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marlynnofmany · 5 days ago

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Fools, Fauna, and Music Appreciation

“I don’t like this place,” Paint said over the wind. “I feel like the bushes are yelling at me.”

“Are they?” I asked from my position at the other hoversled. The blueish shrubs on either side of the footpath were making a staticky kind of rustling, but I’d assumed that was just the leaves brushing together.

“It’s fauna,” said Blip, pushing my sled.

“Small fauna,” added Blop, pushing the other.

“Bugs in the bushes, then,” I said. “Makes sense. As long as they’re not yelling because they’re going to jump out at us.”

Paint scrutinized the bushes as we passed, her lizardy face intent. “I’d like to think that there would be a warning at the spaceport about that.”

“Probably,” Blip said.

“Probably,” Blop agreed. “Though this site is pretty new.”

“I saw at least two roving safety patrols,” I pointed out. “I think they’d notice if there was that kind of hazard right outside.”

“Probably.”

Paint was still looking around. “I got the impression that they were searching for something.”

“Well, it probably wasn’t the yelling bushes,” I said. A corner was coming up, so I steered us a little closer to the center of the path. Bugs or no bugs, I didn’t want to end up in the shrubbery. The sleds were full of expensive batteries (airbus size), and neither delays nor a coating of alien cicadas would have reflected well on us.

“The yelling just sounds so hostile,” Paint insisted.

“I guess,” I said. “It kind of reminds me of the crowd at a rock concert.”

“A what concert?” asked Paint.

At the same time, Blip asked, “Your rocks sing?”

“No, that’s just the name for a kind of music,” I explained.

Blip asked, “One made with rocks for percussion?”

“No, it’s — I don’t think that translates well,” I said. “I probably used the wrong word. In my original language, we use the same word for the hard things from the ground as for the side-to-side motion.” I tried to rock back and forth while I walked.

Paint cocked her head. “So, swaying music, not stone music?”

“Eh, kind of? Swaying sounds too calm. This is loud and fast.”

Blip nodded. “Like beating rocks together.”

“Sure. Like that. Though nobody does that to my knowledge,” I said. “But it could make for an interesting background rhythm if someone wanted to try.”

It was at that point that we rounded the corner, and discovered what the safety patrols had been looking for.

Two honest-to-goodness bandits on horseback.

One pointed an energy sword at us, his blue frills flapping in the wind. “Step away from the goods, and we’ll let you live.”

The other one was silent, aiming a vibro-knife at Paint. It looked like the kind that could launch and regrow the blades a few times. Paint was already retreating, not wanting to find out how many blades were left.

I stepped back too, but Blip and Blop weren’t eager to admit defeat. They shoved the sleds aside and stomped forward, yelling and flaring both frills and muscles. Their outfits today were the tight-fitting kind, so those muscles were easy to see. The clothes offered zero protection from blades, though. That didn’t stop them.

“Cowards, trying to be tall! Using little food-toasters instead of fists!”

“Weaklings! That’s no way to fight!”

It wasn’t really working, since the bandits were simply holding their ground and shouting back. Nobody had launched any blades, though. Maybe the weapons were just for show. But that sword looked dangerous enough.

I scrambled for ideas, moving out of stabbing range. There were no rocks on the ground for throwing, and no easily grabbed branches in the shrubs. A handful of whatever alien bugs were making the noise might have startled the bandits or their mounts, but I wasn’t about to go digging for those.

The mounts, though. They looked uneasy. They weren’t Earth-style horses at a second glance, though the similarities were there. Brown, four legs (paws, not hooves), and long heads with eyes on the side in classic prey animal fashion. The way they were turning their heads to keep Blip and Blop in view, flinching at abrupt motions, told me that they might be the weak link in this hold-up.

I crouched behind the hoversled, thinking furiously while Blip taunted the one with the sword. Paint was whispering urgently into her communicator. I didn’t expect those safety patrols to get here quickly enough, but it was worth a shot. In the meantime, I’d just had a brilliant idea.

My hair had been getting pretty long, and I kept it tied back in my usual braid. I undid that now, finger-combing it loose and flowing, and tucking the hair ties into my pocket.

