please just order me to bring it to you so I can forget about all of this and take a rest. Cyclonus added mentally.

“A-… Oh. That thing.” Galvatron said. Obvious disappointment at the lack of a gift and disgust sounded through in his voice. “Such filth isn’t for me.”

Cyclonus shuttered his optics off, and then on again. “…What is its purpose then, my Lord?”

“Why, it’s yours of course.” Galvatron said, and Cyclonus could practically taste the condescending smile in his voice.“A fitting reward for your great service.”

“I see.” Cyclonus knew that Galvatron couldn’t see his face, but he still angled his wings down, and kept his optics to the floor. “Thank you, my lord.”

“I made sure it would be useful beyond just acting as a warm hole and a spike, but of course, it is capable of interface.” Galvatron said. “Why mecha would desire something like that is beyond me, but do enjoy it. ”

“Of course. Thank you, my lord.” Cyclonus said.

“Hm, yes.” Galvatron said distractedly. Sometimes he played games while on the comms – sometimes he was in the middle of a meeting. Judging by the lack of nervous background chatter, Cyclonus guessed that it was the former.
“Do keep the thing busy. I don’t want to see it lazing around and fuelling on our energon supplies. It’s your responsibility to keep it in check, am I clear?!”

“Yes, Lord Galvatron.” Cyclonus replied dully.

“Good.” Galvatron said, and the commlink cut off.

Cyclonus offlined his optics, and took a slow invent. He was tired. Another duty was packaged up inside of that box, and he barely knew if it was going to be anything he could enjoy. Cyclonus’ tastes were specific in that he did not desire intercourse with mechanisms he didn’t know.
Knowing Galvatron, he was using this ‘conjunx’ as a creative insult.

Out of duty rather than excitement, Cyclonus dragged the box into of his habsuite.

The datapad on top was an informational packet. A bit of a misnomer in Cyclonus’ opinion, as most of it was about the benefits of a build-order Conjunx, and how absolutely amazing their brand-company was.
There was a list of additional mods that could be installed, a giftcard to get a discount on his ‘next purchase’, a ‘suggested names’ folder… and of course, a single page that contained all the more important specs, model-details, legalities and warranties, written in the tiniest font that Cyberton had to offer. Of course.

Cyclonus skimmed through the ‘first onlining’ instructions, and then put the datapad away. Reluctantly he hooked his claws into the gaps on the sides, and triggered the unlocking sequence. The box whirred, and dramatic puffs of steam began to flow from the opening panels. Smooth and satisfying, the packaging folded open, small lights initialising to further draw attention to the polished form lying inside of a velvet cushioned inside.

… It was a waste-disposal groundframe. A disposable.

Cyclonus stared. There was nothing special about the bot in front of him. Cyclonus must have seen this same featureless face a thousand times on the street. A plain visor, with a white metal cap over a the rudimentary fuel-intake. No nasal ridge, no custom colours or designs – it wasn’t even a flyer!
The body was no better. It had been posed to look enticing and to show off the shiny panelling, but it looked laughable on the thick little bot. The grounder’s tires were bulky and had thick profiles to help traverse the garbage dumps, and the mech’s seams were filled with rubber to keep trash and filth out. The words “WASTE DISPOSAL” were proudly etched into the mech’s arm.

The only thing that separated this mech from a million others of exact same build was the quality of his metal. At the very least, the factory had opted to use high-quality metals instead of the molten slag that other disposables were made from.

Cyclonus’s jaws were clenched tightly together. Well, that explained what Galvatron had meant when he’d said that the mech would be useful.
Galvatron had quite the pronounced opinion on cleanliness and soldiers. Where any sane commander would require soldiers to clean their own base and berth, Galvatron thought that all cleaning had to be done by cleaning drones and disposables. It was still an issue that cropped up whenever Galvatron was given the opportunity to speak to the Senate, but they had never buckled.

Soldiers had nothing to do during peacetime, so why not have them perform the basic upkeep for their own weaponry, medibay, launchpads and barracks? Military drills could only fill up so much time of the day…
Apparently this was how Galvatron intended to rebel.

The box chimed, and a singular gleaming button was unveiled. On top of it, beautiful gleaming letters shone up at Cyclonus.

~‘Initiate your new life’~

Cyclonus was sure it was meant to be taken in a positive manner. He pressed the button.

