Disclaimer: I don't own Terrorsaur or anything else in the Beast Wars universe for that matter. But I do own my OC. Also borrowed the concept of Terrorsaur's past from Wayward.

Late Bloomer

She was a body in endless motion, dipping low and soaring high above the floor of the gallery with an elegance he hadn't known she could possess. He had never seen her move like this before. Come to think of it, he had never seen her move until recently. It was only when she canted her head to the side and her optics blinked at him as he stared at her did he suddenly realize she was actually alive, another living sculpture like himself.

He had taken a step back and studied her. He soon found that despite the way she had mimicked his movements, stepping back and looking at him with some sort of curiosity, it was clear something was wrong with her. She didn't speak when spoken to, in fact he had a feeling she didn't understand his words at all. She had merely stared at him with those distant red optics reflecting wonder and fascination as he spoke. And as he attempted to figure her out, it became quite clear he would never understand her because she wasn't meant to be understood. She was defective.

It had been obvious she was made for show, a piece of art made to perform to showcase her true beauty. A slender female seeker, mauve and purple with silver highlights. Panels of dark purple fell around her waist, creating a skirt of sorts using the exaggerated 'feathers' from the large wings she had while in vehicle mode. He assumed those panels were meant to be her main attraction, easily imagining her in the air with those purple panels fanning out around her like organic flower petals; hugging her legs tightly as she rose up and then opening wide as she fell in a downward spiral.

However, he never did get to see those panels open up, she had never performed the way she was supposed to. The one time she momentarily interacted with him was the last time he would ever get that close to her. Once she returned to the swing made especially for her, a swing made of wires (thick and even wiring made the seat while thin and displaced wires created the supports), she never moved again. She simply stared ahead at the wall adjacent from her, the same way she had for so long before he stumbled upon her existence.

Now, while he watched her move effortlessly through the air he couldn't help but stare, entranced by her movements. She rose one leg and bent back, then let her leg come down and cut the air with an audible swish, bending forward seconds later. She continued to bend over until she somersaulted in slow motion and once she was upright again she used her thrusters to propel upward, higher than her swing and higher than the wireframe cloud that hung from the ceiling. The panels hugged her legs tightly, just the way he imagined they would and then...

Then she stopped, her thrusters shut off and her body became oddly limp in the air. He tore his optics away from her for a second, fearing the worst. His fears were confirmed as he caught sight of their creator at the entrance to the gallery, a small remote in his hand and an look of boredom on his face. They were his pieces of art, after all; he had created them and he could destroy them just as easily. It was apparent their Master had enough of the defective female. No doubt he would salvage the pieces he could use again and build a better model at a later date. The rest would go to the scrap heap.

And as their Master left, the other sculpture turned his gaze towards the falling femme again, watching as her body twisted and turned in the air, those purple panels fanning out and then breaking off with sickening snaps because of the erratic speed. It was all he could do to watch those petals fall, anything to avoid watching her hit the floor and shatter.

---

Terrorsaur looked at the tiny mauve flowers barely budded in his hand with distaste. How silly of him to let such trivial things bring back memories he would have rather kept buried. Not that those memories meant anything, even when they did manage to find their way to the surface of his thoughts. If anything that memory in particular served as a reminder; if he didn't serve his purpose then he, too, would be disposed of.

He narrowed his optics and closed his hand, crushing the flowers in his grasp. He refused to allow himself to slip up; he had come so far and now was not the time to think of the past and become distracted. He had to focus on the things at hand: the war, the Maximals, Megatron. Especially Megatron. The tyrant was growing tired of Terrorsaur's games and was eager to be rid of him, Terrorsaur could tell. But if he played his cards right, Terrorsaur figured he just might make it back to Cybertron in one piece. In fact, he was certain of it.

He sighed and opened his hand, letting the wind pick up the remains of the crushed flowers, and he watched the petals fall.

-End