just a punch! (tfpxopm)

vortex-collider

CHAPTER ONE

"—Fuck!"

THE  rock next to his pede is propelled into the distant horizon as his agitated pacing continues to wear the ground, his black and white door wings flapping in tandem of his annoyance. He grits his teeth, grumbles and incoherent mutterings were all but heard as his servos itched for a surface to grab on, for a table to flip. If not, something to drive a fist into, anything to let out the growing surge of fury swelling inside his chest.

None. Nothing! He could only pace around while his arms squawk awkwardly by his sides, wanting to grab something but at the same time not able to when all there is but hot air. So he's just pacing back and forth like an idiot on the sand next to the empty road. If he was in his habsuite right now, the objects within his reach wouldn't stand a chance against his fury if he wasn't quite, literally, in the middle of nowhere, amidst the blazing heat of a desert called 'jasper-fucking-Nevada'.

And, in 'jasper-fucking-Nevada', he had to maintain a low profile, a most sensible approach to their circumstances when the autobots are all but a team of mere seven.He's supposed to be the calm, apathetic tactician of the team. Unemotional, intelligent, no-nonsense—

His pacing stops, blue optics—or at least one of it— rolls over to see the red and yellow bundle of clothes lying limp on the ground. His door wings snap down in disdain, the lines on his face contort for a moment, brows furrowing as he takes one step towards it.Leaning over the limp body, he crouches, helm not too close or far enough for the comfort of seeing blood, but close enough to discern the features of the female human. His arm raises, servos that were curling into fists now stretch out to prod the body with a gentle push, retracting almost immediately the same second it came to contact.He scowls. Great. Just great. It's dead.

Now,he's going to jail, to human (derogatory) jail, sitting at the teeny tiny excuse of a jury box as the accused, testified for human crimes — in this case, court marshaled and testified for war crimes (like he isn't already a war criminal). And, with what? He was driving down the usual patrol route. if it wasn't for the fucking light that blinded him he wouldn't have ran over whatever fell from the sky and onto his hood.

Just another problem to deal with.

As he stands up, mulling over the possibilities of his repercussions and how to present the news of his 'accident', within a blink of his optics, however, he then registers two bland eyes staring back at him from below.

Two eyes that open from the limp body, the dead, cold body of the human he ran over.

[20 HOURS EARLIER]

GENOS ventures through the labyrinth of the sewer, a caved tunnel of pertinence as his submerged boots is dragged along the marsh brown, frothing water. He wasn't bothered enough to question why the walls are coated in a thin sheen of slimy substance in the first place — trust me, he'd rather not. All those time spent fighting on the surface had prompted him it was better not to question anything at all.

But that's the thing — questioning has always been his greatest virtue, a habit imbued in his circuits, his systems , his lifeline, that every morning he wakes up to open his eyes, questioning seems to be the first of order. Though, it was an unfortunate subject to his master's chagrin and ignored annoyance. Speaking of master, If it weren't for this mission at any point, he'd very much rather indulge himself watching a movie with her and perhaps even tuck her to bed.But the prospect of simple happiness was a mere dream as God had other plans. And the said plan had thrusted him into a sewer (if he was anymore human he'd retch), staring at an object deemed with interest.