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shadow_vector2011-09-13 07:29 pm
niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in shadow_vector2011-09-13 07:29 pm
Entry tags:
Horns of Dilemma
PG
IDW,
Orion Pax, Starscream, Springarm cameo
Warnings: possible canon tweaking?
IDW After the events of Chaos Theory, Part 1. For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
primescream's August challenge.
“Captain,” Springarm said, voice sounding harried and thin over comm.
“Yes,” Orion Pax answered, laying aside the datapad he’d been poring over.
“You asked to be notified if this one got brought in again.” A grunt over the channel.
“Ah, yes. Thank you. I’ll meet you in Intake.” Orion popped the chip from the datapad, dropping it back into the evidence bag with the base model datapad they’d confiscated from the brawler…Megaton? He rose to his feet, heading to the intake bay, grabbing an extra restraint net. Flyers tended to be…feisty, and none more than this one, if he remembered.
Springarm ducked his helm, sheepishly, as Orion arrived, as if embarrassed: they’d hooded the jet, a heavy grey sack with a weighted hem tossed over the head of the wrist-bound prisoner. Considering the jet’s mass advantage on the cyclebot, though, Orion didn’t grudge him any countermeasure. Better a hooding than someone get injured.
He tucked the net away before lifting the weighted hem with both hands. He risked getting spat on, of course, but that was hardly unendurable, and sometimes, he figured, seeing a kind face—and in this case, a familiar face—made all the difference. “Starscream,” he said.
“Orion Pax,” the jet sneered, tossing his head, the hood snagged between his audials and his shoulder vents, deliberately leaving off the title.
Orion wished he had the wit and charisma to pull off ‘we must stop meeting like this’. Instead he said, “You must be getting tired of this.”
“Are you?” A heel thruster clanged against the pavement.
To the jet’s right, Orion saw Springarm’s hand clutch for his weapon. He shook his head minutely. “I regret that you seem so bent on recidivism, Starscream.”
“Recidivism.” A flare of challenge in the red optics. “Such a big word from such a low-level functionary.”
Springarm twitched again. Orion sighed. “No need to talk here.” He turned, one hand sweeping behind Starscream to guide him inside.
“Oh, such manners,” Starscream said. “Must be because I’m such a valued customer.” Springarm’s tension seemed to thrum through the air, and Orion was glad to usher Starscream into one of the inprocessing cubicles, nodding Springarm off to other duties. He trusted the cyclebot, but why subject him to the jet’s caustic temperament any longer? It was unnecessary. And maybe, this time, Orion Pax could crack through that shell.
Starscream perched, almost daintily on one of the stools, a thruster-heel hooked in the stool’s rung, toe making an elegant point toward the ground. He looked…regal, really, until you looked up and saw the bound wrists, the inhibitor claw’s long cables on his chassis. And that, of course, was the whole paradox, and what Orion Pax most wanted to get to the bottom of.
“You’re too good for this,” Orion began.
“Am I?” Starscream drawled.
Orion leaned over to the console, calling up the jet’s criminal record. It scrolled on holo between them. And scrolled. Petty theft, destruction of private property, defacement of public property, harassment, resisting arrest, reckless endangerment…the list went on.
Starscream studied the list in silence for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said, finally, voice small, contrite.
Orion hid his surprise. Was it that easy? Was it possible that Starscream merely needed some gentle push, someone to believe he was better than he was acting? “I’m glad you see that.”
One corner of the mouth quirked. “I should aim higher. This is all…petty crime.” An elegant shrug, one wing’s flaps flicking. “Too common.”
“That…wasn’t what I meant.” At all.
The smile quirked into a smirk. “I know. I am not stupid.” He managed to look half-insulted.
“Starscream,” Orion began again. “That’s the last thing I think of you. I just look at this,” he gestured toward the holo, “and you, and I see a waste of potential.” Truth, stripped naked. It was one thing for the jet to preen his superiority: quite another to hear it acknowledged from someone else.
“My potential,” Starscream snapped, “is none of your concern.”
Orion felt his patience slip. “No, but the security of Rodion is. And you are,” he paused, choosing the word with care, “becoming a nuisance.”
The jet flinched, as if Orion had struck him.
“Tell me,” Orion said, leaning one hip on the console, “why? Why do you do all of these things? What’s behind them?”
“My creators didn’t love me enough,” Starscream snapped, the sarcasm a thick shield.
Orion merely glared, optics blue and hard under his visor—the same gaze he used to quell Whirl when he went on one of his tirades. “We’re done here.” He snapped the screen off. A calculated gamble—take away the one thing Starscream wanted: an audience. He moved to the wall-mounted comm.“I’ll get Whirl to escort you to a cell.”
