Author's Notes:
A different take on the Silverbolt/Blackarachnia scene in part one of the "Agenda" trilogy in which we first discover the nature of their relationship. What were Silverbolt's real thoughts on the situation, and did he ever question his actions at one point?Warnings:
Mature themes, mentioning of violence, etc.Obligatory Disclaimer:
I own no part of Beast Wars, nor of the character Blackarachnia, Silverbolt, etc.By Chaotic Serenity
He landed noiselessly, soft dirt conforming and encasing his eagle talons tightly in its earthy hold. A dazzling, red-hazed sunset slowly in the west, gorgeous, warm rays cascading across the unbroken landscape and falling upon the wolf-eagle's grey fur. The setting was serene, undisturbed by the tumultuous forces that so often plagued the land with their battles.
Silverbolt noticed little of it as he settled himself next to the glistening river that lined his path and stretched for endless miles. His mind was too occupied with other, more important objectives then simple observation of the Earth's glistening beauty. Forces were in motion that were beyond his control, and, within him, was held the key that would push the swirling commotion into pandemonium. He'd lost so much since he had come into existence, though his memories and his sense of direction--which, at times, he was sure he'd lost along with sanity, but he had seen enough psychotic behavior to know that he still had at least some bit of control of his mind--were the two items he missed most.
At least he still had his wings.
Flight was a release, an escape from the every day chaos he dealt with continuously. In some ways, Silverbolt wasn't quite sure he'd be able to go on without it.
Why couldn't they just get along in peace?
It was a question the fuzor had posed to himself many a restless night, yet he had never found himself fulfilled with an answer, as he supposed Primus found him unworthy for such an answer, repudiating his desire for tranquility. Usually, he mused the idea when he found himself alone, trapped within the box of questions that imprisoned his mind's every thought and reason for existence; however, the more frequent commonplace of such a inquiry was after a rendezvous or run in with Blackarachnia, and then the issue pounded like a jackhammer throughout his metallic infrastructure and into the core of his very spark.
Blackarachnia…
What was it about the Predacon femme fatale that sent his servos spinning, mech fluid pumping, and mind reeling with and undeniable feeling of joy and utter heedlessness for the danger of enemy fraternization, all thoughts of mishap and danger fluttering away on the broad backs of the floating butterflies that would suddenly appear within his mechanized innards.
It was more then attraction; he was certain of that. Any 'bot could be taken by a female and not feel for her in the manner he did for Blackarachnia—even Rattrap admitted she was a looker—so he knew it was not a craving for company or thrill.
But then…what did he feel for her?
Was it…could it be…love? Could all these sacrifice, betrayals, and secrets be children of an idle craving for the impossible? Was it true? Did he really love…Blackarachnia, a Predacon of all things?
By Primus, how could he deal with this? Betrayed by his own spark's desires, the once proud, noble, and clear minded Maximal known as Silverbolt found himself a jumbled mess of intricate emotions, sorting through what he wanted so badly and what was right…or was it? How was he to untangle himself from this spider's web of tangled passions?
He had to think. Now.
The whining sound of turning gizmos and grating squeal of moving metal filled the air as he transformed, fused animal form morphing into that of a tall robot, winged and clawed and—true to his name—predominately silver in coloring. Lowering himself to a crouching position, he then gazed steadily into the rippling surface that held his reflection.
Silverbolt loved the water, as he did the air, for its freedom. To no higher being's will did it bend its ways, to none did it answer but its own calling. Then again, perhaps the water, in all its flowing beauty, reminded the Earth-borne Cybertronian of his life.
Water was ever changing, ever flowing in the sands of time. Sometimes its surface was smooth like porcelain; at other times, its visage was of tumultuous, crashing waves of unending chaos. Unpredictable, the carved the face of the very Earth they stood on. However, water was continuous in one way: it could be expected to pull through any obstacle or diversion and forge it's own way through.
So was life for the silver Maximal crouched before the winding river. His journey remained turbulent, yet he forced himself to continue on, refusing to become the world-weary Optimus or pessimistic, cynical Rattrap. He still believed in the better days, and that was important. No matter how rough the water became, he would still hold on tight to his paddle, knowing that one day, no matter how far away, the waters would eventually flow smoother.
Today was one of irony. Though his mind remained a realm of chaotic enrapture, the water that reflected him remained quiet and pristine. He took comfort in it, allowing it's soothing, invisible current to sweep away his tortured mind to a place far away from this wild realm of unending torment, his thoughts communicated through a lengthy sigh that escaped his throat.
However, halfway through his silent meditation, a familiar shape of a gun pressed against his back, a feminine voice spoke, and the waves came crashing down once more.
Thank you for reading. Do send comments and questions to ChaoticSerenity3@aol.com.