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fandomweekly2019-05-27 05:18 pm
autobotscoutriella) wrote in fandomweekly2019-05-27 05:18 pm
Entry tags:
[#015] Primordial (Transformers Prime)
Theme Prompt: #015 - Fever Dream
Title: Primordial
Fandom: Transformers Prime
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / Violence
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 807
Summary: Megatron is no stranger to feverish dreams, but this one seems to be more than the usual disjointed over-processing.
Cybertron tilts and spins, brilliant blue and purple veins racing across its dark surface as its core pulses faster, harder, brighter. Kaon rises around him, walls and towers and streets reflecting back the purple glow of the sky, too bright and too dark, empty but with life humming through every vein and seam.
This is not the Kaon Megatron remembers, and he does not know why he is here. In his Kaon, his people walked the streets and filled the buildings, statues rose at the gates to the city and the center of the arena, voices echoed down alleys that were never silent even at night. This city is silent--or it should be silent, were it not for the energy humming through the ground and the walls around him. His Kaon's walls are worn and cracked and stained, scars of millions of years of life and death. These are polished, shimmering, with fresh cracks bleeding bright light as if the planet itself cannot contain its own core. This is a young world, a volatile one cracking and reforming and ripping itself into shape, not the ancient dying, comatose planet Megatron remembers so well.
Dark clouds swirl overhead, lightning crackling and crashing. He can feel every pulse of the planet's core in his own spark, thudding under his chest, coursing through every energon line like fire. The world is burning in shades of energon, blue fading to white and purple blurring into black, and he can feel every inch of it as if it’s hardwired straight into his spark.
The planet spins, dizzying, unstable, hurtling through space into the blackness that he should not be able to see through the atmosphere. The ground shakes, shifts, threatening to fling him off into space, gravity be damned--
Unthinking, his arm seeming to act on its own, he drives a blade hilt-deep into the nearest wall to hold himself still, metal slicing through metal with a screech that sounds almost alive. The sky flares bright white, but the ground steadies--only to lurch again as something twists and turns far below, a planet struggling to hold itself together or rip itself apart.
The ground tears wide open with a creaking, scraping groan, blue light and flames blasting to the surface in an explosion that blinds him for a split-second. When his optics clear, the world is all smoke and flames and steam, ashes and rain showering down from the sky.
This world is mine. It's his voice, his words, rolling like thunder across the glowing landscape, but he hasn't said a word. Your world is mine. You don’t stand a chance.
The response echoes back in the wind that stirs the clouds and smoke into a swirling frenzy.
Never.
The ground shakes and rumbles, and before it can hurl him out into space, he strikes, down into the widening gap at his feet, through the flames into the brilliant blue energon vein. The shriek that follows cuts through the sky, drowning out the crash of lightning and scrape of blade against metal ground. Energon gushes onto his arm, and it burns, flames racing up his plating and searing into every gap, steam rising from the wound in the planet and from his arm alike.
He rises to face the swirling smoke, and the shapes approaching through it that he knows he should recognize but does not. They cannot stand against me, he shouts without speaking. None can, not you and not your spawn.
Blades and guns and plating flash and shimmer in the darkness, thundering toward him in a mass of shapes and shadows, ghosts in the night. He leaps forward to meet them, striking out with all the power of the storm that rolls through the sky above.
CRASH.
Megatron awoke staring at his fist, resting in the center of the spiderweb-cracked dent smashed into the wall of the Nemesis. The door whooshed open a moment later, revealing a Vehicon whose body language screamed terror.
"...my Lord?"
"OUT."
The Vehicon was gone before Megatron even finished the word, the door closing behind him and footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall. Megatron decided he could shout at the guard for abandoning his post later, and turned his attention to the window and the starfield outside. The human planet hung in space below the battle cruiser, a sphere of blue and green traced all over with points of golden light, wide-open to anything that might happen to drop out of the sky.
A dream. One that seemed to reflect ancient pre-recorded history, but still only a dream. Yet his veins still burned, and his plating was hot to the touch when he absently ran a hand across the arm that had been buried to the elbow in the energon vein.
