See, I'm detailing in my fan fiction series the stories of three new characters. In the first fiction during the series, basically I spend 10-11 pages telling you that the maximals get three new dudes, and the predacons get a headache.
The second fanfiction goes all the way back to Cybertron. I didn't intend to give away the point immediately in it, so I still don't completely want to say what's going on, but yeah, a security officer for the Cybertronian database (a fictional computer- just made to fit my story), gets ambushed and has a chip with a bunch of security codes taken from him. A government agent tries to figure out who's doing what, and he gets into a scrap with an invisible cat. Yeah, I tried to be discrete at first, but there's really no secret as to who that is...
Then another fight happens, but I don't feel like describing it. So, now I'm on my third story, and it continues the Cybertronian story. It pobably gives way too many things away, which I probably don't want to show, but I'm giving it away anyways.
Point being though: I've written about three pages, and now I'm stuck. So here it is. And yeah, I know that many of you probably don't even have time to read it, but I kind of want to know if there's any point in continuing. Nobody gave me any kind of feedback on my last story, so I don't know if anyone even read it- but basically, this beginning won't make all that much sense unless you read my second story. If you want to read that, here's the link:
viewtopic.php?t=1352
Anyways, here I go:
It probably depicts quite a bit about Torcher’s character to write that the main thing he complained about after his skirmish with the unknown warrior was the fact his guns had been destroyed. As a matter of fact that’s all he talked about.
“My guns are broken”, “I loved those things”, “They bore me though many troubles.”
But mainly: “He broke my guns.”
Quickrim tried to calm down his partner, even daring to suggest that the guns weren’t the important thing to worry about. He had taken extensive damage during his battle, and he should probably be resting. It was a wonder Quickrim had managed to get Torcher into a CR chamber in the first place. Even then he had started to complain about his beloved e.p.f.’s.
“He broke my guns.” He spoke again, emphasizing his words by slamming the hammer down on a bit of melted alloy which he was using in a process of reconstruction. Apparently the disassembling of his guns had been very damaging to Torcher. He had spent years with those guns and with the aid of a streak of sentimentality which he wore around his manner like a necklace, he bemoaned their loss as if he had lost his occupation. As it were, he found only one way to obtain any solace.
“He thought those guns were scrap didn’t he? Aha! I’ll show him, I’ll rebuild those things!” It was true. Even before he had gone to a CR chamber, and even before he told Quickrim it was safe to come out of the room (which Quickrim had surmised for himself after a period of relative silence), Torcher had painstakingly searched the hallway for all the blasted shards of firearm he could lay his hands on (his hands were also quite blasted themselves). Having brought them to his own residence, he was now piecing what he could back into at least some resemblance of the two guns’ original frames. Unfortunately, what he could reform from the bits he had found was meager. The rest was improvised. Meanwhile, his obsession increased further.
“Yes, when I’m finished making these, that ‘bot had better duck, because if I see him again, I’m going to give him taste of these things.”
“Oh come on, you’ll probably never even see him again.”
But Torcher wasn’t ready to hear this. In fact, for a moment he had forgotten about his recent foe, and was concentrating on his plans for the new guns he was making. A million ideas raced through his head. He needed velocity behind his bullets. At the same time he had to balance that velocity with precision so that his ammunition wouldn’t fire off target. This may have been an easy task on earth, but on Cybertron there was a reason lasers had replaced bullets in handguns. Bullets had a hard time going through Cybertronian plating, and as a result they just didn’t do enough damage. But Torcher had stuck with using bullets, if for no other reason than to say he used different ammo. Because of his stubborn pursuit of figuring out how to work with bullets, he had to consistently experiment with different methods. Still, despite all the laborious challenges which had lain before him, he had become quite successful at making bullets actually work against his Cybertronian foes, and along the way, he had learned a lot of things about firearms in general. So there he sat, or rather stood, creating whatever seemed best fit to his imagination, and especially what best reminded him of his poor shattered e.p.f.’s , whose operating lives had been snuffed out far too early for his taste.
* * *
“Why did you load your needles with venom?” he bellowed from the CR chamber, even as Torcher’s bullets were being removed from his chest.
From a neighboring chamber, a raspy voice echoed back “What’s that, I can’t quite hear you. Tee hee hee heeheeheehee.”
