#functionalists are jerks

[ravagedacat]

Title: The Last Praxian

Another Transformers Fic Idea (I still don’t know what I’m doing)

Okay, so this one is centered around Bluestreak. In this au, he is the last Praxian (no Prowl, no Smokescreen, not even Barricade, no one). Megatron bombed Praxus and he was the only one left (Blue’s a youngling during this). Autobots “rescue” him. However, they are still under Sentinel’s Functionalist regime. During his medical exam, they find out he’s an outlier (aka second class citizen, aka a weapon). Sentinel hands Bluestreak over to his Spec Ops commander to train to be an assassin.

Treated more as a tool than a person, Bluestreak isn’t the sweetheart we all know and love. He’s cynical and reserved; a bottle shook too many times and is just waiting to explode. The only reason he hasn’t left the Autobots is because they share a common goal: destroy the Decepticons. Blue blames them (especially the Seekers, who were the primary attackers on Praxus) for his miserable upbringing and for making him the last Praxian. He is merciless when killing (mostly at long range but any weapon Blue got a hold of he became a master at).

However, Sentinel was always going to fall. Optimus reign starts along with his “til all are won” schtick. Any Sentinel worshippers are done away with, including the Spec Ops commander who is replaced with none other than Jazz.

Blue doesn’t really care about the Autobots being under new management (secretly gleeful that Sentinel and his old tormentors are done for). However, he starts to care when a very visible leash is put on him. His savage killing spree is no longer tolerated. Optimus would prefer no more sparks were lost to this war but knows that’s not realistic. Even with this insight, it still weighs heavy on the Prime when calling the shots, and usually shifts that onto Jazz.

In another universe, Jazz would be Prowl’s mate and Bluestreak’s co-creator. In this one, however, he was not there to help Bluestreak through his trauma and raise him to be the chatterbox sniper he’s known to be. This Jazz sees the weapon that Blue is and is weary of what he’ll do. He recognizes that Blue is about to blow and tries his best. He gives Bluestreak the hard missions he craves but makes sure to keep a firm grip on Blue’s leash. Looking back on it, Jazz has many regrets on how he handled the mech raised as a child soldiers and what his actions led to Blue choosing the path he did.

Bluestreak can’t stand the way he’s treated under Optimus’ reign. Although he has more freedom on base (he can now roam the halls instead of being locked up in his cell/quarters), he no longer is killing Seekers/ Decepticons at the rate he wants to. He gets into fights with his fellow Autobots, especially Jazz (Blue doesn’t care that he’s SIC and Spec Ops leader. Actually, he hoped he could get Jazz to smelt him down. It’d be better than die of boredom).

In the end, Bluestreak strikes out on his own (and leaves a trail of bodies behind, making Jazz a true enemy). He focuses on snuffing Decepticons, making up the time he lost serving under Optimus. It didn’t matter who or what got in his way of a target, energon was spilled. He butted and severed Autobots along the way. Blue was the ultimate killer, never killing someone the same way twice (unless they were twins, because he found it humorous).

Eventually, he made an agreement with Jazz (both very reluctant) since they kept getting in each other’s way. Although Bluestreak never wore the Autobot badge again, he worked alongside them occasionally. With their resources, Blue was able to reach his end goal.

Seekers went extinct (except Starscream, but his fate deserves its own post); Bluestreak became known as the Seeker Slayer. Except his thirst for spilled energon was not satisfied. He started hunting Deception flight frames. When that wasn’t enough, he just targeted anyone who wore the purple badge. Hatred and a broken spark was all was left in Bluestreak. True happiness was struck down with his fellow Praxians.

Fast forward to the war’s end, both Optimus and Megatron agreed that Bluestreak couldn’t be left unattended. With Jazz’s imput, it was decided that Bluestreak would only find peace in deactivation (cue more guilt being piled onto OP’s pure spark). Both Autobots and Decepticons hunted Blue down. However the deranged Praxian knew this was coming (he was insane, not dumb). He led a marry chase and trails of bodies into the wilds of Cybertron where Jazz finally struck him down.

The blow didn’t kill Bluestreak, only paralyzed him. However, he had gain various wounds and there was no medic willing to work on the Praxian. Jazz pushed him into a cavern to make sure there was no chance of Blue getting aid and left him to bleed out.

On his last stellar cycle, all Bluestreak could do was think. He thought of his regrets, his successes, and the what ifs. He felt anger, rage, frustration, sorrow, grief, fear, relief, and even some joy throughout it all. In his final moments, acceptance sets in and Bluestreak rejoins the Allspark…

…

or does he?

[lets-try-some-writing]

Ohoho I have a fun idea for The Moon, (I just got that idea last night and really wanted to share it, SO YOU SAYING YOU WANT OUR IDEAS IS JUST SO PERFECT) and it just got WAY longer that I anticipated, oh no…anyway enjoy :

So we humans, despite how harsh and unprotected from solar wind and radiation Moons surface is, still want to, if not fully colonize, then at least put some kind of research base, or a point between Earth and Mars (in some of my favorite sci-fi novels The Moon is always colonized/with scientific bases).

-and then it hit me – Humans are Moons Citizens - what if (in main or AU of an AU XD) when humans finally got to the point of living on The Moon, what if this titan just adopted them as his new citizens? :D

Why? Well idk, maybe he softened a little over the eons, or Erath just convinced him to give humanity a chance – after all, so far the best ideas for moon bases are either buildings covered in the lunar regolith (you know, solar wind and radiation) or just build some in one of the bigger caves. After a while he just accepted and grew fond of them as his new (weird) citizens.

And while writing it I got another thought – Marss reaction when humans just suddenly land on his surface, build bases, and what is that “potato” thing?, and – HEY! PUT MY ADOPTED ROVERS DOWN!

Moon personally wouldn't be all that happy with the fleshies opting to build on him. He holds little love for Earth's children, especially since they hurt her with every breath. However, he would have have to commend them for bothering to make it all the way to his surface in light of the difficulties involved with the journey. Those few who can get to him would be allowed a grace period. Moon is of the opinion that if a race wishes to progress, they must do so without direct aid. A Titan is meant to guard and nurture, not pave the way forward. That thought process is directly thrown into his opinion of humans potentially colonizing his surface.

They would not be allowed deep enough into his frame to reach the hidden places reserved for his Cybertronian citizens. Those places are sacred, only to be inhabited by Cybertronians he deems worthy. However, the humans that can stick it out on his surface without breaking too many of his rules would be welcomed. They can reside within him, to a certain extent. But they would learn very quickly that Moon has exactly ZERO tolerance for citizens who harm him purposefully. Any humans on his surface would have to adapt and become very good at getting what they need without harming him, or they might very well find themselves exposed to Moon's immune system.

