Chapter 7 - Turbulance
Submitted February 15, 2009 Updated April 26, 2009 Status Complete | My first ever Transformers fanfic and since the first part seemed to go down well, I decided to continue it into a full story. Roadtrain (c) Flankfire (of FA) Transformers (c) Hasbro Everything else (c) me (Amy)
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Cartoons » Transformers » Fan Characters (OC's) |
Chapter 7 - Turbulance
Chapter 7 - Turbulance
George stamped into the kitchen, his bushy tail twitching angrily behind him. His wife was stood at the back door, cigarette wedged firmly bewteen her fingers, her deep brown paw shaking lightly. She knew what was comming. Every night something was found to argue about, and that inevitable argument would always lead to the inevitable thrashing. The washing machine always took notice. He secretly looked on, hidden red lenses focused on the fuming Fox as he approached his wife. She still had her back to him. But that soon changed when his paw landed on her shoulder, jerking her around to face him. This time the argument was about some paperwork. Apparently it had gone missing and he was a laughing stock at work without the notes he was currently ranting about. She pleaded ignorance, he snapped and soon crimson liquid, thicker than water, dripped to the floor, dribbling from between her raised fingers as she cupped her nose, hunched over and tears rolling down her cheeks. This time she wasn't to blame, as if she always was to blame. The fights were usually of his creation, but this one wasn't. It was the washing machine's doing. During the night, he'd pried open George's briefe case and pilfered a few sheets of paper from it, the writings on which he knew were important to his knew goal. The case had been quietly snapped shut once more and slid delicately back into it's original position. Come morning, the irritable and unstable Fox was none-the-wiser. Until he got to work, that is. And once the sun had sunk beneath the horizon once more and the family had gone to bed, the washing machine would transform yet again and meet up with the rogue Decepticon, Carjack and set his plan into motion, for the unsuspecting George held the key to Carjack's wanted upgrade that his newly acquired micro chip held.
Studying the planet from afar, a strangely styled space shuttle of deep green and fiery orange colouration orbited a small moon. The shuttle had tapped into the various satellites and was listening intently to the goings on. Nothing seemed different to it; a massive war that had lost course and cause was fast enveloping the planet, coupled with major fuel depletion and high counts of death and wanton distruction. The only thing new to the shuttle was the world itself. It was called Earth, and in appearances, was a far cry from the beautifully sculpted Cybertron, alas a planet long since dead, caught up in what could only be described as an intense power struggle. The signal the behemoth was tuned into wavered. A quick burst of blue fire and the ship rotated in a slow and nimbly controlled fashion, a maneuver any astronautical pilot would be proud of. The light from the nearby star the planets were orbiting struck the side. If anyone were to see the markings, they would see the ship's name printed proudly in fine orange scrawl of olde beside what could only be described as mechanical red tribal mask that seemingly glared out into space. The space shuttle, designation Galaxy, finalised it's rotation, finally having relocated the signal it was tuned in to. All was well. The signal was back. It continued listening...
Down on the street light lit main roads of a large town in the west of the largest continent on Nyxen 3, a spindly, tall mechanical creature slunk from shadow to shadow. If anyone had seen it, they'd have assumed it to be a late night connoiseur that prowled around the generous red light of the town. But on closer inspection, they would find themselves mistaken, for they would see dark silvery alloyed bones intricately entangled with black wires glaring out into the night from between a grubby white exoskeleton that the creature wore like a light-weight armour. They would also take note on it's Dinosaur-like movements and piercing red lenses that bore the same function of the organic spheres that sat in the fur's heads it saw on a regular basis. Except his 'eyes' were sharper, could detect more things, things that weren't viewable through organic issue optics. They could also see further and clearer. The six foot Decepticon bolted down the street in an elegant, bouncing stride, his bird like feet clacking metallically against the hard surface, head swinging from side to side, on a constant vigil for anymore late night wanderers. This time he had a destination in mind, markered by a small blue dot on a small, see-through map that lay at the bottom right of his line of sight, something only he could see.
He was making his way towards a research facility, the place where George worked. The Fox may not have been one of the scientist's there, but he was still useable. Although, now he'd been used for the scant few pages of information the washing machine Decepticon needed, he could be expelled from existence, something that would be considered entertaining to do. Bounding over a metal bench, a discarded newspaper page fluttering lightly in the night breeze from it's curved iron armrest, he landed neatly and raced across the wide main road, paying no heed to the security cameras that dotted the street, some clinging to lamp posts, others clinging to the shop fronts they were protecting. Skittering off down a back road that was littered with old, over flowing rubbish bins and stacks of black bin bags piled high, he made his way to the dead end; the Decepticon making light work of traversing the old brick wall, ignoring the shards of glass that lined the top as they broke and crunched beneath his movements as he swung himself over and landed neatly in a crouch on the otherside, head swaying from side to side, red optics scanning the new area. He was close to his destination; a scant few blocks away, infact.
