#Onslaught/Blast Off

[silence-ofthe-llamas]

Apologies for the ones here for TexAid or even the mechs but it's Combaticon background time again~! Contains thinly veilled Onslaught/Blast Off I'm SO weak for them.

Oh how unkind the narrative is to them (it's me. I did this.)

Edit: completely realised I forgot: TW for thinly veiled homophobia

Brawl found a kitten once.

The thing was tiny, dwarfed by his massive hands. Its eyes were barely open, its fur matted with dirt and mud. They were pretty sure it was going to die. Its pitiful meows were more raspy whispers.

But Brawl still decided to look after it. His hands were suited for destruction, skilled at breaking and crushing. The kitten looked so fragile nestled up against the scars and callouses.

Vortex had said that he could wring its neck and kill it before it knew his hands were there - he’d had to do it before to orphaned kittens with frostbite in his home town when he was younger. He was practiced at it, a natural – the old women had said so themselves as they helped him bury their little bodies in the frozen ground. Brawl was venomously opposed to the idea. He fed it warm milk through a syringe, used a damp cloth to work the worst of the filth from its fur, and revealed the tabby cat coat pattern hidden underneath. Blast Off had remarked that they looked like a mackerel fish, and Brawl had decided that the cat was to be christened Mackerel.

Its life would be so short it didn’t matter what they called it, he’d argued. It’s not like they’d ever grow to care. It’s not as if they’d be mincing around with a cat mascot called Mackerel.

Except Brawl was very attached to Mackerel.

The kitten spent its naps tucked away in a pocket on his chest, replacing ammo and explosives. When awake, he watched him like a hawk. He procured him blankets, soft and fresh, warm and clean. He sat in his lap when they were in their vehicle, he held him close when bullets were flying, and shared pieces of his meals with him when he was old enough for solids.

The thing was too stupid to die.

Mackerel loved Brawl. He’d just need to see him to start purring. And, in turn, Brawl loved Mackerel.

It broke Brawls heart to leave him behind. His sister had promised to look after him, to make sure he was clean and fed and healthy, and once Brawl could come back, he’d be sure to remember him and would happily purr for him again. They all pretended they didn’t see the tears in his eyes as he said goodbye, that they didn’t hear the way his voice shuddered and broke as he stroked him one last time.

He didn’t know that it was the last time he ever would at the time, but something in him must have told him it would be.

It was all a bit unfair, really.

--------------------------------

“Oh my god. He’s wearing the fucking trousers again.” Blast Off groaned.

Onslaught whipped around. “For fucks sake.” He slapped that mornings newspaper down onto the makeshift table and stood up, gesturing for Swindle to turn around. “No, no, absolutely not. Go get changed.”

“What’s wrong?” Swindle asked innocently. “I didn’t think we had any dirty jobs today.” The trousers were gaudy and glittery and godawful. How he liked them god only knew – he had locked eyes with them in the shop and that had been it. Instant infatuation. He was obsessed. Brawl saw him sneak back to the shop to buy more when his first pair mysteriously gained a rip across the groin. He seemed to always have a set at the ready.

“We’re meeting with potential clients, Swindle, you can’t come looking like that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with how I look!”

“You have two choices.” Two fingers were presented to him. “You take them off yourself,” a finger curled to his palm, “Or I take them off for you.”

“You drive a hard bargain. Alright, fine. I’ll need you to undo them for me though, my fingers are too stiff.” Swindle winked at Blast Off. Blast Off pursed his lips.

Blast Off took a knife from the sheath on his calf and calmly handed it to Onslaught. Onslaught took it without looking, and beckoned Swindle forwards.

“We’ll cut you out, then.”

“On second thought, I think I’ve got it!” Swindle squeaked, disappearing off back to his room. Onslaught tutted and passed Blast Off back his knife.

“Cheeky git.”

Blast Off hummed, carefully sliding it back into its sheath. “I was looking forwards to seeing them destroyed again.”

“He’s got three pairs.” Onslaught looked at him, expression very grim indeed. “I’ve seen them.”

“I can leak our location to get them destroyed?”

“There’s probably a stash of them somewhere in secure storage too. We’d never find them all.”

“Worth a shot…” He muttered. He stubbed out his cigarette on an ash tray balanced on the arm of his chair before placing it neatly onto the table and standing, brushing off imagined dust. “How long do we give him before we leave?”

“Two more minutes.” Onslaught checked his watch. “Is the car good to go?”

“It starts. Has Megatron still not responded?”

Onslaught pressed his lips together tightly and shook his head. Blast Off scoffed.

“Bastard.” He dramatically threw his hands up. “What does he expect to happen? Christ. He’s fucking useless.”

“Would you rather deal with Starscream again?”

“I’d rather be dead.”

“And we will be if we don’t get going!” Swindle announced as he walked in, clapping his hands. “Come on, to the car!”

“You act as though you weren’t the one keeping us waiting with your ridiculous wardrobe.” Blast Off chided as he grabbed the keys. “I didn’t expect much from the English, but Jesus Christ. Are you all blind?”

“Shut it, you damn frog.”

“That’s enough.” Onslaught firmly warned. They both immediately straightened, jaws snapping shut.

Swindle stuck his tongue out at Blast Off. Blast off flipped him off.

“I’m setting fire to those damn trousers.” Blast Off threatened as they got into the car. Onslaught got into the passenger seat, rolling his eyes at them. Swindle scoffed.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

--------------------------------

“For goodness sake! Sit down right now!”