The few who make it through his gauntlet would be granted his protection and care. Their descendants would need to follow the unspoken rules, but so long as those rules are followed, he would grow to care for them eventually. The fleshies are HIS weird cleaning crew citizens. They receive safety, warmth, and breathable air. In return, all they need to do is keep him in decent shape. It's nice to be polished after all. It is all but guaranteed that in such an instance, a Moon cult would form eventually. Humans aren't stupid. They would learn the place they called home had a mind of its own eventually.

If anyone asks, Moon does not claim them as his citizens. They are his cleaners. However, if touched, he can and will retaliate with the vengeance of a Titan whose precious children have been wronged. Earth would be thrilled at the development and take extra care to try and ensure only the hardiest of her children make it up to Moon. No need for extra deaths when Moon only wants the strong anyway.

As for Mars? Well he would be thrilled to find that new citizens want to reside within him! He's not a functionalist jerk like his dear brother Moon, so he is more than willing to make room on his frame for the humans so long as they don't hurt him. Oh and they can't take his rovers (sparklings) either. He wants his little ones to grow up in peace until he can get the Allspark. Those who disobey will be very politely told to go back to Earth. Failure to obey will result in Pluto taking the offenders instead. Pluto, being an attack grade Titan, does have room for citizens. However, citizens must work to earn their keep. A very active Titan does not equate to a very comfortable living experience.

The poor sods sent to Pluto get to live as though they are traversing the north sea until Pluto says they have served long enough to go to Earth or another Titan.

None of the Titans know what to make of the whole potato nonsense.

[deliriousbug]

Wait sorry I think I just left it at explaining the s/o but not the story lol, the story can be about whichever bot you want finding out about all that, it may be some fluff where the character s/o is helping it soothing them with their sensitive hands and stuff?? Sorry this came to me JUST now so the idea may be a tad messier than normal lol

Yooo this hybrid idea is so cool! Loved writing this!

(The full request was that s/o was created by the Senate to be a hybrid miner/medic but it resulted in super sensitive hands.)

Gender Neautral s/o, sfw

Ratchet, in a rare bored moment when he’d already organized and took stock, sat alone in his office, glaring at his servos. Well, they weren’t rightfully his at all, were they? He wore Pharma’s hands and detested them and their usefulness. These servos didn’t malfunction, twitch and constrict on their own. But they weren’t his own. 

Outside, glass shattered. Ratchet leapt at the opportunity to keep busy, even if it meant cleaning up someone else’s mess. Halfway between the first private medical station and the next, Ratchet’s partner crouched, delicately picking shards of what used to be a beaker into their shaking servos. 

The two had only recently begun courting after months of working together. His companion had come to the Lost Light on one of many planet-side stops. They had requested to work in the medical department and had the credentials to support Ratchet’s decision. Although they refused to perform any procedure that involved living bots or unbalanced chemicals, they were especially useful in assisting the medics who did. They flit about, light on their pedes, always picking things up and setting them down as if they forgot what they were doing and then, remembering, picking the item back up. It would be amusing if it weren’t concerning, but First Aid’s entreaty for an exam was promptly dismissed. Mostly because of this, Ratchet avoided broaching the subject on dates. 

He fetched a dustpan and broom and went to them now. Their servos shook awfully and the glass they’d managed to collect clattered against each other. Tens of tiny cuts littered their servos and they trembled again. 

“Put the glass in here,” Ratchet offered. He held out the dustpan. 

They barely looked up at him. “Thanks,” they said. 

“Go take care of your hands; I’ll finish up here.”

They curled their servos against their chassis and stood, silently headed towards one of the emergency cleaning stations. Ratchet swept up the last of the glass and dumped it down the garbage chute. Worried that they were taking an awfully long time to bandage their servos, he joined his lover at the sink. Their shaking was more violent now, but concentrated in the servos they forced under steaming hot water. 

Ratchet reached around them and turned the water off. They continued to bleed and shake. He made to take their hands but they jerked away from him and he scowled, patience ebbing. “Let me see,” he demanded.

They met his optics now, tears beading in the corner of theirs, and shook their helm. 

“You are still bleeding,” Ratchet deadpanned. Softer, he added, “What’s wrong?

When they answered, it was barely a whisper. “I’m sensitive. . .”

In any other context, Ratchet would have laughed. But at that moment his concern only rocketed. “How sensitive?”

They bit their lip and didn’t answer, so he led them back into his office where privacy was certain. Ratchet snagged an emergency med kit from his desk and set it out, preparing the necessary bandage and ointments. His partner flopped down into the desk chair with an air of defeat. They held their servos out, laying them palm up on the desk. 

“Rung and Megatron are the only ones who know. . .” they started. They took a shaky invent and continued. “I was constructed cold, one of the Senate’s attempts to toy with the functionalist system: a medic, miner hybrid.”

Ratchet’s spark sank. Creating hybrids was an immensely delicate science and rarely a humane one. Many whose sparks survived the process of hybridization were unsuccessful, either failing to operate in one or both of their intended functions. Failed prototypes were typically smelted down or in some cases allowed to live, but as an Uncasted, forced to live as an untouchable rotting in the streets of Kaon. It wasn’t a pretty life, regardless of success. Very few hybrids were known to function without side effect, but even the ones with drawbacks were made to work. 

“I could work,” they said, “but my mining panels are too long and sensitive where no normal miner feels much of anything. Maybe a bit of pressure, but. . . My servos are no better. Sometimes they act on their own and they’re so weak I can’t even hold things for long let alone try to use force. Even when I don’t use them, they hurt. It’s constant, from pins and needles to crushed protoform. Sometimes I’ll sit on them until they’re numb and it dulls the pain but it never lasts.”

Ratchet sighed. “Decades of constant and relentless use has caught up to you. Give me your hand: I’ll be fast.” He kept his vow and was done wrapping their servo in a flash, but their grit dentae and hitched invents did not evade him. 

“They made me so they didn’t have to spend good money on decent doctors for the miners. I was the only one sent in for the cave-ins and collapses,” they muttered. “It’s hard to save a dwindling spark when your servos won’t stop twitching.”

Ratchet looked at his stolen servos and sympathized. Although he felt dirty to have resorted to theft, he was nothing without hands. He was only grateful that they remained steady through his hatred. He wished he could give these servos to his love so that they might experience a moment of non-pain. 

“Can I try something?” He reached across the desk and gently took hold of their wrists, right above where their mining panels would emerge. 

They jumped but didn’t pull back. “Whatever it is won’t help.”

He smiled sadly and focused his attention on the undamaged servo, nimbly running his digits over the path of theirs, tracing invisible energon lines. “Medic servos are also made extra sensitive, though not to your extreme. However, I know what feels good on aching hands.” With his thumbs in their palm, he rubbed gentle circles. 

They sighed and slumped back slightly, optics half-shuttered. “Oh,” they groaned.

