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Why the HECK does metal grow hair?

LOOK AT THIS. LOOK AT IT. THAT'S JUST FRIGGIN' FUZZ! That's just! What the fuck. Whaaaat the fuck and we don't know WHY this happens. Horrible new magic anon idea: Congrats! Your muse has literally grown metal fur *all over* the exterior of the body! ((To be nice and not short their processor, and pretend they have Tin, Zinc, or Silver as part of whatever alloy mixture Cybertonians are made out of.))

Also zinc twisters in server rooms. What the fuck.

I know that in IDW(2005) Ratchet mentioned MTOs had a higher incidence of experiencing 'supernatural' experiences and I could see this being part of the explanation. Maybe a flaw in how the artificial brain modules were developed led to just one or two whiskers developing and then causing hallucinations, whether visual or auditory. Maybe they didn't cause longer problems because being IN A War knocked the dumb whiskers loose and caused them to... idk, fallout somehow??? Look, giant talking robots that transform okay. We can just say 'sufficiently advanced science' as a cover for 'magic'.

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// some sketches and doodles of the guy

Did the above sketch last night for funsies, then started coloring it in while watching dash shenanigans. This sketch book is NOT colored pencile friendly, but this gets an idea of the color placement around. (We're ignoring the perspective issues, and that his four top wings should be the same size).

Other sketchbook/older stuff

His alt mode. Me trying to figure out some more markings/seam areas and give myself ideas how to translate this to his root mode. Still under development.

Early stuff figuring out his hands and his audio receptors + fins. As you can see idea here is that his hands turn into his landing gear but I've decided to scrap that.

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⚡️”WHY YO AFT SO MEAN TO ME AND EVIL WRANGLE” >:(

(Hi mun!!!!)

(Hiii! :) ) "Do I need to spell it out? We're e-n-e-m-i-e-s. Enemies. I'm not suppose to be *nice*." "...I have no intentions of dying because of someone on the other side, so keep your distance. It's better if we're not friends. If I hesitate in the future, it won't be because of feelings."

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SEND “⚡️” AND A QUESTION AND MY MUSE WILL BE FORCED TO ANSWER HONESTLY

Please specify the muse for multimuse blogs.

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It would be so easy to take the easy out. To just leave Wrangle in the woods and walk away. The scout was pleased to have made his point, although he did note that the comment about Eni had gotten a response while threatening physical damage to Wrangle hadn't.

Curious, but then he had his suspicions. It was why he felt safe confident enough to push the Autobot like he had.

The chirping was even louder now, the Autobot's wheels spinning. Razorwreck narrowed his eyes because what was that? He had never heard a bot from either side make a noise like that. Obviously it was distress but-

No. Focus. He didn't feel bad at all for what he said. He had been given a job and that was to provide surveillance and direction at the mine, that meant keeping threats and such away.

And Wrangle, and his twin, were threats, of a sort. They might not shoot a Vehicon but he suspected they would happily shoot up the mine itself.

"That is not an option, you two cannot be allowed to wander around here unsupervised." he said firmly. His voice was back to its more even tones as he turned to follow after Wrangle. He leaned forward, made a grab for the blaster.

"I'm coming with you, and when we find your twin you two can leave together and be free of my presence."

“It’s not a war mask, it’s just something I made for myself that comes out sometimes. Like when stupid bots like you are too old to understand that you don’t kill everything in sight.” Wrangle said, he looked at Razorwreck, noting the dimmed optics.

“How long has it been since you recharged? You look like scrap and like you haven’t slept since the beginning of the war.” He taunted, Wrangle could be mean too if Razorwreck kept being rude.

he pointed the blaster at Razorwreck. “If you hurt Evil Wrangle I’ll shoot off those wings you got.” He affirmed, the soft stress-chirps coming back a bit louder and closer together than before.

“And I know what I am. I’m a mech. Born and raised on the Nemesis.” Wrangle said, he’d grown up kept within the ship, believing that he’d been created on the ship as well.