The fabric of his shirt ripped with ease and quickly turned red with blood, seeping between his fingers as he pressed his hand to the wound.

“What did you even do?!” Blast Off demanded. “All that bravado about getting back in one piece! Look at you! Your lip will need stitches! Your eye is black! Why?!”

“They were going to find you.” Onslaught was pressing a wad of tissues to his lip, obscuring his voice. “I did my job.”

“If they’re going to find me then tell me so I can flee my nest, not… not whatever this is! Oscar!” He was desperately pulling at tissues to help stem the flow of the wound in his arm. “It wasn’t that important! Look; we haven’t got Swindles credit card, so you’re just going to have to suffer through whatever I can Frankenstein together. Hold this tightly - think I saw some superglue? They used to use that for wounds, right..?”

“Probably not in its current form.” He obediently replaced his hands over Blast Off’s, his hand pressing against a blood-soaked one. “Shit. Where’s Swindle when you need him?”

“Did you at least win?”

“What kind of question is that? Of course I did. One’s tied up at the bottom of the stairs. The other’s dead.”

“Two?”

“One each.” He raised two fingers. “One meant to keep me busy, one off to go get you.”

“As if I wouldn’t make their head a red mist.” He tutted. “Let me look for that glue.”

He carefully pulled his hand out from under Onslaughts, the air ice cold against it. He felt like he had been stripped bare where his skin had been pressed against his own, whittled down to the bone.

The glue was sat on top of a first aid kit. He brought both back to him, popping it open to take a look.

It wasn’t great, but it would do.

The arm was first. The bleeding was manageable, but they’d need to get an actual professional to look at it - Blast Off barely remembered his training. It had been a single day in a scorching hot tent filled with sand, the air thick and heavy like a blanket, and his head had thumped and ached the whole way through. He’d only received the pass mark because he had given the instructor a cigarette.

“Jean.”

Blast Off’s eyes snapped to his. Onslaught only ever used his name when they were alone - especially the short version. And likewise - he only ever called Onslaught Oscar if no one was around to hear it. Suddenly, he was aware that he was knelt on the seat Onslaught had taken, his knees either side of his thick thigh, their bodies inches away - he could feel the heat rolling off of him and suddenly his mind was racing away in another direction, one that had his hands hands raking down his commanders back and lips at his throat-

“When we’re done here, we move to the backup.”

“Yessir.” Quit it.

He did his best for his arm. It was shallower than it looked, thank fuck - thick bundles of gauze and a well wrapped bandage kept the pressure required on. His sleeve wouldn’t go back over it, but he would be okay - it was still baking hot outside, the heat rolling off the ground in thick waves.

“Hold still - let me put your lip back together.”

“Ow!” Onslaught hissed and pulled away at the sting of the alcohol Blast Off had dripped onto the open wound.

“Be quiet, I’ll kiss it better, how about that?”

Onslaught snorted, and obediently remained still as Blast Off applied the suture strips to his lip, carefully pulling the flesh back together. It would scar horribly, but it would just join the other one. Maybe he’d end up matching with Brawl? That would be fun.

“There, done.” Blast Off leaned back to appraise his work. He grimaced. “It will do.” He stepped back and reached for his gun, fully intending on getting right back to it and finishing the job when Onslaught cleared his throat expectantly.

“My kiss?”

Blast Off rolled his eyes. “You really try your luck, you know that? Fine. Here.” He leaned forwards, the corner of his lip brushing against the stubble that wrapped around the corner of Onslaughts.

“Mwah! Happy?”

Onslaught looked at him with wide eyes, the tips of his ears burning pink. He had a look in his eye that had Blast Off’s insides turning, blood rushing down and making him feel dizzy. There was hunger in them, a look only a starving man had.

“… Happy.” He finally replied.

They’d had to drag the survivor by his feet. They’d repurposed some curtains to wrap around him to make him easier to move - he cursed and swore and spat venom the whole way. Onslaught ignored him. Blast Off did his best to.

“Where did he even learn to speak like that?” He asked, utterly aghast.

“Same place I did, most likely.”

“He’s going to alert everyone to our location. We should have left him.”

“Vortex needs him.”

“Damn it, he can come get him himself then!”

They ended up stuffing his mouth with a sock. Blast Off made himself comfortable in his new spot, settling in for the long game - the sun was starting to get low in the sky. Time was running out.

Time was running out, and he couldn’t quite push Onslaught out of his mind.

He had two targets left out of the four. Small game, but tricky - they were meant to be leaving the facility they were watching, but so far there hadn’t been any sign of them. He was starting to feel twitchy.

A man walked over to a window, and he felt his heart stop. Target spotted. He held his breath, waiting for them to step into just the right position-

The glass splintered and red sprayed up in a mist. He swiftly reloaded, ducking down to hide himself.

Oh, I am so pleased he finally showed his face.

The sun sunk lower, and Blast Off finally moved.

“When does Brawl get here?” He asked.

“Five minutes.” Onslaught glanced at him and offered him an open carton of cigarettes, one sticking out. “Smoke?”

“Not yet.” Blast Off shook his head. “When we’re back.”

“Ever the professional. I’ll look bad if I have one, now.”

“Can I have one?” Their captive asked, voice muffled.

“Not yet.” They replied in unison.

Five minutes later, Brawl arrived. He was alone - Swindle was still with Lockdown negotiating a deal (Blast Off wasn’t so sure that’s what he was doing now, but if he stuck his nose into his business Swindle would scrutinise his, so he kept out of it and looked the other way) and Vortex was preparing for his new guest. Apparently he’d made quite a mess earlier and had lots to sanitise.