Ratchet chuckled and moved down each digit like this, massaging smaller circles and paying special attention to the knuckles. Later, he thought about showing them how good and numbing ice felt. He was completely absorbed in their expression at the moment: relaxed. For once they were lacking the tension that usually scrunched up their face. 

They sank deeper into his chair and sighed aloud. “Never stop,” they joked.

“Have I been demoted to masseur?” Ratchet quipped back. 

“Promoted,” they said. “I pay well.”

He arched an optic ridge at them. “Is that so? Then I may be encouraged to do this more often.”

“Primus I hope so.” They leaned over the desk and kissed him, soft and sweet as could be. “Thank you, Ratchet. I know you don’t hear that nearly enough, but I need you to know how much I appreciate you.”

Ratchet’s spark swelled with unbridled love for this sterling being and their broken wings.

[darthmaulification]

boba fett NSFW alphabet

A/N: boba fett is just... *chef’s kiss* 😍😍 i want to hug and smooch him on the lips and have him absolutely rail me 🥴🥴

this is for post-sarlacc/mandalorian boba fett as well, and does primarily assume fem/afab!reader.

nsfw under the cut!!😘

A = aftercare (what are they like after sex?)

Boba’s positively soft after sex. He takes care of you so so well, especially after particularly rough rounds, and will make sure you’re safe, warm, and comfortable. This usually means he cleans you up, either by running you a bath or wiping you down with a damp cloth, and massaging away any aches you may have obtained. Boba is also uncharacteristically talkative while he tends to your needs, and it’s all praise like “You did so well, cyare” and “Such a good girl” alongside clarifying questions like “Do you feel sore anywhere?” and “Would you like me to run a bath?”. Boba makes sure you are completely taken care of.

B = body part (what’s their favorite body part of their partner? what about themselves?)

Boba doesn’t have a favorite part of your body, because he’s easily able to mark it all up and he’s never been one to pick favorites, but I suppose he’s like any other man and does enjoy your... feminine curves, so to speak. He particularly likes your hips, ass, and thighs, if not only that he’s able to spank them, nibble on them, grab onto them while he’s fucking you silly... it’s also because he loves watching them sway as you walk. There’s a certain perfect sashay mixed with a slight jerk in your gait that Boba loves to watch, how your thighs ripple slightly with each step, how your ass does the same, and how those perfect hips of your rock side to side... Yeah... there’s something perfect there.

If Boba had to chose a favorite part of his body and not say “The whole damn thing!”, he’d pick his arms and hands. They’re what he does everything with, how he handles his blasters and jet pack, how he handles fighting, how he handles you, etc etc. Boba’s hands and arms are where every skill of his is practiced and carried out, the limbs that can do anything. He finds a slight pride in that. Also, Boba knows you also enjoy his arms, so he finds it very amusing to flex for you every once in a while to get you blushing.

C = cum (basically anything to do with cum)

Boba Fett cums a lot, and he makes sure all of it ends up inside you. He finds it incredibly satisfying to dominate you in such a way, being able to paint your insides white, to claim you and your pussy as his. Boba also has a slight breeding kink, so he makes sure none of his cum goes to waste, sometimes pushing it back into you when it leaks out. 

D = dirty secret (what’s their dirty secret?)

Boba will probably never tell you this explicitly, most likely you will pick up on it with every breadcrumb he leaves, but Boba loves you so fucking much. He has so so much love for you it makes his heart bleed with the intensity. He’s never loved someone with all his being before, never cared this hard in his life. Boba may not even be able admit it to himself, love is a word that has brought him so much pain. But he loves you, he loves you, he loves you... Cyare, mesh’la, ni kar'tayl gar darasuum...

E = experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Very experienced. Boba has had many many sexual partners over his lifetime, so he knows exactly what he’s doing and his way around your body. Having the “tall, dark, and handsome” allure as a bounty hunter really helped him with this.

F = favorite position (what’s their favorite position?)

Boba has a couple positions he usually defaults to, all of which he enjoys. They are:

Leap frog. This is a close one for being his favorite position. Boba likes to keep you beneath him, for control, and when your flat on your chest, arms either trapped under your body or above your head, hips hitched up just enough to allow him access... well, that gives him all the control he could dream of. When you’re like this, Boba fucks the life out of you, draping over you to kiss your back and neck all while one hand is nestled around the front to toy with your clit. He also loves how desperate for more friction you get with this one.

Doggy style. He likes the control this position gives him, how he’s able to command you into it, set the pace, decide when you are allowed to come undone. Boba also likes being able to grab your hips and knead your ass as he rails you, leaving fingerprint bruises on your skin. He also likes spanking you and pulling at your hair. He also keeps a couple firm, large fingers against your clit, rolling that sensitive bud between them.

Missionary. Boba enjoys basic missionary because A) you’re smooshed under him, B) it gives him the ability to kiss you as he pounds into you, and C) he’s able to be versatile. He also likes how personal and intimate missionary is, being able to see your face and watch your facial expressions as you orgasm for him again and again. Boba also gives your breasts a lot of attention when he’s got this perfect access to them, kneading them and pinching and tweaking your nipples.

G = goofy (are they the more serious type, or more humorous?)

Boba is 100% about making sure that you are receiving the pleasure you deserve. He is giving you everything he’s got during sex, so there’s no room for being silly. The most “goofiness” that he partakes in is lots of teasing and dirty talk, which isn’t all that goofy to begin with, just as serious and commanding as he is.

H = hair (how well-groomed are they?)

Boba is a functionalist, so he’s pretty well groomed below the belt. Of course, of what he has left to groom. The Sarlacc pit’s acid wiped out pretty much all his body hair, including his happy trail and about a quarter of his tuft (Boba genuinely thanks the Maker every day his penis remained untouched), so there’s only a little bit to take care of. 

I = intimacy ( how intimate are they during sex?)

Boba is intimate in a very domineering, overpowering way. He gets you so close to the edge so quickly, so torturously that there’s nothing but this overwhelming closeness that occurs, this performance of worship. His hands and mouth on your body, his voice in your ear, it’s like you become one, when he’s steady above you, your bodies interlocked, fingers laced in your hair, tugging gently. It will feel like Boba pushes you to the limit, that the intensity is like a thousands stars burning over you at once. Boba’s presence is like that.

J = jack off (do they masturbate?)

When he was a younger, more spry, more sexually unruly man? Yes. Everyday, probably. Now when he’s older, has more self-control, and you by his side? Not so much. Rarely ever, to be honest. the only times he finds himself with the itch to yank it would be if he’s been gone from you for a while or if it’s a mutual masturbation type of situation.

K = kinks (any kinks?)

