Ep. 1 - Adaptation - [Closed]
Jun 21, 2014 17:37:35 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jun 21, 2014 17:37:35 GMT -5
He waited, weapon drawn, for Flatline to respond. He doubted the mech would take his offer of surrender--he didn’t strike him as the sort who would give in at the end of the chase, when there was still a chance yet to attack and escape. Flatline had proven himself to be both ruthless and clever, though not properly trained for combat, and Red Alert was fairly certain he would squander the last chance he had (graciously) been given if he thought he could get away with it.
Hence why his rifle was still drawn, charged, and ready to fire. He didn’t trust Flatline to not try anything, and a small, dark part of him that he refused to acknowledge let alone humor almost wanted the mech to try to attack him, just so he’d have a good reason to blow his head off his shoulders. However, this whisper of an errant thought made him feel vaguely nauseated, and he quickly dismissed it before gave his coding something else to loudly and vehemently protest. He was already tied up in knots about dislocating the mech’s arm and shooting him from behind as he tried to escape: he didn’t want any more guilt churning in his tanks because of a spiteful thought he had no intention of actually acting upon unless he was given good reason.
Of course, then Flatline had to go and give him a good reason.
The mech had called out to him first, his voice weak and feeble, strained with pain that Red Alert did his best to ignore. He pleaded with him not to open fire, then leapt--or rather, fell--to the floor like a lifeless ragdoll, limbs loosely splayed. The scent of energon was stronger now, and in the darkness of the garage one could scarcely see a faint blue glow clinging to the mech’s frame, splattered here and dripping there. The mech fell into a coughing fit shortly after landing, and up came even more energon to add the growing collection on the floor.
He looked and sounded absolutely pathetic, which was not doing the uncomfortable knot in Red Alert’s chest any favors. Damning himself and his inconvenient programming, he forced his rifle to remain charged and locked onto Flatline, despite the instinctive urge to show mercy nagging at him to turn it away. He wasn’t about to let his guard down around the mech who had tried to kill him mere minutes ago, no matter how pathetic his physical condition seemed.
At least, he wouldn’t so long as his code didn’t strong arm him into submission, and damn if it wasn’t trying to do just that. He could already feel static building behind his optics and creeping along his neck, a subtle warning that he was beginning to transgress too far against his code for its liking. If it could have its way, he wouldn’t have his rifle pointed at a fellow Cybertronain at all, let alone charged in anticipation of firing upon them---but Red Alert wasn’t keen on dying, and he was fairly certain the only thing keeping Flatline from trying to attack him again. Well, that, and the apparent blood loss. The mech did look...rather unwell. To the point where Red Alert began to feel mildly concerned that he had actually shot the mech in something vital.
His suspicions were ‘confirmed’ when Flatline hacked up a mouthful of energon and weakly informed him of where he had been hit. Red Alert wavered then, for all of three seconds, as he wondered whether the mech was going to bleed out from his injury before his backup arrived.
Those three seconds of uncertainty were all Flatline needed to make his move.
The mech had been deceiving him, waiting for him to drop his guard--he had a prime opportunity to act the moment Red Alert’s instinctive concern for the wellbeing of his kind overpowered his better judgement.Three seconds. He had wavered for three seconds, and that’s all it took for Flatline to take aim and fire upon him with his last remaining harpoon. It’s chain rattled as it launched from its turret and whistled through the air, closing the short distance between them quick as a blink.
Is optics brightened as alarm overcame him, followed quickly by mute horror as he realized where the harpoon was heading. It was coming on too fast, the distance between them was too short--he’d never be able to move out of the way on time, but if that damn harpoon hit the rocket launcher mounted behind his shoulder---
He didn’t have a choice. He only had one option to take if he wanted to live, and by god he took it.
The harpoon’s serrated tip bit into his shoulder just as he issued the mental command for the rocket to launch. He heard the shriek of metal wrending and the cracking of perforated circuitry before he felt the pain, which came a split second later when the dermal-sensors in his shoulder screamed their protest, flooding his neural net with warning after warning after warning. The harpoon pressed onward, plowing through his armor and tearing deeper into his shoulder until it hammered its way through it.
Had it been just a few seconds faster, had it been met with less resistance from his armor, it would have struck the center of the rocket launcher just before it released its projectile into the air. Unfortunately for Flatline, it had not been quite so quick, and Red Alert’s missile launched from its holder before it could be ruptured.