The area was grassy, resembling a playing field. He noted that it was infact, true. A wide, black path wound between the large spaces of green and wooden benches of oak and pine dotted the treed landscape, occasionally breaking up the monotamy of greens. A strange grunting sound caught his attention and he swung his head in it's direction. Red lenses focused sharply on the purpotrator; a scruffy, hagard looking figure with a crooked tail and bitten ears lay snoring on a tableless bench beneath a tree, a floppy, battered piece of cardboard box serving as a form of warming protection from the summer elements. A fat lot of good it'd do the tramp though; the rain was on it's way yet again. An electronic sounding sigh and the washing machine took off across the field in long bounding strides, tiny clumps of wet grass and mud being flung up into the air after each foot step. The tramp grunted as the Decepticon sprinted past him, all that he felt was a rush of air and heard a strange clacking sound when mechanical feet impacted repeatedly on the black tarmac of the path, soon to be swallowed up again into dull thudding as he made his way onto the next large area of grass opposite, knowing that just beyond the tree line in the close distance, the laboratory he was headed to, lay squat and dark in all it's modern day glory.
High above the roof tops of a large town that lay swathed in darkness, only the flicker and soft yellowish glow of street lamps lighting up certain roads, a silver and black alien jet flew, silent and almost invisible to the naked eye of any wandering organics who happened to choose that moment to look up at the rolling storm clouds. The alien craft moved slowly, as if searching for something. Or someone. Either way, it was definately looking, red lenses secreted away somewhere in the vicinity of the blacked out cockpit, scanning the streets below. Still nothing. Only heat signatures of the dormant organics, and those who were staggering the streets in a drunken stupor, singing softly to no one inparticular. A week, and Carjack had remained undetectable, having somehow removed his signature from view of anyone who decided to go looking for him. Sweeping around in a long, slow circle, Turbulance came back on his original trajectory, curses for the rogue Decepticon moving through his mind as fast as his processor would allow, giving him the chance to spin off as many choice words and insults about Carjack and sometimes even a certain Roadtrain, faster than a human heart could beat under extreme moments of stress.
As he came back over the church he took note of something moving swiftly in the fielded areas beside the ancient building. It was running in a rather sneaky fashion, as if someone was looking for it. The style in which it ran reminded Turbulance of the way the predatorial, bipedal Dinosaurs ran in the vids he'd been subjected to witnessing when he downloaded a mass of information from Earth's satellite's to learn more about the planet. He focused on it; it held no heat signature like the organics did, but it retained an aura he knew all too well. It was a Decepticon. A small one, about six foot - nine inches and thin, but that didn't mean it was harmless. And the fact that the running Decepticon's ID was weak and wavering, made the hunter all the more curiouse. One run away was fun. But two run aways... Well, that's just sport. He thought cruelly. And maybe, this one had a connection of some description with Carjack.
Car 372 idled at the darkened curb, spectating a pub brawl that had spilled out into the street, from a distance. Those sober enough to have an ounce of sense about what to do in these situations were desperately trying to break things up or were trying to attract the copper's attention by screaming at him. The Human term The lights are on, but nobody's home sprang to Speeder's mind repeatedly as he watched. There was nothing really, he could do. At least, not without blowing his cover and gaining the wrath of Raid. That's not a thought that comforted him in any way, shape or form, especially since his secondary form was a tank. And a bloody big one at that, too. He thought, a hint of sourness edging his tone, a sure sign that he was getting incredibly bored with sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Something besides pitiful, drunken brawls and plastered furs banging on his heavily tinted windows and slurring at him in their loudest possible voice. He ignored the jibe about ''useless fracking coppers'' and pulled away from the curb, trying his hardest not to spin his wheels and kick up some oily road-grime the rain had brought to the surface of the dark, cracking tarmac in a retalliation to the punter's booze fueled comments.