Boba is such a fucking sexual deviant and kinky bastard it’s no wonder he decided to be a bounty hunter, because only a bounty hunter would act up the way Boba does. He has quite a few kinks, but here are the main ones:

Daddy kink. Boba is the physical manifestation of the “Your daughter calls me daddy too” meme. He derives such a smug pleasure from you calling him Daddy. He also likes it for the position of authority it is.

Dom/sub dynamic. Boba is a bonifide top/dom and nothing is changing that. He’s the one in charge, who makes the rules and breaks the rules, and he isn’t relinquishing that anytime soon. Boba thrives in that position of power, and loves having you a submissive, moaning mess beneath him. If you are naturally a quieter, maybe introverted person, Boba would go near rabid because that softness is just what he’s looking for. If you’re dominate like him, he sees that as a challenge... Prepare to be dominated.

Praise/degradation kink. He really just loves to hear himself talk, huh? This man is constant, non-stop dirty talk during sex and he’ll be saying downright delicious things to you. He’ll be giving you all the pet names in the book, “cyar’ika”, “pretty girl”, “mesh’la”, etc etc. Every time you react the way he wants to, or you pleasantly surprise him with your response to him, you’ll be rewarded with utmost praise. He’ll coo to you about how well you’re taking his cock, how perfect your body is, how good your wet pussy tastes... everything. Boba also likes balancing the good with the bad, so he may use a bit of degradation, usually in the form of backhanded compliments or ruder nicknames. However, if you don’t like degradation, he will simply avoid it, easy said and done.

Innocence kink/virgin kink. Woo hoo boy... Boba loves if you are or act all shy and bashful with him in the bedroom. It really goes hand in hand with his dominate role, you being a submissive, blushing mess while he’s all big and intimidating (not in a fear way). He likes being the one to corrupt you by marking your body all up with love bites and small bruises, making your tight pussy his as he rails you. If you tell him you’re a virgin the first time y’all have sex, Boba might go feral.

Breeding kink. Before meeting you, Boba didn’t really have this kink. His younger years were spent angry and vengeful and full of sex that was meaningless at the end of the day. But after the Sarlacc, and snagging the Palace from Bib Fortuna, and meeting you, Boba kinda starts getting an inkling of wanting a little something extra... or a little someone extra. He starts genuinely contemplating and liking the idea of having kids, and it partly manifests in his dirty talk where he’ll say stuff like “Gonna let me fill you up?” and “Got to keep your pussy full. Womb too”. Boba likes the idea of you mothering his children.

L = location (favorite place to “do the do”?)

Boba’s favorite place to positively ravish you is anywhere that he has full control over the safety of the room. So this usually applies to the bedroom, where Boba has set up so many security measures that no one is getting in, but also to more public places. When Boba was younger, he was much much more into exhibitionism and would’ve been down to fuck like... in front of a crowd, to be honest. But he’s older now (and wiser too) so he values the concepts of safety and security, much unlike his past self. So while Boba may still fuck you in an alley or in the throne room, he makes sure that literally no one is around. He does this less out of the potential embarrassment, but more so because he knows he has a huge target on his back. 

M = motivation (what gets them turned on?)

If you start being a little tease, or show him a bit of sass and being overall more mouthy, his pants are definitely getting a bit tight around the crotch region. Boba loves it when and if you try to talk back to him or if you get all snarky.

On the opposite hand, Boba also loves it if you’re easily flustered, all pink-faced and bashful at something he says. He really finds a smidgen of shyness to be really, really enticing. It strokes his massive Dom Complex.

N = NO (what’s their turn offs?)

Boba has a few hard turn offs that he would never do, full stop. They’re age play/regression, consensual non-con/rape play, and extreme sadism. While he does have a daddy kink, it’s really only for the name and position of power, not the age factor (so he’s not into DDLG). And despite Boba being a big ol’ bastard, it’s never sat with him well to play the role of “rapist” during sex. Also, Boba likes a bit of punishment and being rough ‘n tough with you, but he has a limit of how far he’d go. He never wants to actually hurt hurt you. Even if you’re a full masochist and you asked him to do it, said it’s okay and everything, Boba would still never harm you and would probably get fully turned off.

O = oral (do they have a preference in giving/receiving?)

He doesn’t really have a preference, because he’ll go down on you and if you give him head, he’s all game, but fuck, does Boba like going down on you. He gets an immense amount of satisfaction from making you cum using only his mouth, having you completely undone and writhing just from his face between your legs. He also really loves your pussy??? Like it’s so perfect to him, the aroma, the taste, the slick, wet feel, the way it clenches and quivers around his tongue, etc etc??? Boba loves it.

P = pace & PDA (are they soft, sensual, rough, or feral? are they open to displaying the relationship?)

Boba fucks hard and rough and slow and with a purpose. He wants to give you (and himself, of course) as much pleasure as possible for as long as possible. He paces himself very well, the master of self-control he is, and he will have you orgasming and edging for ages before he finally dicks you down. Boba finds great pleasure in having you cockdumb by the end of it.

Sometimes though, Boba gives you that same purpose in a slightly different way. he still fucks you good, but he’ll be a bit more sensual, a bit more gentle. Often, it’s because you ask to love make, but occasionally it’s because Boba really really wants you to know just how much you mean to him.

PDA is very very lowkey and subtle with Boba. This is mostly because he and you know that if your relationship, especially with how deep it is, were to become too much of common knowledge, someone is bound to use it against you, specifically to get back at Boba. So, Boba doesn’t often even have a hand on you in public, or show any outward affection. What he does do though, is stand close to you or have you close at his side. He keeps you in his line of sight always, and it’s become a sort of dance you to have. Boba and you orbit each other in a way, never growing too distant nor too close. Though, its perfect for you.

However, if someone starts making moves on you, Boba may physically step in, cutting whoever it is off from you. He’ll make sure they know that your off limits, untouchable. Usually, this also brings the gentlest yet firmest of hands to your lower back.

Q = quickies (what’s their opinion on quickies?)

Yes. Just yes. Boba loves quickies. He might be addicted to them. It’s a mix of he is always Ready To Fuck and he just finds you so damn desirable and beautiful. Though he will always prefer having you for a few hours opposed to a rushed ten minutes. But don’t think he does any less of a good job.

R = risks (are they okay with experimenting? do they take risks?)

In his younger years, this would’ve been a hard, enthusiastic “yes”, but nowadays Boba won’t really actively experiment. If you have something you want to try, odds are he’ll go along with it, but he won’t ever bring up something new. He’s very content with his abilities, that are admittedly very very successful.

S = stamina (how many rounds can they last?)

Boba can last a long while, considering his age. He’s got years of experience and a whole lot of self-control under his belt, so he’s able to work you for at least a couple hours before he starts feeling it. He’ll having you cumming over and over again, working you with his mouth, hands, and cock. Boba also is very good at pacing and has this uncanny ability to restrain himself in a way that the pleasure for him doesn’t build up unless he allows it to. So don’t expect him to cum, even in light of your best efforts.

