Look ma, I'm not dead!
May. 8th, 2007 07:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
koilungfish14/4/07 - 508 words on Ark Visit
15/4/07 - 852 words on Ark Visit
16/4/07-7/5/07 - Ill
8/5/07 - Quiet, pt 3
The helicopters didn't come back that night.
Bluestreak sat through the howling darkness of the un-named planet, surrounded by the voiceless baying of the night wind and the thrashing of the trees. The air was filled with unseen pollen, brushing over his surface, dry as memories. His thin coat of mud dried, flaked and flew away with the pollen. All around, the blue trees tossed their branches in the wind, shushing and rushing and creaking.
His stand of watch was a blind vigil, surrounded by darkness and the rushing of the leaves. There was no comforting, homely sound - no rumble of traffic, no whine of engines, no hum of hover-drive, no whine of Decepticon antigrav, no voices, not even gunfire. He stood watch with infrared, and saw nothing but cold, twitching trees; he stood watch in electro-magnetic and saw only the bright and distant blur of the crippled cruiser. When he managed to catch a handful of sleep, the wind snuck into his half-dreams, whistling around his missile launchers, shaking his doors with cold hands and laughing with the crackle of falling branches.
Bluestreak was glad of the morning, and the faint green glow on the skyline beyond the groves. He wasn't glad of Jazz breaking the silence by laughing aloud.
Each and every one of them was covered in a fine film of bright golden pollen.
Prowl glared at Jazz, trying to silence him with his deathly look. Mirage looked down his rocket launcher at the saboteur, trying to brush off the pollen that clung to his armour; he glowed softly, butter-golden like Iacon in a winter dawn. Hound shook his head and dusted himself with leaves. Bluestreak looked around, listening; there was nothing but the echoes of Jazz's sudden outburst and the sleepy murmurs of the dawn breeze.
"Jazz," Prowl whispered, shaking his head admonishingly.
"I always wanted to be gold-plated," Jazz giggled as quietly as he could, and joined Hound trying to brush off the gossamer gilt. Bluestreak dropped down on the grass and rolled around, tickled all over by the cold stems. The pollen flew off in clouds, rising over their night camp in a gentle haze of yellow.
"Lovely signal," Hound muttered, brushing Mirage's back.
"Careful," was all Mirage replied.
"We're late," Prowl hissed, swatting them with his cleaning branch to chivvy them on. Behind his back, Smokescreen tossed his head in half-humourous exasperation.
"Don’t think we're too late, Prowl," Jazz said softly, making Bluestreak flinch at the loudness.
"Sssh," Prowl replied, waving his hand in front of his face in sign for silence. Jazz chuckled quietly, but fell into file.
Mirage took point, sneaking through the trees, rifle in hand, and Bluestreak crept behind him, feeling Prowl radiating disapproval at his back. Morning mist swirled around his knees and bright wisps of pollen rained down from the trees. Bluestreak twitched at every branch that crunched underfoot, every thump of stumbling foot, every half-heard creak of tensor or gear.
A sudden crack -
Bluestreak spun around, shoulder launchers ready, disperser rifle raised.
"Sorry," Smokescreen said sheepishly, letting go of the tree he'd walked into.
"Do you need to check your optic sensors?" Prowl seethed.
"It's dark," Jazz pointed out. Through the trees, Bluestreak could just see a faint tinge of pink in the sky. It was barely dawn and scarcely light.
"Decepticons move at dawn," Prowl reminded them. "We could be attacked at any moment."
Bluestreak thought he heard a chuckle. It sounded like Jazz again ...
"Keep moving," Prowl ordered, as quietly as he could manage through his ire.
Mirage sighed and moved off again, Bluestreak following in his sure-footed prints.
The dry ground became damp, the branches sodden and quieter to tread on. The trees sagged down, straggly branches trailing the ground as plates of fungus bloated out of their bent trunks. Golden pollen gave way to black spores. Solid ground gave way to mushy loam. Bluestreak heard Mirage curse softly as he sank into the stinking muck. He heard Prowl's doors twitch - click! - with irritation.
The wind had stopped.
All around was nothing but silence and the noises of their own bodies. Not a murmur from the trees, not a sigh from the wind, not even the rill of the river or the rustle of the grasses.
"Eerie," Jazz said, his whisper carrying to Bluestreak even though he was back behind Prowl and Smokescreen.
"Ssh!" Prowl hissed, trying to shush him vehemently and softly at the same time.
Another crack -
Bluestreak spun fast enough to see a small branch fall from a tree.
"Smokescreen!" Jazz whispered, not quite laughing.
Bluestreak heard Prowl's gesticulation instead of seeing it, because he was focussed on the trees, on any movement, tremor in the ground or shiver in the air, on any magnetic return or electric signal.
