Flashback – Cities of Dust – Closed
Jan 5, 2013 18:37:47 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Jan 5, 2013 18:37:47 GMT -5
Iacon might really fall this time.
Sideswipe really accepted that as a possibility only after he lost half his unit in a carpet bomb of cold phosphex. The seconds preceding the bombing itself, he never saw it coming. He was too engrossed in the kill-or-be-killed helter-skelter of the firefight. The 34th Autobot Ground Division was fracturing badly and Sideswipe knew it. Sunstreaker had vanished at some point, the obnoxious yellow smear of him subsumed into a fight so thick the screaming baseline of violence seemed like the default sound of the universe. His internal chronometer was wrecked – an electrical discharge to his spinal strut knocking non-vital systems offline. He didn’t know how long he’d been fighting.
He staggered off the body of a tank-former, motor-oil and coolant running thick, sliding off his battle scythes and slicking his arms like a second paint job. He saw the west barricade erupt in a wall of blue smoke and knew, without having to really process, that all his friends were dead or dying… then a Con line-breaker body checked him into the side of a building.
Sides hit the wall and the Con hit him, pinned him and tried to drive what looked like a molecular-heat blade through his head. Sideswipe caught the offending wrist, stopped the tip short of his right optic, close enough to see the nimbus of super-heated air wafting off the metal, fresh motoroil sizzling down the length. He was yelling something. Sideswipe couldn’t make it out. A Cybernaught caught fire and erupted into a radioactive ball of green flame 100 technometers off, the blackened three story robot skeleton collapsing in on itself, then falling into the screaming thick of Bots and Cons.
Sideswipe grabbed at the Con’s abdominal plates, fingers hooking into an open wound.
“Iacon is ours!” the Con was saying.
Sideswipe braced his foot against the robot’s massive chest. “Go frag yourself,” he gritted. Then he tore the Con’s belly open in a gush of internal wiring, jammed his fist inside, turned that fist into a gun and fired. The Con dropped dead and Sideswipe opened inter-Autobot radio.
“This is Sideswipe. West barricade down! I repeat th’ west barricade is down. Half a Con breaker-unit comin’ down on us. Anyone not dead respond! I need backup to my position, now!”
Sideswipe really accepted that as a possibility only after he lost half his unit in a carpet bomb of cold phosphex. The seconds preceding the bombing itself, he never saw it coming. He was too engrossed in the kill-or-be-killed helter-skelter of the firefight. The 34th Autobot Ground Division was fracturing badly and Sideswipe knew it. Sunstreaker had vanished at some point, the obnoxious yellow smear of him subsumed into a fight so thick the screaming baseline of violence seemed like the default sound of the universe. His internal chronometer was wrecked – an electrical discharge to his spinal strut knocking non-vital systems offline. He didn’t know how long he’d been fighting.
He staggered off the body of a tank-former, motor-oil and coolant running thick, sliding off his battle scythes and slicking his arms like a second paint job. He saw the west barricade erupt in a wall of blue smoke and knew, without having to really process, that all his friends were dead or dying… then a Con line-breaker body checked him into the side of a building.
Sides hit the wall and the Con hit him, pinned him and tried to drive what looked like a molecular-heat blade through his head. Sideswipe caught the offending wrist, stopped the tip short of his right optic, close enough to see the nimbus of super-heated air wafting off the metal, fresh motoroil sizzling down the length. He was yelling something. Sideswipe couldn’t make it out. A Cybernaught caught fire and erupted into a radioactive ball of green flame 100 technometers off, the blackened three story robot skeleton collapsing in on itself, then falling into the screaming thick of Bots and Cons.
Sideswipe grabbed at the Con’s abdominal plates, fingers hooking into an open wound.
“Iacon is ours!” the Con was saying.
Sideswipe braced his foot against the robot’s massive chest. “Go frag yourself,” he gritted. Then he tore the Con’s belly open in a gush of internal wiring, jammed his fist inside, turned that fist into a gun and fired. The Con dropped dead and Sideswipe opened inter-Autobot radio.
“This is Sideswipe. West barricade down! I repeat th’ west barricade is down. Half a Con breaker-unit comin’ down on us. Anyone not dead respond! I need backup to my position, now!”