драббл про гештальт-лидеров

[skeinweaver]

На заявку Doomstаlker
«Мотормастер видит заигрывания кого-нибудь из первой Триады *хоть Скрима, чисто теоретически, ему Болт должен понравиться что внешне, что по характеру - на шаттл уж больно похож*)) Чуйства)»

MotoBolt

Для Думсталкера.

Bright tri-coloured streak was a blurr even in the digitally enhanced vision of a battle-ready warbuild. With thunderous screech, the mad descent halted above the very surface, that smoked with laser-scorches, and with a valiant flip the screecher started a perfectly vertical climb. Barely avoiding collision with a bigger, whiter flier in the lower echelon. That flier faltered under the direct swooping assault and transformed clumsily, touching down in clouds of dust. Whirling frantically, the grounded one — not a wound on him, strangely, aside from few dents and dings — kept glancing above and around himself, gesticulating frantically, angrily... Swearing? or giving some commands that could not be heard in the din of battle and the radio noise. Suddenly, the gestures stopped as he laid his optics on another close adversary. Strained blue optics flared even brighter. In his sights, the hulking truck-former loomed amidst the battle debris and life-fluid splatters, suspended momentarily mid-stride as well, standing tall and ominous in one long viscous unmoving moment, like a huge rock about to fall and flatten everything in its path. That towering 'Con just stood there and looked right back. The powerful, mighty Gestalt-leader stared at his rival with unnerving intensity, taking all about him in, everything to the last small detail, down to firmly—not flyer-like — planted legs, catching all of him in crystal focus, to a hint of movement, noting the slightly parted lips, evaluating, sizing another up, predicting, making the adversary more accessible... even if just in battle calculations... Guessing how fast and hot the Aerialbot's venting was. Motormaster vented heavily himself, once, and reset his targeting. He liked to be in control of everything and everyone his. And he will have it all. Under his fist. Or in his hands. And that fleeting flirt his nominal higher-up, that joke of an Air-commander, has just showed towards his, HIS target, was nothing more than Starscream himself — an obsolete joke. Another laughable futile attempt, and this one won't get stale in repetition. Dentae were bared briefly. Lips settled into contemptuous smirk, then into the obstinate, rigid line. He, Motormaster, shall have it his way. The main Aerialbot is his, dead or alive, fancy aerobatics be damned.