Notes: Hello, my lovely readers. Welcome to my silly drabble set, "Project Wasteland."

Set in a universe based on the Arbor Hill neighborhood of my area, this series will chronicle the alternative universe life of my two favorite Predacons. This project started with my narrating small stories about human versions of Waspinator and Terrorsaur living in Arbor Hill in my head while waiting for the bus. Naturally, things in my head take on a life of their own...

Don't expect me to explain why they're human and living in the present day, because I have no idea why. It just…happened.

Hope you like it anyway!

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Falling

Because life is all about trying, failing and trying again.

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"Most of us don't come online knowing how to fly. We have to learn, through trial and error and trial again. That's the only way. You take off and you try and if you fall, you get up and try again."

"But falling is scary."

"Falling is a fact of life."

How long ago had he first heard those words? It didn't matter; falling had always been a large part of his life. And how far they had fallen this time! From once-glorious jets, to groveling, underappreciated minions, to this…This mess of non-transforming, squishy nothing.

That couldn't fly.

But they could fall; oh yes, they could fall! And they were fallen; hidden away in a little dump, with almost nothing to their names -- The names that weren't even their names! -- just a small, cramped box of an apartment, some shabby furniture and enough money to make ends meet until they inevitably starved to death or died of disease or slipped away from old age.

What a wonderful life indeed.

He didn't know if it was better or worse. At least they were free from the grasp of one tyrant, even if they were now slave to another.

He didn't know what to do about this kind of falling; neither of them did. So they didn't do anything, they just struggled on and on. And on days that were particularly bad, he would scale the fire escape and perch on the roof, watching the world below and pretending that things were okay and he could still fly.

It wasn't high enough for everything below to look small, but it was close. He was looking down on trees, on cars, on people scurrying everywhere, in a hurry to go nowhere. Everything in the neighborhood was stagnating and they with it; they were meant for better things, but trapped in useless bodies. He wished he could fly; wished he could fly away from it all, leave all the bad things behind.

Sometimes, he would stand on the edge and look down, contemplative. What did this world hold for him? Nothing. He was a broken, poor, uneducated no one who would never rise above his current position as a lowly cleaning drone where he was frowned upon by people who's life spans were only the blink of an eye compared to his. It was a loop; constant and unchanging: drag yourself up, groom, fuel, trudge off to do meaningless work, return to do even more meaningless nothing.

There was one thing that kept him from testing to limits of this body; of seeing if he could still fly and fall and get back up again: the color red. It was in the sky at dusk, when the sun sank low over the skyline. It was in the signs and lights, telling him he couldn't go, but never really getting him to stop. It was in the cars whizzing along around him only to stop at the lights, reminding him that sometimes there was no need to rush; that he needed to take the time to simply exist. It was in whatever it was pumping through their bodies, keeping them alive.

It was in his partner's eyes; in his glossy hair; in his easy, self-indulgent smile. It was him; his color and it was the color that reminded a poor, broken man that he wasn't alone.

They were in this together, no matter what.

"You take off and you try…"

If they flew, they flew together.

…and if you fall…

And if they fell, they fell together.

…you get up and try again."

And then they would pick each other up and give life another go.

That was the only way.