Post by Swerve on May 30, 2007 20:56:19 GMT -5
The first thing of which Swerve becomes aware is that it feels like someone has pumped sludge through his fuel lines. Everything seems sluggish, even his processor. He groans and mutters a curse or two, willing his systems back up to speed, grumbling when they don't respond as quickly as he'd like.
"When I get my hands on the–" He stops short, tries to shake himself, finds he can't. His windshield scrapes against a hard surface and something feels even more off. It takes him a moment to register why: he's upside down. How the fraggin'–?! Oh, someone's hitting the scrap heap for this. It takes Swerve a split-second to focus and engage his transformation, which flips him into robot mode and off his back quickly enough that his gyrostabilisers have to play catch-up and his visual feed momentarily swims. He's now aware of a few other things: he doesn't hear any running engines – just some warbley high-pitched racket – and it's bright. Too slagging bright. Hadn't it been nightfall? Has he been offline that long?
Scowling, Swerve rises to a vertical orientation, reaching for his gun. He isn't very impressed with his surroundings.
This sure as smelt isn't Velocitron. There's a criminal lack of clear roadway, for one. For another, he decides, this much green should be some sort of insult to the optics. What is this mess, anyway? He bats irritably at a vine dangling down near his head and steps away from the arch on which it grows, turning.
The sight of another Transformer sprawled on the ground hits Swerve almost as hard as Crumplezone. He recoils reflexively, slamming into one of the arches and bringing his gun to bear, then stares gape-mouthed. The other mech is huge compared to him, even larger than his first body – slag, bigger than Crumplezone – blocky and massive, done up all in dull greys and blacks, silicate-panelled chest gaping open and missing some large component, or so it seems. Why, Swerve can't guess; it's a bizarre sight even with the rest of the weird scenery. No, what really strikes him once the shock passes is that the larger mech looks like he's been through the ugliest part of the circuit and come out next to last; scorched, banged up, dented, a big, ugly hole punched into his midsection.
"…Hey," Swerve tries and sounds too tentative for his liking. He repeats himself, louder and more firmly. "Hey, pal. You still functioning?" No response; the larger mech remains silent and still. Swerve warily approaches him, glancing to all sides in case of a trap – though this would easily be the most stupid trap he's ever seen. The larger mech needs heavy repair work, he can tell that. "You hear me?" demands the small racer, giving one bulky forearm a solid shake with his free hand. The metal is cold under his touch and the big mech still doesn't react. There isn't even the slightest flicker of his darkened optics. Swerve realises with an icy jolt he knows this all too well. This mech's dead.
Swerve is on his feet and a good five lengths away from the body even before he can process the motion commands. This whole situation was just stupid before, but now he feels disgusted with it, too. Just what happened? Why'd he wake up next to a husk? And who left them there? He paces back and forth for a few moments, gaze repeatedly, involuntarily darting back to the body, before he starts toward the treeline, wanting some distance; he can feel his oil starting to simmer. This has to be the dumbest, sickest prank ever and he'll make sure the culprit knows in excruciating detail just what he thinks of this little stunt.
//Hey!// Slag, he'd nearly forgotten he still has a radio. //HEY! Alright, what gives? Whose bright idea is this scrap and where's he hidin' so I can give him a fist in the face?!//
"When I get my hands on the–" He stops short, tries to shake himself, finds he can't. His windshield scrapes against a hard surface and something feels even more off. It takes him a moment to register why: he's upside down. How the fraggin'–?! Oh, someone's hitting the scrap heap for this. It takes Swerve a split-second to focus and engage his transformation, which flips him into robot mode and off his back quickly enough that his gyrostabilisers have to play catch-up and his visual feed momentarily swims. He's now aware of a few other things: he doesn't hear any running engines – just some warbley high-pitched racket – and it's bright. Too slagging bright. Hadn't it been nightfall? Has he been offline that long?
Scowling, Swerve rises to a vertical orientation, reaching for his gun. He isn't very impressed with his surroundings.
This sure as smelt isn't Velocitron. There's a criminal lack of clear roadway, for one. For another, he decides, this much green should be some sort of insult to the optics. What is this mess, anyway? He bats irritably at a vine dangling down near his head and steps away from the arch on which it grows, turning.
The sight of another Transformer sprawled on the ground hits Swerve almost as hard as Crumplezone. He recoils reflexively, slamming into one of the arches and bringing his gun to bear, then stares gape-mouthed. The other mech is huge compared to him, even larger than his first body – slag, bigger than Crumplezone – blocky and massive, done up all in dull greys and blacks, silicate-panelled chest gaping open and missing some large component, or so it seems. Why, Swerve can't guess; it's a bizarre sight even with the rest of the weird scenery. No, what really strikes him once the shock passes is that the larger mech looks like he's been through the ugliest part of the circuit and come out next to last; scorched, banged up, dented, a big, ugly hole punched into his midsection.
"…Hey," Swerve tries and sounds too tentative for his liking. He repeats himself, louder and more firmly. "Hey, pal. You still functioning?" No response; the larger mech remains silent and still. Swerve warily approaches him, glancing to all sides in case of a trap – though this would easily be the most stupid trap he's ever seen. The larger mech needs heavy repair work, he can tell that. "You hear me?" demands the small racer, giving one bulky forearm a solid shake with his free hand. The metal is cold under his touch and the big mech still doesn't react. There isn't even the slightest flicker of his darkened optics. Swerve realises with an icy jolt he knows this all too well. This mech's dead.
Swerve is on his feet and a good five lengths away from the body even before he can process the motion commands. This whole situation was just stupid before, but now he feels disgusted with it, too. Just what happened? Why'd he wake up next to a husk? And who left them there? He paces back and forth for a few moments, gaze repeatedly, involuntarily darting back to the body, before he starts toward the treeline, wanting some distance; he can feel his oil starting to simmer. This has to be the dumbest, sickest prank ever and he'll make sure the culprit knows in excruciating detail just what he thinks of this little stunt.
//Hey!// Slag, he'd nearly forgotten he still has a radio. //HEY! Alright, what gives? Whose bright idea is this scrap and where's he hidin' so I can give him a fist in the face?!//