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Common parasol aka red grasshawk, Neurothemis fluctuans, Libellulidae

Found in Southeast Asia

Photo 1 by erlandreflingnielsen, 2 by denismatthey, 3 budak, 4 by plains-wanderer, 5 by gancw1, and 6 by oleg_kosterin

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That finally got Razorwreck to stop and turn around to stare at Wrangle, his wings kept tightly folded down against his back. He noted the distressed youngbot chirping but ignored it, or tried to.

He had to supress the urge to fan them out for intimidation, old protocols crawling up the back of his processor. But they were so much more than slats of metal now. They were chocked full of so much sensor equipment tied directly into his sensor net that he wouldn't risk them, not when they had been the target of the threat.

But the blaster pointed at his chest didn't seem to bother him as he loomed over Wrangle, throwing the smaller Autobot into his shadow. His eyes weren't narrowed, but they did have a hard edge to them as he leaned in so that his fanged mask was just a few digits away from Wrangle's face.

"You try that and I will disassemble you so completely even the Autobot's medic won't be able to put your pieces back together." A low angry hiss, quieter than his normal speaking voice.

Answering threat delivered he leaned back, his focused glare still fixed on Wrangle. He kept his back turned away from the Autobot.

"I didn't attack you when we first met, and I didn't bring up that Vehicon when I realized it distressed you." the words were spat, poison from his vocalizer. "I have been more than fair to you. I suggest you stop making threats you can't follow through on."

“It’s not a war mask, it’s just something I made for myself that comes out sometimes. Like when stupid bots like you are too old to understand that you don’t kill everything in sight.” Wrangle said, he looked at Razorwreck, noting the dimmed optics.

“How long has it been since you recharged? You look like scrap and like you haven’t slept since the beginning of the war.” He taunted, Wrangle could be mean too if Razorwreck kept being rude.

he pointed the blaster at Razorwreck. “If you hurt Evil Wrangle I’ll shoot off those wings you got.” He affirmed, the soft stress-chirps coming back a bit louder and closer together than before.

“And I know what I am. I’m a mech. Born and raised on the Nemesis.” Wrangle said, he’d grown up kept within the ship, believing that he’d been created on the ship as well.

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Razorwreck glowered at Wrangle as they walked. Irritation wound its way through his circuits as he stalked into the woods.

"My scouting is the reason I survived that planet." It turned out his pride could be rankled enough for him to show a little heat. That it was Wrangle doing the ruffling of Razorwreck's metaphorical feather, well.

It wasn't really a surprise, all things considered.

"…and you do realize you are a mechanical lifeform, yes?" he asked, one of his optic ridges raised as his processor caught up with what the Autobot had said. It sounded like he was putting less thought into his words than normal which was, was fine.

Good, even. Meant the scout could steal his blaster back at some point.

Although he had to wonder about the way Wrangle had masked up. The smaller bot looked ready for battle, more than Razorwreck normally did.

"Look at *you* with your war mask on. Are you finally taking our affiliations seriously?" he asked, his head leaned back slightly, eyes dimmed to about three-fourths of his normal, like his current situation was so boring he was contemplating a quick recharge.

"If you're trying to keep me off-guard, you're doing a poor job of it putting on a face like that"

“Come here” (from the muse prompt thingy)

Wrangle said evilly, possibly was Evil Wrangle and not Normal Wrangle

The traitor was back. At least the *shape* of the bot in front of him was correct for the little Autobot traitor he had run into. The colors were different, but he himself had worn different patterns sometimes. There was a difference to the voice too but those were all just minor details, weren't they? But things wouldn't go the same way as before. No no, this time Razorwreck was armed with more than just his claws and the fangs on his mask and- "Finally showing your true colors, are you?" he asked conversationally as he slowly raised the rifle in his hands. Wrangle was practically exuding an air of malice and aggression that Razorwreck had suspected the little bot of being capable of all along.

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For a moment he wasn't sure what to say.

"Anything important, or unimportant."

It felt like it might be a mistake in how the neutral speaks, or maybe a word puzzle. Like two magnets with the same polarized side attacting each other.

But then maybe that was the nature of being around other living things rather than just physics. Like an organic animal with bright plumage that made it harder to hide from predators but easier to attract a mate.

