Author's note: Holy wow, I finished a thing, you guys! This is the Ten/Donna fic I've been pretending to work on for a long time and finally got around to polishing off. Various bits of it are earlier in this journal.Revisionist History
at Archive Of Our Own
Author's note: This piece is my idea of an alternate/expanded scene from the G1 Transformers episode SOS Dinobots, in which three of the famously un-brilliant Dinobots are built. The premise: What if, rather than the ending we got, Prime had still ordered the Dinobots destroyed after they came to the rescue? This quick little scene, then, is written entirely in the voice of Wheeljack, arguing on the Dinobots' behalf.
Also: I'm fully aware that much of this story will sound grossly insensitive, and that's intentional. Wheeljack's attitude here is much like that of a lot of non-disabled people I've encountered where I've done job coaching: maybe not fantastically tactful (for example, many still use the "R" word as everyday slang), but starting to understand that people with disabilities should not be defined strictly by whatever limitations they have. This story is inspired by my brilliant, fantastic clients and by the people who see them for who they are.
I get it, Prime. The idea of irreparable malfunctions being acceptable is a new one to us. I’m the last one you need to tell.
Before we got to Earth, mechs who couldn’t be repaired were left to corrode themselves at the oil house or mercifully offlined. Perceptor, Ratchet and I, in that order, were the last resorts. If Perceptor couldn’t rewire your processor, Ratchet couldn’t fix the rest of you and I couldn’t figure out a way to turn regular old malfunctioning you into a Decepticon-blasting machine, well, that was that. You were either completely flawless or completely useless. Such is life when life is war, I suppose. We never liked giving up on a mech, but we got why we did it.( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: Written for a challenge at cassetteobots, with the prompt of "minor damage."
Rewind crouched as low as possible without transforming and peeked anxiously from behind a corner of the tower that housed Blaster-and-Company’s quarters. He saw no one, but stayed concealed; after all, that faint clattering noise might have been Grand Slam approaching unseen, and Rewind certainly did not want a repeat of the incident.( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: Continuation of a still-in-progress tale featuring the Tenth Doctor, Donna Noble and the one-off companion narrating. Here are part 1 and part 2 for reference.Revisionist History
Each door so far had brought me – us;
Donna had been my unwitting companion, or I hers, presumably for every step of the disjointed journey – into disaster, mild or severe. Having traveled from the benign fashion disaster that was the early 1990s, to the financial disaster of Black Tuesday, to the great tragedies of Lockerbie and Munich, we hardly expected ourselves to have emerged in a stunning foyer of an opulent mansion. Yet there we were: marble floors, delicately carved hardwood trim with golden embellishments, the largest chandelier I had ever seen in person, and a wide, ruby-red-carpeted staircase straight out of a movie about the royals.
My eyes wandered around the glorious, quiet, altogether empty hall and took in the ostentatiousness in low-level shock. Donna, though, kept her eyes fixed on one spot – the top of the staircase.
“Lee?” she gasped. A long pause. “I thought I’d… you were… God, Lee, you’re real!” She rushed to the top of the stairs and threw her arms around… nothing. “You’re real… and you’re perfect.”( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: Read the pre-credits sequence first; this follows directly afterward.
I stood not in a spacious hallway, but in a tight squeeze of an aisle in a cramped record store. The walls were plastered with album cover art and promotional posters, none of which appeared to have originated from beyond the early 1990s. The selection fit the time period of the décor, containing at least as many albums on cassette as albums on compact disc. About a dozen teenagers, most of them trying to look like grunge rockers, trolled the aisles. From the speakers emanated the familiar thrashing strains of “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”
“Hi, uh, can I help you?” the cashier, who looked roughly the same age as the clientele, greeted me.
Several possible replies scampered through my mind, all of which would have gotten me shipped to the nearest psychiatric ward. Where am I? When
am I? How did I get here? Why is a grunge-era record store located in the middle of a university campus that otherwise operates in the year 2009? What are you all going to do with yourselves when you no longer have Kurt Cobain to worship? Did I look that ridiculous in flannel when I was thirteen? Has it really been that
long since I was thirteen?
“No thanks, just looking,” was the most normal answer I could generate. And really, it was the truth, mostly; he didn’t need to know I was just looking
for someplace nearly two decades in his future.( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: Written a good long time ago, with a dedication to dragontail, his lovely wife stareyednight and his dangerously adorable daughter LJ.
