Transformers (Tracks)
Oct. 6th, 2007 05:40 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
apathocles.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
kinkfestTitle: as yet untitled
Author: Apathy
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Violence.
Word count: 867.
Prompt: Starscream/Tracks: jealousy over the other's supposed "beauty" - "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence"
Summary: Having the best of both worlds isn't always everything it's cracked up to be.
A/N: On time, WTF. Of course, this is made up for by the fact that a) I can't think of a title for the life of me (I'll try to come up with one tomorrow), and b) this story is almost certainly the antithesis of what the prompter wanted. Genner than a really gen thing. Sorry. :(
Consciousness creeps up slowly, those sensors still functioning filling in the blanks while his optics struggle back online.
Stale air, heavy with exhaust fumes. Thin puddles of water beneath his hands. The sputtering hum of an energon cage.
It doesn't take a genius to work out that he's in the Decepticon base. Which is lucky, because the dent in the side of his head is leaving Tracks feeling decidedly below his brilliant best. He wonders idly if this is what it feels like to be that aft-headed buffoon, Sunstreaker.
One optic flickers uncertainly, functionality fluctuating wildly before more or less levelling out somewhere around the forty percent mark. Far from ideal, but he'll gladly take it.
A dazzling array of warnings parades across his vision, and he notes them, before switching them off. Nothing immediately life-threatening -- obviously, the Decepticons want him to remain amongst the functional, at least for now -- and it's not like there's anything he can do about any of his injuries, anyway.
He levers himself up into a sitting position, careful not to brush the bars of his prison, and takes in the depressing details of his current predicament. There's not much left to discover, really, except for the identity of his captor.
A Seeker is leaning against a nearby wall, arms folded, enveloped almost entirely in shadow. The pink glow of the energon bars slides off the planes of the Decepticon's face, and it's just enough to reveal his expression: a very particular brand of sneer that is uniquely Starscream.
Tracks zooms his vision, trying to focus his errant optic through sheer force of will. Starscream seems distracted, staring off into space, one hand clenching and unclenching every so often with a rasp of metal. Probably plotting some piece of Machiavellian madness.
One of Starscream's wings catches the light as the Decepticon shifts slightly, and Tracks feels a sudden surge of... he's not sure how to classify it. Never is, on the rare occasions it strikes. It's certainly not jealousy -- he's far above such petty things -- but....
There's disgust, and loathing, of course -- Starscream is despicable, even by Decepticon standards. There's also a strange kind of semi-admiration, on a purely aesthetic level -- Seekers are built for speed, and he can appreciate that, can respect their sleek and deadly grace.
It's what plays beneath that, though, that makes him desperate to turn his thoughts to anything else, the dark undercurrent of longing that hits him hard and fast in the fuel tank.
Decepticons are made to fly. Autobots... are not.
Oh, there are exceptions on both sides, of course. And he adores his alt-mode, gorgeous and versatile as it is.
But for every Autobot who glances admiringly at his wings, there is another who eyes them with wary distrust. Even with Cliffjumper and his not inconsiderable neuroses removed from the equation, there are still days when he can feel the stares. Skyfire gets the brunt of it, now, but he can't bring himself to feel pleased about that particular outcome.
And the Decepticons... well, they've made a habit of letting him know just how defective he is. Sure, he's blasted them out of the sky enough times for them to only say certain things when they're well out of missile range, but it never stops being... vexing.
The other Autobots don't get it when he wants to go off flying, accuse him of thinking he's above all the rest of them. They don't know what it is to see the world spread out like an Iaconian tapestry below, all the noise and chaos reduced to the howl of wind and being able to see into forever. How could anyone deny themselves this, given the opportunity to take it?
Cosmos is hardly ever around, and he can't talk to Skyfire about it, because it would just feel petty to unburden himself on someone who obviously has far bigger problems to deal with. And he certainly can't ask Skyfire to go flying with him. Even taking it slow, Skyfire would be a speck in the distance within nano-kliks, while Tracks would still be trying to find a place suitable for take-off, slow and clunky, unable to keep pace or go too far because he's not a real flyer --
He de-rails that train of thought, shoving it viciously into a dark corner of his processor and locking it up tight.
The trembling of his hands provides a welcome distraction, and he calls the damage reports up again, noting that his energon levels are now down to eleven percent. Shakily, he reaches up and touches the jagged stump where his left wing used to be. The energon leak is down to an ooze, but his energy levels are too low for auto-repair to seal the wound off completely.
The movement must catch Starscream's attention, because the Decepticon's head jerks up, and his optics narrow. Tracks notices for the first time the location of his missing wings, mangled and torn beyond repair, their components scattered carelessly across the ground. One wing is pinned beneath Starscream's heel, the pose almost possessive.
'What are you looking at, Autoscum?'