T = toys (do they own/use any toys?)

Again, used to when he was younger. But now he doesn’t because he knows he’s too damn good with his hands, mouth, and...y’know... to need any toys. Though, if you have any toys or you ask him to try one out, he’ll humor you and oblige. But he’ll tease you about it a ton, saying stuff like “Ah, but don’t you want my mouth instead?” or “I bet you’re missing my cock”. Boba will always make sure that you know he’s better than any toy that you’d introduce.

U = unfair (how much do they like to tease?)

Boba is such a smug shit. He teases so much and is so unfair that it borders on being cruel and he enjoys it, the fucking guy. If you’re into that, he’ll get you begging and in tears before he lets up and gives you what you want (read: need). But if you’re not into it, he has a base, “normal” level of tease, but he’d never take it too far. If he does push it too far, he’ll make it up to you however you want him to, because the last thing he wants is you too upset because of him.

V = volume (how loud or quiet are they during sex?)

Boba spends most his time during sex teasing the life out of you so he is vocal in that respect. He talks the talk, saying stuff like “You take my cock so well, little girl” and “Use your words, mesh’la, tell me what you want”. His constant dirty talk is sometimes broken up by growls from the back of his throat, heavy grunting and groaning, and the occasional low moan— all from the slick, hot heat that is you. 

W = wildcard (what’s a random headcanon?)

Boba struggles with pain sometimes, the aches left behind from the wounds he received from the Sarlacc pit. It usually flares up if he’s stressed or been overworking himself, making his skin feel tight, like there’s a constant pull in all directions. He also gets pain from age and overuse of his joints. Often, it’s only his knees and ankles that act up, but sometimes he gets it in his back and wrists. And though he never says anything about it, and never asks you for anything, he really does appreciate it if you take the time to give him a massage or run him a warm bath, despite how grumpy he gets when you do.

X = x-ray & x-tra (what’s underneath those clothes? any more random headcanons?”)

Boba is built like a fucking tank, an absolute hunk of a man. From a life of training, bounty hunting, fighting, etc etc, Boba has a body type akin to a powerlifter, he never built muscle for show, only functionality. He’s all broad-shoulders, stocky, and thick muscles. Unlike the beauty standard, Boba doesn’t have the ever-desired six pack abs or pinched waist, he has a hefty barrel torso and a slight, squishy tummy. His arms and legs are equally, if not more, strong and muscled like the rest of him, and Boba is very easily able to lift you up whenever.

Now, of course, Boba is very heavily scarred. He has scars of varying sizes, shapes, and ages, some being that shiny white while others are still pinkish, all over his body from bounty hunting and getting into tiffs. The Sarlacc also completed ravaged his bronze skin, leaving this impressive and tight web of scar tissue near everywhere on his body, though it’s most heavily condensed on his left side.

NOW HIS PENIS. Boba has a Nice Cock on him, that’s for damn sure. He’s not exceedingly big, but he is girthy. And weighty. Boba’s penis is 6 inches (15.25 cm) in length and just under 2.5 inches (6.35 cm) in diameter. He is uncut, and a prominent vein runs on the bell end of his cock. His balls are also very impressive and are fairly heavy.

Y = yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. Astronomical. Boba suffers from Horny Derangement Syndrome™. You touch his shoulder as you pass by him? His cock is hard. You give him a kiss out of the blue “just because”? He’s dry humping against you. You give him a cheeky smile and flirt with him? His pants are off. Boba is in a constant state of Wanting To Fuck. But, of course, if your sex drive doesn’t match his or if you’re not in the mood, he literally will not care or hold it against you.

Z = zzzz (how fast do they fall asleep after?)

Boba does not fall asleep until you have. Period. Full stop. It’s a bit of a machismo thing of his (he sees himself as the “protector” in the relationship) but it’s also because he just genuinely likes watching you fall asleep. Boba likes when you get all sleepy and droopy, melting against him, feeling all your muscles relax as your body starts to slow down. It makes him feel strong, comfortable, and most of all, loved. You falling asleep next to him, the Boba Fett, is almost the biggest exercise of trust you can show him, and he loves it.

[holos-prim]

Holos backstory part 1

Holos (prime) she doesn't like to bring up her lineag/HeritageTM because like, her dad was the fallen and he caused an incident.

As in The very first thing this man does when he meets his child is: a) mistake her for a his wife, And b) he immediately tries to kill her.

Love me some prime-ly family ™ DRAMA !

Also alchemist and prima wasn't in charge of the family brain cell when they found her like- dying.

Sooo they somehow convince prima (via ego?) to use the matrix to revive her

But of course because they were not in charge of the family brain so no one thought to ask If they should use it instead of if they could.

And of course this predictively goes very wrong :))

Basically what happened is the matrix broken in half and part of it fused to her spark and because the matrix is over protective of itself, try's to use the spark energy to save itself (killing her), and then

because its hosts existence-, panics yet again and revives her like every few milliseconds.

Which means:

*Turns out your friend here is

only mostly dead. See, mostly

dead is still slightly alive;* - the princess bride

Prima is cranky that his special toy that daddy made for him got broken. 🙄

Primus's dad (godTM) gets fed up with all the drama and gets involved

And decided that it would be cool 1) make her a cyber organic And 2) assign her to serve in vectors round table of knights and train in various ways of kicking unicronian butt.

Then skips off screen never to be seen again.

Because reasons.

So she does that And well…

This poor kid can't catch a break.

Everything that could go wrong does go wrong.

The Predacons die in because unicronn finally used his "it's a surprise tool that will help us (him) later".

And her best maximal friend shoves her into a in a stasis pod only to wake up millions of years later during the "golden age".

Things go chill for a while

It's all good

Except a very corrupt and a messed up Sentinel prime was the one found her and woke her up-

And discovered she has powers.

Oh joy. /s

Because alpha Trion is (technically) the only family member alive, guess who gets to start a custody battle.

Spoilers he just handed the kid to him

"For the good of cybertron".

Ouch

Maybe he should've stopped reading that book of his.

But I suppose asking him to be self-aware is too much to ask

And so the experiments begin, a few escape attempts happen (including one that nearly go Maccadam killed in the process of helping her.), and eventually settle just has had enough of this kid shenanigans and "refusing" (read as: literally physically cannot) give him the powers and title of a actual prime and sends her to the worst Cybertronian mine ever.

but hey,

She makes a new friend his name is Termmenus

and of course if you know Termmenus, and if you know what happenes to him in messutine…

Then shouldn't come as a surprise he gets severely injured.

Luckily for her (or at least that sentinel's opinion), he is more than willing to forgive her and save her friend in exchange for her "being a good little cog" and all that nonsensical functionalist rhetoric.

And the experiments begin again.