Perhaps dark energon had more side effects than the immediately obvious.
Title: Primordial
Fandom: Transformers Prime
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 / Violence
Bonus: Yes
Word Count: 807
Summary: Megatron is no stranger to feverish dreams, but this one seems to be more than the usual disjointed over-processing.
Cybertron tilts and spins, brilliant blue and purple veins racing across its dark surface as its core pulses faster, harder, brighter. Kaon rises around him, walls and towers and streets reflecting back the purple glow of the sky, too bright and too dark, empty but with life humming through every vein and seam.
This is not the Kaon Megatron remembers, and he does not know why he is here. In his Kaon, his people walked the streets and filled the buildings, statues rose at the gates to the city and the center of the arena, voices echoed down alleys that were never silent even at night. This city is silent--or it should be silent, were it not for the energy humming through the ground and the walls around him. His Kaon's walls are worn and cracked and stained, scars of millions of years of life and death. These are polished, shimmering, with fresh cracks bleeding bright light as if the planet itself cannot contain its own core. This is a young world, a volatile one cracking and reforming and ripping itself into shape, not the ancient dying, comatose planet Megatron remembers so well.
Dark clouds swirl overhead, lightning crackling and crashing. He can feel every pulse of the planet's core in his own spark, thudding under his chest, coursing through every energon line like fire. The world is burning in shades of energon, blue fading to white and purple blurring into black, and he can feel every inch of it as if it’s hardwired straight into his spark.
The planet spins, dizzying, unstable, hurtling through space into the blackness that he should not be able to see through the atmosphere. The ground shakes, shifts, threatening to fling him off into space, gravity be damned--
Unthinking, his arm seeming to act on its own, he drives a blade hilt-deep into the nearest wall to hold himself still, metal slicing through metal with a screech that sounds almost alive. The sky flares bright white, but the ground steadies--only to lurch again as something twists and turns far below, a planet struggling to hold itself together or rip itself apart.
The ground tears wide open with a creaking, scraping groan, blue light and flames blasting to the surface in an explosion that blinds him for a split-second. When his optics clear, the world is all smoke and flames and steam, ashes and rain showering down from the sky.
This world is mine. It's his voice, his words, rolling like thunder across the glowing landscape, but he hasn't said a word. Your world is mine. You don’t stand a chance.
The response echoes back in the wind that stirs the clouds and smoke into a swirling frenzy.
Never.
The ground shakes and rumbles, and before it can hurl him out into space, he strikes, down into the widening gap at his feet, through the flames into the brilliant blue energon vein. The shriek that follows cuts through the sky, drowning out the crash of lightning and scrape of blade against metal ground. Energon gushes onto his arm, and it burns, flames racing up his plating and searing into every gap, steam rising from the wound in the planet and from his arm alike.
He rises to face the swirling smoke, and the shapes approaching through it that he knows he should recognize but does not. They cannot stand against me, he shouts without speaking. None can, not you and not your spawn.
Blades and guns and plating flash and shimmer in the darkness, thundering toward him in a mass of shapes and shadows, ghosts in the night. He leaps forward to meet them, striking out with all the power of the storm that rolls through the sky above.
CRASH.
Megatron awoke staring at his fist, resting in the center of the spiderweb-cracked dent smashed into the wall of the Nemesis. The door whooshed open a moment later, revealing a Vehicon whose body language screamed terror.
"...my Lord?"
"OUT."
The Vehicon was gone before Megatron even finished the word, the door closing behind him and footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall. Megatron decided he could shout at the guard for abandoning his post later, and turned his attention to the window and the starfield outside. The human planet hung in space below the battle cruiser, a sphere of blue and green traced all over with points of golden light, wide-open to anything that might happen to drop out of the sky.
A dream. One that seemed to reflect ancient pre-recorded history, but still only a dream. Yet his veins still burned, and his plating was hot to the touch when he absently ran a hand across the arm that had been buried to the elbow in the energon vein.
Perhaps dark energon had more side effects than the immediately obvious.
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