Starscream knew Whirl: anyone who spent a night in the hospitality of Rodion’s holding facility knew the caustic officer. A good officer, Orion thought, but a little too…harsh at times, too sure that his badge made him superior. But Whirl was hardly the only mech on the force with that attitude.
“Why do you think, O Captain my Captain?” Starscream drawled, composing his face, body, in insolent lines. “Surely you have some pet theory….”
Behind his mask, Orion fought a grin of triumph, hand resting on the comm. “Guess.”
“What?”
“You’re smart. Guess.”
The mouth pinched, optics glaring challenge. “Because I’m bored. Because this world, all this neatness and order, everything in its little slot, moving smoothly, disgusts me.”
“Disgusts you?”
“Disgust! Unless I can think of a stronger verb.” The chin jerked. “Look at you. Neat and orderly, punching a clock day after day, year after year. Some ditchwater grey thankless job that you fool yourself into thinking makes a difference.”
“I do make a difference.”
The jet scoffed. “If that were true, there’d be less crime, right? You’d clean up the streets and they’d stay clean.” A tilt of the head, the optics sly. “They don’t, do they?”
Orion bristled. “Well then, what would you suggest? Surely you have a suggestion?” He thought back—briefly—to the treatise he’d been reading on the datachip. The brawler had been complaining about society, too, but his claims were injustice and oppression. Not boredom. Still, Megaton had insisted, over and over, that there must be solutions. ‘Pointing out problems is not enough: solutions, strong, viable ones, must be offered.’ Well, here was a chance.
“Suggestion?” A toss of the head. “Burn it all down, for all I care. The problem is, Captain,” he almost laughed at the title, “you treat the symptoms. Not the disease. Which is why it never ends.” He flicked a wing. “Tedious, really.”
“There will always be crime,” Orion said. “And I’m not going to refute some comes from discontent. But the solution is not anarchy.” He had underestimated the jet, seeing only a sleekly educated playboy with a taste for wild oats that could ruin a career. Instead, he’d found a revolutionary in the making.
“Your solution is probably simply making bigger boxes. Or,” a kick of a blue toe, “bigger prisons. Until there are more of us ‘criminals’ than there are you.” He cocked his head, crossing one knee over the other, a picture of haughty self-assurance. “And what then, Captain?”
Orion feared he would find out.
IDW,
Orion Pax, Starscream, Springarm cameo
Warnings: possible canon tweaking?
IDW After the events of Chaos Theory, Part 1. For
primescream's August challenge.“Captain,” Springarm said, voice sounding harried and thin over comm.
“Yes,” Orion Pax answered, laying aside the datapad he’d been poring over.
“You asked to be notified if this one got brought in again.” A grunt over the channel.
“Ah, yes. Thank you. I’ll meet you in Intake.” Orion popped the chip from the datapad, dropping it back into the evidence bag with the base model datapad they’d confiscated from the brawler…Megaton? He rose to his feet, heading to the intake bay, grabbing an extra restraint net. Flyers tended to be…feisty, and none more than this one, if he remembered.
Springarm ducked his helm, sheepishly, as Orion arrived, as if embarrassed: they’d hooded the jet, a heavy grey sack with a weighted hem tossed over the head of the wrist-bound prisoner. Considering the jet’s mass advantage on the cyclebot, though, Orion didn’t grudge him any countermeasure. Better a hooding than someone get injured.
He tucked the net away before lifting the weighted hem with both hands. He risked getting spat on, of course, but that was hardly unendurable, and sometimes, he figured, seeing a kind face—and in this case, a familiar face—made all the difference. “Starscream,” he said.
“Orion Pax,” the jet sneered, tossing his head, the hood snagged between his audials and his shoulder vents, deliberately leaving off the title.
Orion wished he had the wit and charisma to pull off ‘we must stop meeting like this’. Instead he said, “You must be getting tired of this.”
“Are you?” A heel thruster clanged against the pavement.
To the jet’s right, Orion saw Springarm’s hand clutch for his weapon. He shook his head minutely. “I regret that you seem so bent on recidivism, Starscream.”
“Recidivism.” A flare of challenge in the red optics. “Such a big word from such a low-level functionary.”
Springarm twitched again. Orion sighed. “No need to talk here.” He turned, one hand sweeping behind Starscream to guide him inside.
“Oh, such manners,” Starscream said. “Must be because I’m such a valued customer.” Springarm’s tension seemed to thrum through the air, and Orion was glad to usher Starscream into one of the inprocessing cubicles, nodding Springarm off to other duties. He trusted the cyclebot, but why subject him to the jet’s caustic temperament any longer? It was unnecessary. And maybe, this time, Orion Pax could crack through that shell.
