Slapfoot
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Post by Slapfoot on Apr 15, 2016 0:27:02 GMT
He had a name back then. Back when his hands were of a natural number, when they weren't akin the talons. His hands, calloused as they were, were skillful and deft. He forged metal into his own works of art, for a low or nonexistent price. He forged for the joy of it, and nothing more. He charged out if necessity, of need for frugality. Alalos. Such a beautiful name for such a quiet mech. But then came the drafting. His little shop in Tarn leveled and brought for experimentation. If he could remember his life he would say he preferred how it was now, if only for the people. Cut-Up. Stalaken. Taggon. Graph. Chaff. F-28, even. They were his family, his brothers. An unspoken bond in both literal and figurative ways. Back when he was a blacksmith, he wasn't nearly so quiet. He was silent, but not that quiet. The reason he spoke was because he had more of a reason to. He has one now, of course, his brothers. But nonetheless, he felt something missing at any given moment. Something deep in the back of his processor, like an itch that won't go away. So he stopped talking, fearing someone would attempt to care. Instead, he got people to care with his actions. How very ironic.
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Slapfoot
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Post by Slapfoot on Apr 16, 2016 0:09:55 GMT
How very ironic indeed. It didn't take long after he was...changed...that he found his niche. At least, for a good three minutes. They let him stay awake. They wanted him to know what he was. They wanted him to know he wasn't average. They wanted him to fear them. Instead they did the inverse. He'd never felt so sure of himself. And he never would again, for a long time. Things work like that. He never had any biological brothers, if it mattered after they wiped him. However, he had so much more than that. He had brothers in arms. Brothers that never abandon you, ever. Get themselves killed, sure. He was rebellious at first, always taking off his mask, getting into fights, so sure of himself. He talked more then, too. Before bad things happen. Things like that, they change you. He missed sleeping, ending the day and getting a break from it all. But they didn't even let him have that. They had to make him alert, at all times. They had to make him see everything that ever happened. If he closed a set of eyes, the others opened. Horrible. It was ages before he overrode the programming. He was never good with tech. Always so bad with it. He gave up after a point. One of the few things he ever gave up on. Back on topic, he was a rebellious one, always removing his visor, always taking off the mask. Nobody ever knew why. Maybe to show everyone what they had done to him. Maybe to flaunt what they did to him. Or maybe, he didn't like masks.
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Slapfoot
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Post by Slapfoot on Apr 16, 2016 22:47:54 GMT
But the last wouldn't fit, since after that day he never took it off. Maybe to hide the scars made. Maybe to hide his expressions. Maybe to stop showing any link to him being just a mech, rather than something akin to a force of nature. Or perhaps he was tired, of everything that happened, of standing tall. Perhaps because he did keep standing tall, but didn't want anyone to see him wince. We'll never know, as he doesn't speak. Enough yammering on, it's time to tell the tale I've given the exposition for. It started off an ordinary night for the mech, in that it was a sleepless one. He'd taken up religion to pass the time, as well as meditation. He had a pendant tied round his khopesh at any given time. Rules prevented him from wearing it. He prayed throughout most nights while half of his processor slept. He always prayed about the same thing, but one must have their secrets. He was never granted it, though. Reckless. Someone who wasn't reckless wouldn't get put into the 409th. They had to show a desire for death, or a disregard for life. It was shown one day in a courtyard, while the recruits were being trained. While fighting with his blades, another recruit thought it a good idea to make a snide remark about his pendant. This mech took no snide remarks at the time, though in the future he would be doing so frequently, from a close friend. But that mech had his respect, this mech did not. So our lovely protagonist thought it good to swing an open palm into the side of the jokester's face. From that point on, he was known as Slap. Once they were instructed to perform of their own fighting techniques, and abilities, Slap demonstrated use of his foot cannons and hooks, elegantly fighting exclusively with feet. From THAT point on, he was known as Slap with the weaponized Foot. Eventually the "with the weaponized" part was lost to the wind and he became Slapfoot, his first name since wiped. What a lovely way to end the segment, hmm?
