[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]The Price of Progress [Closed]
Mar 18, 2023 1:07:27 GMT -5
Post by Flatline on Mar 18, 2023 1:07:27 GMT -5
Starscream's reply was exactly as one would expect, and Flatline almost felt a wave of shame in even asking such a foolish thing to begin with. It caused him to shift his weight momentarily, rolling it onto his bad leg only long enough so that he could re-position the right, placing his mass evenly atop it to root himself down beside the countertop that was strewn with supplies. With a light grasp, he reached forward to gently pick up another sealed cleaning rag, looking across its plastic bag instead of making eye contact, going back to an avoidant pattern at the question that had been asked of him.
"-there was a time that you wanted it, after all."
"Yes..."
This word was spoken softly, almost unsure in a way as he thought back to his poisonous hate and his unshackled ambition that led him to work far more than he should have to make a point. He wrung his frame ragged with sleepless nights and a desire to be efficient, showing how many Vehicon and Eradicon components he could repair in a week as a badge of honor and pride. While there was a worry this made him seem like he was better suited to the metaphorical conveyer belt he was already stuck in, he hungered for a real title where he could make decisions that were his and his alone.
Or... he did.
Flatline's pointer finger pierced through the outer layer of rubber on his left bicep wheel, the slender blade dipping far due to being distracted by his nervous thoughts to a point it tapped the inner hub. This caused a flinch as his hand wrenched back, fully letting go of the arm. The touch was light enough that it did nothing whatsoever, no pain felt, there being only a momentary surprise at how far he let his actions get away from him. With this, Flatline held out his right arm, letting out a low noise as he looked at his palm and outstretched fingers, able to imagine how they looked drenched in the Vehicon's fuel to a point they were more blue than black and red.
"I wanted to earn it differently."
Now that he was speaking more openly, Flatline seemed to stumble with his thoughts in a way where his previous self would have strangled him for showing such WEAKNESS. Only fools would reveal vulnerability to another, the clawing battle for power and control making any flaw something that could be exploited to punch them down. Flatline himself thought like that to a point that he looked for a good while for a legitimate complaint that could disgrace Knock Out's skill and make Command second guess his value back when they didn't get along well at all. It simply was an act of survival, and he was now failing his own inner rules.
Really, it was a hard strike to his pride... not understanding at all how someone so flippant they would leave their post to race for fun could have such a prestigious rank, though it didn't matter. If Knock Out was truly gone, none of it really mattered anymore, and with this thought a slow exhale of a vent slipped through his frame as he grasped hold of a metal box, dragging it close to himself on the table so that he could inspect it further. It was an unassuming container, a few glyphs stamped into the metal on top to mark what it was. With a punch of his thumbs, the pop switch would be unlocked and he would look inside, carefully lifting out the two topmost trays so he could see all three layers and if they were in place properly after they were undoubtedly moved roughly when the Medical Bay was evacuated.
It was a wrench set of varied scales, from those sized for Cybertronian far larger than they had on earth, all the way down to small cassettes and other minute portions in some of their frames. The largest ones were virtually untouched, as pristine as they were the day they were manufactured, while the mid-range pieces were well-worn with scuffs and scrapes from a lifetime of service. A couple of them had popped free from their insets, though most remained, Flatline carefully using the back arch of his finger to push the few wayward pieces in alignment.
"I wanted to be recognized. Not a runner-up."
"-there was a time that you wanted it, after all."
"Yes..."
This word was spoken softly, almost unsure in a way as he thought back to his poisonous hate and his unshackled ambition that led him to work far more than he should have to make a point. He wrung his frame ragged with sleepless nights and a desire to be efficient, showing how many Vehicon and Eradicon components he could repair in a week as a badge of honor and pride. While there was a worry this made him seem like he was better suited to the metaphorical conveyer belt he was already stuck in, he hungered for a real title where he could make decisions that were his and his alone.
Or... he did.
Flatline's pointer finger pierced through the outer layer of rubber on his left bicep wheel, the slender blade dipping far due to being distracted by his nervous thoughts to a point it tapped the inner hub. This caused a flinch as his hand wrenched back, fully letting go of the arm. The touch was light enough that it did nothing whatsoever, no pain felt, there being only a momentary surprise at how far he let his actions get away from him. With this, Flatline held out his right arm, letting out a low noise as he looked at his palm and outstretched fingers, able to imagine how they looked drenched in the Vehicon's fuel to a point they were more blue than black and red.
"I wanted to earn it differently."
Now that he was speaking more openly, Flatline seemed to stumble with his thoughts in a way where his previous self would have strangled him for showing such WEAKNESS. Only fools would reveal vulnerability to another, the clawing battle for power and control making any flaw something that could be exploited to punch them down. Flatline himself thought like that to a point that he looked for a good while for a legitimate complaint that could disgrace Knock Out's skill and make Command second guess his value back when they didn't get along well at all. It simply was an act of survival, and he was now failing his own inner rules.
Really, it was a hard strike to his pride... not understanding at all how someone so flippant they would leave their post to race for fun could have such a prestigious rank, though it didn't matter. If Knock Out was truly gone, none of it really mattered anymore, and with this thought a slow exhale of a vent slipped through his frame as he grasped hold of a metal box, dragging it close to himself on the table so that he could inspect it further. It was an unassuming container, a few glyphs stamped into the metal on top to mark what it was. With a punch of his thumbs, the pop switch would be unlocked and he would look inside, carefully lifting out the two topmost trays so he could see all three layers and if they were in place properly after they were undoubtedly moved roughly when the Medical Bay was evacuated.
It was a wrench set of varied scales, from those sized for Cybertronian far larger than they had on earth, all the way down to small cassettes and other minute portions in some of their frames. The largest ones were virtually untouched, as pristine as they were the day they were manufactured, while the mid-range pieces were well-worn with scuffs and scrapes from a lifetime of service. A couple of them had popped free from their insets, though most remained, Flatline carefully using the back arch of his finger to push the few wayward pieces in alignment.
"I wanted to be recognized. Not a runner-up."
The last words were almost spat out, the faintest glimmered shadow of who Flatline once was whispering behind his newly formed anxious cage. It was there only a flicker, however, before he tuned back in and picked back up the packaged rag, quietly setting it on the table closer to Starscream if he wanted to use it, not feeling right telling him to wipe the shelves as implied earlier.
"I speak out of line... I am sorry."