Flash Fiction Fills Take 54 Part One
Oct. 24th, 2014 05:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22a/n: OMG LIFE. I'm so sorry that this is taking me so long. I hope to have all the flash fiction up before November 1st and NaNo hits. *fingers crossed* Here are the first two of five. Enjoy!
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, OptimusxMegatron, confusion
Universe: Transformers Animated. The Art of Self-Destruction 'verse. No warnings.
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, Alfred, Martha, tea and conspiracy
Universe: Justice League AU. Numerology 'verse. No Warnings.
a/n: I'm hoping RL will cut me a break so I can finish off the last three. I've started one, hit a stall on the second, and finally got an idea for the third. My apologies for the delay.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
For dellessa
Prompt: TFA, OptimusxMegatron, confusion
Universe: Transformers Animated. The Art of Self-Destruction 'verse. No warnings.
A drone delivers the invitation with his daily energon.
Optimus turns the simply-phrased request over and over in his hands. He isn't sure he can safely decline. He isn't sure he should.
What game is Megatron playing now? Surely he doesn't think Optimus will fall for this ruse?
His chronometer ticks closer to the appointed time. Optimus sits in the silence of his unbarred prison and debates. The decision is one of the few freedoms he has.
To earn more, he must first gain Megatron's trust. But not even Megatron will buy a quick concession. And Optimus has never been the best at subterfuge.
His desire to escape Megatron and the Decepticons is no secret.
His functioning rests entirely on maintaining the Decepticon Lord's interest. Except that Optimus doesn't know how he acquired it in the first place.
He paces back and forth. He wishes for Ratchet's pragmatism and Prowl's logic and Bee's daring and Bulkhead's resolve. Right now, he could even use Sari's advice and non-linear thinking.
Optimus pauses and bows his helm.
His internal alarm chimes a warning. He suspects Megatron doesn't tolerate tardiness no matter how polite the invitation.
He can't play the game if he doesn't know the rules.
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He supposes that makes the decision.
He stands outside Megatron's private suite with time to spare. He pings for entry and the door slides open, not to invite Optimus but to discharge Slipstream. He draws up short as she offers a smirk.
“Well,” she says with a flutter of her wings. “Have fun. And don't worry. I'll make sure Flatline has some red paint in stock.”
She leaves before Optimus can form a rebuttal to her implication. It's enough to make him reconsider, but only long enough to realize that he's running short of options.
Into the lion's den, it is.
“Prime,” Megatron greets with a voice as warm as sweet energon, beckoning to Optimus from where he's seated at a table.
Megatron is lounging in comfort, cannon nowhere to be seen, yet no less dangerous for it. There's a tray of assorted goodies and a decanter of rich oil. And there's a tactical game on the table, one vaguely familiar to Optimus.
“I received your invitation,.” Optimus isn't sure how well he's hiding his suspicion. Maybe it doesn't matter. “What I don't know is what it means.”
“All in due time.” Megatron gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Less invitation and more command in that word. Optimus grimaces behind his battle mask but obeys. He will save the refusals for the times that matter.
“I'm not joining the Decepticons.”
“Of course you aren't.”
His gaze flicks past Megatron to the barely visible berth in the open doorway behind the silver warlord. “I'm not a berth toy either.”
“No one said you were. Oil?” Megatron offers with near-genuine affability.
Who is this frighteningly pleasant Megatron? And what the frag does he want? Optimus' optics cycle down.
“It's tampered.”
Megatron laughs as though Optimus hasn't just insulted him. “If I wanted to do so, I would tamper your energon. You drink that without suspicion.”
Optimus flushes with realization. Point to Megatron. His denta grind. “Yes, thank you.”
Megatron is already pouring it, however. The sweet, smooth scent of oil teases Optimus. The only worse temptation would have been high grade.
“You haven't answered my question,” Optimus says.
Megatron hands him the cube, their fingers purposefully brushing as Optimus accepts. “You are not asking the right ones.”
“Why am I here?” He tries again.