Their special guest loaded, still wrapped in the curtain, Onslaught got into the front seat and Blast Off slipped in behind him. He quickly dug his binoculars out of his bag, checking them over - he’d knocked them quite hard when they were manhandling the curtain-bundle into the car - he absently brushed off the sand and prepared his rifle.

“You split your lip?” Brawl asked as they pulled away.

“Yeah. I’ll get stitches tomorrow.”

“That guy back there?” Brawl gestured with his head.

“Nah, the dead one.”

“Eye for an eye.” Brawl snickered. “And the black eye?”

“Now that was him.”

Blast Off peered out through the binoculars, scanning for his targets. He’d hit 3 out of the 4. Just one was eluding him. It wouldn’t do.

The tunnel that lead them towards the valley they had carved out a space of their own was rapidly approaching - time was running out. Finding him now would be pure luck - cutting it this fine-

There. There he was, on a water tower. Looking for something. Looking for them.

“Cover your ears!” Blast Off instructed, pushing ear protectors over the head of their captive. He took aim and fired, watching as a dark shape slumped and fell from a tower. Smirk tugging at his lips, he pushed his own off his ears before removing them from the strangers, smiling down wickedly at him. “See, we can’t have you not able to hear, so be good for us, okay? Vortex doesn’t like it when you can’t hear him.”

“Tuck in, Blast Off.” Brawl warned from the drivers seat. “Tunnel.”

The rifle was drawn back into the car.

“Are we at an understanding?”

They rapidly nodded.

“Good!”

“Vortex will be happy you’ve got a new toy for him.” Brawl commented, slowing as they entered the pitch black tunnel. “He was saying the other day how it had been a while.”

“I hope he’s not rusty. We’ll need everything this guy knows.” Onslaught said. Blast Off caught himself staring at him - the way the lights of the dash illuminated him, the way it caught his eyes and tangled in his hair, the smell of grease and blood and sweat. His

Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and his brow creased with focus, eyes squinting into the darkness ahead.

If things were different, they’d have never met and he wouldn’t be tortured like this with things he could never have, things he’d be so close to but never be able to touch. If things were different, everything would be so much simpler. Onslaught looked back at him in the rear view mirror. Their eyes met, and Blast Off felt a tingle down his spine.

Yeah. He’d take this any day. The torture of knowing him would always feel better than the absence of the one who made him feel whole.

--------------------------------

The man wrapped in a curtain was roughly dumped on the floor of Vortex’s lab. They fell with a loud grunt, head bouncing off the floor. Brawl giggled, waving at them by wiggling his fingers before he left.

“Have fun, Tex, this one’s got a gob on him.”

“Oh, I do like it when they’re mouthy.” Vortex chirped back, rubbing his hands together.

“You’re all fucked up! Did you know that?!” The man hissed at them, wriggling desperately. “I don’t know anything!”

“That’s what they all say~” Vortex sung as he strode off to find a knife to cut him free. Blast off rolled his eyes at him.

“He’s right, you know. People like to crow about their innocence when they’re really just trying to keep the lid on the jar.”

“You talk a lot of shit for someone who needs a bodyguard.”

“And you’ve got a big mouth for someone who’s wrapped in an old ladies curtain, so I suppose that makes us even.”

“Fuck! You are so infuriating!”

“Yup.” Blast Off popped the p. He looked around for the sock – they’d taken it out on the basis of good behaviour, but apparently it needed to be crammed back in again.

“You like him.” The man said, eyes hard and voice cutting. “That big guy. Like a man likes a woman. Ha!” He laughed, spitting blood. “Forgive my wording - I wondered who was the tunnel and who was the train, he fought so valiantly to protect you-“

Vortex’s boot met his face with a crunch.

“Fuck me, shut up.” Vortex sighed, gesturing to his boot as they cried out and whimpered in agony, blood running down their face. “Look, now my boot’s all dirty! I just cleaned these!”

“Was that really necessary?” Blast Off asked.

“They were boring me.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Dinner’s at eight.”

“I’ll bring whiskey.”

The heavy door locked behind him, and he grimaced.

He still had Onslaughts blood dried onto his hands. A stupid, ravenous part of him wanted it to stain him, to never let it go. The sensible part of him strode off to the bathroom to set himself to rights.

[aeneidjellyfish]

seriously i need more onslaught/blast off

[anony-man]

Blast Off and Onslaught Blast Off and Onslaught grgrrvrrrvrr

I could go on a tirade about this ship… I could… should I? Will I? Only time will tell. This scene though?

This has got me in TEARS (positive). SOBBING OVER IT. Uurgghhhh someone stop me from ranting and rambling about them.

[keferon]

Swindle having a free show~ Blast Off having a….haha. Having a time.

Request from Michael

[cromonania]

Combaticons

[spect-era]

High command drinking party and cybertrons most invasive coworkers

[random-cockroach]

@keferon BITING YOU FOR ADDING THIS BIT. I DIDN'T LIKE HOW THEIR PATH WENT IN IDW. YOU JUST WENT AND SAID "Who needs Starscream, Onslaught might find it out by himself" AND I EXPLODED

[fenostarvedemon]

Big daddy watching you👁️

[randomthefox]

These levels are absolutely the highlight of the game for me. I think when playing this game for the first time, these levels were what truly Sold me on Transformers as a franchise. For some reason the potential of the Robots In Disguise concept really just clicked for me thanks to this. Everything about it from the whole strategy briefing overview, to the adaptations they make in the field on the fly, to the disastrous conclusion really feels like a legitimate military operation and makes the whole idea of the Transformers WAR really feel like a real conflict. And it's all just such a joy to play, and the games graphics really make these locations feel like a spectacle.

