Hello! This is for NaNoWriMo, so if I have a lot of spelling/grammar mistakes... I'm sorry! I'll fix them when the month ends. My main focus is to complete this within the due dates. I hope you like this! (Will update daily for NaNoWriMo)
A golden bot eyed a small glass of engex that was placed in front of him. Before picking it up and taking a swig, he ran his index finger along the side of the shiny crystal clear metal. He dimmed his optics while studying the glowing bright yellow liquid to reduce glare radiating from the glass. Soft mumbles escaped his lip plates as he brought his hand down back to his side.
"Are you going to drink that, Sunstreaker?" Trailbreaker called out sitting in the booth behind him clearly intoxicated. The black mech inched forward almost laying on his table as a small hiccup erupted from his mouth.
If the humane ability to roll your eyes were possible with Cybertronian optics, the golden bot would have most definitely done that. "Yes." He mumbled out before gripping his small glass of engex protectively. "I am." This time, he spoke with more confidence.
Trailbreaker's frame wobbled as he stood from the small booth. He quickly slammed a hand on the table to support his drunken frame. He leaned back and raised his free hand to point at the betrayer. "Then drink it you… you… sunflower!" he tossed his helm back as his red optics brightened in joy. The black mech chuckled to himself and gripped on to the table tighter not wanting to fall.
Sunstreaker growled and picked up the glass using his brute force to shatter it in his hand. He glared at the mech with the red optics and crushed the remaining chunks of shattered pieces with his right foot attracting unwanted attention from the mechs sitting down at Swerve's bar. His bright cyan blue optics darted around the room as he observed the faces watching him. A small wave of panic washed upon him and he struggled to shake it off. "Frag you." He said coldly while moving his optics to look into the intoxicated red ones.
He turned around and puffed up his chest wanting to look bigger than he was. He then, turned around so his back was facing Trailbreaker's front and slowly stepped out of the room ignoring the optics of the mechs he passed.
He hated it. He hated it when mechs looked at him. It was something he used to love, but ever since… Ever since, THAT happened, he hated it. He abominated the fact that whenever he walked into a room, someone was there to watch his every move just in case he decided to turn on someone.
He marched to his private habitation suite that he most gracefully requested to have the day that the Lost Light took off. Well, it wasn't as private as the name suggested. His pet insecticon, Bob, was lying on his berth peacefully recharging with his collar fit snuggly around his neck with the chains hanging down the side of the metal bed. Sunstreaker carefully and quietly walked up to his loving pet, and slowly raised a hand to run it down the small helm dodging the spikes as he went further down. He couldn't help but twist his lips up in a small but barely-there smile.
He ran his hand down the cold silver chain secured tightly on the collar that connected to a small latch on the side of the pets recharging berth that he most carefully constructed himself. Almost himself. Brainstorm, the ships weapons engineer, had to provide spare metals and materials he had laying around. Sunstreaker had to get down and dirty risking his almost perfect paint job to mold metals to his liking. It wasn't the most complicated of tasks, but it was something that could be done to distract him.
He smiled and pet his insecticon once more while he sat down and admired his cute little recharging frame. He propped up his hands under his chin and frowned once he saw the scratches the glass of engex had done to him. The yellow mech rubbed his hands together and scowled barely noticing the sticky feeling of the high grade energon between his fingers.
He mumbled profanities to himself as he got up to go search his habitation suite for a spare rag. Quickly, he found one tucked under his own recharging berth and he worked quickly to rub out the sticky feeling, and made a mental note to buff and wax his golden finish before his need to recharge soon.
He dragged his feet to a small chair in front of Bob's berth and carefully sat down not wanting anymore scratches. Stretching his sore back struts, he sighed trying to push the image of everyone's optics on him to the back of his buzzing processor. He took out a sketch pad his brother found for him a while back on Cybertron and pressed it against his lap.
"Should I?" He softly whispered to himself. He nodded and flipped through pages of half-finished sketches to a blank page in the middle, and took out a pen while slowly propping up the book on his knee to start sketching. Taking one last look at the insecticon's sleeping form, he committed it to his memory banks and started to drag the pen across the page forming intricate organic shapes. Some spikes here, some lines there, and curves to connect everything he was seeing from his memory banks by transferring it onto the blank page.
Happy with the results, and lifted the pad up and held it in front of eyes sight next to the pet. He smiled and held the pad steady to admire his work.