Megatron rolls his shoulders. “You accepted the invitation. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”
Optimus' optics flash as irritation sweeps through him in a burst of heat. “I'm not stupid. My functioning rests on maintaining your.... generous nature.”
“Self-preservation then. I know a little something about that.” Red optics briefly dim, as though Megatron has slipped into some deep datastream before he refocuses and gestures to the board. “Do you play?”
“Some. What do I get if I win?”
There's a moment of silence where Megatron sips at his oil and then laughs. “It won't be that easy. But let me humor you.”
There's no shame in trying.
“Release me.”
“No.”
Aggravating, but expected. Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Then let me contact my team.”
He expects an immediate refusal but instead, Megatron tilts his helm. “I will consider it.”
Better than nothing. It's a start, an in. And Optimus is going to take as many of those as he can get. Megatron may be leader of the Decepticons, the master of deception, but Optimus has learned from the best. He's learned how to twist his words.
Thank you, Sentinel.
Optimus straightens, resolve firming his plating. “I'll win,” he says.
Megatron smiles with a flash of denta. “We shall see.”
Optimus turns the simply-phrased request over and over in his hands. He isn't sure he can safely decline. He isn't sure he should.
What game is Megatron playing now? Surely he doesn't think Optimus will fall for this ruse?
His chronometer ticks closer to the appointed time. Optimus sits in the silence of his unbarred prison and debates. The decision is one of the few freedoms he has.
To earn more, he must first gain Megatron's trust. But not even Megatron will buy a quick concession. And Optimus has never been the best at subterfuge.
His desire to escape Megatron and the Decepticons is no secret.
His functioning rests entirely on maintaining the Decepticon Lord's interest. Except that Optimus doesn't know how he acquired it in the first place.
He paces back and forth. He wishes for Ratchet's pragmatism and Prowl's logic and Bee's daring and Bulkhead's resolve. Right now, he could even use Sari's advice and non-linear thinking.
Optimus pauses and bows his helm.
His internal alarm chimes a warning. He suspects Megatron doesn't tolerate tardiness no matter how polite the invitation.
He can't play the game if he doesn't know the rules.
Optimus cycles a ventilation. He supposes that makes the decision.
He stands outside Megatron's private suite with time to spare. He pings for entry and the door slides open, not to invite Optimus but to discharge Slipstream. He draws up short as she offers a smirk.
“Well,” she says with a flutter of her wings. “Have fun. And don't worry. I'll make sure Flatline has some red paint in stock.”
She leaves before Optimus can form a rebuttal to her implication. It's enough to make him reconsider, but only long enough to realize that he's running short of options.
Into the lion's den, it is.
“Prime,” Megatron greets with a voice as warm as sweet energon, beckoning to Optimus from where he's seated at a table.
Megatron is lounging in comfort, cannon nowhere to be seen, yet no less dangerous for it. There's a tray of assorted goodies and a decanter of rich oil. And there's a tactical game on the table, one vaguely familiar to Optimus.
“I received your invitation,.” Optimus isn't sure how well he's hiding his suspicion. Maybe it doesn't matter. “What I don't know is what it means.”
“All in due time.” Megatron gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit.”
Less invitation and more command in that word. Optimus grimaces behind his battle mask but obeys. He will save the refusals for the times that matter.
“I'm not joining the Decepticons.”
“Of course you aren't.”
His gaze flicks past Megatron to the barely visible berth in the open doorway behind the silver warlord. “I'm not a berth toy either.”
“No one said you were. Oil?” Megatron offers with near-genuine affability.
Who is this frighteningly pleasant Megatron? And what the frag does he want? Optimus' optics cycle down.
“It's tampered.”
Megatron laughs as though Optimus hasn't just insulted him. “If I wanted to do so, I would tamper your energon. You drink that without suspicion.”
Optimus flushes with realization. Point to Megatron. His denta grind. “Yes, thank you.”
Megatron is already pouring it, however. The sweet, smooth scent of oil teases Optimus. The only worse temptation would have been high grade.