The box whirred, and there were soft clicks and clacks as vital parts were slotted into place. Cyclonus could even hear the pressurised gurgle of energon being injected into the frame, and the electric whine as everything booted for the first time.

The blue visor flickered to life, and Cyclonus stood by as the newspark began to move. Small testing movements began in the tips of its fingerjoints, ended in the soft roll of its head.
The bot’s movements were jittery, and its – his? - visor flickered through all data packets that had been installed into it’s cortex before sendoff.

Cyclonus had no idea what had been installed on the bot. There had to be some options there – mods to create a more desired personality, or to eliminate any need to teaching, but he hadn’t checked if they had been installed on this bot.
It wasn’t a far fetched idea that the bot’s programs would match up with its frame. A waste disposal drone was, after all, completely worthless unless it knew how to function.

“I-….” The little bot still seemed disoriented, and he looked around like he was completely lost before finally addressing Cyclonus. “Is is this the waste disposal plant? S-sir?”

“No.” Cyclonus responded. “This is military base Iacon.”

“Oh.” A silence fell between them as the disposable took in the new information and situation. “…Is… is this where I’m supposed to work then? My files say that I’m supposed to work at… um – Iacon waste disposal centre. I – are you my supervisor?”

Had there really been no other info-packets installed on him? Nothing outside of what he’d need for his function?

Cyclonus took in a deep breath, and let it flow out of his vents. “I suppose I am.” He replied. It wasn’t the drone’s fault that he had ended up here, intended as a gift and turned into a burden. If Cyclonus was in luck, the little bot would turn out to be obedient.
Cyclonus bent forward, and undid the last few restraints that were keeping the mech’s legs inside of his packaging.

The waste disposal drone almost tripped over his own pedes when he tried stepping out of his box, and CYclonus watched him stumble around as he tried to find his balance.
“Waste disposal Unit GT-5598 is ready to be assigned to a squadron and receive orders Sir!”

“What do you need in order to perform your function?” Cyclonus said.

The bot’s visor flickered slightly as he accessed his information packets. “Ah- er, a task list, a recharge-refuel berth, and the location of cleaning item storage rooms.”

It was do-able. Cyclonus supposed that waste drones wouldn’t be so plentiful if they were a chore to maintain. The only nuisance was having to assign it a room. Undoubtedly Galvatron would not want a berth to be occupied by a cleaner drone, so maybe Cyclonus would stick a recharge cable in his closet and keep the little bot there. It would have to work.

He began setting up a list of tasks for the small mech, purposely placing his own chores at the top of the priority list. Galvatron had mentioned that he could do with his ‘present’ as he pleased, and Cyclonus was going to use the disposable for his own gain for as long as possible.

insecuriosity: (Default)

Summary: After some time out of the ice, Skyfire leaves the war and the Autbots behind. As he is trying to cope with the loss of his friend, partner, and old life, he encounters Starscream at his desk.  …Wasn’t he dead though?

–> Read on AO3 <–

When Skyfire saw Starscream standing at his desk, he thinks he’s had too much Energex. It would not be the first time he’d drank more than he’d intended to, but he had never straight-up hallucinated.

Starscream didn’t acknowledge him, busy as he was trying to flip to the next entry on Skyfire’s personal datapad. His hands were phasing through the controls, and he was scowling at the thing in a manner that suggests he would toss the datapad out of a viewing port if he could touch it.
Skyfire had seen Starscream’s coronation, where he announced himself as the new leader of the Decepticons. It had been broadcasted on any and all Cybertronian frequencies through the galaxy, in glorious detail. In the first few moments after Starscream’s live death, Skyfire had wondered if there was enough of Starscream left to have a funeral for.

Maybe that should have been the first sign that his mental state was taking a nosedive. Or maybe he ws still suffering from all those millions of years frozen in ice, and the effects were only now showing up.

“Starscream? …” He said breathlessly.

Starscream jolted, and it was a good thing he phased through whatever he touched or all of Skyfire’s desktop would have ended up on the floor. For a moment, they simply looked at each other in silence. Skyfire in a pained hope, and Starscream in-… excuberation?

“You can see me?!” Starscream yelled.

He was loud – far louder than Skyfire would have expected him to be as a hallucination. He’d been expecting something more morose and depressing, with crying and guilt tripping, but this Starscream was just as lively as ever, his wings angling through a wide array of emotions as he waved his hand towards Skyfire’s face.
“How many fingers am I holding up?!”

