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fandomweekly2023-03-21 08:23 pm
autobotscoutriella) wrote in fandomweekly2023-03-21 08:23 pm
Entry tags:
[#153] Three Years, Two Months, Ten Days (Transformers IDW05)
Theme Prompt: 153 - Insomnia
Title: Three Years, Two Months, Ten Days
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE (IDW-05)
Rating/Warnings: T / heavily implied past violence/torture
Bonus: No
Word Count: 809
Summary: His first few nights on the Lost Light, Fort Max has trouble sleeping.
The Lost Light was never quiet.
Even in the dead of night (or at least, what the ship’s computer calculated as ‘night’ to maintain the automated circadian cycle), there was a constant hum of activity. Mechs paced or ran or drove through the halls, on their way to duty shifts or wandering or entertaining themselves; voices he never recognized talked or shouted or in one memorable case sang badly off-key until someone else yelled will you shut up. It was usually quieter on the night cycle than the day, but the ship never truly slept, no matter the hour.
The average wartime outpost hadn’t exactly been quiet, either. Most of the ship’s inhabitants probably found it reassuring. Fortress Maximus thought he would have too, a long time ago.
Three years, two months, and sixteen days ago, to be precise. (Plus the coma – but that didn’t count. He hadn’t been awake on Delphi long enough to form an opinion.) After that…
Garrus-9 had been relatively quiet, before. Sometimes he had missed the noise and bustle of a more typical outpost. Then…
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Max stared up at the dark ceiling overhead. He’d tried counting rivets, and lost his place at forty-nine.
Down the hall, someone shrieked the kind of cackling drunken laugh that he’d learned usually followed spending a few hours at Swerve’s (illicit, maybe, he wasn’t entirely sure) bar. In the opposite direction, someone’s tires screeched erratically and stopped just as abruptly. The ship’s engines were a distant, throbbing hum, easy enough to tune out during the day, impossible not to hear when he had nothing else to focus on.
He could have turned down his audials. That was the standard procedure for outposts that ran around the clock – most of the ship’s inhabitants probably did the same. Leave them tuned to the right frequency to pick up the in-room intercom in case of emergency and block out everything else. It wasn’t hard. He’d done it himself, on stations where he wasn’t in charge of anything or anyone and didn’t need to be particularly accessible if nothing was on fire.
He’d tried it on Garrus-9 at first, too.
It had never ended well. No matter how awful the auditory input was, he had learned very quickly that there were many, many ways not having it could be worse.
Down the hall, someone yelped, and someone else laughed. Max went very, very still, and listened.
He couldn’t pick out individual words, and he didn’t recognize either voice involved. No one else joined in, unless they did it without making a sound. He didn’t hear blows or a struggle. Moments later, both mechs were laughing.
But he remained silent and still and tense until their voices faded into the distance.
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Even if it had been something more than roughhousing, there was nothing he could have done about it. He couldn’t have stopped it. There was nothing he could have done about any of them. It wasn’t as if –
No.
He could have acted.
It was a berthroom, not a cell. If something had been happening, or had escalated, he could have stepped out and dealt with it. They weren’t his mechs, but everyone tended to listen when someone his size raised his voice. There was nothing to stop him from acting.
And it had been nothing. Four days on the Lost Light had made it inescapably clear that a certain amount of…shenanigans…was the standard, not the exception. Whatever the mechs outside were up to, they were presumably enjoying themselves. They had no idea what it sounded like to a mech whose most recent memories were –
Were something he wasn’t going to deal with right now.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, a distant, regular beat. Once again Max found himself frozen, instinct holding him still and silent.
Ultra Magnus, he told himself, or another decently large mech with a heavy stride. The Lost Light was hardly short on mechs who sounded like an entire combat unit when they walked.
It didn’t help. His limbs stayed rigid until the footsteps faded into the distance.
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Max pushed himself upright, hard enough that the sudden motion painfully yanked something in his left tank tread, and hit the nearest light sensor. He didn’t need the recharge. He’d slept enough.
Someone had left him a datapad loaded with news bulletins and memos, probably to help him catch up on everything he’d missed. There was only one piece of information he really wanted; but there was a chance it would be somewhere on that datapad.
What had Prowl been doing all that time? What had been so important that Garrus-9 didn’t matter?