Sometimes when he gets bored of being a torturous jerk he will polish her up and show her off at various fancy parties.

Blah blah blah eventually war breaks out because you know Optimus and Megatron couldn't just get over themselves and get married already.

she would've taken advantage of this rare opportunity to escape however you know there's a problem of a bomb collar that explode if she steps too far away from terra nova sentinel prime.

Drat.

So this is the part where I should probably mention he has been drinking the unmaker juice this whole time that he might have stolen from tripticon station in a bid for power.

that's totally not going to cause any problems in the future no Sir-ee.

And eventually we get to the part was sentinel dies in the tfp series.

He basically just lets everyone thinks he's dead until he runs into Ironhide, joins his crew because why not.

He just says it was all part of a con scare tactic, no all the reports or false he didn't die(l mean he technically did and he got revived but no one has to know that) drags his "pet" (holos) along and they

go traveling for a bit in Space.

Eventually Ironhide starts noticing some things. Suspicious things.

Like this prime claims to be married to this girl but uh…

Somethings not quite right.

She's a really flinchy, Super quiet, speaks really formal (like unusually to the point where it's just really weird.).

And so Ironhide starts paying close attention and when he starts paying close attention-

He decides to do some digging. And oh boy oh boy does he find something he doesn’t like and grabs on it like a dog with a bone.

One day he bumps into the " happy couple" (was sneakily following them) In the middle of a physical altercation In the middle of a hallway.

And something falls off from a slot in her audial. Grabs that while they are distracted. then he somehow manages by some miracle, Convinces sentinel to let him drag holos off for a private chat.

Ironhide drags holos into a closet And he manages (gently) pry the whole story out of her.

He tries to privately confront sentinel but it didn’t go well for he poor captain.

so he eventually ends up in the med bay after sentinel try’s to kill hide via murder closetTM.

As far as everyone else is concerned a bunch of heavy old equipment fell on top of him and it triggered a paranoia episode for hide.

(If only they knew the truth)

So ironhide bides his time, collecting evidence, planting little inklings of doubt whether or not sentinel is really who he claims to be in the crew.

And after some time he casually gives the data stick to his sparkmate Chromia under the guise of being to old to understand how to transfer data from this new fangled tech.

She goes to ask red alert to help her out with the data transfer while whirl and her are on shift., And in to the rabbit hole they go.

Chromia demands her bonded get there right now and explain himself dangnabbit!

After a heated conversation between whirl, red alert, Chromia, and ironhide the come up with a plan to get Holos off the ship and away from her not-husband ASAP.

Phase 1 begins: separation.

Invite holos to dinner so while red alert pretends there’s a security issue that she simply HAS to show to someone and sentinel MUST see.

Phase 2: convince Holos she’s simply being given a tour of the docks and shuttle bay when they land and they’ll all be right back. (Also get that collar off)

Phase3: escaping.

Things start to go down hill from here…

Good ol’ terra nova sentinel prime has killed red alert and energon is EVERYWHERE.

Ironhide try’s to get between holos and sentinel.

Looks like the ship captain is now a hostage.

After whirl fails distracting the ill doer

Holos uses her outlier abilities for the first time in centuries, accidentally damages the ship, and passes out from the strain.

Sentinel shoots hide with cosmic rust cannon and disintegrates him.

Whirl and mia make a run for the ships stasis pods.

Whirl rushes off to hold the false prime back.

Mia discovers that there’s only one pod left and prepares to shove holos in it.

Holos wakes up and uses her reverse uno card on Chromia and uses her powers to make a shield bubble to protect her, mia, and whirl and they crash on earth.

(Yay we now have a plague ship™️ that will eventually almost kill optimus!)

To be continued…

[etchbee]

So many questions on how shattered glass sentinel prime would be. On one hand, some media portray him as a good guy, but dead. But in the other hand, I like the interpretations where he’s a jerk or fully evil. I just really like arty hobbitses interpretation of sentinel as this narcissist who mentored Optimus and saw him as a perfect son.

Would he even be alive in your interpretation?

Does he have a legacy of being a patriotic savior who’s actually a slaver/mass killer?

Okay so here's what I'm thinking.

The structure of prewar Cybertron would be kinda similar to the American government, as in they have the Senate and the Prime.

The Prime is SUPPOSED to be chosen by the matrix, but in reality, the Senate has been choosing Primes for as long as they've been in power.

Cause, the Prime is about the only person who can call them out on their BS, and they don't want that.

So, by controlling the Prime, not only do they give themselves complete executive power, but they also gain the social backing of what is basically divine right. So, if you want to be Prime, you either need to be very cowardly, or very stupid. Or both

Sentinel Prime, however, is neither. He's plenty cunning, and he's not afraid of doing whatever it takes to achieve his goals. As a highborn noble, he's been groomed since birth to become Prime. He knows exactly what the Senate wants to see, and he has no problem showing it to them.

Beneath the Primely surface however, he isn't too keen on the figurehead nature of his position, so he starts to sow the seeds of dissent against the Senate. Perhaps by funding a certain anti-functionalist rebel group? (Not to say that he plans on supporting them long term. They're far too egalitarian for his tastes. But, once the Senate has been... eliminated, what better way to assure the populous of his supreme power than annihilating a dangerous terrorist organization? It's a win two fold!) All anonymously, of course. Like I said, he's smart. He covers his tracks well.

But not well enough.

And when the Senate catches wind of his plan to usurp them, well.

He's been Prime for quite long enough.

So they kill him. Plain and simple. And wouldn't you know it, there just so happens to be an easily manipulated, wided eyed traditionalist sat on the right hand side of the Deception's leader. Destabilizing rebel forces, as well as eliminating traitors? (More on that plot here)

....It's a win two fold.

I don't think Sentinel would ever have a chance to one on one interact with Optimus, since he goes from middle class enforcer to Decepticon leader pretty fast. But, Optimus is definitely enamored with him. Major hero worship. It's one of the main points of contension between him and Megatron, who can see the Primacy for the absolutist autocracy that it is. I love love love that evil dad headcanon of him, but I just don't think I could fit it in with the circumstances of the AU already.

[anon-e-miss]

Guarded by Shadows 3

As the dark-cycle came, and his creations were tucked into recharge in their berths, Prowl did not seek out his own berth, instead he moved a chair to the window, and sat, and watched. He watched the dark, empty street for any sign of Crosscut, or any out of place mechanism. The joors passed slowly as the Praxian sat as sentry. This was Iacon, not Praxus, and he was not helpless, forced to his knees by Functionalist laws, but still Prowl felt helpless. If Crosscut had tracked him to Iacon, was there hope that the tactician and his young family could just live free in any corner of Cybertron? As long as the spectre of that much maligned mech haunted him, Prowl did not think he could ever feel secure, ever feel safely letting his creations out of his sight. Crosscut had funds, far more than his former Conjunx Endura had ever had access to, and he could have hired any number of spies, paid for untold gossip, and intelligence from any number of Autobots.