“I- … All of them?” Skyfire reached out to grab Starscream’s hands by habit, as he used to whenever Starscream got a little too physical in a discussion, but his fingers slipped right through.

Starscream did not look bothered. “I knew it! I knew it!” He crowed. “It wouldn’t have made sense otherwise! Yes! This changes everything, oh yes-!”

“Starscream-…” Skyfire reset his optics, watching as Starscream celebrated. “How are you here? Aren’t you…You’re dead?”

“  Was being the keyword in that sentebce.” Starscream replied. “I didn’t STAY dead, as you can see, and that’s what matters the most. Well, actually, it matters a lot more that you can see, because surviving death when you cannot interact with the world is terrible. I would know!”

Skyfire shook his head incredulously. “I-…How could you come back from  death  ? You-… There was a breeze and your frame  literally  fell apart and blew away. ”

“Well, I just woke up like this.” Starscream replied flippantly. “I assumed that my lust for vengeance allowed me to return so I could haunt Galvatron, but it turned out he couldn’t see me. The best I could do was disrupt the signals to his entertainment hub, and that got old very quickly. I then attempted to communicate with the living, with similar underwhelming results.  ‘Commlink acting weird …’  You’d think a scientist like Wheeljack would figure something out that someone is trying to communicate from beyond the Allspark!”

Skyfire had nothing much to say. Just as when he’d watched Starscream die, it seemed that his emotions were on break, waiting to swoop right back into the fray as soon as the shock died down.

“And don’t bother going to see any of those ‘mediums’. I visited Dirge, and then a depressingly long list of filthy little organics, and none of them could hear a single word that I said!” Starscream was getting agitated just thinking about it, judging by the way his wings snapped up. “But, all of that is in the past, because now, I know that I am real, and that I can actually do something with all the things I’ve seen and heard in this state!”

“Oh. I could see that being… frustrating.” Skyfire nodded. All senses other than his optics and his audials were reporting that there was, in fact, nobody in front of him.

“You have  no  idea.” Starscream complained. “I have enough dirty secrets in my brainmodule to topple a government, and that is barely an exaggeration. All I need is someone to help me bring this information into the world, in a fitting manner!”
Starscream’s optics were piercing and red, and they held Skyfire’s gaze long enough that Skyfire could begin to see through him and into the room behind him. Skyfire had many memories that featured that very same look; Starscream’s patented look of persuasion.  

“… It’s for a better world too, before you get upset at me for my ambition.”

“… You have to understand that I’m not sure you are real right now.” Skyfire said in a measured tone. “I was buried in ice for a few million years, lived through some war, avoided the doctor, and I think I drank a little too much energon.”

Starscream blinked. “I-? … Do we really have to go through that!? There are things to DO! Urgent things!”

“… If you are the real Starscream, you would agree that it is a bad idea to listen to random hallucinations.” Skyfire replied.

“Fine.” Starscream bit back. “I will give you  proof . What is the name of the current Prime?”

What an odd question. The answer was obvious, wasn’t it? “Optimus Prime?”

Starscream smirked. “No. Not anymore. He got someone to succeed him. Want to take a guess who that was?”

“…Ultra Magnus? Magnius Prime?” Skyfire could tell he was wrong the moment he said it, if only because Starscream’s grin grew two ticks wider.

“Wrong!” Starscream crowed. “The new Prime is a young mech hailing from Nyon. A racing frame, raised on a neutral colony. I was a witness to his ceremony, where he became a Prime by the simple act of trying to hand the Matrix to Ultra Magnus. Upon becoming the spiritual leader of our race, his first acts as Prime was to mortally wound himself so he could gain advice from the Matrix.”

“…This has to be something I am hallucinating.” Skyfire said. “He-… the Matrix wouldn’t let a Prime do something like that… Is Optimus really dead-?”

“Go ahead and call Bumblebee. He was there to see it happen.” Starscream continued. “Oh! Maybe ask Arcee or Kup instead, they were both there when ‘Hot Rod’ arose to Primehood.”

“…”

“And I’ll say that his name fit his personality very well. He was apparently a berth-hopper before Primehood.” Starscream smirked. “Verrry kinky, judging by what I found in his private quarters. I could tell you his commlink number and you can embarrass him by asking him about that fake spike he keeps under his berth.”

