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niyazi-a.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
shadow_vector2010-09-18 06:40 pm
Picking up the Pieces
Dreamwave War Within, the Dark Ages
Jetfire
Spoilers for Dark Ages, issue 6 and if you likee foreshadowing, War Within in general.
OH YEAH AND PROBABLY ANGST
written for tf_speedwriting prompt 'setting the world to rights'
Jetfire sagged. It was over. Whatever…it had been. His audio still rang from the containment field Bumblebee had set up, the force-sphere that had trapped the energy of the broken seal, blasting apart their captor.
The one who called himself the Fallen had been obviously, obviously insane. There was no other explanation. Angles, mysticism, some blather about the four special ones, chosen ones.
Jetfire was not chosen. He was not special. He refused to believe that. He was simply trying to make peace, trying to end the war that had torn Cybertron apart, and, that done, had turned on itself, a malignancy, and torn the Autobots and Decepticons apart, shattering old alliances, scorching old trusts.
Trust, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist anymore. Not that they’d trusted him, ever. Grimlock had merely been more overt about it than the others. Perhaps because subtlety read to Grimlock like deception.
Still, in the end it had been subtlety and intellect that had ended it—Bumblebee’s containment field on Jetfire’s coordinates. There was nothing special about that, though. Simple physics and, to be honest, no small measure of luck. It had been a last-ditch desperate gambit from a mech who believed in luck about as much as he believed in Primus. Which was to say: he was willing to believe in them so long as they kept their distance and did not become major factors in the vector of his life.
They were not ready for this: HE was not ready for this to shake up what little fragmentary bits of reality he could cling to. It was too much. Too much power, undirected. Too much faith, without limit. It was…profoundly unsettling, both to the tenuous balance of power and to his own understanding of how the world worked. Science answered everything; and what science didn’t answer was not a call for faith, but for more science: more focused optics, more penetrating minds, more study. Things that the war simply did not allow for. Things that awakened a homesick hunger in Jetfire, a longing for before, a sparksick yearning for peace, and knowledge.
Could he even go back to that?
Jetfire looked at his hands, his white armor scorched and scraped down to bare metal. Could these hands return to knowledge, or had they curled around triggers for too long? Could his mind pursue knowledge after centuries of studying tactics? Above all, would he ever have the faith, the confidence in his own world, stitched back together from fragments, glued alliances, teetering infrastructures, to allow his cortex to return to that state of (what seemed now a) blissful ignorance?
He was not special. He could not bring on the arrival of Primus, break the seal of the Well. He was not special. He could not bring peace, could not set this shattered, shadowed world to rights. He was not special. He had no friends, no allies, no luck.
His hands were useless for all but war now.
They were not the hands of destiny.
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Wow, that's a lot of rambling. Sorry. :D
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and, as you can see, i'm pretty cool with rambling.
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Aw, Jetfire. You don't have to have hands of destiny to be special, dude *pets*
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Glad you liked!