Then I dashed forward to where the horses could see me, and headbanged for all I was worth.

The alien horses reared and stumbled back, dumping their riders in what was probably a glorious sight to see. I was busy whipping my head back and forth, so I had to imagine it. When the horses thundered off down the path, I stopped.

Yup, there were the two failed bandits, groaning in the dirt and getting their weapons kicked out of their hands none too gently. The sword guy had already dropped his, but Blip kicked him anyway. Then she picked up the hilt, made sure the energy blade was turned off, and kicked him again for good measure.

Blop claimed the vibro-knife. “This doesn’t even launch. You absolute failfish.”

Paint called over the sleds, “Is it safe?”

“Sure is!” Blip told her. “These idiots are going to stay very still, right?”

Two pained groans were answer enough.

“Great; the safety crew are on their way.”

I put a fist in the air, and my other hand on my neck, which was already sore. “Woo! Go team!”

“Nice work with the animals,” Blip told me. “I did not know your head fur could do that.”

“Right??” Blop added. “That’s a threat display I’ve never seen before.”

“Not a threat,” I said, fishing out a hair tie. “Music appreciation.”

“What?”

“From those rock concerts.”

The Frillians exchanged looks. “Of course it is.”

I made a ponytail, then began braiding it. “Some music is meant to be appreciated quietly, and some with vigor. See, even the bushes are cheering.”

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#did the posting interface just change again?#it wouldn't let me paste this in from my writing document without erasing all the line breaks #but it did let me copy and paste from the Patreon post #so who knows #what an absurd song and dance this is #I swear every website out there does things differently #and changes on a regular basis #annnyways...#my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #clever uses for normal things #or normal in our neck of the woods anyway

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lets-try-some-writing · 1 year ago

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Mortal Child

Purpose was given to all but Thirteen. He wanted nothing more than to be loved and seen. Finally, after Solus's fall, Primus saw fit to grant him a gift, one Thirteen could have never expected.

Essentially, I am yet again here with an au because I FELT LIKE IT. This is one I hope to turn into a full fic, but for now here is part 1.

━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙ ━━━━━━━━━━━━ ⊙ ❖ ⊙

‘Creator, Maker of my spark, god of Creation… why do you forsake me?’

Thirteen stood before the edge of the Well, his frame shaking as the energy that made up his being pulsed in waves. Armor covered in runes and engravings shifted as he fell to a knee, his helm bowed and his servos held over his exposed spark.

‘My kin all have a purpose, they all have a design. You gave them gifts and whispered to them, but never once have you called out to me.’

His spark fluttered within him, suffering from a loss he could not describe. Thirteen had not been given anything upon his creation. He heard no whispers offering suggestions and inspiration as Solus did, he had no memories of success like Prima, he had no power like Megatronus, nor did he so much as possess the sight Primus granted Onyx. All his kindred were gifted, blessed by their shared maker, and given something special. Amidst it all, Thirteen heard nothing, felt no touch or loving suggestions.

He was alone, left to watch on as the other Primes flourished in the love Primus basked them in. Their creator made them all for a reason, and thus despite the weariness of his physical slumber making it a struggle to speak, Primus still reached out to all of his dear creations… all save for Thirteen. Even Liege sometimes reported feeling Primus’s mind brush past his own, prodding and considering, sometimes offering thought but usually simply observing.

Thirteen had nothing.

‘This worthless frame I have been adorned in has no strength. I see that clearly and I do not question your judgment. I know you have made me this way because it pleases you.’

His spark supplied the memory of Solus’s fall, the fear etched onto her features as Megatronus, her lover, ran her through with the wrath and fury of his blade. She had been frightened, terrified even as she clung to her lover’s blade, trying to speak in vain as golden essence flowed from her devastated form. Thirteen had been powerless to act, his frame too useless and his abilities not worth considering. All he could do was watch his sister Prime fall, her bright and loving optics going dark as Primus accepted her spark once more and used her battered frame to forge something greater.