“Okay – stop, just… Give me a moment.” Skyfire squeezed his optics shut, and stroked the transformation lines on his helm. It felt like his head was shrinking around his brain module. “I’ll call someone on Cybertron.”
Starscream leaned against something invisible, and made a ‘hurry up’ motion with his hands.

Skyfire looked through his commlink contacts, scanning for Bumblebee’s name in between old pre-war contacts. With the distance between himself and Cybertron, it took a few moments for the call to connect, and the first few glyphs spoken were garbled by static.

//Uh, Hello, Skyfire?// Bumblebee said. //I wasn’t expecting you to call, after you left. Without saying anything to anyone, or leaving a message…. What’s up?//

“Hello Bumblebee.” Skyfire said. For a moment, he felt compelled  “I’m calling to confirm a rumour; is it true that a new Prime has been chosen?”  

//I… Where did you hear that?//

“That news is travelling far faster than the Autobots think it is.” Starscream said, impatiently tapping a foot a few inches above the floor. “The Junkions really enjoy broadcasting whatever gossip they can get their hands on, and Cybertronian gossip is very sought after. Lately even more so, with the Quintessons searching for Cybertron-”

“Starscream – I am in a call!” Skyfire stage whispered, trying to keep his voice low enough so that his commlink wouldn’t pick it up.

// Skyfire? Are you still there? //

“Oh! Yes, sorry Bumblebee. I was-… It was on the news. Just, please tell me who the new Prime is.”

//Okay, that’s good. Are you okay? Nobody has heard from you, and the war is officially over, so you could come back to Cybertron and help to rebuild it.//

Skyfire offlined his optics. “I just want to know who the Prime is, Bumblebee. Before I do anything else. Just to be sure I’ll be of any help, you know?”

//O-kayy? Well, you probably know Ultra Magnus was next in line, but he’s not the Prime. Someone grabbed the Matrix to hand it over, and the Matrix chose him. His name is Rodimus Prime. //

Skyfire’s optic’s met Starscreams. “…. Is that derived from ‘Hot Rod’ ?”

// How did you know that? // Bumblebee asked quickly. //Who told you?!//

“I told you, didn’t I?” Starscream said with a smirk. “Is there anything else you want to confirm, or can we talk business now?”

Skyfire didn’t answer him, still too busy staring at a most-likely-real Starscream apparition. Back from the dead to meddle in  politics  of all things.
In his spark, he could feel the telltale hiccups that meant his shock was coming to an end. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling just yet, but it wouldn’t be very long.

//He’s-  well, I haven’t been around him too much, but he’s very different from Optimus.// Bumblebee continued to chat in Skyfire’s commlink, oblivious to SKyfire’s shifting attention.  //I think it could be good. A new Prime for a new time, you know? Jazz seems to like him. You could meet him, if you came to Cybertron to meet him. //

“Yes. I will have to think about that.” Skyfire said. He didn’t take his eyes off Starscream for a moment. “I have things to do, Bumblebee, if you’ll excuse me. Good orn.”

//Um, alright? Good or-//

He closed the commlink connection to Cybertron before Bumblebee finished speaking, and focused his attention on Starscream.

“You. Are real.”

“Yes, I do believe we proved this now.” Starscream replied.

“You came back from the dead, from being vaporised into fragments so small that nobody could even find me a vail full for a proper burial … And the first thing you do when you come back and talk to me, is to try to take part in  politics ? Together with me?” Skyfire spoke slowly to let the meaning of his words sink in for the both of them.

“… Yes.” Starscream said, not a trace of shame or guilt in his face.

Skyfire closed his optics. Underneath the joy of seeing his friend again, and the knowledge that a second betrayal would win nothing for Starscream, that first betrayal still burned.
Starscream was not a mechanism of easy apologies. The Starscream that Skyfire had known well and intimately, had preferred to tell himself a story on why his choices were the correct ones instead of stooping to an apology.

“… Will you help me?” Starscream prompted him. “Skyfire?”

There were whispers in the back of Skyfire’s helm that sounded like Autobot voices. In the madhouse that was the future, Starscream’s name had become synonymous with betrayal and scheming.

Skyfire scrutinised how he felt, and let it settle in his frame. Despite the anger, the betrayal, and the grief Skyfire refused to believe that Starscream had become that bad. If that meant he had to get burned a second time, then so be it.

“Yes, Starscream. I’ll help you, as much as I’ve ever helped you.” He replied with sincerity. He would have grabbed a hold of Starscream’s hand, had it been solid, and judging from the way Starscream held his hand outstretched, he would not have minded.