His face twisted into a lurid expression, and he dropped the sketch pad on the floor. As the sketch pad fell, its blank pages all became apparent. Nothing was ever drawn in it. The golden mech breathed heavily and brought his hands up to his face. It happened again. He was seeing things again. Through the cracks in his fingers, he peeked at the page he drew Bob on.
It was blank. There was no pen around.
Maybe he wasn't meant to draw again. Not after THAT.
Prowl laid back on his recharging berth ignoring the pain signal his door wings were sending to his processor. He tried to wiggle them into a more comfortable position, but his body weight didn't allow such a thing to happen. Why did he even try? He knows how much his door wings weigh. He knows much everything above his torso weighs. If he were to calculate how much his upper body needed to weigh in order to move his door wings freely when laying down, the weight of his upper body would come nowhere near the proportion he had now. But before he forgets, he needs to calculate the amount of force his door wings can exert. Simple math. Simple calculations. Something simple he could have done in one one-hundredth of a second rather than wasting five seconds trying to move his wings.
He sighed wishing for a second he could turn on his side without having to completely sit up and move. Blast his Primus darned oversized door wings. He relaxed his tense frame for the first time that day and let out a shaky breath from his intakes. Prowl spent his day in his office crunching stat after stat, and formulating workable strategies for achievable victories against possible organized NAIL revolts. He needed to loosen up, but he only permitted himself a designated time to relax and recharge.
"You think Boss would let us?" Scavenger's voice would be heard outside of Prowl's private habitation suite. "I mean…" The Constructicons chuckled outside his hab suite, and the black and white mech groaned not wanting to deal with his gestalt right now.
"Open the door." Long Haul suggested.
"What if he's recharging?" Hook frowned at his comment. "Wouldn't want to wake the boss up!"
"Who cares?!" Bonecrusher yelled out before breaking the door open pushing past the locking systems with ease.
Prowl offlined his optics pretending to be in recharge. Every one of his prognostic evaluation program systems calculated with a twelve percent certainty they would leave. Although it was only twelve percent, it was a lot higher than every other thousand things he could have done.
Mixmaster poked him and frowned receiving no reaction from his leader. "The Boss is recharging. Should we leave and ask tomorrow?"
Scavenger frowned and brought a hand up and slapped it on top of Mixmaster's helm. "Leave?" He said scoffing as Mixmaster rubbed his now sore helm. "I say we wake him up." His and all the other Constructicon's lip plates rose up into deadly smirks.
Prowl ran his prognostic evaluation program systems again and calculated a two point three four two one eight six chance of them leaving. He resisted to urge to get up and order the Constructicons to leave. But he knew if he did that, they wouldn't leave.
Bonecrusher took one of his hands and gently ran it down Prowl's side. "So pretty." The Constructicon whispered to himself and to the rest of the gestalt. Scavenger snickered and ran a hand down along Prowl's right door wing and stopped at the center and rubbed his thumb over the paint job. Prowl couldn't resist the urge to online his optics and gasp at the sensations his door wings were overloading his processor with.
Scavenger grinned. "Prowl!"
Prowl mumbled and pushed the near Constructicons away. "Get out of my habitation suite." He said calmly, yet with authority.
The green bots frowned and protested all together in a chorus. "You're stressed out Prowl! Let us help you!" Hook frowned while reaching out to touch the second in command's shoulder.
"Don't touch me Scrapper!" Prowl exclaimed while quickly and expertly dodging his hand.
The Constructicons fell silent as he yelled out the same of their dead companion. They dimmed their optics wanting to forget about their once close friend. Hook was the first to break the awkward silence. "I'm not Scrapper."
Prowl nodded completely oblivious to their short second of pain. "I know. I said Hook." Maybe he didn't want to acknowledge the fact he was wrong, but perhaps maybe he wasn't wrong. He could search his memory banks to find out which name he said, but it didn't matter to him.
"Okay." Hook responded before taking long strides out the room. The rest of the green mechs followed silently leaving Prowl alone again.
The door-winged mech sighed and laid back down on his berth into a more comfortable position than before. He pushed his helm back and allowed himself some time to think himself into recharge. For a while, he thought he upset the Constructicons, but he simply didn't have the time to care.
Hopefully, he subconsciously called him Scrapper because his prognostic evaluation program systems acted without a command to simulate and act on the strongest course of action to take to get the Constructicons to leave.
Prowl always thought he didn't need friends. The Constructicons were just a valuable resource that he could use to up the odds in battle. Who cares if he hurts them? It won't affect future battle outcomes in the near future.