Tired fish writes badly
Mar. 13th, 2007 07:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koilungfish12/2/07 - Fail
13/2/07 - Quiet [TF:G1, pre-Earth]
They left camp on the salt barrens at dawn and, by mid-morning, they had reached the river.
The low breeze ruffled the water until it rippled like shaken silver foil. Bluestreak hunkered down with the others, pitifully aware of their total exposure to watching sky-eyes, as Mirage forded ahead. His invisibility couldn't hide the broad ripple he left in the current.
Downstream, the river turned into a tarnished plane and vanished into the constant gloom. Upstream, silhouetted against the morning sunlight that turned the horizon into a band of fearsome gold, rose the cog-toothed half-circle known only as Gear Arch. Behind its awesome arc the sky was banded in rose, green and then the everdark of the nameless planet's sky.
In utter silence, Bluestreak huddled between Smokescreen and Jazz and waited for the all-clear.
There was a ripple in the tall grass across the river; either Mirage had reached the far shore or he'd been spotted.
Then came the correct click on the radio.
As silently as possible, Bluestreak followed Smokescreen into the river, activating the floaters clamped to his back. He kept close to Jazz, keeping one hand on the saboteur's arm as he glanced behind them for pursuit. There was nothing but the dimly purple expanse of the salt barrens and the blur of mountains thousands of miles away.
Under Hound's hologram they forded the river, slipping as quickly and as silently as possible into the tall weeds. The water here came up to their waists, but the weeds were up to their shoulders. Bluestreak deactivated his floaters and slotted into line, behind Smokescreen and in front of Jazz. Mirage took the rear and Hound took point with Prowl behind him.
In single file they crept, hunched over, trying to keep stray doors and missiles beneath the frondline. The grass shuffled and murmured around them, shifting coarse blades together in whispers. Bluestreak could feel the dead leaves coil around his feet like heavy serpents, dragging on his legs.
Bluestreak listened for jets, but heard only the shush of the grass and the rill of the river, the low drone of the breeze and the distant groan-creak of the groves ahead.
The line faltered; Hound had broached the border of a wide, clear pool - a sinkhole. Bluestreak halted with the others, hunkered up to his bumper in the cold water as Hound drew back amongst the grass and sought out a new route. He imagined their trail through the weeds behind them, a silver line wending amongst the grasses, clear as a laser-cut from above.
Do you think we'll make it to the groves? he wanted to ask Mirage. Do you think we'l get through? Do you think we'll succeed? Do you think the water will damage us? Do you think the weeds are dangerous? Do you think the Decepticons have spotted us? Do you think they will spot us? Do you think the weeds are mined? Do you think the groves are patrolled? Do you think -
Anything- other than the silence, the hush of water and weed.
They left the faint shadow of Gear Arch as it rose into the dark sky. Glance up, Bluestreak could see the smooth sides, untouched by centuried winds, climb up ten times his height into dimness, shadow and the evergloom. Far away, in the midst of the groves, the other side came down like a pillar from the stars. It was massive, silent and entirely without a function Bluestreak could comprehend.
Who built it? he wanted to ask Jazz. Who came here to build it? When did they build it? Why did they build it? Why did they leave? Why did they come? Why here?
Why so quiet?
The mud underfoot grew thicker. Bluestreak could feel it oozing along his seams, slushing at his joints. The weeds clung to his ankles and knees, heavy like lead. The grass was getting taller, well over his head. At least now he could stand up straight, but he could see nothing on either side. A neat wedge between him and the horizon was blotted out by brownish grass-blades. A low-flying hoverjet could be on them at any moment. He listened for the whine of engines, or the scream of jets high above, or the chatter of helicopters, or even the snarl of turbines.
How many Decepticons are here? he would have questiond Prowl. How many jets? How many whats? Who's in command?
It was bad enough to be an uninformed gunner, but the hush was vast - thousands of miles of hush in all directions, nothing but grass and water and barren salt-pan everywhere but forwards.
The mud was becoming solid, the ground-level rising to lift them out of the water. The grass towered three times their height or more.
Hound led them into a defile, where the grass soared up to close out all but a slit of dark sky. Ahead, Bluestreak could see wet metal backs and dirty metal bodies. Behind, he could see Mirage's chest and face floating above a dark-drenched torso, below a green band of sky.
The defile led on until the ground was dry and Bluestreak could kick aside the weeds that clung to his ankle. They were out of water, away from that lethal silver trail that had followed them from the river, but now the grass was dying back. They were in the narrow band of scrub that separated wood from weed, grove from water. Once more Bluestreak hunched over, lowering his doors, trying to keep his missiles out of the thin light.
Ahead, the forest groves shook their dusk-blue leaves, their faint scattering of golden flowers reaching for the distant sun. Golden pollen twinkled in the breeze. The forest was dark, rustling as trees conspired in the wind.
Beyond the forest was the crater, and bare rocky slopes they would have to descend. In the crater, nose-down and tilted, was a Decepticon war-ship, crashed and disabled.
The crew - dead? Alive? Injured? Bluestreak wondered. Are we going to save them or destroy them? Will we find nobody alive? Will they leave nobody alive?
The hush, the hush, the soundless vista that opened his mind up and let all the bad thoughts out - it went on, and on, and on, until he was more afraid of his own thoughts than the Decepticons.
