Parade Rest

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW/MTMTE
Fulcrum, couple of OCs
perhaps hard to follow if you don't know the comics?
for tf_speedwriting

If the look of distaste were written any bigger on Det Cord’s face, it’d be bigger than his face. And he was a huge mech to begin with, so it was already a sort of enormous frown. “Disgusting,” he said, striding in front of the ragtag line of conscripts. “None of you, not one single mech, deserves the honor of K-class.”

Fulcrum honestly, would totally agree. His hands bunched into nervous fists as he stood at attention. His whole squad was like him: impressed into service from Styx.  They weren’t volunteers; they hadn’t been forged for it.  All the equipment, all the training was retrofitted, and sometimes badly. The mentality? Like Det Cord had?  Yeah, that didn’t retrofit quite as well. 

Det Cord stalked down the line, his massive chassis filling their optical fields, hands folded behind his back, as though making sure he was showering disgust on them all equally.  Fulcrum stood his ground, not out of any defiance but because three long weeks of this had taught him that any sign of shrinking or cringing got you extra helpings of Det Cord’s wrath.  Fulcrum might not be a stellar student in K-school, but he wasn’t stupid.

Unfortunately, Ripjack was stupid. Excessively so. So the rest of the conscript K-squad, the dregs of Styx, had the dubious honor of having their audios assaulted by a screed bursting with so much profanity and anatomically improbable ‘suggestions’ that the mech next to Fulcrum collapsed, frothing at the audials, after about a cycle.

Which went over…predictably well. Det Cord’s head whipped around, the chassis housing what must be an enormous payload swiveling like death itself. “EXACTLY,” Det Cord bellowed, “What I mean!”  He stomped over, kicking at Breakout’s shoulder casing. “Look at this!” Another kick. Clang. “Look at this weak pile of scrap! I’m sickened to be the same class as him. Cowardice!” Clang! “Weakness!” Clang!  “A disgrace to the badge!” TCHUNGK.  A weak groan from, around a foamy mouthful of something that smelled like battery acid. 

Det Cord snarled, examining his foot for splatters. “You filthy wretch!”

“Hey!”  Fulcrum’s tanks lurched around the hollow space in his frame they’d left for his deferred issue of ordnance, even as he stepped forward. And whatever impulse had made him step forward evaporated—fast—as Det Cord’s optics swiveled to him. “I…uh. I think he’s had enough.”

“Yeah? You qualified to judge or something?” Red optics scrutinized Fulcrum’s hollow frame as though seeing exactly how little a threat the conscript was. He was a techie. A cyberform expert. And here he was, jammed in a new frame and told he had the 'honor' of being a smart bomb.

He didn't feel very smart.

Det Cord snorted. “Yeah, don’t think so.” 

“He’s not even conscious,” Fulcrum said, feeling that vertigo try to suck him back.  “And if you’re trying to scare us, well, you know, k-class.”  Lies. Lies. He could feel fear sizzling through his fuel lines like a harsh linestripper.

Det Cord stared down at him, optics hard with rage.  Fulcrum squeezed his mouthplates together, trying to ignore everything but the fact that if he showed fear, he was dead.

He was dead anyway. As soon as they finished training, as soon as they got their payloads, as soon as they split into units, mounted their bombers, they were dead.  One hundred percent certainty. The only uncertainty was if he washed out of training, they’d strip him down and use him as a moving target for other k-class training iterations, again and again, until they could no longer summon even basic sentience from his brain module.  

Fulcrum was a little fuzzy on ‘a fate worse than death’ but that seemed like a reasonable place to start.  Sort of a choice between certain death where at least people won’t spit on your dismembered shrapnel or not.  So,  right. Just…don’t show how terrified you are and no one will even know.  Maybe. And then you get the slightly less painful and humiliating death and can be remembered as a good Decepticon.

Which he was. Or he’d always thought he was.  Just that, you know, his allergy to dying came up. And it was coming up right here, again, and only his mighty powers of Denial were keeping it in check and him in place and not running, arms flailing, in the other direction.

Huh. Maybe this training was working. That was a…terrifying thought.

Det Cord snarled, bending over, and Fulcrum’s entire field of vision was one massive, snarling faceplate.  And then, just as Fulcrum felt that tiny last rope of whatever was holding him here start to fray, Det Cord straightened up. “Hnf,” he said, raking his optics down Fulcrum’s frame.  “Least someone here isn’t entirely worthless.” 

Comments

[wind-on-wave.livejournal.com]

"He was dead anyway. As soon as they finished training, as soon as they got their payloads, as soon as they split into units, mounted their bombers, they were dead. One hundred percent certainty." - horribly. Idea of K-klass - kamikadze? - it's horribly in comics, but this phrase... enhances understanding about K-klass.
It was good. Really, good *o*

[silberstreif.livejournal.com]

I really like Fulcrum he's so... sane? Compared to most Cons. ;)
Lovely scene with him!