[ti]Ep 3.5[/ti]Thin Line, Redline [Hot Rod]
Aug 29, 2023 13:13:46 GMT -5
Post by Windshield on Aug 29, 2023 13:13:46 GMT -5
Episode 3.5 | Week 2 | Day 1 | Open
A black ford mustang roared by its lonesome along a highway in California late into the night, its engine singing a tortured lullaby to the tones of loud industrial music emanating from the radio. Behind the wheel sat a black-haired man with a slicked-back style. He was wearing all black and a pair of sunglasses despite the oppressive darkness outside. The style he wore and the music he listened to seemed rather too novel for his age, but his head bobbed back and forth to the rhythm as if he wasn't a day over twenty-five.
All in all, he seemed like a rather content guy on the lonely road, barely a deviation from the average man, but he wasn't—not truly.
Neither human nor content.
The late nights out here were the only thing he had left. They kept him sane; they kept him present, they kept him, well, him. But above all else, they kept him from thinking about who he was beyond the open road and the roaring engine. And yet... Drifting along the highway to somewhere in the nowhere, Windshield briefly contemplated yesterday's events, his actions and those of his lieutenant.
Conflict, pain, confusion.
The memory of it was too much in the moment and so he simply decided to drown it out with music.
Louder... Louder...
Ah, he'd nearly forgotten.
He was driving somewhere specific, yes. A few more miles on the open road and the powerful vehicle slipped clean from the highway onto a less-traveled motorway. Its size was still nothing to sneeze at, but it paled in comparison to the open field of asphalt he so desperately loved. That said, there was something to love about this road, too. Namely, it was where it led. Once, there were many human towns along roads like these, but they'd gone into disrepair as the highway consumed what traffic they once enjoyed. The businesses were all gone, and only the stubborn remained to sift through the post-urban refuse.
Still, these remote, dreary places had their charms and uses.
The less derelict of them were even fantastic for a very particular kind of sport. Just the thought of it filled Windshield with newfound commitment. It has been too long since he got to enjoy himself like this. He sped up past a dilapidated sign, the name of a town just barely visible in faded white paint for a few moments, then fading back into the night as his headlights left it. It was perfect here. Perfectly despondent. Nearly empty at this time of the night. It rather reminded him of his time in Nevada.
Windshield let out a wistful sigh.
As he continued throughout the town, he passed empty factories and closed-down farms framed by distant, untilled fields before he arrived in a small but well-maintained downtown. People still lived there, though not many were awake and out in the streets this late into the night. Slowly, he’d left it for the trees in the distance, the smallest remnant of an old forest, cut clean in half by the motorway. He continued down the road as it grew twisted, serpentine, and then eventually, he'd descended a coiled turn to the bottom of a small bridge looming high above a dry waterway.
This is where it began. He wasn’t alone anymore. There were more. Humans seated in cars no less powerful, no less expensive, and no less obscene than his own. In fact, many of them were even more striking than him. Next to the gaudy, tuned out company, Windshield’s own standard alt-mode, done in tasteful black with purple accents and rims, seemed completely pedestrian. If only they knew that he was the farthest thing from pedestrian down here.
But them not knowing was part of the fun.
Slowly, he joined the lined-up cars below the bridge until his engine ground to a halt. He stopped the music and took a good look around. Some few of the contestants were still out of their vehicles, either checking out one-another’s rides, their own, or simply loitering below the bridge. A few more people stood a bit further ahead, one laxly holding a belt of signal torches in her hands. Windshield opened his door and let his holoform out for some fresh air, gently setting it to lean its back against his true body, as if though it were just another contestant. Through its eyes, he stared at the woman with the torches, her style and manner not dissimilar from his own.
Were it only that more Decepticons could be like him, like her, like everyone here. Now that, that would be a life worth the trouble, he thought.
All in all, he seemed like a rather content guy on the lonely road, barely a deviation from the average man, but he wasn't—not truly.
Neither human nor content.
The late nights out here were the only thing he had left. They kept him sane; they kept him present, they kept him, well, him. But above all else, they kept him from thinking about who he was beyond the open road and the roaring engine. And yet... Drifting along the highway to somewhere in the nowhere, Windshield briefly contemplated yesterday's events, his actions and those of his lieutenant.
Conflict, pain, confusion.
The memory of it was too much in the moment and so he simply decided to drown it out with music.
Louder... Louder...
Ah, he'd nearly forgotten.
He was driving somewhere specific, yes. A few more miles on the open road and the powerful vehicle slipped clean from the highway onto a less-traveled motorway. Its size was still nothing to sneeze at, but it paled in comparison to the open field of asphalt he so desperately loved. That said, there was something to love about this road, too. Namely, it was where it led. Once, there were many human towns along roads like these, but they'd gone into disrepair as the highway consumed what traffic they once enjoyed. The businesses were all gone, and only the stubborn remained to sift through the post-urban refuse.
Still, these remote, dreary places had their charms and uses.
The less derelict of them were even fantastic for a very particular kind of sport. Just the thought of it filled Windshield with newfound commitment. It has been too long since he got to enjoy himself like this. He sped up past a dilapidated sign, the name of a town just barely visible in faded white paint for a few moments, then fading back into the night as his headlights left it. It was perfect here. Perfectly despondent. Nearly empty at this time of the night. It rather reminded him of his time in Nevada.
Windshield let out a wistful sigh.
As he continued throughout the town, he passed empty factories and closed-down farms framed by distant, untilled fields before he arrived in a small but well-maintained downtown. People still lived there, though not many were awake and out in the streets this late into the night. Slowly, he’d left it for the trees in the distance, the smallest remnant of an old forest, cut clean in half by the motorway. He continued down the road as it grew twisted, serpentine, and then eventually, he'd descended a coiled turn to the bottom of a small bridge looming high above a dry waterway.
This is where it began. He wasn’t alone anymore. There were more. Humans seated in cars no less powerful, no less expensive, and no less obscene than his own. In fact, many of them were even more striking than him. Next to the gaudy, tuned out company, Windshield’s own standard alt-mode, done in tasteful black with purple accents and rims, seemed completely pedestrian. If only they knew that he was the farthest thing from pedestrian down here.
But them not knowing was part of the fun.
Slowly, he joined the lined-up cars below the bridge until his engine ground to a halt. He stopped the music and took a good look around. Some few of the contestants were still out of their vehicles, either checking out one-another’s rides, their own, or simply loitering below the bridge. A few more people stood a bit further ahead, one laxly holding a belt of signal torches in her hands. Windshield opened his door and let his holoform out for some fresh air, gently setting it to lean its back against his true body, as if though it were just another contestant. Through its eyes, he stared at the woman with the torches, her style and manner not dissimilar from his own.
Were it only that more Decepticons could be like him, like her, like everyone here. Now that, that would be a life worth the trouble, he thought.
