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What is this crazy author doing!? I haven't even given you guys a new chapter of Reformat, or done fics for other fandoms, and have just given the world the beginning of a collection of one-shots, and here I am, writing another new story. I'm crazy, I know.
Disclaimer: I totally do not any giant robots. I wish I did, but hell, I don't even have a car for a giant robot to be.
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Facets Of Doubt
The rich couple lived on a very rich track of land that they simply adored, never mind its inconvenient location out in the middle of a bunch of farms. It was their Quiet Retreat, and being twenty miles from the nearest town was of no concern.
So, this meant that when the strange meteor plowed in the field that joined good Farmer Johnson's land and their's, there was no one else but they to go investigate.
"I say, dear, that's quite a big hole." Said the rich man to his rich wife. She nodded, absently stroking her gray hair back into perfectly styled perfection.
"Quite." She said, and they went their merry way back to their house, determined to forget and ignore the new excavation hole in their yard. Perhaps it would fill and become a pretty pond.
They never thought to look towards the tract of small but extremely dense trees that bordered their yard, quite close to the new hole.
Breakdown crouched in the vegetation's cover, watching closely as the squishy beings walked away from his landing site. He sagged slightly in relief as they left, hydraulics hissing as tension left his frame. He looked around, allowing himself a rare smile as he transcanned the fleshing's land vehicle - for all he was in the middle of nowhere, the squishies had quite a nice-looking mode of transportation. His entire body shifted and flowed as he assumed his new camouflage, changing its colors around to better suit himself.
There was a strange noise, one which could only be described by the word "cluck".
He immediately tensed again.
Very, very slowly, he scanned the area, sensors straining as they searched for the source of the noise - a source that was, surely, watching him, sneaking up on him, just waiting to tear his innards out.
His scanners landed on a small, avian being, coated with strange white fluff.
It blinked at him, making that strange "clucking" noise again.
Breakdown stared at it a moment, processors whirling and clicking as he actively searched for the nearest Wi-Fi access point, immediately tearing apart the organic fleshbag's network system for information on the secret, organic weapon that was spying on him right now.
Chicken. Gallus gallus. A type of domestic avian creature originating from this planet's largest continent's southeasterly region. Widespread and an extremely popular source of the fleshbag's consumable energy, in both its flesh and unfertilized ovum. He wasn't quite sure yet what the last bit meant, but it sounded gross all the same.
The chicken continued watching him, and it "clucked". Again.
Breakdown knew then, right then and there.
The chickens were watching him. All of them. They were watching.
With a panicked, intelligible cry, the mech's tires spun in the dirt, gears screeching as he tore out of the brush, heading for the nearest road in search of civilization. Or his fellow Decepticons. Anywhere away from the evil spies!
Farmer Johnson's chicken made several "buk buk" noises to itself, giving itself a shake and ruffling its feathers in indignation at Breakdown's noisy exit. Putting the incident out of its small mind, it continued to peck the ground in search of its interrupted meal.
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This, Dead End mused to himself as he watched the squishy "humans" go about their daily business, was utterly and completely futile.
Really, the Decepticons were just asking to be offlined, trying to charge the new planet the Autobots had set up camp on. But then, Shockwave wasn't the brightest diode in the bunch - even Starscream had laughed in the large mech's face when ordered to attack Earth. The Seeker had then made several rude hand gestures - some most likely learned from this planet as well - and had gathered the remnants of his Air Command, heading off into space to search for an energy source to restore the dead Cybertron.
While all plans were futile in the end - they were all going to die anyways, why restore a dead planet? - Dead End admitted Starscream's plan made more sense. Restore Cybertron, and you would restore all the tactical advantages such an advanced planet would offer. None of this charging randomly at the Autobot's new planet, which they were settling quite nicely into. No, the Seeker had the right of it - restore Cybertron, gather your forces, and then strike the Autobots with true resources at your disposal. Not this suicidal way, which ensured that more Decepticons would be raiding gas stations rather than Autobot bases.
It was just Dead End's luck that Motormaster was loyal to Shockwave instead - even Soundwave had said "Plan: Inadvisable" and had gone with Starscream. Obviously, when those two were cooperating, Shockwave would be facing a painful death sometime in his future. Possibly from the universe imploding from the impossibility of Starscream and Soundwave working together. Nothing like the death of a leader to form rather odd alliances.