It was what she would have wanted, and yet Thirteen held himself at fault for her passing. He was right there, he had watched her fall. If he had been stronger, if Primus had granted him wisdom, if something had been different about him… he could have made things right. Solus did not have to die, even if her death led to the creation of the Well, a relic that all the Primes knew to be a source of life. They could all see Primus’s core glowing at the bottom, inviting and invoking power unknowable. For that very reason, Thirteen found it only right to kneel at the edge of the Well, hoping that perhaps his Creator would hear his pleas.

‘I know I am not one of your chosen like the others. I know I am a humble and powerless being compared to you and my fellows. But Father, I beg of you, hear the cries of this forgotten son. Let me know that I am of worth to you, or at least give me a design.’

Silence reigned as Thirteen remained kneeling. The singular benefit to his existence was that he felt no pain, endured no suffering, and felt no chill upon his plating. He was a being that was brought into existence, forged with life, and yet unable to sense anything at all. Thirteen wanted to view that fact about himself as a blessing, but he could only see it as a trial given to him by his maker.

No ability to sense touch, feel the loving embrace of another, or even so much as comprehend the warmth of another spark. He was a facsimile of life, a fake in his form, and yet still able to think. Why Primus made him as he was… Thirteen did not know. He dared not question why, he could only beg for relief.

‘Primus please, hear me. Take what you must from me, but I plead with you, please give me a reason to continue. Show me but a fraction of your eternal sight! Anything at all, any wisdom, even if just a whisper… please let me know you are there… please just tell me that you see me… that you care.’

His voiceless cries trailed off as Thirteen slumped forward, his spark flaring and pulsing in grief. He heard no whispers. He felt no comfort. Was he truly unloved? Why would his perfect Creator design a creature that did not serve a purpose? Primus was all-knowing and excellent in all things. Surely he would have a reason to create a worthless son such as Thirteen? There had to be a reason. Perhaps Thirteen was simply not asking correctly. Maybe Primus expected something of him. Was Primus asking to see his devotion?

A million thoughts raged in Thirteen’s mind, desperate reasons as to why his father did not answer him. Primus made him for a reason… he had to have. If Primus was perfect, then perhaps it was merely Thirteen who was lacking. A show of faith, a true presentation of a desire to understand. Was that what his father wanted of him?

‘Almighty Creator, crafter of all beings… if it is devotion which you wish of this foolish son, I give it to you freely.’

Standing up methodically, Thirteen gazed down into the Well, observing the shining light of his Maker’s core. Still ever silent, unfeeling, uncaring… Primus did not see him. But maybe… Thirteen could make him see.

‘I live to fulfill your design. Please, give me purpose! Show me that there is a reason! I will give you everything, I will hold nothing back from you Creator!’

Desperation laced his tone as he teetered on the edge. He had nothing to give, no knowledge, no power, or anything else of note.

But he did have his life.

The singular gift Primus had seen fit to grant him.

‘I have nothing to give save what you have granted me. But if it is your will, I return it freely.’

A hint of fear wormed its way into his spark as he began to lean. If this wasn’t enough if his life ended there without ever having been given a chance to matter-

Well, that would be the end wouldn’t it?

‘Father.’

He called out. He fell. His frame careened into the darkness of the Well and the world passed him by in a blur of color. The light of the surface faded and distantly Thirteen could see Amalgemous reaching into the Well, trying to stop him from tumbling to what was likely his death. Thirteen had not noticed his fellow Prime’s arrival. He had not wanted any of the others to see him in his state… it would only bring them more pain.

‘Forgive me.’

Thirteen wept as he fell, time seeming to slow as he heard his brother Prime screaming out his designation. How foolish he was, thinking that his creator would heed his calls. He was nothing, a speck of dust in the void of eternity. It was presumptuous of him to think anything would come of his devotion. What was one being compared to a god? And now because of his sins, he was going to die and Amalgemous would have to watch. He could only faintly hope that this was somehow part of Primus’s grand plan, if not for him, then for his fellow Primes.

