Flash Fiction Fills Take 51 - Part One
Jul. 26th, 2014 08:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: I am bacon-burnt, my friends, thanks to an outdoor sale that I was volun-told to oversee. Therefore, I'm posting today before I'm in too much agony to sit in front of the laptop tomorrow, lol. Please enjoy the first two flash fiction as I finish up the last three.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: MTMTE, Bob meets Megatron
Fandom: Transformers IDW MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron. Warnings: SPOILERS
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Zuko vs Azula, “She's still my sister”
Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender, post Book Three. Warnings: Possibly AU, Spoilery
a/n: Three more flashfics to go. If I don't fall into bed early tonight, I'll put the finishing touches on those and have 'em ready for you by Monday. :D
I hope you enjoyed! Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
For ladydragon76
Prompt: MTMTE, Bob meets Megatron
Fandom: Transformers IDW MTMTE, post-Dark Cybertron. Warnings: SPOILERS
The Lost Light was, reportedly, a Neutral ship by origin. That did not lessen the effect of discomfort that permeated Megatron as he stood outside, looking in. Nor did that fact make walking the halls any easier, or examining the bridge and engine room.
It was not a Decepticon ship by any stretch of the imagination and he felt more than a little out of place. It helped, some, that he was surrounded by mechs both Autobot and Decepticon, though there were more of the former than the latter. It did not help that he was sharing captaincy with an idiot. That only made leadership more complicated.
They were set to depart shortly. Megatron wanted to be entirely familiar with every nook and cranny of his ship before they did so. He did not want to be caught off-guard. He wanted to know every member of his crew, new and recently acquired. In one hand, he carried a datapad, skimming the names of mechs, some recognizable and some strangers.
The Lost Light had been repaired but there was still evidence of recent battle on the floors and walls. It would take some scrubbing and repainting to make it good as new. Megatron noted that as potential for punishment since, apparently, the Autobots frowned upon physical penalties. If you asked Megatron, a quick backhand made unruly mechs reconsider their behaviors far faster than a stint in the brig.
But it wasn't wholly his decision to make anymore. He had to share that responsibility with Rodimus. Pah. As though Rodimus and responsibility were two words that even belonged in the same sentence.
A scrabble of claws over the floor was the first indication Megatron was not alone. He heard a shout, felt a blast of irritation, and he looked down from his datapad a second before a body struck him in the chestplate. He cycled his optics as it immediately dropped to the ground in a heap, leaving not so much as a scrape behind.
Megatron arched an orbital ridge as he looked down at his attacker. It was an Insecticon. A very small, obviously underdeveloped Insecticon. And it was slowly climbing to its feet, looking as though it had rattled its processor.
“Don't kill him!”
Megatron looked up to find an Autobot charging toward him, energy field reading frantic, but no weapons on display. “Him?” Megatron asked, one pede nudging the Insecticon and watching it hunker down as it looked up at him, aft wiggling.
“He was being friendly,” the yellow Autobot said, skidding to a halt a fair distance away from Megatron but close enough to intervene should Megatron decide to stomp the pest at his pedes. “Kind of.”
“Friendly,” Megatron repeated. He peered at the other mech, feeling as though he should recognize him but not sure from where.
The Insecticon crept closer, sniffing at his pede, antennae waving as its multiple optics brightened with something that might be considered happiness, for a fully-sparked mech.
“We're still learning not to jump on other mechs,” the yellow Autobot said with something like a stern look the Insecticon's direction. “Bob, come here!”
Megatron fought back a grin as the Insecticon ignored his master, still sniffing about Megatron's pedes. “An interesting name,” he commented and then scanned his datapad. Ah, there was an Insecticon listed here, belonging to an Autobot named Sunstreaker.
That particular designation was familiar. The Autobots truly would forgive anything, wouldn't they?
“I've been told I lack for creativity,” Sunstreaker said, relaxing a little now that Megatron wasn't projecting an intent to maim.
“What does he find fascinating about my pedes?” Megatron asked, not uncomfortable, just baffled.
“I wish I knew.” Sunstreaker ex-vented loudly and strode forward, grabbing the Insecticon by the collar fairing and jerking it backward. “Sorry. It won't happen again. I hope.”
Bob made a chittering noise, straining against his master's grip, body wriggling in a way that was almost... cute.
“I think he's more likely to damage himself than me,” Megatron said, but he waved the Autobot on anyway. He had an inspection to complete, after all. “Good luck. It seems you have your hands full.”
“I do.” Sunstreaker tried to pull Bob away, but it was futile at best. “Sir, if you could...” He gestured with his helm, down the hall.