“Yes! Yes! I will make you a great figure of power! We will save Cybertron together-…” Starscream’s smile was radiant and triumphant in answer to Skyfire’s reply, until a sudden realisation washed it down. “… I am suddenly reminded of all the previous times you helped me, and I realise that this might not be as much of a triumph as I was thinking.” His voice was not without humour, though it sounded a little more bitter than it should have. “At least half of our cooperative projects were compromises, if not more.”

Skyfire felt a smile for the first time in cycles. “You used to say that you liked my…what did you call it? ‘Loyalty to myself?’ ”

“Stubbornness.” Starscream replied. “Stubbornness was the word I used, I’m fairly sure.”

“My memory is fresher.” Skyfire quipped back. “And you were not much better, especially not when we first started working together! The amount of times you said ‘yes’ to my faceplate and did ‘no’ behind my back… You have gotten back into that habit, haven’t you?”

Starscream flicked a wing dismissively. “I unlearned it once, I’ll unlearn it again. It will help a great deal to know that your preferred method of payback involves pouting rather than petty violence.”

“…. Well. I am sure we’ll be able to find a middle road in what needs to be done.” Skyfire said. He was not thinking of ruling an empire with a spectral Starscream at his side. Rather, he imagined Starscream, back in a functioning body, together with him.
If he had to play some politics to keep Cybertron functional enough to make that an option, he would help Starscream.

“Well then.” Starscream said. He sat back and flicked his wings to get comfortable. “You best get something to take notes, because there is actually a lot I need to fill you in on before we can get planning.”

Skyfire grabbed a datapad from the floor, and wiped it clean. He doubted that its info would be useful in the short term. “Lay it on me.”

BREAK

It never quite became clear how Skyfire came to infamy. Sure, mecha can tell you why everyone looks over their shoulder for his spies, or why his advice is more sought after than pre-war vintage Energex, but nobody can tell you how he did it.
Mecha that knew him from the war, a handful of Autobots, can only say that he was a withdrawn and quiet mech. More suited for transport and reports than for politics or battle.

He hadn’t been clairvoyant back then, or the Autobots would have won the war before the Quintessons had even begun their invasion plans.
He hadn’t been able to predict the motivations and intentions of the other players on the political playing field, nor had he seemed remotely interested. He hadn’t been able to produce top-secret information as a side-thought, or he’d chosen to keep it all to himself.

After Skyfire had been dug from the ice of Earth to partake in the war, he’d taken a short break. For a few decacycles, Skyfire had withdrawn from any and all Cybertronian ongoings. When he came back, he slowly but surely oozed his way to the upper command. Not as an officer or a recognised civilian rank, but as the mech that always seemed to know when to show up, and what to say to who.

The only little flaw about him, was that he talked to someone when he was alone. He argued with a mech nobody could detect, and had an unhealthy interest in inert dolls or unsparked shells.
Of course, this meant that any theories about Skyfire’s sudden change in interest and capability were accompanied by a plethora of ghost stories. Odd tellings of old lovers, Unicron’s return, sparkeaters, and other horrors.

So, nobody truly knows how Skyfire senses coups, or how he picks his enemies. All they know is that, no matter how much he argues with a non-excisting voice, he always comes out on top.

insecuriosity: (Default)

“…You came back from the dead, from being vaporised into fragments so small that nobody could even find me a vail full for a proper burial, and what I am hearing… Is that you came back, to take part in <em> politics </em>?!” Skyfire spoke slowly to let the meaning of his words sink in for the both of them.

 Starscream offered no defence or argument, outside of a carefully neutral shrug of his wings.

“… Were you always like this?” Skyfire said.
insecuriosity: (Default)
A very late Halloween 2017 entry to @harutemu ‘s Ghosts of the Machine writing challenge, featuring Dirge as a funeral Priest! Now backed up here on Dreamwidth. Also available on AO3

Rating: T+
Word Count; 2829
Summary; Dirge does not like his job as a funeral Priest. He was never a mech that believed in rites and rituals, nor does he believe in Primus. That is not what makes his work so draining, however… It’s what happens after the funeral.

Funerals never stopped being depressing, Dirge thought to himself.

