[ti]Ep 3[/ti]Interior Design [Carbine, Patch, Ratchet, Thunder]
Dec 9, 2019 21:02:51 GMT -5
Post by Windshield on Dec 9, 2019 21:02:51 GMT -5
Windshield stopped in his tracks. He was almost fully out of earshot for a regular talk when he heard Carbine’s retort. For all the criticism the lanky shite had about the insults, his response was rather less spirited than the ex-Con anticipated. Maybe the cop did not have as much edge as he liked to think, or maybe the small mech was just showing unprecedented restraint.
No, it was not restraint. It was not caution. It was something else.
Suddenly, he tossed a sharp gaze over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of Carbine. The way those beady orange optics stared back was unsettling and the dim light of the hangar did not do the whole situation any favors. He kept watching as the other bot lowered his voice again and again in an attempt to go unheard.
The way Windshield looked at Carbine, it almost seemed aware; conscious of the words spoken despite the fact that he was possed of no special hearing gifts, nor did he have a method by which to read the lips of somebody who had none. Perhaps it was a fluke to unnerve the lying scumbag, or perhaps Windshield well and truly had means by which to hear him.
Well, it was not like he’d tell Carbine in either case.
Oh, but what he could hear without any doubts was the yelling. An infuriated feminine voice which, despite its youthful tinge, sounded no less urgent nor threatening. Patch was fuming and for a very good reason. Carbine turned a nice night out into a twisted nightmare in a matter of minutes.
The medic had every right to be angry at both of them. However, when Windshield heard her voice was not directed at him, but Carbine, he had half the spark to stop in his tracks and return. He could win this argument yet, right? Patch would take his side now, would she not?
His glee was short-lived. Just as quickly as she was done reprimanding Carbine, her attention snapped back to the other culprit. He couldn’t have nice things, could he?
You are making an effort. You are trying. That is good. Then why wasn’t that enough? Why was it so complicated for some bots to understand and why did some feel the urge to test Windshield’s dedication to change? Why? Because they were monsters.
Carbine just wanted to see the world burn for his own amusement. It was sick, far sicker an intent than anything the itsy-bitsy scout had done; head business included. At least he didn’t derive pleasure from making others suffer.
And on that note, instead of turning in to to his urge, instead of lashing out, Windshield’s pace became one of lax disregard. He ambled his way through the hangar until he slowly disappeared behind one of his makeshift concrete walls. Was he ghosting Patch? When she was right here? Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.
And then there was silence. Finally, for a brief moment, nobody was shouting, nobody was scheming and teasing.
But it did not last. Across the dusky, night-shrouded airbase, a loud crack of microphones signaled that somebody activated the announcement systems. And without having to bet a wild guess, it was, of course, Windshield. His voice was spent, and he had no intention of taking part in a shouting contest any further. It was time to even the playing field.
Technology was ever his crutch where his physical strength either lacked or had no place. Tonight was unique in that both were the case. Windshield was not powerful enough to take on Carbine mano a mano, nor would it help his goal of becoming a deserving Autobot.
“I’m not very good at screaming, soooo...Not what you expected, is it, officer?” A voice skipped from all around, patchy and uneven due to the disrepair the local speakers were in. What the HELL was Windshield trying to achieve by this?
“Get used to it. I’m not playing your games anymore. Not for this night at least. Might I suggest you make yourself reeaaaal comfortable, Carbs? Because it’s gonna be a mighty long one if you want to stay so badly.”
A long pause, static filling the void in place of Windshield’s voice for the moment.
“Look, we all know this isn’t what you want. No, no, no. What you want to make is a point; the ugly, mean Decepticon against you. A poor, innocent Autobot.”
His tone cracked and skipped under such tension, coupled with the echo and impurity of antiquated human loudspeakers. But the emotions behind the statement were plain: resentment, spite, and self-loathing.
“That’s how the story always goes, though. We all know it. You, me, Patch, isn’t that right? You love being right, don’t you? It makes you feel secure, doesn’t it? King of the world, everybody! I hope you’re seeing this, Patch!”
The pitch and volume raised significantly, followed by a nasty screech emitted from the human-made constructs. They were too inferior to carry such voluminous frequencies. But Windshield had his moment now and the limitations of Earth could not stop him.
“Well, here’s the kicker; you aren’t right. Not today. Today isn’t about you and whatever 4D mindfrags you came here to pull over on me so you could get your kicks out of a familiar face. I’m not him. I’m not the warden, and if you don’t screw this up, I’m not going to be the person who took his face.”
A single, final pause. If Patch and Carbine had not already been on their way in to stop Windshield from ranting among the comforts of his own house, he’d do well to at least invite them over.
“So, come in. Both of you. If you aren’t going away, we might at least grab a drink before we start pissing coolant all over protocol, no? Then we can talk about what really happened in G1...and that checkup."
That last sentence did not sound malicious at all. It was a genuine welcome; one long overdue. There was a chance that all the malice Windshield had was finally spent in the seemingly endless tangent, or in the course of it, he buried it deep enough to tolerate Carbine for one night.