"So you take information from anyone, about anything they want to say." The scout considered his drinking partner in a new light, his optics lingered on Recoripple's unique head. Razorwreck's hand on the bar slipped to the edge so he could tighten his hold on it.

Archiving people, what they thought was important regardless of what others valued it. It sounded like most of what Recoripple got wasn't of value to Razorwreck but-

At the same time he craved it. Those tidbits. To know someone else knew some of the names he remembered (foolish because of course some did), that someone else would carry them in some small way-

"I think I might," His voice is steady but slow as his processor turns over the option. It is a strangely attractive one, to speak of that which he has held so close for so long.

But it feels like a risk, too. To open up those memory gates around another- it feels like it will be different.

"What do you do with it? The information you receive." Razorwreck knows Recoripple must store it somehow, archivist after all, but he's more curious about how others access it after.

If they can.

If its only those who put the info in that can retrieve it.

…if he would want them to.

Recoripple's single optic blinked at that, and he turned his focus to the bartender.

"Light on the ice for me, same as him, please!" he called, waving a servo, before he focused back on Razorwreck.

"I suppose you could say I archive people," he replied, propping his camera-like helm in his servo. "All sorts of people. Little snapshots of whatever they want to talk about, stories they wanna share, advice they wanna preserve, some just give me directions on how to stop a ship's engine from a meltdown or how to strip and couple a wire when you ain't got anything on hand to do it properly, hot to hotwire a door, others give me anecdotes or basic 'common sense' advice, just... It's like a tapestry. You could make a tapestry out of one thread, but that would be a bit of a strange-looking tapestry, wouldn't it?"

His optic curved up in the closest he could get to a smile.

"Anything important, or unimportant," he said, though he supposed that didn't make much sense, but things that resonated didn't have to make sense when put under a microscope. "Whatever they want to be saved when it's all said and done."

His digits tapped on the bartop.

"Guess I'm a bit of a romantic," he said with a laugh. "Flaw in the code and all that. Do you have anything you want to save?"

His helm tilted at Razorwreck, patient, and he waited for his response.

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The urge to flash Firefly an annoyed look is a quick and sudden one and he finds himself acting on it before he can think better of himself. Enough of his face is lost to the dark and his mask that he doesn't think the emotion will be properly transmitted.

But it makes him feel better.

"If we know what killed these bots we will be better prepared for whatever is down here." the scout explained. It was a fairly quick and cheap way to get information; it wasn't like the dead could cost one a second time.

…Unless they really did stand back up and start attacking. No! Ridiculous idea.

With a quick shake of his helm Razorwreck continued his slow, careful approach to the bodies. In the dark he could see very little until finally the yellow biolights of his midsection reflected off the grey plating of the dead.

It still wasn't enough light to see by fully, and Firefly was an active impediment to his ability to examine the bodies. Nevertheless he persisted even as he held the arm Firefly held out stiffly away from the rest of him and the bodies.

"Can you direct a light in this direction?

Unfortunately for them both, he wasn't medically trained. Beyond acknowledging that their frames looked battered and were piled on top of each other in a way that probably wasn't natural, he wasn't sure what had killed them.

Unless it was the fact they were all missing their heads.

"We should proceed with caution," it was the obvious thing to say but Razorwreck's voice was steady, and sometimes hearing the obvious in a calm voice helped. "I do not know if they were dead when they fell down here, but I doubt their bodies stacked themselves after death."

The darkness of the cavern, not quite fully pierced by the lights the two bots had on them, loomed around the edges.

"Why are you helping me?" - From the Dialogue Prompts

There are a lot of ways Razorwreck could answer that question, most of them too personal for him to actually say.

I don't like the dark/These caves are too dangerous alone/(i don't want to be trapped, alone, again).

What comes out of his throat is:

"I was built for this."

It is close enough to the truth. His original alt mode didn't have built in weapons, and his frame was altered to be a better scout.

Razorwreck crouched in the middle of a rocky cavern, his wings aligned behind him so that the edges touched. He tilted them as he pulsed radar waves through the tunnels leading off from the chamber and slowly a map built in his mind.