Nothing. Not a movement, not a sound, not a thing. Not in front, not behind, not on either side, not above, nt below.
Bluestreak's doors shuddered. Where are they? Where are they? What are they doing? Why haven't they come yet? Where - when - how?
"Bluestreak?" Mirage whispered, touching his shoulder. Bluestreak realised he was making a low whining noise.
"Sorry," he said. "Just tense."
"We're almost there," Mirage said gently.
Prowl clicked his doors at them and gestured to move on, glaring fit to burn out his optics. They illuminated his face with a ghostly glow in the silent forest, too bright for stealth and too angry for speech. Bluestreak slipped back into step behind Mirage, ducking under the low branches, weaving around the spreading fungi.
The forest was thinning out, or just getting rotten. The trees grew shorter and shorter, bent double under their load of rotting platters, most of them already dead. The ground was sodden and pulpy, and Bluestreak sank into it halfway to his knees. Every step made a nasty schlup as he pulled his foot from the muck.
Schlup schlup. Schlup. Schlup schlup schlup.
Bluestreak cringed. The trees were low enough that they were forced to move at a crouch, dirty backs feeling too clean and too bright between the thin branches, signposting their presence with a chorus of squelches.
Schlp-schlp-schlp.
Bluestreak looked over his shoulder; just Jazz moving up the line, giving a hand to poor floundering Smokescreen.
Why can't the wind start again? Why does it have to smell so bad? Why can't we take a drier route? Why -
Splunch!
"Hgmrfh!" Prowl exclaimed.
Bluestreak swivelled around as best he could, half-stuck in the mud, and squeaked with repressed laughter. Prowl had fallen face-first into the mulch. Jazz, behind him, held out both hands, making tiny yeep-yeep-yeep sounds of not-very-well suppressed hilarity. Prowl flailed, half-buried. Bluestreak struggled back, got his hands under Prowl's shoulders and helped Jazz haul him back upright.
Bluestreak almost fell over laughing.
Prowl was coated in mud. His optics glowed blue as an acetylene torch in a face smothered in soil, rotten leaves and worse. The tactician pawed at his face, spitting, trying to get the worst of the mess off his chest and out of his vents. Half leaning on Bluestreak, half pushed by Jazz, both of them trying not to laugh at the squad leader's discomfort, they drag-carried-crept Prowl over to firmer ground.
"Thank Cybertron we didn't bring Sunstreaker," Mirage commented as Prowl spat and glared and blew air through his grill.
The tactician turned on Jazz. "You pushed me. Deliberately."
"I tripped. I'm sorry, Prowl," Jazz said, holding up his dirty hands. Smokescreen and Hound floundered up, Smokescreen still wobbling. He had splinters and smears of fungus all over him.
"Lovely planet," Mirage said to Hound.
"I prefer ones where I can drive," Hound replied with a shrug. Bluestreak wasn't sure why, but the sense of danger had passed. Perhaps it was the utter, windless silence. Not even a hoverjet could creep up on them in this hush.
Perhaps it was just Prowl's filthy disposition.
15/4/07 - 852 words on Ark Visit
16/4/07-7/5/07 - Ill
8/5/07 - Quiet, pt 3
The helicopters didn't come back that night.
Bluestreak sat through the howling darkness of the un-named planet, surrounded by the voiceless baying of the night wind and the thrashing of the trees. The air was filled with unseen pollen, brushing over his surface, dry as memories. His thin coat of mud dried, flaked and flew away with the pollen. All around, the blue trees tossed their branches in the wind, shushing and rushing and creaking.
His stand of watch was a blind vigil, surrounded by darkness and the rushing of the leaves. There was no comforting, homely sound - no rumble of traffic, no whine of engines, no hum of hover-drive, no whine of Decepticon antigrav, no voices, not even gunfire. He stood watch with infrared, and saw nothing but cold, twitching trees; he stood watch in electro-magnetic and saw only the bright and distant blur of the crippled cruiser. When he managed to catch a handful of sleep, the wind snuck into his half-dreams, whistling around his missile launchers, shaking his doors with cold hands and laughing with the crackle of falling branches.
Bluestreak was glad of the morning, and the faint green glow on the skyline beyond the groves. He wasn't glad of Jazz breaking the silence by laughing aloud.
Each and every one of them was covered in a fine film of bright golden pollen.
Prowl glared at Jazz, trying to silence him with his deathly look. Mirage looked down his rocket launcher at the saboteur, trying to brush off the pollen that clung to his armour; he glowed softly, butter-golden like Iacon in a winter dawn. Hound shook his head and dusted himself with leaves. Bluestreak looked around, listening; there was nothing but the echoes of Jazz's sudden outburst and the sleepy murmurs of the dawn breeze.
