Ep. 2 - Enduring the Storm - [Closed]
Apr 28, 2016 22:20:11 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Apr 28, 2016 22:20:11 GMT -5
Red Alert did not want to take the datapad being offered to him. He wanted to reach out and smack it right out of the Prime's hand and ask him again, in a tone far less composed than the one he had used the first time, if he had gone completely insane.
He didn't, though. He didn't. He refrained from acting upon this instinctual urge, powerful though it was, and immensely cathartic as it might have been. Instead, he simply sat there for a moment to collect himself, get a handle on his racing mind and rapidly fraying nerves. He felt as if his entire neural net was vibrating, buzzing like an alarm that refused to turn off. He knew it was all in his head - metaphorically and literally, as his aching mind simply could not process the sudden and rapid influx of warnings and alarms flooding his HUD. As soon as he dismissed one, it simply came back a few moments later with a vengeance, refusing to be ignored. His worries, his concerns, his convictions - they all manifested themselves as warning alarms, popping up on his HUD and demanding to be paid attention to as if they were a physical anomaly he had picked up on one of his sensors.
He knew they were just thoughts. He knew, objectively, that he was in no more active danger now than he was just a klik ago, prior to knowing about the truce Optimus was (for some reason) signing them all up for. Of course, that did precisely nothing to make Red Alert's spark-pulse stop drumming a staccato beat inside its chamber, because it never did. That's the thing about anxiety, it doesn't give a single solitary frag if you know for a fact you're not about to die horribly in the next two minutes - it's gonna make you feel like you are regardless.
Were he in a better mood, Red Alert might have made a cynical joke about how that little factoid was an accurate summary of his entire life. Unfortunately for both himself and Optimus, Red Alert was about as far from a good mood as he could reasonably be, given the circumstances, and it showed. Both his field and his rigid posture broadcasted his discomfort clear as day - from the hard line of his mouth which belied his gritted jaw, to the tense squaring of his shoulders, to the sharp, stinging sensation not unlike a static shock which rippled through his field, Red Alert was a perfect picture of quiet distress.
And yet, he still took the datapad from Optimus without a word, and without protest.
The movement of his arm was stiff, halting, and his fingers clenched a bit too tightly as they gripped the slate, but he took it all the same. What's more, he actually made an attempt to go over its contents despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to not even bother dignifying such a suicidal plan with a once-over.
However, reading the datapad's contents was one thing; approving of them was another matter entirely. Judging by his narrowed optics, his furrowed brows, and the way he shook his head from time to time while silently mouthing the word No, it was probably safe to assume Red Alert was not happy with what he was reading.
He didn't, though. He didn't. He refrained from acting upon this instinctual urge, powerful though it was, and immensely cathartic as it might have been. Instead, he simply sat there for a moment to collect himself, get a handle on his racing mind and rapidly fraying nerves. He felt as if his entire neural net was vibrating, buzzing like an alarm that refused to turn off. He knew it was all in his head - metaphorically and literally, as his aching mind simply could not process the sudden and rapid influx of warnings and alarms flooding his HUD. As soon as he dismissed one, it simply came back a few moments later with a vengeance, refusing to be ignored. His worries, his concerns, his convictions - they all manifested themselves as warning alarms, popping up on his HUD and demanding to be paid attention to as if they were a physical anomaly he had picked up on one of his sensors.
He knew they were just thoughts. He knew, objectively, that he was in no more active danger now than he was just a klik ago, prior to knowing about the truce Optimus was (for some reason) signing them all up for. Of course, that did precisely nothing to make Red Alert's spark-pulse stop drumming a staccato beat inside its chamber, because it never did. That's the thing about anxiety, it doesn't give a single solitary frag if you know for a fact you're not about to die horribly in the next two minutes - it's gonna make you feel like you are regardless.
Were he in a better mood, Red Alert might have made a cynical joke about how that little factoid was an accurate summary of his entire life. Unfortunately for both himself and Optimus, Red Alert was about as far from a good mood as he could reasonably be, given the circumstances, and it showed. Both his field and his rigid posture broadcasted his discomfort clear as day - from the hard line of his mouth which belied his gritted jaw, to the tense squaring of his shoulders, to the sharp, stinging sensation not unlike a static shock which rippled through his field, Red Alert was a perfect picture of quiet distress.
And yet, he still took the datapad from Optimus without a word, and without protest.
The movement of his arm was stiff, halting, and his fingers clenched a bit too tightly as they gripped the slate, but he took it all the same. What's more, he actually made an attempt to go over its contents despite every fiber of his being screaming at him to not even bother dignifying such a suicidal plan with a once-over.
However, reading the datapad's contents was one thing; approving of them was another matter entirely. Judging by his narrowed optics, his furrowed brows, and the way he shook his head from time to time while silently mouthing the word No, it was probably safe to assume Red Alert was not happy with what he was reading.