None of this helped Dead End, however. He was stuck. Well and truly, until he rotted into metallic dust in this glass cage.
It was his fault, he supposed. He had mis-calculated his entry angle, and had made a rather impressively obvious landing in the middle of fleshy civilization. He had to scan the nearest alt mode, then immediately drop down and pretend to be an innocent vehicle as humans scrambled all over the crash scene.
He'd learned only later he had crashed rather...impressively next to an exotic car shop, which had, at least, given him quite the impressive alt form.
However, it also meant he was immediately assumed to be new merchandise. And so, to add injury to insult, here he sat on a display turntable, slowly spinning in circles all the live-long day. His gyros were beginning to protest mightily.
At least he got free, if extremely crude, fuel. It wasn't energon, but it would do.
He couldn't move out just yet - and he wasn't sure he wanted to, what with the drunken stumbling he was bound to be doing after spinning so long. Instead, he had to wait for Motormaster's orders.
Slightly pointless, as the last time he'd seen his leader had been outside this sun's outermost satellite, where they had been engaging heavily in battle with a group of Autobots also headed for the new refuge named "Earth". The last orders Motormaster had given had been "Dead End! Breakdown! Break away and get to that planet! Await further orders!"
And so, they had complied, and Dead End had not seen teammates nor leader since.
Breakdown had made it to Earth, he knew that much. But the excitable little mech had immediately gone into some sort of paranoid panic, and Dead End hadn't heard from him since. A pity, Breakdown was the only tolerable one out of his brothers. Motormaster was just scary, Drag Strip made Dead End want to blow things up repeatedly, and Wildrider...well. Dead End was safer with Optimus Prime than Wildrider, the king of crazy destruction.
So he sat. And span.
I am going to die here, spinning. He mused morbidly to himself. I know I'm going to die someday, but this has got to be the most humiliating way for me to do so. Can't I at least rot away with dignity, not as some future fleshling's drivable monetary trophy?
Well, might as well recharge since he was sitting here, slowly turning in the same slagging circle. He prepared his systems for shutdown, just about to go into a nice recharge, when a blur of white came barreling down the street his store bordered, a high-pitched electronic shriek broadcasting on all frequencies as the small white streak flashed by him.
That was a very familiar behavior. And paintjob.
::Breakdown!?:: He transmitted towards the speeding vehicle, cautiously moderating his tone so not to startle the paranoid mech.
Brakes screeched and Breakdown did an impressive one-eighty in the middle of the road, sitting and idling for a few moments as Dead End's voice, apparently, worked through his circuits.
::D-Dead End...? Is that you?::
Dead End cycled exhaust through his vents to imitate a human sigh, an irritating habit he had picked up. ::No, Breakdown, I'm Wildrider. Of course I'm Dead End, who else would be talking to you?::
::The chickens!::
What? Dead End paused to contemplate this, idly looking up this "chicken" for himself. ::What does a squishy food source have anything to do with this?::
::They're watching me.::
Oh no, not this again.
Deciding that his brother's sanity was more important than keeping to stealth, Dead End started his engine, rolling - with a slight drunken weave, slag it all - towards the large, glass windows. Without giving it a second thought he revved his engine, bursting through the glass and setting off all kinds of squishy alarms, no doubt. Well, he couldn't help that. He'd be long gone before they even realized what had happened, anyways.
::Come along, Breakdown, let's go find a new place to lay low. Primus knows I might as well see more backwater planet scenery before we're ripped to shreds by Autobots for this ridiculous plan.::
::O-Okay, Dead End, whatever you say.:: The white and red car fell in obediently behind his brother as Dead End began their search for a new, less conspicuous place to stay.
::Good. Just try to avoid broadcasting on all frequencies again, hmm? Death might be inevitable, but I'd rather not draw it to my doorstep. We're just going to hide from now on.::
::The chickens won't be able to find us, right?::
Another imitation sigh. In his fond memories of his only tolerable brother, Dead End had forgotten how annoying he could be.
::Yes, yes, the chickens won't find us. Now just offline your vocal processor and drive.::
Dead End knew they were doomed.
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Yay, Stunticon love! Or, at least Breakdown and Dead End love. What further adventures are in store for everyone's favorite duo of Paranoia and Pessimism? You'll have to find out!
Alt modes, for the curious:
Dead End: 2007 Lotus Exige, black paint job with maroon racing stripes.
Breakdown: 2008 Porsche 911 convertible, white with red accents.
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