 Standing in front of his mirror, he slowly checked each individual part of his gray ritual garb. Heavy metal clothes, carefully crafted to look light and airy, dragged him down – creating the slow meandering pace and droopy posture that was expected of a funeral priest.
Shoulder-additions and a long ununtrium mask disguised his mass-constructed frame, and a thick scarf hid the voice-box controller that was welded into his throat. According to the head priests, his garb made him look like ‘a mech from age-old fables’.
If you asked Dirge, it made him look like a misshapen, lumbering creature. Something to be feared as opposed to a normal Cybertronian with a function he had to fulfil. Then again, knowing age-old tales, his costume was a perfect fit.

He offlined his optics and luxuriated in the silence of his room. It would not be long before he would have to come out and face another day of work. The overwhelming and dreary music, mixed with the keens of mourning mecha and drums.
He could already hear them if he listened carefully, even through the ground above his room, and the sound padding in the walls. This cycle’s death belonged to a person of note. Someone important.

Before he could convince himself to stay in his room and force the other priests come and get him, Dirge waddled out of his safe room and into the catacombs. The hall’s acoustics were specifically made to let his voice carry, and it made the chaotic din from outside five times louder than it should have been at this distance.
At the very least the funeral was an acceptable excuse not to sing. During his rounds he had a choice between singing on his own, or waiting until the controller on his voicebox was switched on. His talent worked as long as he made noise, so it didn’t matter how it sounded. Dirge would take any moment of personal silence he could get.

The catacombs were large, and he still had a long way to go before he reached the staircase that led upstairs. If his wings had not been weighted down, he would have flown up, but Priests didn’t need to fly.

It was almost a relief to head up the staircase and leave the echoing hallways, but Dirge felt his reluctance getting heavier with each step he took.
Once at the top, he was only a few more temple rooms separated from the crowd. The other priests were already preparing – all of them were just as overdressed as himself, with different patterns and colours to signify a colourful array of important figures from Cybertron’s distant past. Dirge had never bothered to learn about their significance.

At Dirge’s arrival in the room, a few of the other priests came forward, carrying the unofficial final piece of his costume; an industrial rivet gun. Taking special care not to jostle the heavy metal cloths out of place, it was wriggled into his canopy, where it sat like a heavy weight against his chestplates.

They had held funerals many times before, and nobody spoke to him as they started the ritual. Dirge stayed behind as the priests entered the front hall of the temple. Judging from the deafening noises that rose, the cityformer they lived in had been commissioned to transform the front part of the temple to allow for more people to watch the funeral.
As the other priests were spotted by the crowd, there was a short spike in noise – the sound of excitement almost drowning out the grief that was fit for a funeral. The Head priest sent out a burst of commlink static, and the noises of the crowd rapidly died down to static wispers.

Dirge didn’t need to listen to the rites. Instead, pained reluctance warred with stage fright as his moment of performance drew nearer. As much as he would like to claim that his listless life had sucked all emotion from him, it wasn’t so. The closer he got to the moment of his performance, the faster his spark spun and the quicker the fuel in his lines pulsed.
He could not longer tell if it was exhilerance or fear, but he didn’t have the time to investigate. The final rite was spoken, and a demanding ping dropped into his inbox. It was his moment to perform.

Swallowing his maelstrom of stress down until it burned in his throat, Dirge stepped through the door and into the open temple.
The amount of noise, no matter how deafening, had not been an accurate representation of how many mecha were present. Just like he’d thought, the walls of the Temple had been folded open, and he could see the entire plaza in front of the temple. The dull grey city streets were hidden by hundreds of different paintjobs – all polished to perfection for the occasion – and camera-drones were hovering to capture every possible viewpoint of the funeral.

Right in front of Dirge, elevated at a slight angle and displayed to the crowd, laid the deceased Prime. Optics half-lidded and empty, Modus Prime was surrounded by tokens and memoralabia, picked out by the mecha closest to him. Just at a glance, Dirge could see a half-empty pot of scented polish, a small flavoured ration, and a worn sparkling’s toy.
Around the cask, the more impersonal gifts and items were stored. Endless boxes upon boxes carefully stacked to subtly divert all attention to the deceased, while at the same time boasting of his importance and wealth. Some of the boxes had a window on one side, where beautiful artworks, garbs, and fuels could be seen.

And soon, all of it would be taken into the catacombs after the ceremony so that the Prime could take it into the allspark with him.
Dirge doubted that there was enough room for it all.