Not only that but these levels made me really love the Combaticons! I absolutely adore their chemistry all throughout, their interactions with each other, the way their personalities bounce off one another. The fact they feel like real team mates both in how they bust each others balls and yet also support one another. It's good banter and it's solid squadmate dynamics. It really makes sense that they get along so well too considering they can combine into a single entity. The way Bruticus clearly has his own independent personality despite being a combination of five individuals is so interesting to me hehe. Plus that is such a fucking Megazord moment, if you know what I mean, when they combine together. I'm sure the Constructacons and Devastator are more popular, and perhaps they have a right to be. But I ADORE the Combaticons entirely because of these levels in this game. Teletran even has some dialog with Swindle that alludes to his character from TAS which is a cute easter egg.

The fact they have such a confrontational relationship with Starscream is also hilarious given their G1 origin story. I will say these levels feel SLIGHTLY like Starscream slander. Since he really doesn't feel like he should be THIS suicidal egotistical as a leader, and he never really sounded any retreats in the original show. But the parts where he's trying to take over the briefing speech and make dramatic little gesture poses and completely deflects all responsibility for the plan going tits up feel on brand at least. Still feel like they could have ended up in the same place plot and character wise WITHOUT having Starscream lead his wing into a meat grinder of the anti aircraft guns and then sounding a retreat like a whimp though.

This game kicks ass, Decepticons are fucking awesome.

[reader-from-nowhere]

Are there any combiner teams or individuals from the teams that you like ?

I love Combaticons!!! I think their relationship is peak entertainment :) Love anything with Swindle tho <33

[archie-sunshine]

TRANSFORMERS STRAGGLERS BELOVED ALREADY. Now's your chance to go off about what's going on with the decepticons over there

EEE THANK YOU!! and YES, FINALLY I CAN RAMBLE ABOUT THE DECEPTICONS!!

sO, as i've said, i'm not the most familiar with the combaticons. but in my research, what's come up the most is that onslaught is a plans guy, a habitual tactician, a danny ocean, etc etc.

and so I have given him leadership of this base of decepticons.

and an impossible challenge.

i'm giving onslaught a crisis of faith about his own ability to plan.

IM PUTTING A CUT BECAUSE THIS IS REALLY LONG BUT ENJOY!

If the autobots stationed at this outpost are disorganized, the decepticons are a mess. None of them are ready for the war to be over, none of them are ready to be STUCK HERE, none of them are ready to be at PEACE with the AUTOBOT SCUM they've been fighting against for almost YEARS NOW.

The general dynamic is that onslaught is really good at being the leader of the combaticons, but he is less good at being the leader of other bots outside of his team because he hasn't focused on building a rapport with any of them. The simple fact is that he assumed they would all be leaving this outpost soon enough, and so didn't bother to bridge the gap between his team members.

He butts heads often with deadlock- because deadlock hates taking orders- but his relationship with slipstream is even worse.

Slipstream is a stealth jet, she's a loner who prefers to just do her job and keep a low profile. She was given this job as an easier placement following a particularly bad failed espionage mission. She was told she would only be making strafing flights for surveillance purposes and occasionally assisting in basic maintenance or sabotage. And then the base received a trio of new seekers and Onslaught, not knowing seekers as well, made her their wing commander arbitrarily.

Those seekers were the rainmakers, a pack of codependant, antisocial, sadistic outlier experiments with incredibly poor social skills who immediately magnetized to her like a bunch of creepy cats. She hates all three of them so much, while they adore following her around and observing her (as in this continuity they're pretty fresh out of the test tube and have lacked any socialization outside of shockwave and being brought to battles.)

Deadlock on the other hand was kicked off of a more elite team by Megatron as punishment for killing his superior officer. He was previously a favourite assassin of Megatrons, and so Deadlock is now seething and holding a massive grudge against the warlord for not only banishing him, but then immediately rolling over and conceding the war right after. He's all knotted up with anger about everything that's going on, when of course, what should happen but the doctor that saved him reappearing!!

yes, yes, stragglers ratchlock real.

While the rest of the crew are bickering and raging about the war being over, Ambulon couldn't be more thrilled about it. He's one of the first on the decepticon side who really embraces the peace. He gets picked on frequently (mostly by the rainmakers, again, more about them to come) and sees his status as a decepticon as barring him from ever fully becoming a legitimate doctor. With the war over, he is the first that begins to mingle with the autobots by way of tutoring under ratchet, and commiserating with first aid.

The combaticons are also a complex lot, with each of them having their own despair surrounding the end of the war.

Vortex is aghast at the end of the fighting. He finds himself breaking into fits of destruction between long periods of apathy. Though he's mostly a character who is used for comedy here, he still struggles with feeling aimless and constantly bored without the war. He and whirl also have a mutually destructive pseudo 'friendship' where they beat the ever living shit out of each other for seemingly no reason.

Swindle is understandably distraught, seeing as his entire business as an arms dealer just went tits up on the cybertronian side. For much of the beginning of the story swindle would be refusing to leave his room, pitching a huge fit about everything being ruined. Eventually, he would be one to advocate for peace with the other base, if only for the financial opportunities it could present.