If the ambassador asked the right mechanism, he might well uncover Prowl’s address, if his presence so close to Smokescreen’s school was the dire omen the Praxian took it to be, Crosscut already knew what school their eldest creation attended... The school had Prowl’s address, and that mech had a silver glossa befitting his post, if he charmed the right mechanism... He needed help. Exhausted, not just from lack of recharge, but from the burden of fear, Prowl realized that not only did he need help, help, in a way, had already been offered. It took all of his willpower to drag himself from the window to find the datapad on which he had recorded Jazz’s commline. As Commander of Special Operations, intelligence was the Polihexian’s forte, and if Prowl wanted to learn what had brought Crosscut here, if it was something innocent, or him as the tactician rightly feared, Jazz could learn. Entering the twenty digit commline id into his own comms, the Praxian returned to his chair and waited for his ping to be acknowledged.

-“What can I do for ya, Prowl?” Jazz voice sounded in the tactician’s helm.

-“I need your help,” Prowl replied, mental voice far more strained that he had intended.

-“Are ya safe?” The Polihexian asked, smooth voice taken a steely edge.

-“I... yes...” the tactician said. “For now at least.”

-“At your habsuite?” Jazz asked.

-“Yes,” Prowl replied. He felt... foolish, but not enough to overpower the anxiety.

-“I’ll be there in a coupla breams,” the saboteur said. “Ya can tell me what’s spooked ya when I get there.”

Spooked. It was an accurate enough glyph. Prowl was indeed spooked. Breams, so much could happen in two or three breams. That was all the time it had taken to see Bluestreak emerge, too quick for any medic to attend him, not that one had been called. The originator had been alone, expect for his too young creations, recharging in their berths, and he had been far tpo preoccupied with the frighteningly quick progression of emergence to make any calls. They had both been unharmed, at least. Prowl had been declared to be hail and hardy, though he had felt indescribably tired, and at utterly brittle. He had been hardy enough to gather his creations, from clever Smokescreen to tiny Bluestreak on a have orn later and disappear into the dark-cycle, buying passage to Tyger Pax under the guise of joining his Conjunx Endura.

In truth the terms of separation had been submitted against Crosscut a full stellar-cycle before Bluestreak had even emerged. Only a mega-cycle after Prowl had emerged Bluestreak he had received the Hall of Justice’s ruling, which had given him both the incentive and the legal freedom to flee. Crosscut had not answered the address of the Magistrates, and they sided with Prowl. In all likelihood Crosscut had not received the summons, he tended to roam well outside of traditional communication range, and he had never bothered to purchase long range comms at least, if he had he had never given them to Prowl.  The Magistrates had not taken such a thing as any excuse, either. It may have been the receptive spark’s duty to kindle, but it was the contributive spark’s duty to contribute, something Crosscut had failed to do. He had gone from Cybertron immediately after it had been confirmed that Prowl had kindled again, and the slagtard had not returned even once. The strain of creation had been left entirely on Prowl’s spark, as it largely had been for all but Smokescreen’s carrying. If he were asked, the tactician would admit he had preferred his berth empty, and his spark and frame unmolested, but the excess strain of solo carryings on his already over burdened spark had been very frightening.

The prospect of going through it again was that much more frightening. Crosscut would know his cycle was coming, would know when the next ten or more were scheduled. He had no right to Prowl, not under Iaconian law, not even under Praxian law, but he was the silver glossaed ambassador, and the tactician knew better than to think Crosscut did not pose a serious threat so long as he was in Iacon. It would have been the expectation of Praxian culture that Prowl would have taken his creations and returned to his progenitor’s home for a new match to be made. He had not done this, in fact he had not spoken to his progenitor in vorns. Returning to his habsuite had never been part of Prowl’s plans. Some procreators would have been aghast and Prowl’s treatment by Crosscut, Prowl’s progenitor would hardly have been bothered, he had treated his own Conjunx Endurae the same way. Bishop was no ally to his eldest creation.

Prowl physically jerked at the sound of his door’s ping as Jazz announced his arrival. The Praxian’s plating was still clattering when the saboteur entered his habsuite. He should have said something, offered Jazz energon, or just explained himself, but Prowl found himself unable to speak, and unble to stop to stop his frame shaking. Jazz said nothing. His lipplates were curled down in a frown, his visor was bright and expressionless as he crossed the threshold, and made his way to the him. It was pathetic, how Prowl was behaving, but it seemed his formidable self-control had bled dry. A long digited, black servo rested on the Praxian’s shoulder as Jazz leaned over him a little to look out the window. Prowl looked too, there was nothing.

“Why don’t ya come over to the couch?” Jazz suggested as he straightened. “I left optics on the street, y’ain’t gonna have any trouble this dark-cycle.”

“I am sorry for troubling you,” Prowl said, voice tight and almost inaudible. He stood, slowly. If Jazz had left an operative on the street, it was safe enough to end his watch. Despite this knowledge, it was inordinately difficult for Prowl to pull himself away, and to go and sit on his considerably more comfortable couch.

“Yer bitlets all rechargin’?” The Polihexian asked.

“Yes,” the tactician confirmed. “Bluestreak may or may not online to fuel...”

“That’s fine,” Jazz said. “Why don’t ya tell me what happened, ‘n I’ll see how I can help.”

“I saw Crosscut, the progenitor of my creations,” Prowl explained. “Only blocks from Smokescreen’s school. Smokescreen spotted him first. I do not know if he saw us, I ran as soon as I saw him.”

“Any reason for him to be in Iacon?” The saboteur asked.

“He is an ambassador, and businessmech,” the Praxian said. “He focus has always been off world. I have never known him to visit other city states. However, he was never in the habit of explaining his whereabouts to me. I did not bother to ask.”

“Ya think he’s lookin’ for ya,” Jazz observed.

“I am not fond of coincidences,” Prowl replied. “The school is in a residential area, there is nothing to attract his interests, except the school itself, if he is looking to identify our location.”

“Do ya think he wants the bitlets, or you?” the Polihexian asked.

“Me,” the tactician said. “I have not doubt. My creations are just... things to him, symbols of status or virility. His first Conjunx Endura never kindled, and I understand he was mocked for it by competitors when upon dissolving their bond, that mech went on to kindle almost immediately with another mech. Each newspark he burns off of me makes them eat their glyphs.”

“And slowly kills ya,” Jazz concluded. “Any idea why now? Just luck?”

“It is possible that he only now received intelligence regarding my locations,” Prowl replied. “I am also only orns from another procreo cycle, he has them recorded in his HUD. He never missed one.”