Thirteen pulled away from the world, refusing to allow himself to see as he fell for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, at some point between the dawn of time and the end of all things, his fall slowed and he hovered in a void with only a blinding light beneath him. Looking at the light was agony, it burned more than even the fires of Solus’s forge. A being Thirteen was never meant to witness or understand was observing him, picking him apart with sight alone. He wished he could hide or scream, and yet he knew it was his maker who gazed upon his wretched form.

There was no description of which Primus was. There was too much to say and yet nothing at all. He was light and he was dark. He was the beginning and the end. All Thirteen knew was that this being was one he was bound to, one that even his very spark was meant to bow before in submission. What was a Prime before a god?

Tendrils of light wrapped around him, touching, feeling, burning. It was torture, especially as his form seemed to break itself apart under the watchful gaze of the divine. Thirteen could hardly think, and yet amidst the torment, he wondered.

‘Is this why you made me father? An experiment? A creature to observe and discard when its time has run out?’

A part of him wanted to be hurt at the concept as the tendrils dug into him, climbing up toward his spark. Yet, as he felt the power of the divine drawing nearer to his core, he could not find it within himself to be upset. At least this way, his life would have meant something, even if it was only as a trial. He could be hopeful that if this was his end, perhaps Primus would use what he was to make something better, something purer than Thirteen.

‘Hush dear one. You are not unloved.’

A soothing voice echoed in every atom of Thirteen’s being. If he had the capacity to shed tears, he would have been doing so bitterly as the comfort eased the burn of the tendrils. He could hear, Primus, his father was there and speaking. A chorus of voices and sounds so melodic as to be almost maddening to hear. His Creator was perfect, and Thirteen could only revel in the glory.

‘To you, I give the most precious of gifts.’

Agony assaulted his spark, tearing and ripping and burning in the most torturous of ways. Despite that, Thirteen felt nothing but joy as Primus uttered his words of comfort. Thirteen had purpose, he had design. With every passing moment of perpetual pain, there was something new forming alongside him. It was a different kind of pain, one that did not burn or sting, but rather acted in a manner almost akin to longing. A burgeoning life, something different from Thirteen and yet so connected to him that no matter the distance, he knew that the shard would always return to him.

‘Know the pain of creation dear one. Know the suffering of new life and cherish it. For this is what it means to be divine.’

The chorus of his Creator’s voice soothed the suffering, and soon, the pain faded away into memory. Everything still ached, but it meant little as Thirteen felt the blazing mote of innocent light burning within him, spreading warmth and a crisp cool throughout his frame all at once. A life, one so small as to hardly be capable of even the most basic of thought remained tied to Thirteen’s own. A gift, a blessing, a new beginning.

‘Go, devote yourself to your creation. Know life for what it is, and when you are ready, you shall know your design.’

His father’s command echoed in Thirteen’s spark and mind, authority unchallengeable seeping into every part of his being. He dared not even consider disobeying as the void faded away and he was lifted up, light consuming his vision once more. The next he knew, cold ground greeted him, a complete surprise to Thirteen as his frame rattled at the chill.

“THIRTEEN! Thank Primus! I thought-!” He did not have a chance to react as strong arms lifted Thirteen up, cradling him close. Above him Amalgemous loomed, his ever-shifting form configuring as he observed Thirteen, trying to search for damage. Thirteen for his part did not react, his mind focused on the life within him.

He did not need to see it. Something had been altered in him on a fundamental level. Whatever Primus had changed him. He was different now, and the world no longer felt quite so cold, not when the little light within him pulsed, flaring and fluttering around his spark in curiosity that prodded at Thirteen’s mind with the utmost adoration and love. Was this how Primus felt when Thirteen and his fellows called out to him? Was this the joy of a creator?

‘My Little Light…’

The light within him shone brighter, glowing like a newborn star in absolute untainted joy. If Thirteen had the capacity, he would have smiled. He did not understand his purpose, but he knew his mission. This small life within him was to be cherished, and he would give everything to guard it, no matter the cost.

Such was Primus’s command, and so great was the newfound love that bloomed within him.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #the thirteenth prime #primus #optimus prime #mortal child au #can yall guess who the little light is?#its not hard to figure out #annnyway enjoy my newest fic #the thirteen primes

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