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thecrazyalaskanThe sky was painted a soft pink by the setting sun; the clouds were a complimentary purple. Night was starting to overtake the landscape, evident in the sky and the chirping of crickets and the first stars of the evening peeking out of the sky.
The stone ledge, about a mile away from the Ark, overlooked this scene, capturing it far better than any photograph or holoscan ever could. It was quiet, it was secluded…
It was Red Alert's favorite place to be. The security chief sat on the ground, a slight breeze blowing around him, his knees drawn up to his chesthull as he considered the land. It was here he could be at peace-there was no paranoia that his occupation demanded, no constant vigilance, no whispered conversations about this situation or that one possibly being the one to finally fry his circuits.
Maybe that's what bothered him the most, the way everyone rode him (proverbially, of course) about his vigilance. Most called it paranoia, or a glitch; no, it simply came with the title, "Head of Security." Not only that… There was a war on. That blasted, infernal war. As Sparkplug, one of the humans, once said, The best defense is a good offense. Upon learning the meaning of these words, Red Alert had taken them to heart, using his attention to details (that many said often bordered on minutiae) to prevent the unnecessary loss of battles, and of lives.
He'd seen it happen before, as a (somewhat reluctant) soldier. Cybertronians, young and old, regardless of caste, mold or creed, all terminated before their time. It was painful to see, to consider. He couldn't help but shudder at the thought of losing so many of his comrades so swiftly, so violently…
An arm wrapped itself around his shoulder. Red Alert slipped out of his musings as he heard a loving, familiar voice ask, "Sumpm on yer mind, Red?"
Red Alert smiled slightly, resting his helm on the shoulder of the mech who had just spoken. "Nothing of consequence, Inferno," he replied, taking the larger mech's hand in his and intertwining their fingers. "Just thinking…"
"'Bout what?" Inferno lightly teased, brushing a kiss against the top his partner's helm.
"About how this is my favorite place to be."
~*~*~*~
Written about a year or so ago, after a very pretty sunset and having Red Alert on the brain. I love Red Alert, but HATE the way he's painted, like he needs to be in an insane asylum. I mean... When you watch Auto-Berserk, you know he was only twitching out because he was hit in the head by a missile. Let me repeat: Hit. In the head. With a fucking missile. He's a BAMF for surviving that, I swear to God.
The stone ledge, about a mile away from the Ark, overlooked this scene, capturing it far better than any photograph or holoscan ever could. It was quiet, it was secluded…
It was Red Alert's favorite place to be. The security chief sat on the ground, a slight breeze blowing around him, his knees drawn up to his chesthull as he considered the land. It was here he could be at peace-there was no paranoia that his occupation demanded, no constant vigilance, no whispered conversations about this situation or that one possibly being the one to finally fry his circuits.
Maybe that's what bothered him the most, the way everyone rode him (proverbially, of course) about his vigilance. Most called it paranoia, or a glitch; no, it simply came with the title, "Head of Security." Not only that… There was a war on. That blasted, infernal war. As Sparkplug, one of the humans, once said, The best defense is a good offense. Upon learning the meaning of these words, Red Alert had taken them to heart, using his attention to details (that many said often bordered on minutiae) to prevent the unnecessary loss of battles, and of lives.
He'd seen it happen before, as a (somewhat reluctant) soldier. Cybertronians, young and old, regardless of caste, mold or creed, all terminated before their time. It was painful to see, to consider. He couldn't help but shudder at the thought of losing so many of his comrades so swiftly, so violently…
An arm wrapped itself around his shoulder. Red Alert slipped out of his musings as he heard a loving, familiar voice ask, "Sumpm on yer mind, Red?"
Red Alert smiled slightly, resting his helm on the shoulder of the mech who had just spoken. "Nothing of consequence, Inferno," he replied, taking the larger mech's hand in his and intertwining their fingers. "Just thinking…"
"'Bout what?" Inferno lightly teased, brushing a kiss against the top his partner's helm.
"About how this is my favorite place to be."
~*~*~*~
Written about a year or so ago, after a very pretty sunset and having Red Alert on the brain. I love Red Alert, but HATE the way he's painted, like he needs to be in an insane asylum. I mean... When you watch Auto-Berserk, you know he was only twitching out because he was hit in the head by a missile. Let me repeat: Hit. In the head. With a fucking missile. He's a BAMF for surviving that, I swear to God.
