[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Ch-Ch-Cherry Bomb! [Closed]
Mar 24, 2023 19:20:27 GMT -5
Post by Javelin on Mar 24, 2023 19:20:27 GMT -5
Fear was a powerful thing.
Fear could destroy. Fear could cause someone to shut down, unable to raise a single arm in self defence, or could cause a sudden and great burst of energy, reacting above and beyond what the situation called for.
Javelin’s fear wasn’t entirely of Soundwave himself, although the name and the navy mech carried a great deal of respect laced with self preservation. Combat wouldn’t be taken lightly.
No, it was Soundwave’s face that crippled her. Or rather, his lack of one.
There were many Cybertronians that could be said to lack a “face”. Some had visors instead of clearly visible optics. Some had mouthguards that could not be removed. Some had both. And some were like Carbine, who seemed to be wearing a helmet over his head, with a smooth-featured profile and a projection of a face.
To Javelin’s processor, those were still faces. They were recognizable. Visors just seemed to be covering assumed optics. Mouthguards assumed to be covering mouths. Even mecha with faces like Carbine’s still had features to them – eyes. Expressions. Things to focus on. And more importantly, things to decipher.
Javelin was a pattern reader. She excelled in non-combat visual and audio clues – it was a strange trait she was not taught, was apparently sparked with. It was why she was pushed into Terrestrial Recon – she could see patterns in writing, hear patterns in spoken words, recognize patterns in alien cultures. As a result, it was easy for her to socially infiltrate species on other planets, crack their languages easily, and eavesdrop to discover information.
Whether something somehow learned along the way, or something else she was sparked with, truly faceless mesa struck a deep chord of fear deep in her spark. Her own personal body horror. Add to that the Spymaster’s silence and eerie method of moving, and it was disturbing.
And her undoing.
She had remained still, watching Soundwave, hand above her arrows, waiting for the Spymaster to make his next move, looking not unlike a cowboy in an old western in a standoff with the bad guy. Unsure what his next attack would be, she waited to try and counter it.
She didn’t expect a straight on lunge.
Javelin was moving before she was even aware of it.
Fingertips grazed the tops of the arrows, plucking one by instinct, while at the same time, pistons in her legs jerked, an instinctive attempt to lunge backwards, out of his reach, while at the same time, raising the arrow to her bow to fire at her attacker. Such a move was commonplace for her now, her actions as an archer honed over years of war.
However, she was unable to reconcile for the sheer length of her opponent’s reach.
It seemed like Soundwave’s hands reached her far, far faster than they should have. While his torso was still a bit of a safe distance away, her processor assessing she still had time, his ungodly long arms ate up that distance in a blink, and before she knew what was happening, she felt his servos clamp down on her left shoulder in a powerful grip.
A sudden forward shove, and she was taken off her feet, and slammed down hard onto the ground on her back, internal systems screaming in warning, her vision flickering for a second as her head bounced off the forest floor.
Fear could destroy. Fear could cause someone to shut down, unable to raise a single arm in self defence, or could cause a sudden and great burst of energy, reacting above and beyond what the situation called for.
Javelin’s fear wasn’t entirely of Soundwave himself, although the name and the navy mech carried a great deal of respect laced with self preservation. Combat wouldn’t be taken lightly.
No, it was Soundwave’s face that crippled her. Or rather, his lack of one.
There were many Cybertronians that could be said to lack a “face”. Some had visors instead of clearly visible optics. Some had mouthguards that could not be removed. Some had both. And some were like Carbine, who seemed to be wearing a helmet over his head, with a smooth-featured profile and a projection of a face.
To Javelin’s processor, those were still faces. They were recognizable. Visors just seemed to be covering assumed optics. Mouthguards assumed to be covering mouths. Even mecha with faces like Carbine’s still had features to them – eyes. Expressions. Things to focus on. And more importantly, things to decipher.
Javelin was a pattern reader. She excelled in non-combat visual and audio clues – it was a strange trait she was not taught, was apparently sparked with. It was why she was pushed into Terrestrial Recon – she could see patterns in writing, hear patterns in spoken words, recognize patterns in alien cultures. As a result, it was easy for her to socially infiltrate species on other planets, crack their languages easily, and eavesdrop to discover information.
Whether something somehow learned along the way, or something else she was sparked with, truly faceless mesa struck a deep chord of fear deep in her spark. Her own personal body horror. Add to that the Spymaster’s silence and eerie method of moving, and it was disturbing.
And her undoing.
She had remained still, watching Soundwave, hand above her arrows, waiting for the Spymaster to make his next move, looking not unlike a cowboy in an old western in a standoff with the bad guy. Unsure what his next attack would be, she waited to try and counter it.
She didn’t expect a straight on lunge.
Javelin was moving before she was even aware of it.
Fingertips grazed the tops of the arrows, plucking one by instinct, while at the same time, pistons in her legs jerked, an instinctive attempt to lunge backwards, out of his reach, while at the same time, raising the arrow to her bow to fire at her attacker. Such a move was commonplace for her now, her actions as an archer honed over years of war.
However, she was unable to reconcile for the sheer length of her opponent’s reach.
It seemed like Soundwave’s hands reached her far, far faster than they should have. While his torso was still a bit of a safe distance away, her processor assessing she still had time, his ungodly long arms ate up that distance in a blink, and before she knew what was happening, she felt his servos clamp down on her left shoulder in a powerful grip.
A sudden forward shove, and she was taken off her feet, and slammed down hard onto the ground on her back, internal systems screaming in warning, her vision flickering for a second as her head bounced off the forest floor.