It was almost a relief when he heard the gutteral rattle of helicopters approaching.
13/2/07 - Quiet [TF:G1, pre-Earth]
They left camp on the salt barrens at dawn and, by mid-morning, they had reached the river.
The low breeze ruffled the water until it rippled like shaken silver foil. Bluestreak hunkered down with the others, pitifully aware of their total exposure to watching sky-eyes, as Mirage forded ahead. His invisibility couldn't hide the broad ripple he left in the current.
Downstream, the river turned into a tarnished plane and vanished into the constant gloom. Upstream, silhouetted against the morning sunlight that turned the horizon into a band of fearsome gold, rose the cog-toothed half-circle known only as Gear Arch. Behind its awesome arc the sky was banded in rose, green and then the everdark of the nameless planet's sky.
In utter silence, Bluestreak huddled between Smokescreen and Jazz and waited for the all-clear.
There was a ripple in the tall grass across the river; either Mirage had reached the far shore or he'd been spotted.
Then came the correct click on the radio.
As silently as possible, Bluestreak followed Smokescreen into the river, activating the floaters clamped to his back. He kept close to Jazz, keeping one hand on the saboteur's arm as he glanced behind them for pursuit. There was nothing but the dimly purple expanse of the salt barrens and the blur of mountains thousands of miles away.
Under Hound's hologram they forded the river, slipping as quickly and as silently as possible into the tall weeds. The water here came up to their waists, but the weeds were up to their shoulders. Bluestreak deactivated his floaters and slotted into line, behind Smokescreen and in front of Jazz. Mirage took the rear and Hound took point with Prowl behind him.
In single file they crept, hunched over, trying to keep stray doors and missiles beneath the frondline. The grass shuffled and murmured around them, shifting coarse blades together in whispers. Bluestreak could feel the dead leaves coil around his feet like heavy serpents, dragging on his legs.
Bluestreak listened for jets, but heard only the shush of the grass and the rill of the river, the low drone of the breeze and the distant groan-creak of the groves ahead.
The line faltered; Hound had broached the border of a wide, clear pool - a sinkhole. Bluestreak halted with the others, hunkered up to his bumper in the cold water as Hound drew back amongst the grass and sought out a new route. He imagined their trail through the weeds behind them, a silver line wending amongst the grasses, clear as a laser-cut from above.
Do you think we'll make it to the groves? he wanted to ask Mirage. Do you think we'l get through? Do you think we'll succeed? Do you think the water will damage us? Do you think the weeds are dangerous? Do you think the Decepticons have spotted us? Do you think they will spot us? Do you think the weeds are mined? Do you think the groves are patrolled? Do you think -
Anything- other than the silence, the hush of water and weed.
They left the faint shadow of Gear Arch as it rose into the dark sky. Glance up, Bluestreak could see the smooth sides, untouched by centuried winds, climb up ten times his height into dimness, shadow and the evergloom. Far away, in the midst of the groves, the other side came down like a pillar from the stars. It was massive, silent and entirely without a function Bluestreak could comprehend.
Who built it? he wanted to ask Jazz. Who came here to build it? When did they build it? Why did they build it? Why did they leave? Why did they come? Why here?
Why so quiet?
The mud underfoot grew thicker. Bluestreak could feel it oozing along his seams, slushing at his joints. The weeds clung to his ankles and knees, heavy like lead. The grass was getting taller, well over his head. At least now he could stand up straight, but he could see nothing on either side. A neat wedge between him and the horizon was blotted out by brownish grass-blades. A low-flying hoverjet could be on them at any moment. He listened for the whine of engines, or the scream of jets high above, or the chatter of helicopters, or even the snarl of turbines.
How many Decepticons are here? he would have questiond Prowl. How many jets? How many whats? Who's in command?
It was bad enough to be an uninformed gunner, but the hush was vast - thousands of miles of hush in all directions, nothing but grass and water and barren salt-pan everywhere but forwards.
The mud was becoming solid, the ground-level rising to lift them out of the water. The grass towered three times their height or more.
Hound led them into a defile, where the grass soared up to close out all but a slit of dark sky. Ahead, Bluestreak could see wet metal backs and dirty metal bodies. Behind, he could see Mirage's chest and face floating above a dark-drenched torso, below a green band of sky.
The defile led on until the ground was dry and Bluestreak could kick aside the weeds that clung to his ankle. They were out of water, away from that lethal silver trail that had followed them from the river, but now the grass was dying back. They were in the narrow band of scrub that separated wood from weed, grove from water. Once more Bluestreak hunched over, lowering his doors, trying to keep his missiles out of the thin light.
Ahead, the forest groves shook their dusk-blue leaves, their faint scattering of golden flowers reaching for the distant sun. Golden pollen twinkled in the breeze. The forest was dark, rustling as trees conspired in the wind.
Beyond the forest was the crater, and bare rocky slopes they would have to descend. In the crater, nose-down and tilted, was a Decepticon war-ship, crashed and disabled.
The crew - dead? Alive? Injured? Bluestreak wondered. Are we going to save them or destroy them? Will we find nobody alive? Will they leave nobody alive?
The hush, the hush, the soundless vista that opened his mind up and let all the bad thoughts out - it went on, and on, and on, until he was more afraid of his own thoughts than the Decepticons.
It was almost a relief when he heard the gutteral rattle of helicopters approaching.