"Jazz," Prowl whispered, shaking his head admonishingly.
"I always wanted to be gold-plated," Jazz giggled as quietly as he could, and joined Hound trying to brush off the gossamer gilt. Bluestreak dropped down on the grass and rolled around, tickled all over by the cold stems. The pollen flew off in clouds, rising over their night camp in a gentle haze of yellow.
"Lovely signal," Hound muttered, brushing Mirage's back.
"Careful," was all Mirage replied.
"We're late," Prowl hissed, swatting them with his cleaning branch to chivvy them on. Behind his back, Smokescreen tossed his head in half-humourous exasperation.
"Don’t think we're too late, Prowl," Jazz said softly, making Bluestreak flinch at the loudness.
"Sssh," Prowl replied, waving his hand in front of his face in sign for silence. Jazz chuckled quietly, but fell into file.
Mirage took point, sneaking through the trees, rifle in hand, and Bluestreak crept behind him, feeling Prowl radiating disapproval at his back. Morning mist swirled around his knees and bright wisps of pollen rained down from the trees. Bluestreak twitched at every branch that crunched underfoot, every thump of stumbling foot, every half-heard creak of tensor or gear.
A sudden crack -
Bluestreak spun around, shoulder launchers ready, disperser rifle raised.
"Sorry," Smokescreen said sheepishly, letting go of the tree he'd walked into.
"Do you need to check your optic sensors?" Prowl seethed.
"It's dark," Jazz pointed out. Through the trees, Bluestreak could just see a faint tinge of pink in the sky. It was barely dawn and scarcely light.
"Decepticons move at dawn," Prowl reminded them. "We could be attacked at any moment."
Bluestreak thought he heard a chuckle. It sounded like Jazz again ...
"Keep moving," Prowl ordered, as quietly as he could manage through his ire.
Mirage sighed and moved off again, Bluestreak following in his sure-footed prints.
The dry ground became damp, the branches sodden and quieter to tread on. The trees sagged down, straggly branches trailing the ground as plates of fungus bloated out of their bent trunks. Golden pollen gave way to black spores. Solid ground gave way to mushy loam. Bluestreak heard Mirage curse softly as he sank into the stinking muck. He heard Prowl's doors twitch - click! - with irritation.
The wind had stopped.
All around was nothing but silence and the noises of their own bodies. Not a murmur from the trees, not a sigh from the wind, not even the rill of the river or the rustle of the grasses.
"Eerie," Jazz said, his whisper carrying to Bluestreak even though he was back behind Prowl and Smokescreen.
"Ssh!" Prowl hissed, trying to shush him vehemently and softly at the same time.
Another crack -
Bluestreak spun fast enough to see a small branch fall from a tree.
"Smokescreen!" Jazz whispered, not quite laughing.
Bluestreak heard Prowl's gesticulation instead of seeing it, because he was focussed on the trees, on any movement, tremor in the ground or shiver in the air, on any magnetic return or electric signal.
Nothing. Not a movement, not a sound, not a thing. Not in front, not behind, not on either side, not above, nt below.
Bluestreak's doors shuddered. Where are they? Where are they? What are they doing? Why haven't they come yet? Where - when - how?
"Bluestreak?" Mirage whispered, touching his shoulder. Bluestreak realised he was making a low whining noise.
"Sorry," he said. "Just tense."
"We're almost there," Mirage said gently.
Prowl clicked his doors at them and gestured to move on, glaring fit to burn out his optics. They illuminated his face with a ghostly glow in the silent forest, too bright for stealth and too angry for speech. Bluestreak slipped back into step behind Mirage, ducking under the low branches, weaving around the spreading fungi.
The forest was thinning out, or just getting rotten. The trees grew shorter and shorter, bent double under their load of rotting platters, most of them already dead. The ground was sodden and pulpy, and Bluestreak sank into it halfway to his knees. Every step made a nasty schlup as he pulled his foot from the muck.
Schlup schlup. Schlup. Schlup schlup schlup.
Bluestreak cringed. The trees were low enough that they were forced to move at a crouch, dirty backs feeling too clean and too bright between the thin branches, signposting their presence with a chorus of squelches.
Schlp-schlp-schlp.
Bluestreak looked over his shoulder; just Jazz moving up the line, giving a hand to poor floundering Smokescreen.
Why can't the wind start again? Why does it have to smell so bad? Why can't we take a drier route? Why -
Splunch!
"Hgmrfh!" Prowl exclaimed.
Bluestreak swivelled around as best he could, half-stuck in the mud, and squeaked with repressed laughter. Prowl had fallen face-first into the mulch. Jazz, behind him, held out both hands, making tiny yeep-yeep-yeep sounds of not-very-well suppressed hilarity. Prowl flailed, half-buried. Bluestreak struggled back, got his hands under Prowl's shoulders and helped Jazz haul him back upright.
