chibi_veneficus: (Skids the forgotten)
[personal profile] chibi_veneficus
Title: The Theory on TwentyEight
Prompt Number: 2 -- Happy
Verse: G1
Rating: G
Summary: Every dog gets his day and it's about time Skids got his. 28 drabbles on the most forgotten member of the Ark.
Notes: Slowly but surely editing these early chapters...





“True happiness is of a retired nature, and an enemy to pomp and noise; it arises, in the first place, from the enjoyment of one's self, and in the next from the friendship and conversation of a few select companions.”
-- Joseph Addison


“Is this seat taken?”

Skids, badly startled from idly theorizing about parallel dimensions as he partook in his evening refuel, nearly spilled his slowly cooling energon all over the tabletop. He quickly looked up at the patiently waiting red and blue mech that was hovering over the open seat across the table. After trying and failing to compose himself from his spectacular near jump from out of his chair, Skids offered a negative and the stranger seated himself quite comfortably across from him.

Several minutes of the awkward kind of silence passed before the new mech spoke up after taking a long sip of his energon. “So, you new here or something? Never seen you around before.”

The theoretician scoffed angrily at his new table partner’s word choice before he could mute his vocalizer. The new mech tilted his helm in question but didn’t comment as Skids hurriedly took a gulp of his cooling energon, trying to pretend the slip hadn’t happened. He had a feeling he was failing again.

“So…what unit are you assigned to?” The mech valiantly tried to start a conversation again. Persistent guy.

“Ah, unit 34-B7. Under Blacker.” Skids while staring at a very interesting rusted splotch on the table. Before the war had begun he had been a fairly friendly teacher, an open mech to new mechanoids of knowledge young and old. Now that he had been forcefully dragged into a war he had wanted nothing to do with, the once outgoing theoretician had withdrew into himself, taking his ease with new mechs with him. Being routinely forgotten had bitterly helped.

New mech hummed in acknowledgment, not at all phased by his companion’s choice of item to stare at, before adding in his two credits. “I’m in unit 36-A8. Stuck with hard aft Prowl, as luck would have it.” Here he winced as if remembering something unpleasant but quickly smoothed his features and went back to chatting up Skids. “Anyway, he’s not all that bad but he does drive you tough. Say, what did you do before the war?”

That swift topic change threw Skids completely for a loop. “Eh?” Was his intelligent answer back and he glanced briefly up to the mech’s optics in question before remembering himself and looking back down at his cold cube of energon next to the rusted spot.

“I said, what did you do before the war?” New mech asked again without any hint of exasperation in his tone. “I myself was a broker at Kaon’s underground betting ranks. Actually, I was a pretty slaggin’ good one. Stupid Decepticreeps ruining my business…” the last part was mumbled angrily to himself and the mech took an angry swing of his energon before banging the now empty cube on the table.

Skids looked back up, mouth agape at the mech’s nerve to say something so illegal out in the wide open for anyone to overhear. “You were an illegal broker in Kaon?” He couldn’t believe it.

The red and blue mech shrugged his door-wings as if it wasn’t such a big deal. “All of us did something before the war. That’s what I did. Which leads back to the original question: What did you do?”

Still thrown for a loop, all Skids could do was answer. “Uh, well…I was a teacher in Iacon. I taught others on the theories of mathematics, art, and other such subjects.”

“Mathematics, you say?” The mech across from Skids raised a hand to cup his chin in a thinking pose, his door-wings flickering and rising up in interest. The evil glint in his optic certainly did not help Skids’s sudden uneasiness. “All right, suppose, and this is just speculation mind you, that you’re booking on a race where the favorite is running three to two, so you offer slightly better odds - like, say, six to five.”

“That is much better,” Skids heard himself say, his traitorous mind running the numbers and having his vocalizer working without his permission. “One should not go more then seven to four.”

A delighted smile lit up the other mech’s face. “Exactly! Primus, it’s nice to finally have a mech planet side that can actually do math. Say, what’s your name anyway?”

To the theoretician’s surprise, his mouth was quirking up into the smallest of smiles in response to the other mech‘s delight. “I go by the designation Skids. Yours?”

“Call me Smokescreen,” was the friendly reply, “and I do believe this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

And Skids believed him.

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