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
The Lost Light never slept, regardless of the hour.
Neither did Fortress Maximus.
Title: Three Years, Two Months, Ten Days
Fandom: Transformers MTMTE (IDW-05)
Rating/Warnings: T / heavily implied past violence/torture
Bonus: No
Word Count: 809
Summary: His first few nights on the Lost Light, Fort Max has trouble sleeping.
The Lost Light was never quiet.
Even in the dead of night (or at least, what the ship’s computer calculated as ‘night’ to maintain the automated circadian cycle), there was a constant hum of activity. Mechs paced or ran or drove through the halls, on their way to duty shifts or wandering or entertaining themselves; voices he never recognized talked or shouted or in one memorable case sang badly off-key until someone else yelled will you shut up. It was usually quieter on the night cycle than the day, but the ship never truly slept, no matter the hour.
The average wartime outpost hadn’t exactly been quiet, either. Most of the ship’s inhabitants probably found it reassuring. Fortress Maximus thought he would have too, a long time ago.
Three years, two months, and sixteen days ago, to be precise. (Plus the coma – but that didn’t count. He hadn’t been awake on Delphi long enough to form an opinion.) After that…
Garrus-9 had been relatively quiet, before. Sometimes he had missed the noise and bustle of a more typical outpost. Then…
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Max stared up at the dark ceiling overhead. He’d tried counting rivets, and lost his place at forty-nine.
Down the hall, someone shrieked the kind of cackling drunken laugh that he’d learned usually followed spending a few hours at Swerve’s (illicit, maybe, he wasn’t entirely sure) bar. In the opposite direction, someone’s tires screeched erratically and stopped just as abruptly. The ship’s engines were a distant, throbbing hum, easy enough to tune out during the day, impossible not to hear when he had nothing else to focus on.
He could have turned down his audials. That was the standard procedure for outposts that ran around the clock – most of the ship’s inhabitants probably did the same. Leave them tuned to the right frequency to pick up the in-room intercom in case of emergency and block out everything else. It wasn’t hard. He’d done it himself, on stations where he wasn’t in charge of anything or anyone and didn’t need to be particularly accessible if nothing was on fire.
He’d tried it on Garrus-9 at first, too.
It had never ended well. No matter how awful the auditory input was, he had learned very quickly that there were many, many ways not having it could be worse.
Down the hall, someone yelped, and someone else laughed. Max went very, very still, and listened.
He couldn’t pick out individual words, and he didn’t recognize either voice involved. No one else joined in, unless they did it without making a sound. He didn’t hear blows or a struggle. Moments later, both mechs were laughing.
But he remained silent and still and tense until their voices faded into the distance.
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Even if it had been something more than roughhousing, there was nothing he could have done about it. He couldn’t have stopped it. There was nothing he could have done about any of them. It wasn’t as if –
No.
He could have acted.
It was a berthroom, not a cell. If something had been happening, or had escalated, he could have stepped out and dealt with it. They weren’t his mechs, but everyone tended to listen when someone his size raised his voice. There was nothing to stop him from acting.
And it had been nothing. Four days on the Lost Light had made it inescapably clear that a certain amount of…shenanigans…was the standard, not the exception. Whatever the mechs outside were up to, they were presumably enjoying themselves. They had no idea what it sounded like to a mech whose most recent memories were –
Were something he wasn’t going to deal with right now.
Heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway, a distant, regular beat. Once again Max found himself frozen, instinct holding him still and silent.
Ultra Magnus, he told himself, or another decently large mech with a heavy stride. The Lost Light was hardly short on mechs who sounded like an entire combat unit when they walked.
It didn’t help. His limbs stayed rigid until the footsteps faded into the distance.
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
Max pushed himself upright, hard enough that the sudden motion painfully yanked something in his left tank tread, and hit the nearest light sensor. He didn’t need the recharge. He’d slept enough.
Someone had left him a datapad loaded with news bulletins and memos, probably to help him catch up on everything he’d missed. There was only one piece of information he really wanted; but there was a chance it would be somewhere on that datapad.
What had Prowl been doing all that time? What had been so important that Garrus-9 didn’t matter?
Three years. Two months. Ten days.
The Lost Light never slept, regardless of the hour.
Neither did Fortress Maximus.
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