Brawl is arguably the least affected by the end of the war. He's not stupid, but he is simple, so he knows as long as his fellas are around he's going to be able to find work, and they'll probably just go back to being mercenaries. What really annoys brawl is more the fact that they're stuck here. he's usually the first to jump at an opportunity to fight, and is the one who objects the most when the group finally is forced to work with the autobots. It also goes without saying that he is fiercely loyal to Onslaught, and is usually the first to agree with his boss.

Blast off is conflicted. He is deeply enamoured with onslaught, and admires his leadership skills very much. He is Onslaught's second in command, and he holds that title proudly. He is reserved, and quiet, distant from his teammates despite being incredibly loyal to them. He struggles between feeling relieved that the war is over, and knowing his crew would likely all rather be fighting. He also struggles with a great deal of guilt, knowing that if he really wanted to, he could leave, but he'd be leaving his crew behind.

AND finally, ASTROTRAIN shows up a couple 'episodes in', crashlanding on their planet on his way back to cybertron. Immediately, the decepticons leap to help fix him up and try to brownnose to get him to give them a lift back home. HOWEVER, astrotrain has been doing a lot of thinking on his way back home. He's realizing how much of his life has been spent ferrying people around not getting any time for himself, just being a glorified taxi service for a load of ungrateful jerks....

and then he looks out at this beautiful quiet organic planet with a nice big energon vein, far off from cybertron and all his nagging bosses... and he goes.

"I quit. and im staying right here actually."

:D

BUT YEAH!! thats sort of the deal of all the cons right now, i'll update with drawings of all of them when i can!!

[aeneidjellyfish]

go to sleep

[anony-man]

Wrote something for Onslaught and Blast Off after thinking up a story idea I’ll never finish. But anyway, here’s a little something to munch on. It’s not executed super well, but ehh. It is what it is I suppose.

“You’re staring again.”

He was already a little flushed, given the overindulgence in engex that evening, but Blast Off could feel his faceplates growing hotter from the embarrassment of being called out on it. He quickly looked away, servos coming up from where they’d sat fidgeting in his lap to grab the half-empty glass and drain the rest of it in one go.

It wasn’t a cold thing to say, nor had Onslaught been rude about calling him out on it. If the small smile that just barely lifted one side of his mouth was anything to go by, he found the attention endearing. The jab at his poorly concealed infatuation wasn’t even a jab, really. Onslaught was just stating the obvious, pointing it out.

Primus, Blast Off needed to stop drinking. He was getting too far into his own head again.

“Sorry,” he finally said, a belated (and unnecessary) response that had him swallowing against the strange sensation of forming words with a mouth that felt strangely fuzzy. Unsure of what to do with his servos, Blast Off tried to take another sip of his drink, but he was quickly reminded that he had already used that tool as a way to divert the attention away from himself. “I’ll try to… I’ll try not to stare.”

This time, the little half-smirk Onslaught pulled split into a full-on grin, and Blast Off even earned a little amused chuckle for his efforts. Gently, Onslaught reached across the table to take the empty container from Blast Off’s servos and, rather than fill it up again for what Blast Off believed must have been the third or fourth time (really, he couldn’t remember), he merely set it aside.

“We’ve talked about this before,” Onslaught said, shifting back in his chair. His helm was facing forward, but Blast Off could feel Onslaught’s optics studying him from behind the visor. “There’s no reason for you to feel uncomfortable around me. Not anymore.”

Not after everything that’s happened. The words hung in the air; unspoken, but still heard. Blast Off’s gut twisted with guilt, and he found himself thinking back to the many, many nights before in which he had done just that. It’d taken a lot of effort to gain back so much of Onslaught’s trust, and though he wasn’t anywhere near close to fully recovering all of it, he had certainly made progress since the moment things had been revealed.

He didn’t deserve it, Blast Off knew. Really, he didn’t deserve any of it. Still, here he was, downing glass after glass of engex as Onslaught did the same, albeit at a more leisurely pace, sharing the same space as the one he’d become practically obsessed over.

Blast Off hated to admit it to himself, but there were still nights where he indulged in the what-ifs. Said nights were often spent swinging back and forth between overwhelming guilt and ecstasy as he stroked himself to completion, optics closed in pure bliss as he pretended that it was Onslaught’s servos peppering his spike with affectionate kisses and filling his valve to the rim.

Blast Off hated himself for it—he hated the way his frame shuddered with each overload, riding a high based on false fantasies and dreams that likely wouldn’t ever come to fruition. He hated the way his fingers came back soaked with his own transfluids each time, jarring him from the idea that it was Onslaught’s skilled servos servicing him and not his own. He hated the way he succumbed so easily to his mind’s sick, twisted desires, and the way he gave in so easily. Truly, Starscream had never been the problem. Deep down, Blast Off knew it was all him—he was to blame, and Primus, did he hate himself for it.

As much as he hoped it one day might, the topic of interfacing had yet to be brought up. Blast Off understood—really he did. Even while under the false memories given to them by the mnemosurgeon, Blast Off hadn’t once gotten the chance to sleep with his leader. It was better that way, he knew. If he had given into Onslaught’s request for interfacing while his mind had been distorted, Blast Off knew it easily would have been grounds for cutting ties between himself and the gestalt, if not worse.

“Blast Off.”

Onslaught was gentle, but Blast Off immediately recognized the tone. It was one he often used when Blast Off got distracted like this, too caught up in his own thoughts and fears to properly focus on the current moment. His processor was hazy, and it took a moment for the world to catch up with him when he turned back to meet Onslaught’s gaze, but Blast Off managed to snap himself out of his thoughts long enough to respond.

