Work Text:
Title: The Definition of Insanity
Author's Notes: Silverbolt insists that optimism is not insanity. No, really.
They say insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting different outcomes.
And yet, how can he not try? How can he give up on the being who makes his processor stutter to a halt and his spark flare hotter than this planet's sun?
Always, the results of his efforts are the same, but again and again he creates flimsy excuses on which to hang his hopes, until he can convince himself that the others are wrong. He can change her, is changing her, and he wonders why the others fail to see what is so clear to him.
Title: White Knight
She only says his name in private, when she won't have to deal with the...reactions. After all, it's hardly wise for a Predacon to appear too interested in a Maximal, particularly a Maximal the others deny exists.
She holds her silence, plays Megatron's loyal follower, waits and schemes and, when she imagines she can feel Tarantulas' filthy touch in places other than her mind, she slips away to curl up in darkness.
She whispers Silverbolt's name until he finds her, wraps her in his arms, and fills her head with the ridiculous promise that she deserves better than this.
Title: Self-Fulfilling Prophecy
He'd tried to warn the others, right from the start; tried, and kept trying, even when they made him a joke, even when they treated him like he didn't know his slaggin' job.
Tried right up to the end, when they'd told him - oh so gently, carefully, Optimus was always so slaggin' polite when he stabbed you in the back - that he'd become unstable, a danger, that he was confined to quarters.
Always underestimating him, and just how clever a rat could be.
Rattrap sat back and surveyed his work. The grin widened as he whispered, "We're all gonna die."
Title: The War Within
Two ships fall from space, leaving a single survivor to stagger from the wreckage.
He witnesses the volcanic pyre of his enemies, but never questions their attacks, nor that he has a crew with which to fight them.
As it should be.
Stasis pods tumble from orbit, shatter, spill doomed protoforms which are dubbed ally or enemy at his whim. Aliens are vanquished. Legends are saved.
His body changes, changes, changes, until he no longer remembers who or what he is supposed to be. Eventually, it will fail utterly.
Until then, Optimus Primal fights a war of his own making.
Title: Clean-up Crew
Author's Notes: No protoforms were harmed in the writing of this drabble.
Rhinox normally doesn't go out looking for downed stasis pods. But since the bots coming out of the pods stopped needing Pred meddling to go bad, he's been making exceptions.
The pod he's guarding cracks open, and the figure inside begins to emerge, all long ears and wide optics.
Rhinox doesn't know the cause, whether the protoforms were damaged by the alien attack which knocked them out of orbit, or something else.
"Hello?"
He readies his guns.
"W-wait! You're a Maximal! Like me!"
He fires.
"Plea--"
The things coming out of the pods are just so unpredictable these days.
Title: Happiness is a Ball of String
Author's Notes: Hey, at least SOMEONE is happily crazy this week.
Since getting back to Cybertron, Cheetor's visited every theme park on the planet.
This one is the best. There's almost too much to do: light shows to watch, towers to climb and then leap off of, mice to chase, obstacle courses and race games. He never wants to leave.
The latest light show ends with the light he'd been chasing trapped firmly under one paw, and he looks around, eager for more to do. A moment later, a jingly ball rolls past, and he's off in pursuit.
Sighing, Rhinox put the laser pointer away and left Cheetor to his games.
Title: All the World's a Stage
He has fought and prevailed on a thousand battlefields
knowing his foe's moves ahead of time, battles fought over and over under the choreographer's stern optics
fought and fallen on a hundred more, only to rise again
battlefields the size of a stage, hard wood and harsh lighting
He could tell the tales, but something stays him
battles remembered in snatches, ended when the director yelled "cut"
perhaps simply that his only companions are Maximals, who would not understand.
Dinobot is a great warrior, Earth a new battlefield for him to star upon. He simply wishes it had better lighting.
Title: Deeper Into the Fog
Author's Notes: This is Beast Wars meets Silent Hill, with all the OMG DO NOT WANT BAD WRONG NO GAHHH! that implies. Also I...I think I don't want to write for this prompt any more. *whimpers and curls up under a blankie*
The note must have been a trap.
Fog was everywhere, and Blackarachnia couldn't think past the noise, the shuffling, thudding, wet sound that grew nearer and louder as the fog thickened, until suddenly it was ahead of her and she could sense its rush of approach.
She dodged aside and grabbed the first weapon she could get her claws on, a rock the size of her head.
She didn't stop until the thing was on the ground, not moving, no longer even whimpering.
Grimly, she stepped over the wet mess of fur and feathers and moved deeper into the fog.