As the small Decepticon broke into the labratory, Turbulance touched down around the back, making sure he was in the relative cover of the trees and a few out-buildings. Once down, he gave a moment to survey the area for any signs of activity, all the while keeping a tabs on his small quarry, who was now ascending the stairs. Then silver and black panels moved, switching positions and rotating, the blacked out cockpit glass falling down as a head emerged, swiftly following a set of long legs and powerful arms, the four-set wings folding back and downward at his back, secondary plasma guns just showing their noses either side of his head. Turbulance scanned his surroundings once more. Five security cameras. Simple in design, yet effective for their job description. They were also very easy to take offline, the screens at the security desk inside the building wavering, flickering then showing nothing but angry static, something the guard put down to technical difficulties. After all, it wasn't the first time it'd happened. The scientists and their tinkering with new technologies and the like were absent minded buggers for putting the building's power supply on the fritz on a regular basis. And so, the Blood Hound replaced his polystirene cup of coffee back on the desk, hauled himself stiffly to his feet and went in search for whoever was left in charge. Outside, Turbulance grinned to himself as he knelt on one knee, his opposite hand spred across the floor, bracing himself as he tapped into the in-building sound monitors and cameras, watching as the small, spindly Decepticon went about his business.
Studying the planet from afar, a strangely styled space shuttle of deep green and fiery orange colouration orbited a small moon. The shuttle had tapped into the various satellites and was listening intently to the goings on. Nothing seemed different to it; a massive war that had lost course and cause was fast enveloping the planet, coupled with major fuel depletion and high counts of death and wanton distruction. The only thing new to the shuttle was the world itself. It was called Earth, and in appearances, was a far cry from the beautifully sculpted Cybertron, alas a planet long since dead, caught up in what could only be described as an intense power struggle. The signal the behemoth was tuned into wavered. A quick burst of blue fire and the ship rotated in a slow and nimbly controlled fashion, a maneuver any astronautical pilot would be proud of. The light from the nearby star the planets were orbiting struck the side. If anyone were to see the markings, they would see the ship's name printed proudly in fine orange scrawl of olde beside what could only be described as mechanical red tribal mask that seemingly glared out into space. The space shuttle, designation Galaxy, finalised it's rotation, finally having relocated the signal it was tuned in to. All was well. The signal was back. It continued listening...
Down on the street light lit main roads of a large town in the west of the largest continent on Nyxen 3, a spindly, tall mechanical creature slunk from shadow to shadow. If anyone had seen it, they'd have assumed it to be a late night connoiseur that prowled around the generous red light of the town. But on closer inspection, they would find themselves mistaken, for they would see dark silvery alloyed bones intricately entangled with black wires glaring out into the night from between a grubby white exoskeleton that the creature wore like a light-weight armour. They would also take note on it's Dinosaur-like movements and piercing red lenses that bore the same function of the organic spheres that sat in the fur's heads it saw on a regular basis. Except his 'eyes' were sharper, could detect more things, things that weren't viewable through organic issue optics. They could also see further and clearer. The six foot Decepticon bolted down the street in an elegant, bouncing stride, his bird like feet clacking metallically against the hard surface, head swinging from side to side, on a constant vigil for anymore late night wanderers. This time he had a destination in mind, markered by a small blue dot on a small, see-through map that lay at the bottom right of his line of sight, something only he could see.
He was making his way towards a research facility, the place where George worked. The Fox may not have been one of the scientist's there, but he was still useable. Although, now he'd been used for the scant few pages of information the washing machine Decepticon needed, he could be expelled from existence, something that would be considered entertaining to do. Bounding over a metal bench, a discarded newspaper page fluttering lightly in the night breeze from it's curved iron armrest, he landed neatly and raced across the wide main road, paying no heed to the security cameras that dotted the street, some clinging to lamp posts, others clinging to the shop fronts they were protecting. Skittering off down a back road that was littered with old, over flowing rubbish bins and stacks of black bin bags piled high, he made his way to the dead end; the Decepticon making light work of traversing the old brick wall, ignoring the shards of glass that lined the top as they broke and crunched beneath his movements as he swung himself over and landed neatly in a crouch on the otherside, head swaying from side to side, red optics scanning the new area. He was close to his destination; a scant few blocks away, infact.
The area was grassy, resembling a playing field. He noted that it was infact, true. A wide, black path wound between the large spaces of green and wooden benches of oak and pine dotted the treed landscape, occasionally breaking up the monotamy of greens. A strange grunting sound caught his attention and he swung his head in it's direction. Red lenses focused sharply on the purpotrator; a scruffy, hagard looking figure with a crooked tail and bitten ears lay snoring on a tableless bench beneath a tree, a floppy, battered piece of cardboard box serving as a form of warming protection from the summer elements. A fat lot of good it'd do the tramp though; the rain was on it's way yet again. An electronic sounding sigh and the washing machine took off across the field in long bounding strides, tiny clumps of wet grass and mud being flung up into the air after each foot step. The tramp grunted as the Decepticon sprinted past him, all that he felt was a rush of air and heard a strange clacking sound when mechanical feet impacted repeatedly on the black tarmac of the path, soon to be swallowed up again into dull thudding as he made his way onto the next large area of grass opposite, knowing that just beyond the tree line in the close distance, the laboratory he was headed to, lay squat and dark in all it's modern day glory.
