Needlenose stood panting, cycling air for auxiliary coolant. The sound of air through his grill slots sounded as loud as a freight train. He stretched, flexing his wings back. Energon streaked his frame in asymmetrical splatters, and he rubbed at the splotches. Needlenose really just succeeded in spreading it around and getting his hands sticky and pink. Idly, he commented, "That Autobot was fuelled to the brim. Juicy."
Few thrills compared to killing, although it had taken him long enough to learn that he had a taste for that bitter nectar. Needlenose had been scared out of his mind, to start, when it came to battle. He'd been happy enough in engineering. The Decepticons liked his work. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough, and it let him avoid combat. Spinister had dragged him away from that comfortable existence, and Needlenose had discovered there were few things that really made him feel alive like making someone else dead.
Engine fairly purring, he thought about how he'd like to thank Spinister. Needlenose called out, "Right here, right now, Spinister."
There was that sadly predictable blank look from Spinister. He never got it, even when Needlenose pulled out the diagrams.
Needlenose swept in, rudely close to the other Decepticon. This time, he voiced his desire bluntly, "That's a mission well done. We should interface to celebrate."
Spinister's blades twitched, and he reminded, in that straight-laced way of his, "Mayhem with the least kills has to write the report."
"And you're saying that's me? Oh for shame, Spinister!" Needlenose posed, mock-hurt. Then he snarled, "My photon missiles brought down the house on those insurgents. Octopunch can write the blasted report."
"That means I have to edit it," Spinister grumbled. Octopunch tended to slide his lame jokes into his reports.
Needlenose would have none of his partner's grousing and snapped, "Just get over here before I jump you."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2007-07-29 04:01 am (UTC)Needlenose stood panting, cycling air for auxiliary coolant. The sound of air through his grill slots sounded as loud as a freight train. He stretched, flexing his wings back. Energon streaked his frame in asymmetrical splatters, and he rubbed at the splotches. Needlenose really just succeeded in spreading it around and getting his hands sticky and pink. Idly, he commented, "That Autobot was fuelled to the brim. Juicy."
Few thrills compared to killing, although it had taken him long enough to learn that he had a taste for that bitter nectar. Needlenose had been scared out of his mind, to start, when it came to battle. He'd been happy enough in engineering. The Decepticons liked his work. It wasn't perfect, but it was good enough, and it let him avoid combat. Spinister had dragged him away from that comfortable existence, and Needlenose had discovered there were few things that really made him feel alive like making someone else dead.
Engine fairly purring, he thought about how he'd like to thank Spinister. Needlenose called out, "Right here, right now, Spinister."
There was that sadly predictable blank look from Spinister. He never got it, even when Needlenose pulled out the diagrams.
Needlenose swept in, rudely close to the other Decepticon. This time, he voiced his desire bluntly, "That's a mission well done. We should interface to celebrate."
Spinister's blades twitched, and he reminded, in that straight-laced way of his, "Mayhem with the least kills has to write the report."
"And you're saying that's me? Oh for shame, Spinister!" Needlenose posed, mock-hurt. Then he snarled, "My photon missiles brought down the house on those insurgents. Octopunch can write the blasted report."
"That means I have to edit it," Spinister grumbled. Octopunch tended to slide his lame jokes into his reports.
Needlenose would have none of his partner's grousing and snapped, "Just get over here before I jump you."