Darkest Hour - Blog Posts

I tricked my teacher into thinking that this was abstract art.

Ratchet stood in the ruins of the base, staring at something that stuck out from beneath the rubble. He could feel himself grinding his teethplates. His fist was clenched so tightly that his fingers stabbed into his palm, leaving Energon to drip down onto the floor. He had been upset; with Optimus, and with himself. He had returned to the base, even when instructed not to, because he had a terrible feeling that he would be needed there right away. Not soon enough. The limp hand before him began draining away all of his anger and frustration. Lubricant began to trail down his faceplate. "I honestly didn't."