'Nothing,' Tracks murmurs. 'Nothing at all.'
Author: Apathy
Rating: PG-13.
Warnings: Violence.
Word count: 867.
Prompt: Starscream/Tracks: jealousy over the other's supposed "beauty" - "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence"
Summary: Having the best of both worlds isn't always everything it's cracked up to be.
A/N: On time, WTF. Of course, this is made up for by the fact that a) I can't think of a title for the life of me (I'll try to come up with one tomorrow), and b) this story is almost certainly the antithesis of what the prompter wanted. Genner than a really gen thing. Sorry. :(
Consciousness creeps up slowly, those sensors still functioning filling in the blanks while his optics struggle back online.
Stale air, heavy with exhaust fumes. Thin puddles of water beneath his hands. The sputtering hum of an energon cage.
It doesn't take a genius to work out that he's in the Decepticon base. Which is lucky, because the dent in the side of his head is leaving Tracks feeling decidedly below his brilliant best. He wonders idly if this is what it feels like to be that aft-headed buffoon, Sunstreaker.
One optic flickers uncertainly, functionality fluctuating wildly before more or less levelling out somewhere around the forty percent mark. Far from ideal, but he'll gladly take it.
A dazzling array of warnings parades across his vision, and he notes them, before switching them off. Nothing immediately life-threatening -- obviously, the Decepticons want him to remain amongst the functional, at least for now -- and it's not like there's anything he can do about any of his injuries, anyway.
He levers himself up into a sitting position, careful not to brush the bars of his prison, and takes in the depressing details of his current predicament. There's not much left to discover, really, except for the identity of his captor.
A Seeker is leaning against a nearby wall, arms folded, enveloped almost entirely in shadow. The pink glow of the energon bars slides off the planes of the Decepticon's face, and it's just enough to reveal his expression: a very particular brand of sneer that is uniquely Starscream.
Tracks zooms his vision, trying to focus his errant optic through sheer force of will. Starscream seems distracted, staring off into space, one hand clenching and unclenching every so often with a rasp of metal. Probably plotting some piece of Machiavellian madness.
One of Starscream's wings catches the light as the Decepticon shifts slightly, and Tracks feels a sudden surge of... he's not sure how to classify it. Never is, on the rare occasions it strikes. It's certainly not jealousy -- he's far above such petty things -- but....
There's disgust, and loathing, of course -- Starscream is despicable, even by Decepticon standards. There's also a strange kind of semi-admiration, on a purely aesthetic level -- Seekers are built for speed, and he can appreciate that, can respect their sleek and deadly grace.
It's what plays beneath that, though, that makes him desperate to turn his thoughts to anything else, the dark undercurrent of longing that hits him hard and fast in the fuel tank.
Decepticons are made to fly. Autobots... are not.
Oh, there are exceptions on both sides, of course. And he adores his alt-mode, gorgeous and versatile as it is.
But for every Autobot who glances admiringly at his wings, there is another who eyes them with wary distrust. Even with Cliffjumper and his not inconsiderable neuroses removed from the equation, there are still days when he can feel the stares. Skyfire gets the brunt of it, now, but he can't bring himself to feel pleased about that particular outcome.
And the Decepticons... well, they've made a habit of letting him know just how defective he is. Sure, he's blasted them out of the sky enough times for them to only say certain things when they're well out of missile range, but it never stops being... vexing.
The other Autobots don't get it when he wants to go off flying, accuse him of thinking he's above all the rest of them. They don't know what it is to see the world spread out like an Iaconian tapestry below, all the noise and chaos reduced to the howl of wind and being able to see into forever. How could anyone deny themselves this, given the opportunity to take it?
Cosmos is hardly ever around, and he can't talk to Skyfire about it, because it would just feel petty to unburden himself on someone who obviously has far bigger problems to deal with. And he certainly can't ask Skyfire to go flying with him. Even taking it slow, Skyfire would be a speck in the distance within nano-kliks, while Tracks would still be trying to find a place suitable for take-off, slow and clunky, unable to keep pace or go too far because he's not a real flyer --
He de-rails that train of thought, shoving it viciously into a dark corner of his processor and locking it up tight.
The trembling of his hands provides a welcome distraction, and he calls the damage reports up again, noting that his energon levels are now down to eleven percent. Shakily, he reaches up and touches the jagged stump where his left wing used to be. The energon leak is down to an ooze, but his energy levels are too low for auto-repair to seal the wound off completely.
The movement must catch Starscream's attention, because the Decepticon's head jerks up, and his optics narrow. Tracks notices for the first time the location of his missing wings, mangled and torn beyond repair, their components scattered carelessly across the ground. One wing is pinned beneath Starscream's heel, the pose almost possessive.
'What are you looking at, Autoscum?'
'Nothing,' Tracks murmurs. 'Nothing at all.'
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