At the edge of the mountain of gifts, the Prime’s servants were standing, sitting or kneeling, their heads respectfully lowered. Their last service to the Prime would be to carry his belongings into the catacombs.

Carefully, Dirge walked until he stood at the Prime’s head. His fuel tank was churning, and the mechanisms in his hand were misfiring. Despite having done many funerals in just the same manner, he still feared that his voicebox would catch on that first note.
He waited for the final sign, as the crowd seemed to draw an expectant breath. The controller on his voicebox made an almost inaudible click, and Dirge’s voice was freed. He opened his mouth, and sang.

No melody was expected or needed. His ability stirred as soon as his voicebox activated, and he could feel how its power rolled over the crowd before him. Excitement and enthusiasm wavered and crumbled, followed by the prickling sensation of a thousand EM fields falling into grief.
The laden silence began to break as began to click and hush with static. Mecha could not keep as silent as they wanted to – their engines hiccupping and backfiring. Optics squeezed shut, visors bled with extra charge, wings began to dip-

It did not take long before his contribution was deemed sufficient, and in the midst of a longer note, Dirge could feel the controller on his voicebox activating, choking him into silence.

-

It was very late into the cycke when the ceremony finally ended. The last of the camera mecha had been ushered out, and the sounds of crying and partying had slowly moved away from the temple. The walls and protective fencings had been transformed back into place, and things were returning to normal.
The grand display that had been made to show the Prime’s frame off as a beloved and dear leader was being brought to the catacombs, and a gaggle of disposables was slowly but surely removing the garbage and scuffmarks around the temple. Tomorrow the temple would be open again.

Dirge stood silently at the side as he watched the Prime’s servants carry the frame and its gifts downstairs. Through the sadness and grief of the day, the bustle of the servants was like a soothing light. Proof that life went on as always, even with the death of an important figure like the Prime.
If it hadn’t been for his ritualistic clothing, he would have helped out. It would have been great to have a distraction from the rest of his duties later this cycle. As it was, he had to settle for guiding them around the catacombs, and listening to their chatter. It was all he could do with his voicebox still muted.

They wondered and guessed at what was in the hellishly heavy boxes they were carrying downstairs. They muttered irritably at the display boxes with fragile gifts, having to carry them with the utmost care. They wondered who their new master would be. They wondered if they would be expected back in the palace to serve the next Prime.
Nobody had told them anything, and Dirge would not be able to.

“Worry not.” The high Priest said, after everything had been carried downstairs. “Primus will be your guide and master from tomorrow onwards, but today you can stay in the temple if you like.”

“Primus?… Does that mean that… we’re free? Like actual mecha?” A minibot piped up. He was a young bot, still fresh from whatever hotspot he was taken from. “We’re not owned anymore?”

“Exactly right.” The Head Priest smiled. “Staying the night in the temple will fulfil the last of your duties towards our Late Lord Prime. After that, you are free to seek new employment.”

Smiles were traded around the circle of servants and Priests. Everyone but the very youngest of them knew that a ‘free’ disposable was only free to enslave themselves once more, but judging by the scars and signs of malnourishment hidden under a fresh coat of paint, the late Prime had not been a good master.

“For tonight, the temple will feed you and take care of you.” The Head priest said. “After everyone has filled their tank, we will start making sleeping arrangements. I think the private praying room should suffice – it has its own heating.”

“Oh, how exciting! I thought the back rooms of the Temple were only for holy mecha.” A young minibot rejoiced at Dirge. “I really should have expected better from the Priests of Primus – of course you would be welcoming to every bot!”

Dirge said nothing. The energon was being brought out, and he was handed a full ration of sparkling clean energon. With a slow and measured movement, he let the energon swirl until he could see the smallest traces of impurity coming up from the bottom of the cube to mingle with the rest. He was not particularly hungry.
The servants drank like they had not been fuelled well for decacycles, and they reclined like they would never get another chance to do so. Dirge would bet that, if there had not been priests around, they would have been sharing stories of debauchery and shame as well. 

“I really enjoyed your singing, erm, my priest.” The servant bot next to him said quietly, cradling his cube of energon. “It was…. It made me sad, but it helped to let a lot of bad stuff out. From the stories everybody tells about the funeral priests, I thought you’d be a lot scarier.”

Dirge offlined his optics, and tried to disappear into the folds of his heavy garb. The servant downed half his cube with a loud slurp.