High above the roof tops of a large town that lay swathed in darkness, only the flicker and soft yellowish glow of street lamps lighting up certain roads, a silver and black alien jet flew, silent and almost invisible to the naked eye of any wandering organics who happened to choose that moment to look up at the rolling storm clouds. The alien craft moved slowly, as if searching for something. Or someone. Either way, it was definately looking, red lenses secreted away somewhere in the vicinity of the blacked out cockpit, scanning the streets below. Still nothing. Only heat signatures of the dormant organics, and those who were staggering the streets in a drunken stupor, singing softly to no one inparticular. A week, and Carjack had remained undetectable, having somehow removed his signature from view of anyone who decided to go looking for him. Sweeping around in a long, slow circle, Turbulance came back on his original trajectory, curses for the rogue Decepticon moving through his mind as fast as his processor would allow, giving him the chance to spin off as many choice words and insults about Carjack and sometimes even a certain Roadtrain, faster than a human heart could beat under extreme moments of stress.
As he came back over the church he took note of something moving swiftly in the fielded areas beside the ancient building. It was running in a rather sneaky fashion, as if someone was looking for it. The style in which it ran reminded Turbulance of the way the predatorial, bipedal Dinosaurs ran in the vids he'd been subjected to witnessing when he downloaded a mass of information from Earth's satellite's to learn more about the planet. He focused on it; it held no heat signature like the organics did, but it retained an aura he knew all too well. It was a Decepticon. A small one, about six foot - nine inches and thin, but that didn't mean it was harmless. And the fact that the running Decepticon's ID was weak and wavering, made the hunter all the more curiouse. One run away was fun. But two run aways... Well, that's just sport. He thought cruelly. And maybe, this one had a connection of some description with Carjack.
Car 372 idled at the darkened curb, spectating a pub brawl that had spilled out into the street, from a distance. Those sober enough to have an ounce of sense about what to do in these situations were desperately trying to break things up or were trying to attract the copper's attention by screaming at him. The Human term The lights are on, but nobody's home sprang to Speeder's mind repeatedly as he watched. There was nothing really, he could do. At least, not without blowing his cover and gaining the wrath of Raid. That's not a thought that comforted him in any way, shape or form, especially since his secondary form was a tank. And a bloody big one at that, too. He thought, a hint of sourness edging his tone, a sure sign that he was getting incredibly bored with sitting around and waiting for something to happen. Something besides pitiful, drunken brawls and plastered furs banging on his heavily tinted windows and slurring at him in their loudest possible voice. He ignored the jibe about ''useless fracking coppers'' and pulled away from the curb, trying his hardest not to spin his wheels and kick up some oily road-grime the rain had brought to the surface of the dark, cracking tarmac in a retalliation to the punter's booze fueled comments.
As the small Decepticon broke into the labratory, Turbulance touched down around the back, making sure he was in the relative cover of the trees and a few out-buildings. Once down, he gave a moment to survey the area for any signs of activity, all the while keeping a tabs on his small quarry, who was now ascending the stairs. Then silver and black panels moved, switching positions and rotating, the blacked out cockpit glass falling down as a head emerged, swiftly following a set of long legs and powerful arms, the four-set wings folding back and downward at his back, secondary plasma guns just showing their noses either side of his head. Turbulance scanned his surroundings once more. Five security cameras. Simple in design, yet effective for their job description. They were also very easy to take offline, the screens at the security desk inside the building wavering, flickering then showing nothing but angry static, something the guard put down to technical difficulties. After all, it wasn't the first time it'd happened. The scientists and their tinkering with new technologies and the like were absent minded buggers for putting the building's power supply on the fritz on a regular basis. And so, the Blood Hound replaced his polystirene cup of coffee back on the desk, hauled himself stiffly to his feet and went in search for whoever was left in charge. Outside, Turbulance grinned to himself as he knelt on one knee, his opposite hand spred across the floor, bracing himself as he tapped into the in-building sound monitors and cameras, watching as the small, spindly Decepticon went about his business.
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