“You haven't answered my question,” Optimus says.
Megatron hands him the cube, their fingers purposefully brushing as Optimus accepts. “You are not asking the right ones.”
“Why am I here?” He tries again.
Megatron rolls his shoulders. “You accepted the invitation. Perhaps you should ask yourself why.”
Optimus' optics flash as irritation sweeps through him in a burst of heat. “I'm not stupid. My functioning rests on maintaining your.... generous nature.”
“Self-preservation then. I know a little something about that.” Red optics briefly dim, as though Megatron has slipped into some deep datastream before he refocuses and gestures to the board. “Do you play?”
“Some. What do I get if I win?”
There's a moment of silence where Megatron sips at his oil and then laughs. “It won't be that easy. But let me humor you.”
There's no shame in trying.
“Release me.”
“No.”
Aggravating, but expected. Optimus cycles a ventilation. “Then let me contact my team.”
He expects an immediate refusal but instead, Megatron tilts his helm. “I will consider it.”
Better than nothing. It's a start, an in. And Optimus is going to take as many of those as he can get. Megatron may be leader of the Decepticons, the master of deception, but Optimus has learned from the best. He's learned how to twist his words.
Thank you, Sentinel.
Optimus straightens, resolve firming his plating. “I'll win,” he says.
Megatron smiles with a flash of denta. “We shall see.”
For mistress_pirate
Prompt: SuperBat, Alfred, Martha, tea and conspiracy
Universe: Justice League AU. Numerology 'verse. No Warnings.
They elect to meet in Smallville because when it comes to conspiracy, Bruce is more likely to spot it while Clark remains oblivious.
Besides. Alfred doesn't mind. He so rarely leaves Gotham as it is and for such pleasant company. It's almost a shame Mrs. Kent is a married woman. Mr. Kent is a very lucky man.
They choose a restaurant because while both are skilled cooks, it is a novelty to be served by others. Besides, Mrs. Kent – call me, Martha, aren't we soon to be family? – assures him that their biscuits are the best this side of the Atlantic. Alfred is willing to give a lady of her impeccable taste the benefit of the doubt.
Polite chatter fills the wait between placing their order and their snacks arriving. Once the tea is poured and biscuits divvied, the real business begins.
“Tell me,” Martha says, tucking a stray gray curl behind her ear. “Is yours half as stubborn as mine?”
“Twice than, I'm afraid.” Alfred restrains a sigh, but only just. “Not to mention paranoid.” Bruce has learned to take caution to a level heretofore never seen.
Martha chuckles. “That is a difference. Mine trusts almost to his detriment.” She sips at her tea. “He is convinced that yours only needs more persuasion. That persistence wins out.”
“Not in my case. Sir is more likely to dig his heels in on principle alone.”
“I was afraid of that.” The corners of her eyes crinkle with amusement. “I've offered advice but he hears only half of it. I suspect, in part, because not even he understands why he is trying so hard.”
Alfred's lips curve with amusement. “Ah. To be so young again.”
They share a commiserating grin. This is a point of great hilarity for Alfred. As suave, smooth, brilliant and observant as Master Bruce could be, he is painfully blind to the dedication that Superman gives him.
“I assume you have a plan then?” Martha asks as she chooses one of their selection of assorted biscuits.
“I do think between the two of us we can determine a solution.” Alfred stirs his own tea, the light aroma floating to his nostrils enticingly.
“Because we are far more stubborn and have decades more experience,” Martha agrees with a little laugh. “My son won't take much prompting. I fear you'll have the lion's share of the work.”
“Oh. Sir is easy to handle if you have the knowledge.” Alfred waves a dismissing hand. “You simply have to give him the proper incentive.”
“Incentive, hm?” Both of Martha's eyebrows raise in curiosity. “And what would possibly tempt Gotham's most eligible prince?”
Alfred shifts in his seat, mischief rising within and making him feel young again. “A challenge,” he replies and oh, Master Bruce might be angry at first, but he'll be grateful by the end.