Bluestreak almost fell over laughing.
Prowl was coated in mud. His optics glowed blue as an acetylene torch in a face smothered in soil, rotten leaves and worse. The tactician pawed at his face, spitting, trying to get the worst of the mess off his chest and out of his vents. Half leaning on Bluestreak, half pushed by Jazz, both of them trying not to laugh at the squad leader's discomfort, they drag-carried-crept Prowl over to firmer ground.
"Thank Cybertron we didn't bring Sunstreaker," Mirage commented as Prowl spat and glared and blew air through his grill.
The tactician turned on Jazz. "You pushed me. Deliberately."
"I tripped. I'm sorry, Prowl," Jazz said, holding up his dirty hands. Smokescreen and Hound floundered up, Smokescreen still wobbling. He had splinters and smears of fungus all over him.
"Lovely planet," Mirage said to Hound.
"I prefer ones where I can drive," Hound replied with a shrug. Bluestreak wasn't sure why, but the sense of danger had passed. Perhaps it was the utter, windless silence. Not even a hoverjet could creep up on them in this hush.
Perhaps it was just Prowl's filthy disposition.
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no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 07:26 pm (UTC)The air was filled with unseen pollen, brushing over his surface, dry as memories.
This sentence feels strange in my head. That first comma feels awkward. I can see why you'd need it, but... don't know. It causes my internal narration to hitch-up where it doesn't want to hitch-up. I'm sorry I can't be clearer or more helpful.
"Don’t think we're too late, Prowl," Jazz said softly, making Bluestreak flinch at the loudness.
This contrast from the earlier ones in this series is interesting. Before, it was the silence that was grating on Bluestreak, but now he's adapted to it that even soft voices make him flinch.
"Decepticons move at dawn," Prowl reminded them. "We could be attacked at any moment."
*snickers!* "Decepticons! We attack... at dawn!" (This tendancy also, BTW, makes me think a bit of a scene from Peter and Wendy.)
Not in front, not behind, not on either side, not above, nt below.
Not below.
And that's it for specific comments!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 09:26 pm (UTC)It is an odd sentence, I agree. I'm really not sure what the "dry as memories" bit means. I will revise it should this actually become a story rather than an aggregate of pieces.
Yes. The silence is oppressive, but loud noises mean possibly being shot at, so it's a bit six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Well, of course they attack at dawn ... Megatron said so ;)
Blasted typos, argh. I read over it to take out the typos from the first draft but miss all the typoes I put in in the second draft. Bogski.
Thanks :)
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 09:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 09:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-20 07:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 08:45 pm (UTC)Yay for snarly Prowl!
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 09:16 pm (UTC)Yay for snarly "Will you lot shut up?" Prowl or yay for snarly "I am covered in mud!" Prowl.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 11:47 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-09 08:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-09 05:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-09 05:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 09:52 pm (UTC)As usual, this is really stunning. Your visuals are always mind-bending. I can FEEL the quiet. The bit about Blue's different scans really highlighted the tension. There was just nothing out there...gave it a really nerve-wracking feel to it.
For some reason I really liked the way Prowl's doors 'click'--THAT was a nice touch, for sure. And the way his optics blaze...even though it is, as you said, too bright for stealth...Heh, 'do as I say and not as I do,' Prowl? =P
And the end was just absolutely priceless. I think after this is over, Jazz is going to just go somewhere and laugh for a day or so. XD
no subject
Date: 2007-05-08 10:02 pm (UTC)Well, I'm working with the idea that this is a planet where no animal life as evolved. There's soil and water and wind-pollinated plants, and that's it. It's amazing how quiet a landscape without even insects can be. Loon was right about it being tense-tense-tense rather, so some breaks are needed, otherwise it gets monotonous.
Given that Prowl doesn't get a great deal of characterisation in the cartoon, I tend to lean towards the comics for material, and he did have a pretty short fuse at times there. So Prowl trying very hard to be calm and collected but really wanting to yell at Jazz for not having his gears together ... it seemed about right.
Jazz already seems to be laughing. He seems to have got a joke that nobody else has so far ... we shall see where it ends up.
no subject
Date: 2007-05-20 07:06 pm (UTC)Any fic that has Prowl faceplant ito the mud, I can only like. ;D
I also liked the descriptions of the pollen-covered Autobots, and the surroundings and all.
Typo nitpick - Not in front, not behind, not on either side, not above, nt below." - should be "not below."
no subject
Date: 2007-05-21 08:13 pm (UTC)Sad Prowl in mud seems to be rather popular at the moment, heh.
Hurrah.
Bargh, typos everywhere!