Advent #13
Dec. 21st, 2006 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
seiberwingSo I'm going to try volunteering for Mobile Meals for a few weeks. I'd basically drive the meals around to old people's houses and help them out with a few things. Should be interesting.
Thrust curled up as the voices inside the apartment grew louder, harsher. Something crashed against the window with a loud grunt, and Thrust tried not to whimper. He should be up there, doing something, what if they were killing him…
Windtunnel had ordered him under the balcony half an hour ago. He was not to leave, not to move, just to stay still and silent.
Thrust heard a thin, high-pitched shriek from inside and pulled his legs close to his chest. He pulled his energon dagger from subspace and held it tightly, more for moral support than anything else.
The voices faded and someone walked out onto the balcony. Thrust pictured himself as a sheet of dead metal, undetectable. If the mech above wanted to find him, he would be found.
“Come out, Thrust. It’s all right.”
He’s alive. He’s safe. I’m safe. Thrust flew back up over the railing, his surging circuitry starting to calm down.
“What happened?”
The apartment’s meeting room looked like a streetcleaner had run through it. Datapads were strewn across the floor, statues were bashed in—please let that one have been a replica—and Windtunnel himself was a mess of dents and black smudges.
Windtunnel grabbed a bottle of pure-grade energon from the cabinet and took a large gulp. Thrust had never seen him drink straight from the bottle. “Business trouble, and that’s all I will tell you about it.”
“I could have taken care of them.” Thrust held the dagger loosely in his creator’s direction. Killing was nothing; part of his function was assassination.
“Then they would have sent more mechs, more than you could deal with.” Windtunnel began delicately wiping at his wing with a shammy. “I’ve dealt with loss before, Thrust. A bit of dignity, a bit of comfort—” He winced, and Thrust saw a few drops of mech fluid drip out from beneath the shammy. “A bit of paint. This is nothing.”
He looked at Thrust, still holding the shammy over his wing. “But there are some things I do not wish to be used against me.”
Thrust curled up as the voices inside the apartment grew louder, harsher. Something crashed against the window with a loud grunt, and Thrust tried not to whimper. He should be up there, doing something, what if they were killing him…
Windtunnel had ordered him under the balcony half an hour ago. He was not to leave, not to move, just to stay still and silent.
Thrust heard a thin, high-pitched shriek from inside and pulled his legs close to his chest. He pulled his energon dagger from subspace and held it tightly, more for moral support than anything else.
The voices faded and someone walked out onto the balcony. Thrust pictured himself as a sheet of dead metal, undetectable. If the mech above wanted to find him, he would be found.
“Come out, Thrust. It’s all right.”
He’s alive. He’s safe. I’m safe. Thrust flew back up over the railing, his surging circuitry starting to calm down.
“What happened?”
The apartment’s meeting room looked like a streetcleaner had run through it. Datapads were strewn across the floor, statues were bashed in—please let that one have been a replica—and Windtunnel himself was a mess of dents and black smudges.
Windtunnel grabbed a bottle of pure-grade energon from the cabinet and took a large gulp. Thrust had never seen him drink straight from the bottle. “Business trouble, and that’s all I will tell you about it.”
“I could have taken care of them.” Thrust held the dagger loosely in his creator’s direction. Killing was nothing; part of his function was assassination.
“Then they would have sent more mechs, more than you could deal with.” Windtunnel began delicately wiping at his wing with a shammy. “I’ve dealt with loss before, Thrust. A bit of dignity, a bit of comfort—” He winced, and Thrust saw a few drops of mech fluid drip out from beneath the shammy. “A bit of paint. This is nothing.”
He looked at Thrust, still holding the shammy over his wing. “But there are some things I do not wish to be used against me.”