Starscream perched, almost daintily on one of the stools, a thruster-heel hooked in the stool’s rung, toe making an elegant point toward the ground. He looked…regal, really, until you looked up and saw the bound wrists, the inhibitor claw’s long cables on his chassis. And that, of course, was the whole paradox, and what Orion Pax most wanted to get to the bottom of.
“You’re too good for this,” Orion began.
“Am I?” Starscream drawled.
Orion leaned over to the console, calling up the jet’s criminal record. It scrolled on holo between them. And scrolled. Petty theft, destruction of private property, defacement of public property, harassment, resisting arrest, reckless endangerment…the list went on.
Starscream studied the list in silence for a long moment. “You’re right,” he said, finally, voice small, contrite.
Orion hid his surprise. Was it that easy? Was it possible that Starscream merely needed some gentle push, someone to believe he was better than he was acting? “I’m glad you see that.”
One corner of the mouth quirked. “I should aim higher. This is all…petty crime.” An elegant shrug, one wing’s flaps flicking. “Too common.”
“That…wasn’t what I meant.” At all.
The smile quirked into a smirk. “I know. I am not stupid.” He managed to look half-insulted.
“Starscream,” Orion began again. “That’s the last thing I think of you. I just look at this,” he gestured toward the holo, “and you, and I see a waste of potential.” Truth, stripped naked. It was one thing for the jet to preen his superiority: quite another to hear it acknowledged from someone else.
“My potential,” Starscream snapped, “is none of your concern.”
Orion felt his patience slip. “No, but the security of Rodion is. And you are,” he paused, choosing the word with care, “becoming a nuisance.”
The jet flinched, as if Orion had struck him.
“Tell me,” Orion said, leaning one hip on the console, “why? Why do you do all of these things? What’s behind them?”
“My creators didn’t love me enough,” Starscream snapped, the sarcasm a thick shield.
Orion merely glared, optics blue and hard under his visor—the same gaze he used to quell Whirl when he went on one of his tirades. “We’re done here.” He snapped the screen off. A calculated gamble—take away the one thing Starscream wanted: an audience. He moved to the wall-mounted comm.“I’ll get Whirl to escort you to a cell.”
Starscream knew Whirl: anyone who spent a night in the hospitality of Rodion’s holding facility knew the caustic officer. A good officer, Orion thought, but a little too…harsh at times, too sure that his badge made him superior. But Whirl was hardly the only mech on the force with that attitude.
“Why do you think, O Captain my Captain?” Starscream drawled, composing his face, body, in insolent lines. “Surely you have some pet theory….”
Behind his mask, Orion fought a grin of triumph, hand resting on the comm. “Guess.”
“What?”
“You’re smart. Guess.”
The mouth pinched, optics glaring challenge. “Because I’m bored. Because this world, all this neatness and order, everything in its little slot, moving smoothly, disgusts me.”
“Disgusts you?”
“Disgust! Unless I can think of a stronger verb.” The chin jerked. “Look at you. Neat and orderly, punching a clock day after day, year after year. Some ditchwater grey thankless job that you fool yourself into thinking makes a difference.”
“I do make a difference.”
The jet scoffed. “If that were true, there’d be less crime, right? You’d clean up the streets and they’d stay clean.” A tilt of the head, the optics sly. “They don’t, do they?”
Orion bristled. “Well then, what would you suggest? Surely you have a suggestion?” He thought back—briefly—to the treatise he’d been reading on the datachip. The brawler had been complaining about society, too, but his claims were injustice and oppression. Not boredom. Still, Megaton had insisted, over and over, that there must be solutions. ‘Pointing out problems is not enough: solutions, strong, viable ones, must be offered.’ Well, here was a chance.
“Suggestion?” A toss of the head. “Burn it all down, for all I care. The problem is, Captain,” he almost laughed at the title, “you treat the symptoms. Not the disease. Which is why it never ends.” He flicked a wing. “Tedious, really.”
“There will always be crime,” Orion said. “And I’m not going to refute some comes from discontent. But the solution is not anarchy.” He had underestimated the jet, seeing only a sleekly educated playboy with a taste for wild oats that could ruin a career. Instead, he’d found a revolutionary in the making.
“Your solution is probably simply making bigger boxes. Or,” a kick of a blue toe, “bigger prisons. Until there are more of us ‘criminals’ than there are you.” He cocked his head, crossing one knee over the other, a picture of haughty self-assurance. “And what then, Captain?”
Orion feared he would find out.
no subject
I love this fic in particular.