It was better than wondering around in the dark, their way lit only by the lights of their frames and their optics. He can't really direct a 'ray' of radar so there's a small circle of excess EM waves that spills around in front of him. Like a the brush of a wind that doesn't really exist.

"…And you have my gun." The words are bland and matter of fact as he stated them, the way his yellow optics narrow the only outward sign of his displeasure.

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Nearly 12 minutes of two curators of museum military ships talking about the effects of salt water on what *really* corrodes a ship.

Surprised to hear about a sunk ship that had battle damage and went deeper than the Titanic and the non-battle damaged parts were in better shape than the Titanic due to lack of oxygen and biological agents. (Deep sea bases are a go as long as you can handle the pressure to get down there.) ((Can you sink a space shuttle and have it be fine? Zero Air Pressure exists at kind of the opposite end of 'TONS OF PRESSURE'. Might also be different because of Liquid Pressure vs Gas)) These museum ship channels can be a great resource if you want to get technical/are a giant friggin' nerd like me. Notes - Obviously damaged metal == more susceptible to corrosion, etc. - It's not the water itself, its the oxygen - Even if a section looks undamaged, if it was hit hard enough to suffer molecular bonding changes then that becomes an area of issue later on. Vocab/concepts I hope to someday incorporate/include in stuff: rust wounds - from the video, describes where rust starts seeping out from small damage. 3 rust types - Talked about from 1 minute to 5:30 here (rest of video talks more about how to treat pack rust and also stuff about replacing rivets and welding vs liquid metal. - Running rust (streaks of rust down the side, really just stain on paint, solved by painting over) - Flash rust (bright orange rust, fast spreading. can be removed via means such as lasers, scrubbing, possibly power washing, wire wheel, or rust inhibitors easy to clean off (Do Not Paint over, will just spread under the paint) - Pack rust or rust bloom (steel related. darker in color, more black than red, bumpy. needs powerful pneumatic tools to 'punch through'. caused by the iron in the steel alloy trying to return to steel oxide, what was mined out of the ground). paint - first defense against rust. Sealing layer that keeps oxygen from getting to the metal. -- Already knew this, but thinking about it in Transformers context is fun. "Buddy... How many layers are you up to now?" "I don't have a problem! It's only seven layers!" "Yeah, and it's interfering with your joints because the last place did a crap tape job around them. You need to talk to someone." "NO! You don't understand: the *creeping rust*! I'll never chance it again!" "-deep sigh- buddy you had rust stains, you yourself didn't even get it! YOU survived!" "..." "...oh. right. 'm sorry, but you still need to talk to someone." Stress corrosion cracking - Not from the video itself, but suggested in the comments to look up on Wikipedia. uggh its technical article as hell though, I might passively look out electrolysis - Battleship New Jersey goes more into detail here(initial talking about the zinc anodes) and in this one about another means, about how electrolysis effects metals here and how humans combated it (zinc anodes bolted to the hull (think ablative armor but for chemical reactions???) (fun fact I have one)) .

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Once again Wrangle managed to be the most frustrating thing in the woods. He narrowed his eyes as he lashed out with a kick at the back of Wrangle's leg. The impact would be lessened with Wrangle walking away but it was the thought that counted.

If Razorwreck was honest, then he would admit most of his frustration came from the sheer amount of ineffectiveness all of his attempts at dealing with Wrangle and his twin seemed to come to.

He had never been a great fighter, but this was ridiculous.

"It sounded larger. I thought it was another Autobot or Cybertronian." There was a hint of a sulk in his voice, and he stepped back away from Wrangle. His optics were locked again on the blaster in Wrangle's hand and for a moment he wished he had tackled the Autobot.

But no, there were more concerning things about. Like the damage Evil Wrangle could do if left unattended.

"The last planet I was on had mechanical lifeforms large enough to pose a threat even to us," he muttered as he set out to trail Evil Wrangle.