Sir. What an interesting term to hear coming from an Autobot. Megatron couldn't decide if he approved or it unsettled him. Either way, the request was clear. Easier for Megatron to make himself scarce first than for Sunstreaker to try and haul Bob away.
And so he did, more than aware of the optics that watched him go. Megatron consulted his datapad, making a notation, and wondered if any other members of his crew were anything like Sunstreaker and his pet and their previous solitary captain.
He'd heard the rumors, that most members of the Lost Light's crew were less than sane, and now, he was beginning to think those rumors had weight.
This was sure to be a long, long quest.
It was not a Decepticon ship by any stretch of the imagination and he felt more than a little out of place. It helped, some, that he was surrounded by mechs both Autobot and Decepticon, though there were more of the former than the latter. It did not help that he was sharing captaincy with an idiot. That only made leadership more complicated.
They were set to depart shortly. Megatron wanted to be entirely familiar with every nook and cranny of his ship before they did so. He did not want to be caught off-guard. He wanted to know every member of his crew, new and recently acquired. In one hand, he carried a datapad, skimming the names of mechs, some recognizable and some strangers.
The Lost Light had been repaired but there was still evidence of recent battle on the floors and walls. It would take some scrubbing and repainting to make it good as new. Megatron noted that as potential for punishment since, apparently, the Autobots frowned upon physical penalties. If you asked Megatron, a quick backhand made unruly mechs reconsider their behaviors far faster than a stint in the brig.
But it wasn't wholly his decision to make anymore. He had to share that responsibility with Rodimus. Pah. As though Rodimus and responsibility were two words that even belonged in the same sentence.
A scrabble of claws over the floor was the first indication Megatron was not alone. He heard a shout, felt a blast of irritation, and he looked down from his datapad a second before a body struck him in the chestplate. He cycled his optics as it immediately dropped to the ground in a heap, leaving not so much as a scrape behind.
Megatron arched an orbital ridge as he looked down at his attacker. It was an Insecticon. A very small, obviously underdeveloped Insecticon. And it was slowly climbing to its feet, looking as though it had rattled its processor.
“Don't kill him!”
Megatron looked up to find an Autobot charging toward him, energy field reading frantic, but no weapons on display. “Him?” Megatron asked, one pede nudging the Insecticon and watching it hunker down as it looked up at him, aft wiggling.
“He was being friendly,” the yellow Autobot said, skidding to a halt a fair distance away from Megatron but close enough to intervene should Megatron decide to stomp the pest at his pedes. “Kind of.”
“Friendly,” Megatron repeated. He peered at the other mech, feeling as though he should recognize him but not sure from where.
The Insecticon crept closer, sniffing at his pede, antennae waving as its multiple optics brightened with something that might be considered happiness, for a fully-sparked mech.
“We're still learning not to jump on other mechs,” the yellow Autobot said with something like a stern look the Insecticon's direction. “Bob, come here!”
Megatron fought back a grin as the Insecticon ignored his master, still sniffing about Megatron's pedes. “An interesting name,” he commented and then scanned his datapad. Ah, there was an Insecticon listed here, belonging to an Autobot named Sunstreaker.
That particular designation was familiar. The Autobots truly would forgive anything, wouldn't they?
“I've been told I lack for creativity,” Sunstreaker said, relaxing a little now that Megatron wasn't projecting an intent to maim.
“What does he find fascinating about my pedes?” Megatron asked, not uncomfortable, just baffled.
“I wish I knew.” Sunstreaker ex-vented loudly and strode forward, grabbing the Insecticon by the collar fairing and jerking it backward. “Sorry. It won't happen again. I hope.”
Bob made a chittering noise, straining against his master's grip, body wriggling in a way that was almost... cute.
“I think he's more likely to damage himself than me,” Megatron said, but he waved the Autobot on anyway. He had an inspection to complete, after all. “Good luck. It seems you have your hands full.”
“I do.” Sunstreaker tried to pull Bob away, but it was futile at best. “Sir, if you could...” He gestured with his helm, down the hall.
Sir. What an interesting term to hear coming from an Autobot. Megatron couldn't decide if he approved or it unsettled him. Either way, the request was clear. Easier for Megatron to make himself scarce first than for Sunstreaker to try and haul Bob away.
And so he did, more than aware of the optics that watched him go. Megatron consulted his datapad, making a notation, and wondered if any other members of his crew were anything like Sunstreaker and his pet and their previous solitary captain.
He'd heard the rumors, that most members of the Lost Light's crew were less than sane, and now, he was beginning to think those rumors had weight.