The kickback from the missile combined with the force of and the harpoon striking his shoulder was enough to send Red Alert stumbling backwards, slamming hard into the ground as the agony in his shoulder robbed him of both his concentration and his balance.
Flat on his back, he had a great view of the ceiling as his missile struck it, and it began to crumble down around them in a furious explosion of heat and rubble.
Hence why his rifle was still drawn, charged, and ready to fire. He didn’t trust Flatline to not try anything, and a small, dark part of him that he refused to acknowledge let alone humor almost wanted the mech to try to attack him, just so he’d have a good reason to blow his head off his shoulders. However, this whisper of an errant thought made him feel vaguely nauseated, and he quickly dismissed it before gave his coding something else to loudly and vehemently protest. He was already tied up in knots about dislocating the mech’s arm and shooting him from behind as he tried to escape: he didn’t want any more guilt churning in his tanks because of a spiteful thought he had no intention of actually acting upon unless he was given good reason.
Of course, then Flatline had to go and give him a good reason.
The mech had called out to him first, his voice weak and feeble, strained with pain that Red Alert did his best to ignore. He pleaded with him not to open fire, then leapt--or rather, fell--to the floor like a lifeless ragdoll, limbs loosely splayed. The scent of energon was stronger now, and in the darkness of the garage one could scarcely see a faint blue glow clinging to the mech’s frame, splattered here and dripping there. The mech fell into a coughing fit shortly after landing, and up came even more energon to add the growing collection on the floor.
He looked and sounded absolutely pathetic, which was not doing the uncomfortable knot in Red Alert’s chest any favors. Damning himself and his inconvenient programming, he forced his rifle to remain charged and locked onto Flatline, despite the instinctive urge to show mercy nagging at him to turn it away. He wasn’t about to let his guard down around the mech who had tried to kill him mere minutes ago, no matter how pathetic his physical condition seemed.
At least, he wouldn’t so long as his code didn’t strong arm him into submission, and damn if it wasn’t trying to do just that. He could already feel static building behind his optics and creeping along his neck, a subtle warning that he was beginning to transgress too far against his code for its liking. If it could have its way, he wouldn’t have his rifle pointed at a fellow Cybertronain at all, let alone charged in anticipation of firing upon them---but Red Alert wasn’t keen on dying, and he was fairly certain the only thing keeping Flatline from trying to attack him again. Well, that, and the apparent blood loss. The mech did look...rather unwell. To the point where Red Alert began to feel mildly concerned that he had actually shot the mech in something vital.
His suspicions were ‘confirmed’ when Flatline hacked up a mouthful of energon and weakly informed him of where he had been hit. Red Alert wavered then, for all of three seconds, as he wondered whether the mech was going to bleed out from his injury before his backup arrived.
Those three seconds of uncertainty were all Flatline needed to make his move.
The mech had been deceiving him, waiting for him to drop his guard--he had a prime opportunity to act the moment Red Alert’s instinctive concern for the wellbeing of his kind overpowered his better judgement.Three seconds. He had wavered for three seconds, and that’s all it took for Flatline to take aim and fire upon him with his last remaining harpoon. It’s chain rattled as it launched from its turret and whistled through the air, closing the short distance between them quick as a blink.
Is optics brightened as alarm overcame him, followed quickly by mute horror as he realized where the harpoon was heading. It was coming on too fast, the distance between them was too short--he’d never be able to move out of the way on time, but if that damn harpoon hit the rocket launcher mounted behind his shoulder---
He didn’t have a choice. He only had one option to take if he wanted to live, and by god he took it.
The harpoon’s serrated tip bit into his shoulder just as he issued the mental command for the rocket to launch. He heard the shriek of metal wrending and the cracking of perforated circuitry before he felt the pain, which came a split second later when the dermal-sensors in his shoulder screamed their protest, flooding his neural net with warning after warning after warning. The harpoon pressed onward, plowing through his armor and tearing deeper into his shoulder until it hammered its way through it.
Had it been just a few seconds faster, had it been met with less resistance from his armor, it would have struck the center of the rocket launcher just before it released its projectile into the air. Unfortunately for Flatline, it had not been quite so quick, and Red Alert’s missile launched from its holder before it could be ruptured.
The kickback from the missile combined with the force of and the harpoon striking his shoulder was enough to send Red Alert stumbling backwards, slamming hard into the ground as the agony in his shoulder robbed him of both his concentration and his balance.
Flat on his back, he had a great view of the ceiling as his missile struck it, and it began to crumble down around them in a furious explosion of heat and rubble.