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Slapfoot
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Post by Slapfoot on Apr 23, 2016 16:23:44 GMT
Throughout those missions with his brothers, the 409th, Slapfoot loved to not use his abilities to their full extent. Then, pop, right there he'd get them, surprise with four arms, one grabbing each appendage and a foot kicking them in the chest, ripping them from their appendages. Then, he'd press his foot to their neck, and blow their head clean off. After that, he'd deposit them into his subspace, where hundreds of heads have accumulated. After every battle, Slapfoot was late for debriefing. He was too busy decapitating everyone in the battlefield and gathering heads. Nobody knew why. Some people thought he decorated his room with them, but if one entered, they'd see various religious symbols and sigils, along with a profane scratch on the wall from when someone decided to prank Slapfoot. Near that mark was another deformity in the wall, a large sent from when said person was pummeled into unconsciousness and dragged outside to be hung by their feet for a few cycles. Slapfoot didn't like it when someone jeopardized one of the few things that gave him happiness. His room, used for praying, and his brothers. Yet people still wondered why he defended them with such fervor. And they defended him. Even if Slapfoot could eliminate peripheral weakness, he couldn't see behind him, and there was always one of the 409th there to protect him. Well, almost always. It seemed to be hat there were an indefinite amount of "always" between the legion, until that day. Their swan song, their last great maelstrom. For hundreds of years, that was. Then, Slapfoot returned to protecting one thing, because if his friends weren't there, his religion was. His four optics produced more tears after that day. Let's get back to a happy moment, hmm? Slapfoot loved his missions....
The towering mech was showing off again. Everyone had to once in a while. Cutting, stabbing, blasting, fluidly and flowingly so that it looked like nothing could possible touch him. Bodies piled up as the other legion members did the same to their own group of insurgents. The piles were beginning to look like a uniform row of headless sandbags around Slapfoot, though the others, namely Cut-Up and Taggon, had larger body counts. Slapfoot, along with Cut Up, was the muscle of the legion. The skyscraper that could lift most anything. In fact, he constantly lifted and threw other members of the legion, after a few mishaps where Slapfoot didn't realize what they were attempting to do and ended up vaulting off his shoulder. Every time there was a monsterous autobot, a true Titan, the legion took him or her on together. And it was then that they truly shined. Slapfoot and Stalaken would off balance it, while the others pelted it with attacks from up-close or far away, and if the Autobot fired off shots, Stalaken would usually take the blows, but on the off chance he couldn't guard the entire legion, Slapfoot's own shields would fill in the gaps.
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Slapfoot
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Post by Slapfoot on Jul 14, 2016 15:28:11 GMT
They worked like that, the brothers. Most people didn't understand why they called each other brothers, considering none of them were actually siblings. They were family nonetheless, however. Taggon and Cut-Up, two sides of the same coin. Skilled from afar with hatchets and knives, lethal up close with skill to rival even the greatest. Gojj, who Slapfoot prayed with often, loved to light a match on everything in sight, turning the world around him into a short-lived effigy of destruction. Chaff, the mania genius with his twin Graph. The mania contributed most of the personality to the team. Stalaken, defensive power that outweighed the greatest of warriors. Every single member was skilled in certain aspects, defense, offense, science, destruction. Slapfoot was muscle, or support. He could fill in roles left out by members that didn't tag along, or just help out in the fight. At first Slapfoot just wanted to die, he tried to sacrifice himself for the sake of others in a half-aft attempt to die with honor. He realized his sin, however, and stopped the selfish bout. Sometimes, there was the occasional Autobot that Slapfoot felt worthy of traveling to the allspark. He thought it good practice to refrain from taking their heads and to pray for them, leaving a charm. To his knowledge, the others never noticed...
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