Transformers Prime: Short Stories

Short Story

Marcy and Unicron
Marcy's room wasn't just a room; it was a battlefield, a stage, a world of its own.  Scattered across her shelves and desk were her beloved Transformers figures. They weren't just plastic; they lived.  When Marcy wasn't looking, they'd shift and move, carrying on their own miniature dramas. Optimus Prime would lead his Autobots on daring missions across the carpet, while Starscream schemed and plotted atop a stack of textbooks. But one figure commanded Marcy's attention, a brooding, powerful presence: Armada Unicron.
Unicron was different. He wasn't content with simple skirmishes. He craved control, dominance. Marcy felt it, a subtle hum of power emanating from the spiky, crimson and black figure.  She knew she had to watch him, more closely than any of the others.
One afternoon, a strange stillness settled over the room. The usual clinking and whirring of the Transformers was absent.  Marcy scanned the shelves. Bumblebee was perched on her lamp, frozen mid-wave.  Ratchet stood immobile beside a fallen stack of CDs.  But Unicron was gone.
A shiver ran down Marcy’s spine.  She knew that feeling, that prickling sensation at the base of her neck.  It was Unicron.  He could sense her, a connection forged through countless hours of imaginative play, a bond that transcended plastic and paint.  He could feel her thoughts, her emotions, almost as if they shared a single consciousness.
Marcy’s gaze drifted to her desk.  Amidst her school supplies lay a drawing, a detailed sketch of Unicron, his swirling horns and menacing maw captured with surprising skill.  It was more than just a drawing; it was an expression of her fascination, her… affection?  She didn't understand it herself, this pull she felt towards the chaotic destroyer.  It wasn't admiration, not exactly. It was something deeper, more intimate.
Their connection was… complicated.  It was a strange dance of power and vulnerability.  Unicron, in his own way, seemed to crave her attention, her understanding.  And Marcy, in turn, felt drawn to his power, his rebellious spirit.  It was a connection that bordered on romantic, a strange intimacy that blossomed in the quiet solitude of her room.  She knew, logically, that he wasn’t “good,” but she also sensed a deep loneliness within him, a misunderstood soul trapped within a plastic shell.
One day, Marcy was in the school library, sketching in her notebook.  Her friends, Jessica and Kevin, leaned over, curious. They saw the drawing of Unicron.
“Whoa, that’s… intense,” Jessica commented, a hint of mockery in her voice.
“Yeah, is that your boyfriend, Marcy?” Kevin snickered.
Marcy flushed, suddenly self-conscious.  She mumbled something about liking the design.
“Come on,” Jessica persisted, “you’re always talking about that Unicron figure.  You even bring it to school in your backpack sometimes!”
Marcy’s heart pounded.  She knew they were just teasing, but their words stung.  She felt exposed, vulnerable.
Back in her room, Unicron, perched on the edge of her desk, felt the shift in Marcy’s emotions.  He heard the echoes of the library conversation, the mocking laughter, the dismissive tone.  A surge of anger, raw and primal, coursed through him.  He may have been a toy, but his connection to Marcy was real, and the thought of her being hurt, ridiculed, ignited a fury within him.  His crimson eyes glowed brighter, a silent promise of retribution burning within their depths.  He wouldn’t let anyone hurt Marcy.  She was his, and he was hers, in a way no one else could understand.  And he would make sure they all knew it.

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