Meddling, after all, is what butlers are for.
“Something, I think, your son can offer him,” Alfred adds, thinking again of the many times Master Bruce had returned to the cave and the manor, irritated and twitchy, muttering to himself about the audacity of primary-colored Boy Scouts.
“With a little guidance, of course,” Martha replies as the waitress arrives to refresh their tea. “I won't need to begin dinner preparations for another hour.”
“Plenty of time to discern a course of action then.” Alfred takes in the delicious aroma of the tea. “Fine choice in restaurants, by the way. I approve.”
“I thought you might.”
And Alfred realizes that this is the beginning of a beautiful, beautiful friendship.
The poor boys will never know what hit them.
Besides. Alfred doesn't mind. He so rarely leaves Gotham as it is and for such pleasant company. It's almost a shame Mrs. Kent is a married woman. Mr. Kent is a very lucky man.
They choose a restaurant because while both are skilled cooks, it is a novelty to be served by others. Besides, Mrs. Kent – call me, Martha, aren't we soon to be family? – assures him that their biscuits are the best this side of the Atlantic. Alfred is willing to give a lady of her impeccable taste the benefit of the doubt.
Polite chatter fills the wait between placing their order and their snacks arriving. Once the tea is poured and biscuits divvied, the real business begins.
“Tell me,” Martha says, tucking a stray gray curl behind her ear. “Is yours half as stubborn as mine?”
“Twice than, I'm afraid.” Alfred restrains a sigh, but only just. “Not to mention paranoid.” Bruce has learned to take caution to a level heretofore never seen.
Martha chuckles. “That is a difference. Mine trusts almost to his detriment.” She sips at her tea. “He is convinced that yours only needs more persuasion. That persistence wins out.”
“Not in my case. Sir is more likely to dig his heels in on principle alone.”
“I was afraid of that.” The corners of her eyes crinkle with amusement. “I've offered advice but he hears only half of it. I suspect, in part, because not even he understands why he is trying so hard.”
Alfred's lips curve with amusement. “Ah. To be so young again.”
They share a commiserating grin. This is a point of great hilarity for Alfred. As suave, smooth, brilliant and observant as Master Bruce could be, he is painfully blind to the dedication that Superman gives him.
“I assume you have a plan then?” Martha asks as she chooses one of their selection of assorted biscuits.
“I do think between the two of us we can determine a solution.” Alfred stirs his own tea, the light aroma floating to his nostrils enticingly.
“Because we are far more stubborn and have decades more experience,” Martha agrees with a little laugh. “My son won't take much prompting. I fear you'll have the lion's share of the work.”
“Oh. Sir is easy to handle if you have the knowledge.” Alfred waves a dismissing hand. “You simply have to give him the proper incentive.”
“Incentive, hm?” Both of Martha's eyebrows raise in curiosity. “And what would possibly tempt Gotham's most eligible prince?”
Alfred shifts in his seat, mischief rising within and making him feel young again. “A challenge,” he replies and oh, Master Bruce might be angry at first, but he'll be grateful by the end.
Meddling, after all, is what butlers are for.
“Something, I think, your son can offer him,” Alfred adds, thinking again of the many times Master Bruce had returned to the cave and the manor, irritated and twitchy, muttering to himself about the audacity of primary-colored Boy Scouts.
“With a little guidance, of course,” Martha replies as the waitress arrives to refresh their tea. “I won't need to begin dinner preparations for another hour.”
“Plenty of time to discern a course of action then.” Alfred takes in the delicious aroma of the tea. “Fine choice in restaurants, by the way. I approve.”
“I thought you might.”
And Alfred realizes that this is the beginning of a beautiful, beautiful friendship.
The poor boys will never know what hit them.
a/n: I'm hoping RL will cut me a break so I can finish off the last three. I've started one, hit a stall on the second, and finally got an idea for the third. My apologies for the delay.
Feedback, as always, is welcome and appreciated.