“Come here” (from the muse prompt thingy)

Wrangle said evilly, possibly was Evil Wrangle and not Normal Wrangle

The traitor was back. At least the *shape* of the bot in front of him was correct for the little Autobot traitor he had run into. The colors were different, but he himself had worn different patterns sometimes. There was a difference to the voice too but those were all just minor details, weren't they? But things wouldn't go the same way as before. No no, this time Razorwreck was armed with more than just his claws and the fangs on his mask and- "Finally showing your true colors, are you?" he asked conversationally as he slowly raised the rifle in his hands. Wrangle was practically exuding an air of malice and aggression that Razorwreck had suspected the little bot of being capable of all along.

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"Useful for your work I imagine," Razorwreck commented once he had properly imagined the length. Someone else might have taken the dryness of his tone for sarcasm.

Recoripple seemed to take it, and him, in stride and Razorwreck felt a brief wave of gratitude all the way down to his spark. Even as socially crippled as he currently was he couldn't just say "thank you for talking to me" but he remembered enough about bar etiquette.

"A Binary Blitz, and I'll buy the next for us both, if you want." The drink jumped from his vocal processor to his glossa before his processor had really thought over his choices. It wasn't his normal, wasn't what he had been drinking, but the two-toned drink of green and blue was pretty enough.

And that decided his focus could turn more fully to the archivist, to what the strange looking bot was doing here. His head tilted to the side as he considered the other.

It took him a moment to ask, his processor spinning out multiple lines of inquiry on a couple different threads. His wings shifted on his back then lay relaxed and mostly flat against his back again.

"What do you archive?" It's blunt and to the point but Razorwreck couldn't remember the rhythm of normal, casual conversation, the pull of sound and silence. Eventually it would come back.

It took Recoripple a moment to figure it out. Ah. He'd met bots like this, who couldn't handle a social situation to save their spark, and when you were as long lived as a Cybertronian... Well. It tended to end up with them not practicing a whole lot and getting steadily worse at it.

Well. That was fine by Recoripple.

"60 feet," he replied, and his optic curved in a congenial manner. "I like a lot of options for an angle. Tends to scare others, though, so I don't extend it very far often. Can I get you a drink?"

The offer was extended without any malice, just a casual question out in the air, and he made sure to carefully put off the aura of 'friendly and not easily offended'. Which, he was, but, still. Bots like this took a little more care with wording and clarification at times, and he was good at that.

He turned to wave down the bartender, and then tilted his helm at Razorwreck, questioning, putting it out there: up to him to accept or not, but Recoripple's own drink was empty, so he was going to flag down the bartender regardless.

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camellia

Love is plating pressed against his as they huddle against each other gossiping between bombardments, trying not to think about how they might not know when they or the others stop. It is a spread hand pressed against his chest plating to keep him from falling apart when he wakes up with all systems in high alert, combat protocols burning furiously through his circuits from the dream.

It is being shoved in front of a larger, angrier frame because he wasn't the one who did the crime and he's got a split second to decide whether he outs the other flier hiding around the corner or steps aside to let the tank past, all while knowing the tank might rough him up but won't really hurt him.

It is being told "don't get your belts in a twist, flybot" in such a condescending tone that he can't help but shift all his anger to the speaker (instead of the officer he was about to punch).

It is helms pressed against helms, the group of them laying in a loose tangle of bodies between deployments as they watch a video of dubious quality procured from equally dubious sources.

It is there always being a stool when the group gathers because then he doesn't have to hold the blades of his wings awkwardly high. It is that same stool not always making an immediate appearance and being asked to do or say some minor embarrassing thing.

It is an absence, now. A warmth that is missing. It is an inner comms channel that only gives static when he tunes to it. It is the ghost of voices like they're still there, a brief moment before fully waking when he thinks 'they'll yank me out of berth if I don't get up'. It is in the decision making of his documentaries: what angles to shoot, what lifeforms would get the loudest reactions if he flashed them on screen abruptly. How to draw out the tension for an audience that isn't there.

It is something he hopes to learn again someday.

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05.16 - Filaments

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This scientist crafts stunning visual art through chemistry.

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Reblog this if you’re okay with people sending unexpected IC asks to your muse at any time! No meme prompts needed!