“Sorry,” he repeated, optics looking anywhere but directly into Onslaught’s gaze. “I was just… thinking.”

Onslaught’s helm tilted ever so slightly, his mouth twisting into a thoughtful frown. Blast Off hated the expression—he knew Onslaught only pulled it when he was trying to figure out what the shuttle was thinking. Unfortunately for Blast Off, he was too overcharged to properly hide his inner thoughts and feelings.

“I can tell,” Onslaught eventually said. He was silent for a few moments, then added, “Well? What’s on your mind?”

A lot, Blast Off thought. He took his servos back under the table, back into his lap. As he fidgeted nervously, he studied the room, searching for something to keep his mind occupied as he worked up a good response.

“Nothing worth sharing,” Blast Off admitted. “At least, nothing you’d approve of.”

“Oh?” Onslaught actually sounded surprised.

Once again, he fell silent, as if unsure of how to broach the topic. As he struggled to come up with a good way to push for more (at least, that’s how Blast Off interpreted the way Onslaught studied the empty engex bottle in front of him, visor narrowed as he mulled over the vague answer), Blast Off quickly cut in.

“It’s to worry over,” he said, “Really, it’s… it’s just…”

It’s just that I desperately want you to frag me right now, Blast Off’s mind unhelpfully offered. I want you to pick me up out of this chair and slam me against the table like I’m nothing more than a toy for your own pleasure. Pin me against the wood, make me scream your name, frag me until I’m a raw, sobbing mess. Primus, give me the punishment I deserve, make me beg for your mercy. Make me pay for the things I’ve done to you, to your team, to the Decepticon army—

“I guess my processor’s just a little fuzzy tonight,” he said with a forced, nervous chuckle. With a helm scratch to prove his point, Blast Off said, “Must’ve overdone it.”

Onslaught hummed in response, a neutral sound that neither confirmed nor denied whether or not he agreed with the statement. Blast Off shifted in his seat once more, servos coming up from his lap to rest, folded, against the table. When Onslaught didn’t make another move to speak, he went back to fidgeting with them in his lap, unable to find a comfortable position to hold.

“You’ve made your feelings clear to me in the past,” Onslaught said, surprising Blast Off with the topic, “many times, in fact. Since the changes we’ve made, I’ve wondered. Have you…”

“What, changed my mind?” Blast Off said, almost amused that Onslaught even had to ask. “No. Not at all. But… but I’ll understand if you still feel…” he paused, searching for the right word, “…indifferent.”

“I do,” Onslaught said, and it took every ounce of self-control for Blast Off not to deflate at the admission, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not intrigued.”

It took some time for Blast Off’s addled mind to process the information, but before he had a chance to question just what that meant, Onslaught was moving.

It was slow, almost intimate. The world seemed to come to a standstill as Onslaught rose from his seat and beckoned for Blast Off to do the same. At first, he was frozen to the spot, struggling to even breathe, unsure of what to think or how to respond. Onslaught wasn’t fazed by this, however, and he easily reached forward and grasped at Blast Off’s shoulder plating to pull him to his pedes.

Desperate for support, Blast Off leaned back against the edge of the table as Onslaught leaned in, his servos trailing low to get a feel for Blast Off’s plating. It was intoxication, the sensation of Onslaught’s fingers against his frame, and it was an experience Blast Off had imagined over and over again in his head. Now, however, he felt lost. His tanks gave a sickening twist as he gasped for air, overwhelmed by the mere sensation of Onslaught’s touch against his frame.

He wanted this—truly, he did. The question was, did he deserve it?

With one servo firmly placed against the top of Blast Off’s hip, Onslaught’s other servo pulled away. Blast Off almost mourned the loss, but was quickly rewarded with gentle fingers slipping beneath his chin and lifting his helm ever so slightly. With optics dazed and lips parted, desperate for air but nearly incapable of taking in a breath, Blast Off melted into Onslaught’s hold as his leader leaned in for a kiss.

It was a slow, awkward process, and as Onslaught seemingly warmed up to the idea by gently nibbling at Blast Off’s lower lip and letting his free servo roam (he still kept one servo tucked under Blast Off’s chin, much to the shuttle’s dismay), Blast Off struggled not to crumple into a heap on the floor. His legs began to tremble as Onslaught grew more confident, having given up on the gentle bites to fully suck at Blast Off’s mouth as he studied the flier’s frame with touch alone. The experience was completely unlike Blast Off’s frequent fantasies, to his surprise, but Blast Off almost found himself preferring the inexperienced approach to making out. Anything more, and he was more than certain he would have fainted on the spot.

The kiss was long, the experience enjoyable, and though Blast Off had convinced himself before that he would’ve loved nothing more than to spend the rest of his lifetime in such an embrace with Onslaught, he was quickly nearing his limits. Onslaught seemed to catch on to this, and after giving Blast Off’s aft a final squeeze and his lips a quick puckered kiss, he pulled back. Breathless, Blast Off did the same, all but collapsing back against the table. As was expected, Onslaught was quick to reach out and support him.

“It’s an earth thing, kissing,” Onslaught said, servos on either side of Blast Off’s frame as he steadied him. “I’ve never found it all that fascinating, but I’ve heard tales here and there that you have, so… couldn’t hurt to have given it a try.”

“Yeah,” Blast Off mumbled, his voice strained. “Word gets around quick.”

Onslaught paused, having started to realize that Blast Off’s original unsettled reaction had yet to dissipate. “You’re looking a bit out of it,” he commented, his worry seeping through past the obvious amusement. “Still with me?”

