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normal-real-human-beign · 7 months ago

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Beautiful concept

Optimus prime becomes a western highway ghost story.

If you’re driving in the dead of night along those long stretches of highway in the western US you might just encounter a lone big rig who will drive along side you for miles. The truckers will blow their horns as they recognize his custom paint and trailer the truck will slow its steady speed to match them. Those truckers with cbs say that there’s someone to talk to in there but he seams sad and lonely. No one ever sees him stop. Some say he’s an angel who will lead rescue workers to crashes at the dead of night. Those unfortunate enough to wander the highways at night tell story’s of the truck that stopped and got them somewhere warm and safe for the night only to wake in the morning with large sums of money in there pockets and a small note apologizing for the low sum. Children and parents smile as he always honks his horn when asked. The people of the western highways know when you see big red you’re always taken care of no matter who you are or where you came from.

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normal-real-human-beign · 8 months ago

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It was quiet.

Not normal quiet, although Red wasn’t sure how he knew what normal quiet entailed. Maybe it was a memory from a time before all.. this. Before the house. Or maybe even before Red himself, if that made the slightest bit of sense.

No, it was silent. Laying on his back, on the hard and perpetually unmade bed he called his own, Red couldn’t hear a single thing but his own quiet breathing.

There was no wind to rustle leaves outside his window, and if Red were to be entirely honest with himself, which wasn’t often, he’d have to admit that he wasn’t even sure if “wind” existed here. Not in the natural sense at least. There was no cry of nocturnal animals, no branches tapping against frosted glass, no pitter pattering of raindrops. The outside was as silent as it’s always been.

The house was quiet, too. There was no hum of a fridge, or static buzz of electricity. Again, Red wasn’t sure why he was missing these sounds, it’s not like they’d been there before. But there was a tight and uncomfortable feeling in his chest, telling him this was wrong. There was supposed to be something here. Like there had been before. Before.. something.

That memory again, one he could never quite grasp. Didn’t want to remember, he was sure, like most things of his past.

Their clock had stopped ticking a long while ago.

Red turns his head to the side, his yarn causing static to pop and sparkle in his ears. The other ones were asleep, their outlines just barely visible in the moonlight. They too, were silent. Dead silent, Red concluded as he stared at the yellow one’s unmoving chest. What use had he for lungs anyway, with those wretched batteries in place? His chest was hard, unmoving plastic under bright scratchy felt, Red had felt it himself when he’d removed the casing.

His eyes drift towards the other other one, the duck one, similarly dead to the world. He used to have lungs, didn’t he? Big lungs for a bigger voice. Red doesn’t remember why he knows they were removed, among other things. There’s a hole in his memory, filled with the smell of dirt and the sharp sting of venomous green jealousy.

Yellow and Duck slept like puppets with their strings cut, and Red idly wondered if he would be the same, if he were to finally close his eyes.

Red turns his head back to stare at the ceiling, cringing once more at the sound of crackling static, so loud in his ears. Puppets, huh. He guessed he did feel like one, even at the best of times. Perhaps not like a puppet. More like there was a parasite, deep inside of him, controlling his every move.

If he closed his eyes and really thought about it, he could almost feel it. The arms within his own arms, moving just a little too loosely under felt skin, his toes wiggling when he’s sure he has none. For a second his vision is a curtain of red yarn, the sound of panicked breathing, hands balled into tight fists within useless felt mittens, his heart was beating out of control and he’s stuck he’s-

Red blinks open his eyes, once more staring at the ceiling in that dark, oppressive quiet. He wasn’t sure what that was, but he’s sure he’s never going to try it again. It didn’t.. help. Looking for answers, trying to think. It never helped. It always led to him alone, in the rain, in the dark, in an empty, silent pitch black that left him too awake. Too aware of the thoughts in his brain and the feeling of his own skin sliding against his body. It was going to take him to some awful place, like a.. dump. Or a boring grey office. he was sure of it, even if he was also sure he’s never tried it before.

Red sighs, deeply, tired eyes following the few strings let loose from his mop of hair to dance in the air for a second, before dropping down again. He should sleep, probably. It was the right thing to do, really. Sleep would end this day, like it always did. Less like a process and more like the press of a button. The script folded onto a new page, camera, lights, action, blood, pain, and then sleep once more.

There were no dreams in this place, at least not for Red.

He wonders then, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth in quiet thought, were they dreaming right now? The other ones. Maybe it was because Red tended to be the last one asleep. Maybe this place was waiting somehow, the world refusing to go on before they all closed their eyes with the intention to sleep.

Red shuddered, figuring thoughts like these belonged in that dangerous memory territory, the ones that would lead him to bad places. But Red was nothing if not a little stubborn, a little curious by nature.

Perhaps they were stuck, like this. Stuck in some unknowable darkness like they’d been before. (Had they been? Red doesn’t remember. Refuses to). Maybe they were instead stuck in a nightmare, reliving their lessons, a sleepy rehearsal before the next episode began. But if he allowed himself to think positively for a second, just for once. Was he letting them dream?

Red thinks about the ones next to him, usually so loud and irritating and dumb and annoying. Wonders how long he’s really known them, or at least knew of them. Had it been a few weeks? That didn’t seem right. A year maybe? 11 years? No, much longer still. He was their best friend. Their father figure? Their crumb of a whole clump. Red nods silently to himself.

They could dream for a while longer, he decides with a yawn, eyes open, still firmly staring up at the blackness above him. Red had enough to ponder about.

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