JUST READ THIS, I'M DYING

JUST READ THIS, I'M DYING

did i manage to get sidetracked and write something COMPLETELY unrelated to all of my projects?

yes of course. you can blame this post plus @whalemleck and @yuukirita for injecting this into my bloodstream (i'm banning myself from scrolling Tumblr while writing)

Piece below the cut <3

The basics of gun safety are easy. Simple. Never look down the barrel, never point it at something you’re not planning on killing, keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.

Thus, it is reasonable to say that it’s a liability to have a loaded weapon with a hair-trigger. This is the argument Sentinel receives over and over whenever his bodyguard is mentioned.

(Though, to be fair, B was ‘the weapon’ or ‘the project’ for a long, long while. Airachnid was the one to suggest calling him a bodyguard— it’s softer than ‘weapon’, with the connotation of protection and defence rather than something meant for war.

It’s a good thing Sentinel is adept at lying, because B-127 is absolutely meant for war.)

He stands in his throne room, overlooking the city. It’s a quiet night, the sounds of flying muted through the thick glass.

He has a problem. A rather large one, at that. Someone has been getting into the Archives, bolder and bolder than before. Normally he’d leave it to his guards, but it kept happening. Incompetent morons. Even worse, they’d managed to breach the upper levels, meaning the highly classified information Airachnid had been so long suppressing was in danger of being leaked.

Despite how Sentinel’s more impulsive side languished in the boredom of Iacon now, he knew better than to go in guns blazing as a Prime. This is a delicate situation. It needs to be solved quietly, without a fuss. 

In the dead of night, he whistles a short tune.

If Sentinel wasn’t listening, if he hadn’t trained the mech behind him up, he wouldn’t have been able to sense the additional presence in the room with him. He must have dropped from wherever he hid, Sentinel’s advanced scanners unable to ping him.

“Sir?”

He turns to address his mech. The moon glints off yellow armour, reflecting Sentinel’s face back at him from B’s visor. “I have a pest problem that needs eliminating,” he responds, smooth as ever.

B’s helm tilts. “Of course.”

“Someone’s been breaking into the Archives. I need you to find them and dispose of them, quietly.” Sentinel stresses the last part— sending the people into a panic wouldn’t do. B hasn’t messed that up since his early days of training, though he still emphasises it.

“Of course,” B says, looking past him and out the window, surely to where the looming shadow of the Archives lies. “Shall I begin now?”

“The sooner, the better. This will be no problem for you, I presume?”

“Of course. Newbuild’s play.” B gives him a sharp nod before lowering himself to the ground and jumping back up onto what he assumes to be a ceiling beam. No matter how many times Sentinel watched, he still catches himself in mild awe at how easily B can do that.

(No he hasn’t tried to, shut up.)

Sentinel lets out a pleased hum. One less thing to worry about, then. The job’s as good as done.