Blast Off merely nodded in response, his frame having begun to tremble. Between the excessive amounts of engex put away in such little time and the barrage of pleasant-yet-confusing experiences in such a short amount of time, Blast Off was certain his processor was now all but fried.

“I must’ve overdone it,” he said, lifting a servo to rub at his face. “I’m starting to feel a little ill.”

Onslaught’s frown deepened, but he failed to hide the amusement from his tone. “I think I’d have to agree,” he hummed. “Well then, I suppose I’ll walk you back to your quarters. Wouldn’t want anything happening to you in such a state, hm?”

Onslaught held out a servo, a simple offer of support, and Blast Off gratefully accepted it. Having managed to receive enough physical affection from his leader to support the next several months of indulgent, guilt-ridden fantasies, Blast Off was now content enough to simply follow along, leaning heavily into Onslaught’s side as they headed for his room.

Come morning, Blast Off could think over the events of the night and regret his decision. For now, he was content enough to enjoy the rare show of affection from his leader.

[keferon]

Guys. Hear me out.

Remember when in Cyberverse everyone got their minds transferred into fake artificial digital simulation of an infinite fucking parade while their bodies were imprisoned? Now. Imagine Shockwave trying to pull that kind of move on First aid.

Under the cut:)

First aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like he's a lab mouse running through a maze.

There's the cheese. There's the electric shocks. There's no way out and never has been.

He thinks it might be the fault of Pharma's new drug. Or his fucking pilot position is finally eating away at him, or Vortex is finally done playing with him and just broke his brain.

There are people running around him, each of whom definitely knows what their place is and where they need to go. Everyone has a purpose and a position and some important job to do. They hardly even talk to each other, just nod and run on.

Amazing synchronization.

First..Felix feels like a kid lost in the mall.

He has. He has to do something, right? What does he need to do? Fuck. What day is today anyway?

He heads over to the schedule board and stares at it like an idiot for a couple minutes. It's Tuesday. The work day is in full swing. All the shifts are here. But he doesn't recognize the names of the employees. All the pilots are accounted for, but his name isn't on their list.

Must be a mistake?

He turns away from the board and looks around the room once more, this time more carefully. He just needs to find someone to ask. Preferably someone familiar.

He can’t recognise anyone.

The feeling of strangeness doesn't get any less.

The uniforms on the people around him are similar. But not the same.

The badges are all another color.

And he's surprised by this, but at the same time some part of his brain tells him that it's all familiar and he's seen it before.

“.... then I thought, we could do something different, you know?”

Felix flinches as Swindle and Onslaught walk past him. They are clearly in the middle of some sort of discussion and don't notice Felix staring at them.

Swindle is wearing a pilot's suit. Onslaught is wearing one, too.

Screw the weird schedule. THIS is wrong.

Onslaught frowns, but when he opens his mouth there's a strange amused respect in his tone

“You slippery eel.”

Swindle smiles. His smile, Felix notices, is not the same at all. He doesn't look like an actor from a commercial. He looks like a worn-out but proud of himself man.

It's wrong, but he's seen it before, it's strange but it's familiar. He wants to go up to Swindle and ask what's going on. He wants to understand the damn schedule. He wants to...

…

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not the nausea from the drugs or the weird withdrawals after a neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion.

It feels like being a lab mouse running through a maze.

You got the cheese. And here's the electric shocks. No escape. Never has been.

It's all the same.

He's not sure where he's going. Everyone around him seems very busy. Running about their own business, not paying attention to him and--

What is he supposed to do? He can't remember what day of the week it is. Shit. Is it Tuesday? He can't remember.

Does he need to find a schedule?

Everything feels weird.

By the schedule board, he almost crashes into Swindle.

“...You realize, if we can both get out of this shit, we can get others out too.”

Onslaught...still looking strange in his pilot suit instead of his usual uniform. Swindle pokes him in the side with his elbow as they both walk past Felix, completely ignoring him

“You just. Think about it. Even if you can't fire Offy from the pilots, you can at least free him from these disgusting experiments.”

Felix wants to go over and say hello. Politely and unobtrusively. And also kindly ask, “what the hell, boss?”

But you see it every day, his brain tells him. Have you forgotten?

It makes him feel wrong.

Here's the board, here's the schedule, just lift your stupid head up and see what you're supposed to be doing.

He looks at the board. It's Tuesday. It's dumb sheets that don't have his name on them. He wants to go up to Swindle, he should go up to Swindle, right?

…

It's all wrong, but it's a new kind of wrong. It's not from drugs or neural connection. And it's almost certainly not a concussion.

He's feeling.... hell, what day of the week is it? Tuesday right? He looked at the blackboard yesterday.

He stops. And makes a titanic effort to concentrate the jelly his head is now filled with instead of his brain.

Today is Tuesday because?...because yesterday was Tuesday? And the day before that, too? This is some kind of trippy shit, not a broken neural connection….

He's not looking for the schedule. He's seen the schedule a million times and he knows what's gonna be on it.

He's not sure where he's even going. The layout of the base is different. Not much, but enough to confuse him. He's still stubbornly checking out every familiar place he can find.

He doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't get it, he doesn't.

He still doesn't see a single damn familiar face.

Ambulon's gone, Pharma's disappeared somewhere too. No Tailgate or Wheeljack anywhere to be seen. And the layout is a little different and all the badges are the wrong color and Felix can't even read what's written on them because every time he tries all the letters blend into an indistinguishable blur.