“I heard that you sing bots to their grave. That your voice makes the layer between this life and the allspark thinner, or something. And that if you listen for too long, you die. And that sometimes, they make mecha listen to you until they die. And that that’s why you have a controller on your voice.”

The servant fidgeted with his cube.
“I don’t think that’s true though. They were just trying to scare me. Your singing isn’t bad, or deadly. Even though it made me more sad than I’ve ever been – I never felt more alive than when you were singing. It made me more aware of the things that made me happy, or something…”

Dirge said nothing.

“Erm, I’m not a philosobot. That probably didn’t make any sense. I just wanted to say…thanks for that. For singing.” The bot meandered on.

Dirge said nothing, and refused to lift his optics away from his own cube.

The servant fidgeted. “Im sorry. I’ll leave you alone now - … erm …. Good nightcycle.”

Dirge said nothing.

-

 Despite knowing what he would have to face, Dirge still felt numb as he worked.

His hands moved on autopilot, tucking the offline servants into their corresponding boxes. The heavy filling that had been used to give the boxes some weight was piled around Dirge’s feet, waiting to be used again.

The servants looked drunk and ill in their unconsciousness. Some of them had small trails of energon running from the corner of their mouth. It happened sometimes, when the numbing agent got to the motion centre first instead of the processor.
With slow yet efficient movements, Dirge rearranged the limbs of a servant in a serene looking fold, before stuffing the empty spots in the casket with filling.

The other priests watched from a distance. As the ritual demanded, the funeral priest had to perform the final acts on his own. Technically the catacombs were his territory, and his territory alone.
Still, after his last mistake he was no longer trusted to act out the rite that would allow the Prime to take his belongings with him into the Allspark.

With a silenced grunt, Dirge lifted the lid of the coffin, and slid it in place. Then, with his hands still on a numb autopilot, he got the nail gun out of his canopy.
Before his ‘mistake’, it had been done manually – as the rituals demanded. An ornate hammering tool and special rivets had been part of his funeral garb –  with the sharp bits pointed inwards too, for symbolism most likely.

His mistake… Dirge had not closed the casket as tightly as he should have. He hadn’t patrolled and checked every crevice of the catacombs. He hadn’t called the alarm upon spotting the stumbling scared mech in the catacombs, nor had he tried to stop the fuel-starved escapee from breaking open cask after cask – freeing servant after servant…..
Yes, after that, the gilded ornate tool and symbolic rivets had been replaced by a rivet gun. Impossible to flub, faster, and irreversible without the use of a specialised removal tool.

It did not take long before all the coffins had been filled and sealed. According to rite, the belongings of the Prime had to be ordened and arranged in a certain pattern and level of importance, but Dirge had not bothered to do it since his first funeral and none of the other Priests seemed to care.
Nobody would be allowed in the temple to see the Prime’s burial chambers until a suitable period of time had passed, and by that time someone would be sent down to make an appealing and pleasant display. 

After all was done, Dirge dragged himself back to his room, and let his ritualistic garments slide onto the floor. The Head Priest had taken the rivet gun away from him, and the catacombs had been locked with Dirge still inside.
His formal duty from here on out was to sing, so that the Prime’s servants may follow him into the All Spark – just like Modus Prime decreed in his will.

Dirge, however, let himself fall onto his berth, and settled in for a wait. The energon dispenser in his room was just in arm’s reach, and he would not move again until he knew for sure that every single servant had starved.
Dirge had miscalculated exactly one time – and he’d walked past the coffin of a mech who hadn’t fallen into stasis yet. If the guilt had been unbearable before, it had become insurmountable after then.

The begging, the feeble sounds of scratching, the crying… If only there had been an edge he could use to wrench the lid off the coffin – if only there was a slit through which he could feed energon to a begging mouth – if only there was a way to smuggle the mecha past the chambers of the other Priests and the gates….

Dirge had been sparked as a war frame. A soldier. He’d known that he would be sending sparks back to Primus, but he’d always imagined that they would be able to fight back, or that he would have the opportunity to lower his weapon and turn away.

Now that the tumult from the Prime’s funeral had migrated to the bars and café’s of the city, the catacombs were silent as death. Dirge stared ahead and waited for recharge to come to him.

Profile

insecuriosity: (Default)
insecuriosity

October 2021

S M T W T F S
     12
3456789
10111213141516
1718192021 2223
24 252627282930
31      

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 15th, 2025 05:48 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios