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shadow_vector2011-05-02 03:29 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-05-02 03:29 pm
Entry tags:
Mabaya ch 16 Haze
PG-13
IDW Mabaya AU
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor, Turmoil
mindfucking (so, really 'Turmoil')
Deadlock woke under the too-familiar lights of repair bay. Everything hurt: light, sound, the berth under him, the air striking his armor. His memories were fuzzy, vague, and seemed to slide into vertigo.
“You’re awake.” A familiar voice, laden with memories. Deadlock turned his head, slowly, the room slewing hard to one side, his tanks roiling. Turmoil, his grey-brown bulk cutting an almost soothing shadow into the too-bright light.
“What do you want?” he managed. Even the shadow hurt, the edges of it seeming to slice against his armor.
Turmoil shrugged. “Checking on my best soldier.” Something not entirely false in his tone.
“Sad state if that’s true.”
Turmoil laughed. “Nothing keeps you down for long, Deadlock,” he said, affectionately. “Not even crystal drive radiation.”
Crystal drive. Memory flashed back over him, a crack of sea-green light, a whine so high pitched it sent white lances through his optical feed, cutting his audio receptors, and..., “Perceptor.”
Turmoil tilted his head, pausing. “The little scientist.” He spread his palms. “We did as much as we could.”
Deadlock stiffened. “He…?” It—no. It was inconceivable. Perceptor. Dead.
Turmoil shifted his weight from side to side. “He was not as strong as you are,” he said, neutral.
Deadlock dropped his helm back onto the repair berth. No. But Perceptor had been shorting himself. He was weakened to begin with. And how much, after all, could one damaged body be as a shield? It had been, perhaps, nothing but symbolic and, like every gesture Deadlock had made to move away from his past, ultimately futile.
Turmoil bent down to his far side, coming up with something. It took the weight on his chassis for Deadlock to recognize it, his body jerking with shock, the long line of the hilt floating over his chin. His Great Sword. His hands clutched around it.
His…hands.
His optics swam with confusion. Turmoil chuckled. “While we had you down and…compliant, it seemed a good time to engage repairs.” He patted the hands folded over the Sword’s sheath, his enormous hand covering both of Deadlock’s. “I’ll leave you to rest.” His EM field seemed almost buoyant against Deadlock’s as he bent over, his optics an orange bar meeting Deadlock’s red. “It’s good to have you back.”
[***]
It was childish, it was weak, it was wrong, but Deadlock clung to the Great Sword with both his hands, one the sleek black of New Crystal City, the other the matte of Decepticon stores, curling himself around it as a core of stability around which he was trying to coalesce. His cheek pressed against the pommel’s jewel, the blade’s flat edge pressed possessively, protectively, between his dark thighs, every fragment of his core trying to tendril around it. His new hand didn’t hurt, merely tingled, seeming unfamiliar, but wrapped itself obediently, wantingly, around the blade it had never known.
Turmoil had some motive for returning it to him, he knew, but Deadlock could think of none truer than that Perceptor was dead and with him the whole motivation to keep the sword away from him. What was the point in killing Turmoil? He’d gone beyond an Autobot now, could never go back to them; had no reason to go back to them. What would they do if he suddenly returned—Decepticon repairs, Decepticon optics, and missing Perceptor? Right. That would go over…well.
Deadlock had no options now, nothing to hold him back, keep him from falling. It was a bitter gift, the sword, all the more bitter for the unconscious irony that the first time he’d gotten it had been over a death.
Wing, he thought, desperately, mouthing the name like a sacred thing against the scabbard. He’d sworn, at times, he’d felt Wing in the blade, the jet’s gentle, reassuring presence. He’d sat with the blade, communing with it, feeling warmed and accepted by it, even when the Autobots did their best to reject him, cut him coldly out of their circle. They’d never accepted him, except Perceptor. And now Perceptor was…gone.
Deadlock would give anything to have Wing here, even a ghost, even for a moment. Maybe Turmoil was right—his moral code had always been someone else’s, but Wing’s had felt…right. Pure and clean, two things Deadlock had never felt.
It was no wonder the blade stayed silent—Deadlock was too far gone, too tainted. Too numb to even grieve.
[***]
Perceptor groaned, the sound seeming to fill gaps around beeps and clicks, as his optics slowly cycled on. He was floating on a cloud of sensor-foxing chemicals, feeling no pain at all, for the first time since he’d set foot on the Mabaya. It was…strange, and stranger yet that he found himself almost missing the pain, that the warm fog that held him felt false and dangerous.
He heard a rumble, turning his head, only then realizing his optics were no longer compensating for the shattered feed from his crackled lenses. His optics had been repaired. Replaced. A disturbing thought—Decepticon technicians had been at his systems. What might they have done, what damage or sabotage might he not find until later? Even though it was repair, even though he felt no pain, he felt…violated.
“Drift,” he croaked, clinging to something like hope.
Turmoil shook his head. “He took more of the radiation than you did.”
Perceptor shuttered his optics. No. “He’s offline.” He had to hear it, in simple words. As though nothing else would penetrate.
“He’s online, but…very damaged,” Turmoil said.
Perceptor quivered. Not dead. Then…there was hope.
Hope that relied on Decepticon repair technology.
He pushed up, weakly, onto his elbows. “Let me work on him. I can help.” He could do that much for Drift: check his internals, at least, scrub him clean of any Decepticon bugs or programming. And then…maybe….
Turmoil shook his head, amused, as though he expected the attempt and thought it almost…charming. “No. You…understand why.”
He did, as much as he hated it. The Autobots, situations reversed, would not allow two Decepticons to have access to the kinds of tools he’d need to work on Drift. Still, hope. If Drift lived, he could escape. Perceptor didn’t matter. There was one thing he didn’t understand. “Then, why keep me alive?”
Turmoil laughed. “I have my reasons, little scientist. It should be enough for you that you are alive.”
IDW Mabaya AU
Drift/Deadlock, Perceptor, Turmoil
mindfucking (so, really 'Turmoil')
Deadlock woke under the too-familiar lights of repair bay. Everything hurt: light, sound, the berth under him, the air striking his armor. His memories were fuzzy, vague, and seemed to slide into vertigo.
“You’re awake.” A familiar voice, laden with memories. Deadlock turned his head, slowly, the room slewing hard to one side, his tanks roiling. Turmoil, his grey-brown bulk cutting an almost soothing shadow into the too-bright light.
“What do you want?” he managed. Even the shadow hurt, the edges of it seeming to slice against his armor.
Turmoil shrugged. “Checking on my best soldier.” Something not entirely false in his tone.
“Sad state if that’s true.”
Turmoil laughed. “Nothing keeps you down for long, Deadlock,” he said, affectionately. “Not even crystal drive radiation.”
Crystal drive. Memory flashed back over him, a crack of sea-green light, a whine so high pitched it sent white lances through his optical feed, cutting his audio receptors, and..., “Perceptor.”
Turmoil tilted his head, pausing. “The little scientist.” He spread his palms. “We did as much as we could.”
Deadlock stiffened. “He…?” It—no. It was inconceivable. Perceptor. Dead.
Turmoil shifted his weight from side to side. “He was not as strong as you are,” he said, neutral.
Deadlock dropped his helm back onto the repair berth. No. But Perceptor had been shorting himself. He was weakened to begin with. And how much, after all, could one damaged body be as a shield? It had been, perhaps, nothing but symbolic and, like every gesture Deadlock had made to move away from his past, ultimately futile.
Turmoil bent down to his far side, coming up with something. It took the weight on his chassis for Deadlock to recognize it, his body jerking with shock, the long line of the hilt floating over his chin. His Great Sword. His hands clutched around it.
His…hands.
His optics swam with confusion. Turmoil chuckled. “While we had you down and…compliant, it seemed a good time to engage repairs.” He patted the hands folded over the Sword’s sheath, his enormous hand covering both of Deadlock’s. “I’ll leave you to rest.” His EM field seemed almost buoyant against Deadlock’s as he bent over, his optics an orange bar meeting Deadlock’s red. “It’s good to have you back.”
[***]
It was childish, it was weak, it was wrong, but Deadlock clung to the Great Sword with both his hands, one the sleek black of New Crystal City, the other the matte of Decepticon stores, curling himself around it as a core of stability around which he was trying to coalesce. His cheek pressed against the pommel’s jewel, the blade’s flat edge pressed possessively, protectively, between his dark thighs, every fragment of his core trying to tendril around it. His new hand didn’t hurt, merely tingled, seeming unfamiliar, but wrapped itself obediently, wantingly, around the blade it had never known.
Turmoil had some motive for returning it to him, he knew, but Deadlock could think of none truer than that Perceptor was dead and with him the whole motivation to keep the sword away from him. What was the point in killing Turmoil? He’d gone beyond an Autobot now, could never go back to them; had no reason to go back to them. What would they do if he suddenly returned—Decepticon repairs, Decepticon optics, and missing Perceptor? Right. That would go over…well.
Deadlock had no options now, nothing to hold him back, keep him from falling. It was a bitter gift, the sword, all the more bitter for the unconscious irony that the first time he’d gotten it had been over a death.
Wing, he thought, desperately, mouthing the name like a sacred thing against the scabbard. He’d sworn, at times, he’d felt Wing in the blade, the jet’s gentle, reassuring presence. He’d sat with the blade, communing with it, feeling warmed and accepted by it, even when the Autobots did their best to reject him, cut him coldly out of their circle. They’d never accepted him, except Perceptor. And now Perceptor was…gone.
Deadlock would give anything to have Wing here, even a ghost, even for a moment. Maybe Turmoil was right—his moral code had always been someone else’s, but Wing’s had felt…right. Pure and clean, two things Deadlock had never felt.
It was no wonder the blade stayed silent—Deadlock was too far gone, too tainted. Too numb to even grieve.
[***]
Perceptor groaned, the sound seeming to fill gaps around beeps and clicks, as his optics slowly cycled on. He was floating on a cloud of sensor-foxing chemicals, feeling no pain at all, for the first time since he’d set foot on the Mabaya. It was…strange, and stranger yet that he found himself almost missing the pain, that the warm fog that held him felt false and dangerous.
He heard a rumble, turning his head, only then realizing his optics were no longer compensating for the shattered feed from his crackled lenses. His optics had been repaired. Replaced. A disturbing thought—Decepticon technicians had been at his systems. What might they have done, what damage or sabotage might he not find until later? Even though it was repair, even though he felt no pain, he felt…violated.
“Drift,” he croaked, clinging to something like hope.
Turmoil shook his head. “He took more of the radiation than you did.”
Perceptor shuttered his optics. No. “He’s offline.” He had to hear it, in simple words. As though nothing else would penetrate.
“He’s online, but…very damaged,” Turmoil said.
Perceptor quivered. Not dead. Then…there was hope.
Hope that relied on Decepticon repair technology.
He pushed up, weakly, onto his elbows. “Let me work on him. I can help.” He could do that much for Drift: check his internals, at least, scrub him clean of any Decepticon bugs or programming. And then…maybe….
Turmoil shook his head, amused, as though he expected the attempt and thought it almost…charming. “No. You…understand why.”
He did, as much as he hated it. The Autobots, situations reversed, would not allow two Decepticons to have access to the kinds of tools he’d need to work on Drift. Still, hope. If Drift lived, he could escape. Perceptor didn’t matter. There was one thing he didn’t understand. “Then, why keep me alive?”
Turmoil laughed. “I have my reasons, little scientist. It should be enough for you that you are alive.”
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Bravo! That? Is some serious awesome there.
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