This was sure to be a long, long quest.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: Zuko vs Azula, “She's still my sister”
Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender, post Book Three. Warnings: Possibly AU, Spoilery
A month later, Ozai remains in the dungeon, defiant and spiteful. He refuses to be of assistance. He mocks Zuko's accomplishments. He swears vengeance.
He is a lost cause, Zuko's council whispers.
Zuko fears that they may be right.
A month later, Azula still has not spoken. She sits on her knees, hands flat on her thighs, and stares. She eats when commanded, not prompted, but commanded. She takes care of the minimal bodily functions.
Her eyes are empty. And Zuko feels half-crazy himself for missing the times she was trying to kill him. At least then she had vitality. She had purpose.
Now she was lost to whatever madness had taken her mind.
Katara's healing was of no use. Zuko had spent weeks persuading her to try.
“She doesn't want to be healed,” Katara had said, pity in her voice and consolation in her eyes. “I can't help someone who doesn't want to be saved.”
Sokka couldn't understand why Zuko cared enough to try.
“She tried to kill me! And Aang. And Katara. And everyone! But especially you!”
“She's still my sister,” Zuko said, thinking of Azula crouched in the dungeon, hair a stringy, greasy curtain around her face. Jagged where she'd cut it in a fit of pique. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin. Grime under her fingernails. Stains on her robe. Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Once upon a time, Azula would not have stood for such disarray. Now, she stared glassy-eyed at a reality that did not exist. And she was a danger to no one but herself.
Zuko spent long hours pacing the halls of the palace. Her expression, or lack thereof, kept him awake. Not even Mai or Ty Lee could get her to stir.
She was losing weight, her cheeks gaunt, her wrists thin and delicate like a bird's. If this were a trick, it was the best Zuko had ever seen. He believed it.
“Do what you have to do,” Aang advised. “She is still your sister.”
“Just don't trust her further than you can throw her,” Toph added with a punch to his shoulder. “We don't want a repeat.”
It was early one morning that Zuko's course became clear. He sent for the guard and issued his orders. He let none dissuade him.
Lord Ozai might be beyond saving but Azula still had a chance. She couldn't find herself in the dungeon.
Zuko would bring her back into the palace, under heavy guard, and oversee her treatment himself. He would try to find the a single kernel of kindness in her heart. He would give her a chance.
She was still his sister. And it was time Zuko started treating her as such. He owed her as much.
He is a lost cause, Zuko's council whispers.
Zuko fears that they may be right.
A month later, Azula still has not spoken. She sits on her knees, hands flat on her thighs, and stares. She eats when commanded, not prompted, but commanded. She takes care of the minimal bodily functions.
Her eyes are empty. And Zuko feels half-crazy himself for missing the times she was trying to kill him. At least then she had vitality. She had purpose.
Now she was lost to whatever madness had taken her mind.
Katara's healing was of no use. Zuko had spent weeks persuading her to try.
“She doesn't want to be healed,” Katara had said, pity in her voice and consolation in her eyes. “I can't help someone who doesn't want to be saved.”
Sokka couldn't understand why Zuko cared enough to try.
“She tried to kill me! And Aang. And Katara. And everyone! But especially you!”
“She's still my sister,” Zuko said, thinking of Azula crouched in the dungeon, hair a stringy, greasy curtain around her face. Jagged where she'd cut it in a fit of pique. There was a smudge of dirt on her chin. Grime under her fingernails. Stains on her robe. Dark circles beneath her eyes.
Once upon a time, Azula would not have stood for such disarray. Now, she stared glassy-eyed at a reality that did not exist. And she was a danger to no one but herself.
Zuko spent long hours pacing the halls of the palace. Her expression, or lack thereof, kept him awake. Not even Mai or Ty Lee could get her to stir.
She was losing weight, her cheeks gaunt, her wrists thin and delicate like a bird's. If this were a trick, it was the best Zuko had ever seen. He believed it.
“Do what you have to do,” Aang advised. “She is still your sister.”
“Just don't trust her further than you can throw her,” Toph added with a punch to his shoulder. “We don't want a repeat.”
It was early one morning that Zuko's course became clear. He sent for the guard and issued his orders. He let none dissuade him.
Lord Ozai might be beyond saving but Azula still had a chance. She couldn't find herself in the dungeon.
Zuko would bring her back into the palace, under heavy guard, and oversee her treatment himself. He would try to find the a single kernel of kindness in her heart. He would give her a chance.
She was still his sister. And it was time Zuko started treating her as such. He owed her as much.
a/n: Three more flashfics to go. If I don't fall into bed early tonight, I'll put the finishing touches on those and have 'em ready for you by Monday. :D
I hope you enjoyed! Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
