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Only Human

This plotless incomplete ficbit appeared out of the ether the other night and refused to budge until I’d written a little of it. I don't think it's going to go anywhere and no, I have zero idea of context ^__^ . I haven't got as far as wondering WHY any of it happened.

I have a second idea lurking in the wings – “Nothing Set in Stone” – which is also product of a dream, but that one can wait. I haven’t even decided if I want to upload it. It’s gone a bit weird. (People will probably be able to guess at least some elements of the plot based on the title and my love of puns.)

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It was times like this that a mech realised how long the dark cycle could be.

Skywarp had lain staring at the ceiling for a very long time, frustrated and simmering with questions he would never have the ability to answer. And thinking far too hard about it all to ever be able to get his dormancy protocols to engage.

He’d only just managed to finally wrap his processors around the mechanics of his ‘time travel’. Why he’d technically not travelled through time, so for the same reason couldn’t go back in time.


The room felt too warm. Stuffy. Uncomfortable. The subtle hum of air conditioning and the rustle of fabric intruded on his thoughts.


He could hear shuffling and the soft mutter of a quiet voice talking to itself.

Then something soft landed with a thump on his wing. He froze. “What was that?”

“It was me. I can’t sleep.” Pulsar’s voice came out of the darkness. “I’m coming up there. Stay still.” She gave a subtle grunt of effort, and another something landed on his wing.

“You can’t come up here. I’ll squash you.” But he stayed still, anyway, straining his sensors in an attempt to hear what she was doing. “Doctor’s orders! They made you your own berth and everything.”

“Yeah, but that’s down there. And I can’t sleep.” Another noise of effort and muffled swearing. “Need to-… maybe get a fuckin’-… ladder, next time.”

Skywarp could hear Pulsar’s toes scratching at the slick cover of his berth as she tried to get purchase on it. He bit down on a smile. She had trouble getting up on the berth at her normal size – now scarcely half her former height, it was more like an obstacle on an assault course.

He briefly pondered sitting up to help her, but didn’t know precisely where she was and didn’t want to crush her. Then the sensation of small, warm feet, walking carefully over his wing to where the soft thing had landed (he now figured it was probably a pillow) demonstrated that she’d finally managed it for herself.

“So?” he prompted, when movement had stopped.

“So… what?”

-----

(later. TC is checking up on them I think? I have no idea why he’s being such a mother hen)

Pulsar – the only one actually affected by the weirdness – was taking it all quite well in her stride. She couldn’t access her communications array and had to put up with Starscream’s nearly-inedible attempts at providing her with a sort of… biocompatible fuel, he figured? What did they call it? ‘Food’? But otherwise she seemed comfortable. Frustrated, but comfortable.

Poor Skywarp had almost locked out altogether, to start with.

When Thundercracker peeked through the door, the femme’s small berth was empty. After an instant of alarm – where had she gone, had she sleepwalked, she’d freeze to death or suffocate or something horrible if she ventured out of the zones they’d set up specifically to remain comfortable and habitable… he spotted her, up on the berth with Skywarp.

Huh. Should have expected it really. These two weren’t the sort to let science get in the way of what they wanted to do.

The doctor had strongly suggested they avoided contact like this – no real idea how humans would react to Cybertronian chemicals, and no matter how careful or clean they were, there was always the risk of contaminants getting on her skin (especially from a walking dustcloud like Skywarp). Plus, they’d already proved how delicate this new body was by accidentally pinching it hard enough to leave a bruise – twice. One of the problems with living among big, clumsy ex-warmechs with lots of bits of plating that shifted and slid and left gaps that could trap small, unwary digits.

But idiot-fearless seemed to be a trait that ran in the family. Pulsar was right up on his chassis, an arm stretched semi-possessively over his canopy glass, face tucked up against his throat, the rest of her body stretched out against him. One of his big hands had curled around behind her, ostensibly to stop her sliding off.

Was that his imagination, or did it look like she’d shed most of her coverings? All that seemed to be protecting her from the elements was the blanket.

Nah. It was probably just his imagination.

This entry was originally posted at http://keaalu.dreamwidth.org/32210.html.

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