The question was...Would Patch and Carbine feel the same about burying the hatchet for a single night after all that happened so far? Tensions ran high, but perhaps hatred did not yet burrow deep.
No, it was not restraint. It was not caution. It was something else.
Suddenly, he tossed a sharp gaze over his shoulder, catching a quick glimpse of Carbine. The way those beady orange optics stared back was unsettling and the dim light of the hangar did not do the whole situation any favors. He kept watching as the other bot lowered his voice again and again in an attempt to go unheard.
The way Windshield looked at Carbine, it almost seemed aware; conscious of the words spoken despite the fact that he was possed of no special hearing gifts, nor did he have a method by which to read the lips of somebody who had none. Perhaps it was a fluke to unnerve the lying scumbag, or perhaps Windshield well and truly had means by which to hear him.
Well, it was not like he’d tell Carbine in either case.
Oh, but what he could hear without any doubts was the yelling. An infuriated feminine voice which, despite its youthful tinge, sounded no less urgent nor threatening. Patch was fuming and for a very good reason. Carbine turned a nice night out into a twisted nightmare in a matter of minutes.
The medic had every right to be angry at both of them. However, when Windshield heard her voice was not directed at him, but Carbine, he had half the spark to stop in his tracks and return. He could win this argument yet, right? Patch would take his side now, would she not?
His glee was short-lived. Just as quickly as she was done reprimanding Carbine, her attention snapped back to the other culprit. He couldn’t have nice things, could he?
You are making an effort. You are trying. That is good. Then why wasn’t that enough? Why was it so complicated for some bots to understand and why did some feel the urge to test Windshield’s dedication to change? Why? Because they were monsters.
Carbine just wanted to see the world burn for his own amusement. It was sick, far sicker an intent than anything the itsy-bitsy scout had done; head business included. At least he didn’t derive pleasure from making others suffer.
And on that note, instead of turning in to to his urge, instead of lashing out, Windshield’s pace became one of lax disregard. He ambled his way through the hangar until he slowly disappeared behind one of his makeshift concrete walls. Was he ghosting Patch? When she was right here? Ridiculous. Simply ridiculous.
And then there was silence. Finally, for a brief moment, nobody was shouting, nobody was scheming and teasing.
But it did not last. Across the dusky, night-shrouded airbase, a loud crack of microphones signaled that somebody activated the announcement systems. And without having to bet a wild guess, it was, of course, Windshield. His voice was spent, and he had no intention of taking part in a shouting contest any further. It was time to even the playing field.
Technology was ever his crutch where his physical strength either lacked or had no place. Tonight was unique in that both were the case. Windshield was not powerful enough to take on Carbine mano a mano, nor would it help his goal of becoming a deserving Autobot.
“I’m not very good at screaming, soooo...Not what you expected, is it, officer?” A voice skipped from all around, patchy and uneven due to the disrepair the local speakers were in. What the HELL was Windshield trying to achieve by this?
“Get used to it. I’m not playing your games anymore. Not for this night at least. Might I suggest you make yourself reeaaaal comfortable, Carbs? Because it’s gonna be a mighty long one if you want to stay so badly.”
A long pause, static filling the void in place of Windshield’s voice for the moment.
“Look, we all know this isn’t what you want. No, no, no. What you want to make is a point; the ugly, mean Decepticon against you. A poor, innocent Autobot.”
His tone cracked and skipped under such tension, coupled with the echo and impurity of antiquated human loudspeakers. But the emotions behind the statement were plain: resentment, spite, and self-loathing.
“That’s how the story always goes, though. We all know it. You, me, Patch, isn’t that right? You love being right, don’t you? It makes you feel secure, doesn’t it? King of the world, everybody! I hope you’re seeing this, Patch!”
The pitch and volume raised significantly, followed by a nasty screech emitted from the human-made constructs. They were too inferior to carry such voluminous frequencies. But Windshield had his moment now and the limitations of Earth could not stop him.
“Well, here’s the kicker; you aren’t right. Not today. Today isn’t about you and whatever 4D mindfrags you came here to pull over on me so you could get your kicks out of a familiar face. I’m not him. I’m not the warden, and if you don’t screw this up, I’m not going to be the person who took his face.”
A single, final pause. If Patch and Carbine had not already been on their way in to stop Windshield from ranting among the comforts of his own house, he’d do well to at least invite them over.
“So, come in. Both of you. If you aren’t going away, we might at least grab a drink before we start pissing coolant all over protocol, no? Then we can talk about what really happened in G1...and that checkup."
That last sentence did not sound malicious at all. It was a genuine welcome; one long overdue. There was a chance that all the malice Windshield had was finally spent in the seemingly endless tangent, or in the course of it, he buried it deep enough to tolerate Carbine for one night.
The question was...Would Patch and Carbine feel the same about burying the hatchet for a single night after all that happened so far? Tensions ran high, but perhaps hatred did not yet burrow deep.