| Burnt fish fingers |
[May. 20th, 2007|02:37 pm] |
17/5/07 - 587 words on The Lunatic Cabaret
18/5/07-19/5/07 - Injured
Quiet, pt 4
They were still huddled amongst the last trees, scraping the worst of the mud off Prowl, when the rocket hit them. Bluestreak heard the whuff of the launcher and threw himself down, dragging Prowl with him, hearing the searing sound of the rocket closing in. He had a glimpse of Jazz, open-mouthed in surprise, the white spot of the rocket's tail-flare reflecting in his visor and growing bigger and brighter by every slice of that second. The shining lance slashed between them and exploded in a wash of white fire. Bluestreak was thrown backwards along ground that boiled.
Suddenly there were no trees, the mud was bubbling, their cover was reduced to ashes and a Decepticon with a rocket launcher had them zeroed in.
We're going to die, Bluestreak thought. I'm not even injured yet and we're all going to die.
Prowl grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked on him as he levered himself into a sprawling crawl. "Move, move, get behind that ridge!" he was hissing. Bluestreak scrabbled on his back beside Prowl. Smokescreen had landed on Bluestreak's left and was following as best he could. The three of them were all too boxy in the chest and too wide across the doors to roll over, and Smokescreen had landed on his side. His red paint stuck out like a collection of targets, and Bluestreak could see his exposed door shivering with fear.
They crawled into the suggestion of shelter offered by the low ridge of burnt dirt and smouldering tree-stumps, and tried to roll over without showing too much metal. Their coats of dirt, pollen and more dirt were now getting a new layer: ashes.
Dry, whispering-soft ashes, pattering down on them and clinging to their metal. Bluestreak stared at them, at the gentle rain of pale soft dryness, at the rain of memories.
Prowl tapped him on the side. "Find that Decepticon," he ordered. "Smokescreen, whatever you do, don't blow smoke. Borrow Bluestreak's lock and shoot with him."
Bluestreak lay on his belly, the front of his chest digging into the dirt like a blunt shovel, and edged gently forwards until his launchers were raised high enough for him to see over the ridge.
Where there had been a tree line, now there was ashes, ashes, and smoking stumps. They were barely a thirty paces from the edge of the crater; a massive circular gouge that must go half a mile or more into the ground. The cruiser was rammed in nose-first, the great wedge of the forward half jammed in tightly and venting smoke, the rear half with its broad cross of weapon booms broken part-way off and listing over towards them.
We're lucky it's pointing down, or they'd be shooting at us with the big guns, Bluestreak thought, scoping the ship for open vents. He faintly wondered why so few trees had been knocked down by the crash.
"Did either of you two see where Jazz went?" Prowl asked softly.
Bluestreak froze solid.
"He was right next to you," Smokescreen whispered. "But he vanished in the flash."
A silent pause. Bluestreak spotted an open hatch in the side of the ship - an airlock door, by the looks of things. He zoomed his target locks on it, trying to resolve a small muddle of shadow.
"He isn't...?" Smokescreen tried to ask.
"No," Prowl said. "That was a flare rocket, just to burn the cover off. No shrapnel, and we're not even singed."
Bluestreak locked onto the muddle of shape. "Found him," he murmured. "Well, his gun..."
"Link me," Prowl ordered, putting his hand over Bluestreak's.
Bluestreak routed his communicator through the armour of his hand and into Prowl, sharing what he could see through his launcher-sights - a round dark shape, almost entirely concealed by the angle of airlock. "That's the barrel of his weapon."
"It's a multi-purpose launcher," Prowl said darkly. "No telling what he's got loaded in it. And he's lying on the wall of the ship; their gravity must be off, which means their communications are right out."
No reinforcements. Bluestreak felt a shock of relief. He let his head flop, resting his chevrons in the dust for a moment.
The dark barrel moved slightly, gently.
Bluestreak tracked the line of fire and twisted slightly to look over at the Decepticon's target. "Oh no..."
Jazz was lying out in the open, totally still, sprawled prone and twisted. The soft rain of ashes had turned him almost totally grey. The saboteur was completely exposed and right in front of the airlock.
The second he moves ... Bluestreak realised Jazz's only hope was playing dead.
"Smokescreen, take a lock from Bluestreak," Prowl said quickly. "Hit that airlock with a jammer rocket. That glitch knows flare rockets don't kill."
"On it," Smokescreen said, crawling forwards to raise his launchers into firing position. Bluestreak let go of Prowl to put his weight on that arm and put his other hand on Smokescreen's arm to share targeting. Smokescreen shifted a launcher - elevate, lower, bit of a twitch to one side - then fired. Bluestreak's head snapped around as if magnetically dragged, trying to follow the rocket. It was lost to his optics and returned to sight on his launcher-sights.
The rocket shot into the airlock and vanished. Seconds later, there was a quiet thud and a gentle puff of smoke.
"Frag," said Smokescreen.
"What happened?" Prowl said, unable to see.
"The inside door of the airlock was open," Bluestreak realised. "Smokescreen's rocket went right down the corridor!"
Prowl opened his mouth to say something and the second rocket hit them.
The terrible thump of heat and light hit Bluestreak and lifted him into the air. Whirling head-over-heels, he saw Smokescreen thrown right over the ridge and into the crater, vanishing into the ship's shadow. The ground came down on him far too fast, and he was smashed face-first into the thick layer of choking ashes. Hard things punched him in the sides and legs, and he rolled, skidded, and felt himself slipping.
Finally, he came to a dizzy stop. Looking up, he saw darkness broken only by the purple spear of one of the cruiser's booms. Looking around slowly, he realised he was lying on the edge of the crater, hanging head down over the dark and ragged pit of stones and broken metal.
Looking up, he realised he was almost directly beneath the Decepticon's airlock.
Looking down, he realised he was hanging precariously amongst scree and loose stones.
Looking from side to side, he realised he had nothing to hold onto.
Somewhere below, Smokescreen wasn't making a sound. Above him, Jazz was lying helpless and vulnerable in the middle of open ground. Hound and Mirage had vanished and could be anywhere by now, including dead.
"Prowl?" Bluestreak whispered, feeling shivers of fear run up and down his back. "Help?" |
|
|
![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
koilungfish's journal
sore