He's trying to talk to someone. Anyone. But everyone either brushes him off or straight up ignores him. It's like he's a ghost or a lunatic or all of the above.

Everything is so familiar, but at the same time it isn't and his brain frantically clings to the last possibly familiar thing.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

Even if it is him who is going insane and not everyone around him. Vortex is insane in his own, unique way, but he won't ignore him. He may get a good laugh, but it's still better than blindly poking around every corner by himself.

First Aid feels wrong.

Which isn't weird, but this kind of wrong is brand new. It's not nausea from drugs or weird withdrawals after neural connection. It also doesn't feel like a concussion....

He snaps at himself. NO. Hell no.

Vortex. He needs to find Vortex.

The hangar looks surprisingly dark. The people look unfamiliar. And another schedule board beckons him to come over and check to see if it really is Tuesday, but he ignores everything and heads straight for his Mech.

Vortex hasn't changed a bit. Even the radius at which people avoid him is exactly the same.

And looking at him doesn't give Felix that fucking sense of wrongness.

He sees Vortex a lot. He just knows it. The thought is natural, in contrast to the others. That's good, that... It may sound strange, but Vortex is the most normal thing he can perceive right now.

He feels like he's grown little wings. His feet carry him up to the open cockpit and he barely notices the steps beneath him.

Vortex is here and he will understand and even if he doesn't, at least he won't ignore him. Vortex gets bored too quickly so he never minds distractions, no matter how absurd and...weird..they…

Huh…

Felix almost climbs into the cockpit, but freezes, right on the way in.

It's empty.

He crashes into that realization like an invisible wall.

The cockpit.... is clean.

It doesn't smell of chemicals or scrubbing agent. There are no thin streaks of old browned blood in the seams and crevices. There are no dents or stains on the edge of the visor.

The cameras are dead still and the screens are off.

There's no smell of stale blood or decay.

There's no one here.

But the back of his neck still tingles with the sensation of someone else's eyes staring at him.

“The fuck do you think you're doing?“

First Aid flinches startled and turns around.

There is a pilot standing a few feet away from him with a cigarette in his hand.

“..I’m..”

“I wouldn't stand there if I were you” smiles the stranger eying him with a suspiciously bloodthirsty smile “those things are glitchy as fuck. Might chop off something important.”

First Aid continues to stand just under the open visor. Maybe it's surprise or maybe he's too used to the idea that Vortex won't cut him in half. The pilot in front of him looks.... geez, where has he seen him???

Has he ever seen him at all? That green suit looks awfully familiar.

And the voice. There should be more mechanical notes in that voice, First Aid thinks. It should have more static and reverb and squeaks and rumbles and clicks and that quiet hum that sounds when the cockpit systems are turned on...

First Aid jumps off the Mech.

“Vortex...?”

The pilot casts him only a slightly surprised look at first, but a moment later recognition flares in his eyes.

“What the fuck....AID??”

First Aid instantly takes a swing and punches him in the face hard enough to send him wiping the dust on the floor.

“You!!!”

“Ha,” says Vortex from the floor. “Hahahahah ooooh Do it again! ”

First Aid kicks him. Vortex laughs like he's been told the world's happiest joke.

He sounds…alive. Alive and human and there’s no metal in his voice and

“What the fuck?”

Vortex stops laughing, but still doesn't get up off the floor

“What's the last thing you remember?”

First Aid still does nothing but stare at Vortex stunned. The human Vortex. Victor? Shit

“Until Tuesday, you mean?”

Vortex hums

”Till Tuesday.”

What was before Tuesday?

Another Tuesday. And another and another and another and another.

Someone from downstairs bangs loudly on the railing and berates Vortex for a safety violation, ordering him to put his cigarette away.

Vortex points his middle finger down somewhere and throws the cigarette over the railing.

Oh god. Oh shit.

First Aid swallows nervously.

“Shockwave...he used something...to control you-Mech...I mean. He did something, I think. I remember I couldn’t move couldn’t do anything. And now I’m in this hhhhplace? I don’t really recognise it.”

Vortex twitches the corner of his mouth and finally rises from the floor.

“Well I do.”

He looks like he is sick, First Aid thinks. He looks sick and he looks human and he has arms and legs and eyes and that stupid curly strand of dark hair sticking out from under his helmet and the dark eye bags.

“The bastard made up some sort of dumpster to transfer your consciousness in while he does shit to your body.”

First Aid clenches his hands together

“But there were two of us in the neural connection. And it took two of us to transfer here too...”

It suddenly dawns on him

“Wait. This base, these, everything. This is what the Mech project looked like in your time?? And Swindle and Onslaught and the staff is different and...”

Vortex raises his eyebrows smugly.

“...Here you are ...you're a human...” finishes First Aid.

Vortex pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

From somewhere below, a loud angry bang is heard again

“Tex, you bastard stop smoking in here.”

“Fuck you, Off,” Vortex yells back.

Then shrugs his shoulders

“I've always been human. No matter how hard Shockwave and his science shithole try to change that.”

He holds out an opened pack to First Aid

“Want some?”

First Aid feels awful. Terrible as if from the drugs, terrible as if from the neural connection. Terrible as if he had a concussion times two.

But Vortex is here and Vortex believes him and even if it turns out they're the ones who are crazy and not the world around them, at least they're crazy together.

First Aid takes a cigarette

“Thanks...”

_______________

Previous

[cromonania]

Combaticons

[lancelotslair]

take my hand, we're going to dragon land

these guys might get posted with color later hidden for the real snoopers to find v