“You hear me perfectly well. You are a worthless, incompetent, sniveling scientist with nothing better to do than compromise our mission.” he snarled in retort.
From outside both chambers where the hapless ‘bots were being repaired, a deep voice bellowed. “Silence both of you. There are far more important things to worry about now. Dynamo, you said the other saw you in a mirror? Surely you could have been more discrete than that.”
Unconcerned for his leader’s berating, Dynamo shot back. “Affirmative. I could have not been there.” At that statement, his CR chamber door opened revealing to him a robot who was rather astounded, although quite accustomed to statements of that sort from Dynamo.
“What are you insinuating about the assignment?”
Dynamo was neither ashamed nor was he any calmer, but he was perhaps a touch more diplomatic with his next response. “You have long known that despite my agreement with your goals; with your desire for Predacon justice, that I still have felt even when dealing with maximals that my honor should never be compromised for the security of any of your plans. You had us go to murder an already weakened ‘bot, through injection of a slow working poison? I don’t think I even have to mention that this same robot had been weakened because we took dishonorable shots at him in a dark alley. ” He snorted in contempt. “I deserve to have gotten injected with venom after protecting a mission like that.”
The purple ‘bot emerged from his CR chamber. “I’m glad to hear the venom works.”
Dynamo snarled.
Their leader sighed. “Dynamo, I am aware you dislike the way with which I conduct my operations. But you must remember that if we are dishonorable to the maximals, they were dishonorable to us first. And furthermore, if I begin to suspect that your pitiful guilt is compromising your ability to follow my orders, I will make sure you never have to do a dishonorable thing again, yes.”
Dynamo was fully aware of what his leader meant by his last statement, but he merely stared in response, not willing to give any conceding acknowledgement. And to speak the truth quite plainly, he didn’t really know how to react in the first place. Dynamo had long been tortured by numerous inner questions. He had been hired by his leader for the complex operation which they were now in the beginning stages of, not only because he had a long history with his leader, but also because he was a skilled, nay, hardly-matched warrior. But among the few things keener than his prowess in battle, were his strict moral code and sense of honor. Granted, his moral code was not guided by the same ideals as his maximal foes, but whatever he regarded as the correct thing to do in any situation, he did with unparalleled determination.
That having been noted, it was a very rare thing indeed that his leader had managed to get him into that hospital. But, his leader was quite effective at inspiring his meager (although quite capable) band, and perhaps in a swell of allegiance to the Predacon cause, spurred on by eloquent words, he gladly walked off to his mission. Even then there may have been a small, innocent voice stirring up from the depths of his long-built gruffness, which pleaded with him not to ensure the killing of a defenseless being, albeit a Maximal. But along the way he probably flicked the pleading voice away, as one may do to a fly, and reasoned that real honor would have been to stand up for the rights which he was now fighting for. And had the fly buzzed shrilly back into his ears, the reassuring words of his leader’s inspiration forced it back to its proper place.
Oh, but now when Dynamo had time to reexamine the situation he had put himself in, the little voice came back, and it was shouting at him! Of course, even when shouting, a little voice can still sound quite minimal, but Dynamo had bothered to stoop down and put his ear to the scolding voice. It spoke yet again of his honor, and had somehow managed to get control of Dynamo’s vocal box when he noted he was deserving of being poisoned. It probably would have mentioned the bullets too, had Dynamo not regained his composure. And so, even when his leader spoke of his failure and his duty to the Predacon cause, the voice continued its lecture, and in response Dynamo merely stated back to it “Affirmative, affirmative.”
It was not the first time he had encountered the voice either. Many a time, he had considered doing something in battle, and the voice would speak “No, not even he deserves that.” Of course, when dispensing mercy to Dynamo’s reasoning process, the voice was actually quite loud, since mercy seemed to be one of the largest manifestations of his honor. Sometimes, however, the voice would be so persistent, that the honor of which it spoke told of things which, to any other predacon, would be regarded as pure insanity, plain and simple. At times when Dynamo realized how drastic some of things it asked him to do (or perhaps more often, to not do) in the name of honor were, he would point his finger and call it a Maximal’s voice. To this, the voice would only respond by dropping its jaw in shock, at which point Dynamo would say “Sorry.”
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So... what next?