Playing With Matches
“Bumblebee, I hate to admit it, but… I, uh, need your specialized skills,” Powerglide grumbled almost unintelligibly.
the yellow minibot teased.
Powerglide groaned before forcing himself to reply, “I need your… help.”
“The great and awesome Powerglide, terror of the skies, comes to me?”
Bumblebee took an exaggerated staggering step backward while clutching his chestplate over his Spark chamber.
“Don’t let it get around,” Powerglide said, blatantly ignoring the display.( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: This is the in-progress result of a random thought I had after watching the (gorgeous and heartwrenching) regeneration sequence in
The End of Time - what if the Time Lord Tenth Doctor and the Meta-Crisis (half human) Tenth Doctor from the series 4 finale are like twins? What if one could feel what was happening to the other? Wouldn't the Meta-Crisis Doctor then sense that the Time Lord was regenerating? And what of the twin bond - would it be preserved, or broken, when the Eleventh Doctor emerged from the regeneration? Consider this a teaser while I pace around and figure out the answers...
Across the Threshold
Jackie Tyler did her level best to be inconspicuous while peeking out the window at her daughter and son-in-law. Of course, this did little good; Jackie Tyler’s idea of inconspicuous
was craning her neck and whispering, rather than craning her neck and shouting.
“Can you tell what they’re saying?” Jackie whispered hoarsely to her husband. She failed to notice that Pete was too busy pulling the curious Tony back from the fireplace to be looking out the other window.
“Jacks,” Pete groaned, “can’t they have a moment’s peace? It’s their first proper New Year’s Day.”
Jackie scoffed. “They had plenty
of moments of peace at Christmas. ‘We have to go, Mum. No pudding, thanks, Mum. The Doctor’s unwell, Mum’ – could have just said
the turkey was rubbish!”
On the word “rubbish,” the first of twelve strikes sounded from the clock in the hall. The tinny sound was followed by the echo of the first of twelve peals from Big Ben.( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: This is the "pre-credits sequence" of a Tenth Doctor story that's still in the middle of being written. The title, like everything else in this piece, is subject to change...
The grating, whining, nails-on-chalkboard noise, had it come from my car, would have spelled disaster or at least costly inconvenience. I decided I would never quite get used to the fact that the same noise, coming from the Doctor’s fantastic machine, indicated perfect working order.
The wiry man – was
he a man? The wiry man in the pinstriped suit had picked me up who knows how long ago, rescuing me from the clutches of a grotesque creature that appeared to be a walking collection of green phlegm with great beady eyes and a tendency toward flatulence. A Slitheen, he called it, and I had no reason not to take him at his word. After all, he seemed to recognize it at first sight, and besides, what else would a beady-eyed flatulent phlegm creature be called? The impossible man and his impossible ship had taken me to what was apparently an entire planet
of slimy habitual wind-breakers, where I apparently served as prosecution exhibit A in the case against the… thing that had nearly captured me.
Now, thankful to be back in the seemingly tiny ship’s cavernous interior, I reveled in the simple pleasures of a shower and clean clothes and phlegm-creature-free surroundings before bracing myself for a look at my watch. And somehow, less than twenty-four hours had passed since my rescue. “I can still make it back,” I marveled, mostly to myself.
“Oh, but who’d want to go back?” the Doctor protested. “After such a brilliant adventure?”( Continued...Collapse )
Author's note: A scene of my (newsy891's, that is) character Headline and her love interest, Sunstreaker, whose other love interest is himself - placed somewhere near the '86 movie, on Earth, after the building of Autobot City. This bit landed on the cutting-room floor, but I couldn't resist a piece with Sunny's theme song!
Lyrics from a couple of Carly Simon classics, "You're So Vain" (the aforementioned theme song, of course) and "Nobody Does It Better."
This Song Is About You
I stared at the video display on my communication console, my expression as blank as the screen. Only a few kliks before, the screen had been illuminated by the bright and striking face of my beloved Sunstreaker.
Until my beloved Sunstreaker
had decided to inform me in a hurry that he had less than a breem to finish some boring report, and then he had to go on another boring routine patrol of the boring routine outskirts of whatever tiny town was next door to Autobot City.
“Would’ve been nice of you to tell me earlier,”
I grumped at the dark screen as though he could still hear. I downed half of my freshly prepared high-grade and slammed the flask onto the console, proclaiming my frustration to the walls of my quarters.( Continued...Collapse )