Fic: Smile
May. 12th, 2010 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
randomramblingsTitle: Smile
Fandom: Transformers (IDW: Megatron Origin)
Pairing: Slight Megatron/Thundercracker (non-romantic)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 606
Warnings: Slight blood and violence, peer pressure, stylistic run-on abuse
Fighting in the arena is supposed to be an honor, something Megatron rarely affords them—and for this, Thundercracker is grateful—but when his youngest brother snidely informs him that he has not proven his worth to their new leader, he is hesitant to comply. He doesn’t usually resist what his brothers want, he is passive that way, even during an interface, and even now he only puts up the slightest resistance.
“You do not understand,” he says, and the conflict is evident in every part of his being—his face, his voice, the way he carries himself. “You do not understand because you are too young.”
“And you presume to know what I can comprehend and what I cannot?” Starscream replies. “You are at fault. You are outnumbered.”
And he is. His brothers hold too much sway in his decisions. They are his family—all brought online facing one another. How can he argue with that? The answer is simple:
He can’t.
He does not remember the how or why he is in the arena at this point—there was never any purpose for it all expect for sport—and he hates himself for giving in again, but he faces certain death either way. Take life to save your own. Kill or be killed.
The arena lights create an unpleasant glare in his optics, beating down hot on the plating of his wings, and the roar of the crowd rings in his audio and he can see how his brothers enjoy this. But he is neither Starscream nor Skywarp—he doesn’t understand the need for constant flattery and encouragement—and instead he feels self-conscious against the hundreds of gazes upon him, wings held close together on his back. It heavily discomforts him that he is now part of this spectator sport that he originally wanted no part of in the first place, and in a way, he feels for the mech in front of him because he does not know that it is all part of Megatron’s larger plan—merely a puppet that does not know when its strings are being pulled.
And when he finds a fist smashing into the side of his faceplates, he does not resist. He can feel his neck cabling strain violently from the immediate reaction of his helm snapping to the left from the force of impact, and feedback squeals in his audios, yet he seems somewhat removed from it all. In this small act—in refusing to participate—he is offering up his own brand of resistance. A painful kind, yes, but resistance nonetheless. And despite the repeated injury over and over again, there is an overwhelming sense of power in knowing Megatron is not receiving any satisfaction from his underwhelming performance.
He vaguely remembers his brothers swarming down from the rafters to take over the bout for him before he offlined, Skywarp practically tearing the mech’s helm from his shoulders, cabling sparking and bathing his adjacent brother’s white wings in a swath of purple and Starscream revels in it. And then there is Megatron, his face a blank mask as he watches from his place in the stands.
He does not know if he proved his point.
A hand is gently stroking down the expanse of his injured wings when he comes to in the crude repair bay underneath the arena and he looks placidly up at the mech whom his brothers chose to follow.
“You have displeased me greatly, Thundercracker,” Megatron informs him, his voice rough and harsh in disapproval. “You do not believe in the cause.”
And for once, Thundercracker smiles.
“Thank you, Sir.”
Fandom: Transformers (IDW: Megatron Origin)
Pairing: Slight Megatron/Thundercracker (non-romantic)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 606
Warnings: Slight blood and violence, peer pressure, stylistic run-on abuse
Fighting in the arena is supposed to be an honor, something Megatron rarely affords them—and for this, Thundercracker is grateful—but when his youngest brother snidely informs him that he has not proven his worth to their new leader, he is hesitant to comply. He doesn’t usually resist what his brothers want, he is passive that way, even during an interface, and even now he only puts up the slightest resistance.
“You do not understand,” he says, and the conflict is evident in every part of his being—his face, his voice, the way he carries himself. “You do not understand because you are too young.”
“And you presume to know what I can comprehend and what I cannot?” Starscream replies. “You are at fault. You are outnumbered.”
And he is. His brothers hold too much sway in his decisions. They are his family—all brought online facing one another. How can he argue with that? The answer is simple:
He can’t.
He does not remember the how or why he is in the arena at this point—there was never any purpose for it all expect for sport—and he hates himself for giving in again, but he faces certain death either way. Take life to save your own. Kill or be killed.
The arena lights create an unpleasant glare in his optics, beating down hot on the plating of his wings, and the roar of the crowd rings in his audio and he can see how his brothers enjoy this. But he is neither Starscream nor Skywarp—he doesn’t understand the need for constant flattery and encouragement—and instead he feels self-conscious against the hundreds of gazes upon him, wings held close together on his back. It heavily discomforts him that he is now part of this spectator sport that he originally wanted no part of in the first place, and in a way, he feels for the mech in front of him because he does not know that it is all part of Megatron’s larger plan—merely a puppet that does not know when its strings are being pulled.
And when he finds a fist smashing into the side of his faceplates, he does not resist. He can feel his neck cabling strain violently from the immediate reaction of his helm snapping to the left from the force of impact, and feedback squeals in his audios, yet he seems somewhat removed from it all. In this small act—in refusing to participate—he is offering up his own brand of resistance. A painful kind, yes, but resistance nonetheless. And despite the repeated injury over and over again, there is an overwhelming sense of power in knowing Megatron is not receiving any satisfaction from his underwhelming performance.
He vaguely remembers his brothers swarming down from the rafters to take over the bout for him before he offlined, Skywarp practically tearing the mech’s helm from his shoulders, cabling sparking and bathing his adjacent brother’s white wings in a swath of purple and Starscream revels in it. And then there is Megatron, his face a blank mask as he watches from his place in the stands.
He does not know if he proved his point.
A hand is gently stroking down the expanse of his injured wings when he comes to in the crude repair bay underneath the arena and he looks placidly up at the mech whom his brothers chose to follow.
“You have displeased me greatly, Thundercracker,” Megatron informs him, his voice rough and harsh in disapproval. “You do not believe in the cause.”
And for once, Thundercracker smiles.
“Thank you, Sir.”
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no subject
Date: 2010-05-13 09:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-05-30 05:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-07-08 04:41 am (UTC)Great job ^__^ While I applaud TC's little bit of resistance, if he keeps it up he's not going to be around to resist xS