“He ain’t gonna touch ya, or yer bitlets,” the saboteur swore. “I’ll find out why he’s in Iacon ‘n see about encouragin’ him to frag off.”

“Thank you,” the Praxian said.

“Ya don’t need to run,” Jazz replied. “Y’ain’t on yer own now. Ya got Ops, ‘n Bots, ‘n we take care o’ ours.”

[lizwuzthere]

Along with Makeshift, there's also XF-10, ST-04 and Rodrigo who all like to gather information, although different types in different ways for different purposes. What would he think of snoops like them and did any of them ever have an opinion of him before his "death"?

XF-10 was always suspicious of Makeshift because of his abilities. It wasn’t any kind of functionalist propaganda against him that made her wary, it’s just that she deals with so much unusual stuff that someone who has a unique or rare ability like his is just the sort of thing that she always ends up fighting against it seems. So she was careful around him.

ST-04 thought Makeshift was a very impressive spy and kind of envied his powers. Though, they also knew that he was kind of rude, and despite all the good work he used to do for the Decepticons, since they got to Earth he hadn’t really been doing much of anything.. so they didn’t have much respect for him by the end, and were honestly not surprised when he got himself blown up like that. They knew he’d lost his touch, and that’s what killed him.... I mean, as far as ST-04 knows.

Rodrigo doesn’t really have a ton of respect for any of the commanding officers and Makeshift is no different. Unlike ST-04, he doesn’t really care that Makeshift was an asset to the Decepticons as a spy, all he cares about is that Makeshift is a total jerk! It probably didn’t even occur to Rodrigo that Makeshift would be really good at spreading gossip because the guy didn’t interact with Vehicons at all except to order them around and let them know he was better than them.

[expomahal-blog]

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Transformers: Lurker in the Deep

Part One: Humbler and Humbler

Cybertron, Before the War

On the fringes of the Sea of Rust, cities with harbors conducted vast amounts of trade by the use of huge cargo transport ships.  Crates loaded with goods such as energon or raw materials like stone or metal were carried into the many warehouses on the various wharfs composing these harbors.  One of the busiest cities was Polyhex, which was completely surrounded by the Rust Sea.  On wharf nine worked a quiet, unassuming giant by the name of-

“TRAPPER!  Git yer aft over here now!  We got a boat comin’ in hot!”

A blue and magenta colored mechanoid turned his head as he was called, wide yellow optics looking over to Winch.  He jogged across the busy wharf, ducking under swinging cranes hefted by those with crane alternate modes and dodging around the forklifts.  Trapper stopped just behind Winch, looking out at the cargo transport coming in.  Whirling with his mouth open to yell again, Winch suddenly stopped as his optics went wide at the sight of Trapper.

“Gah!  Say somethin’ when ya sneak up behind a guy, ‘Trap!”

“Sorry, boss,” Trapper muttered contritely, looking down at the ground.  He jerked as Winch smacked his forehead.

“An’ no apologizin’!  It’s a sign of weakness.”

“Yessir.”

“Bah…yer hopeless,” Winch grumbled as he turned to survey the incoming cargo ship.  Winch transformed into a tow truck, which had its uses here and there.  So the functionalist senate gave him the position of head docker.  The ruling Senate assigned work based on the function of everyone’s alternate mode.  So…once you got cast into a role…there wasn’t any getting out of it.

There were a couple different classes.  The higher ones included jets and flying vehicles and some specialized scientific equipment.  The middle ones were more of your ground pounders.  Cars and wheeled things typically.  The lower class included construction and labor specialized equipment and vehicles.  Your miners and dock and construction workers.

Lower than them was the disposable class.  Classified as basically useless by the Senate, they were the very bottom rung of alternate modes.  They were treated more like things than people.  They were still granted jobs here and there, but life was especially hard for them.  Alternate modes like lunar modules or data slugs were included in this class, but so were the beast alternate modes.  Like the one Trapper had.

Some mechs like Winch didn’t much care what class you were so long as you were a hard worker, and Trapper appreciated that.  It was a rare quality.  Most others…well.

“’Ey, ey!  ‘Trap?  Ya in there?” Winch rapped his fist across Trapper’s head a couple times, shaking the mech out of his thoughtful reverie.  “Don’ go spacin’ out on me, ‘Trap.  We got work ta do.  Gonna need ya ta take the lower tiers today, an’ ah know, you don’ get along with those mechs too well, but ah need ya down there, ‘Trap.”

Trapper’s shoulders slumped slightly, but he managed a nod.  Winch clapped him on the back with a wry smile before something tore his attention away.  “’Ey, Portside!  BE CAREFUL WIT DAT!”  Winch stormed off to go fuss at the other dockers.  Trapper moved off to the quayside and boarded the cargo ship, travelling down to its lower tiers.

When he got down to the bottommost tier, Trapper saw the mechs that he least wanted to see in the world.  Pressure and his crew of stooges.  He reflexively hid behind one of the cargo crates, offlining his optics.  Trapper chided himself mentally and steeled his nerves.  He had a job to do.  Nothing would stop him from doing it.

Standing tall, Trapper strode out from his hiding place and attempted to walk past Pressure with his head held high.  That plan backfired as Pressure, seeing him coming, had stuck out his foot right in Trapper’s path.

Thunk!

Trapper grunted softly as he hit the deck.  Pressure erupted into a fit of high pitched cackling.  The blue and magenta mechanoid did his best to ignore it and picked himself up off the deck.  Or tried to at least.  As soon as Trapper had got his hands and knees under him, a foot slammed into his back.

“Whoa, whoa!  Where do you think you’re goin’?” Pressure asked.  Trapper didn’t bother giving any answer, he just pushed against the foot pinning him down as he attempted to stand.  This earned him a wallop to his side courtesy of one of Pressure’s cronies, Stern.  “Did I say you could stand? No.  I didn’t.  See, this is where you belong.  Crawling around in the dirt like a filthy animal.”

Trapper sighed inwardly.  Summoning up the force of will to rise again, he managed to stand up fully and take a step in the direction of the crates that they were supposed to be unloading.  Pressure, Stern and Prow swarmed him almost immediately.  What Trapper registered happening next was a blur of darkness and pain.

“’EY!  JUS’ WHAT DO YA SLACK JAWED IJITS THINK YER DOIN’?!”  Trapper’s golden optics onlined to see Winch full of sound and fury, storming over in his direction.  He scrambled backwards, nearly knocking over one of his assailants.  Probably Prow.

“Nothing, boss!  Trapper here just…uh...” Pressure spoke up, trying to fabricate a reason for the bestial mechanoid to be on the floor.

“Jus’ what?!” Winch snapped and without waiting for an answer, backhanded Pressure.  “This is MY wharf.  And so long as yer on it, I’ll have none o’ this.  Do yer job, or Primus help me, I’ll throw ya to the piranacons!”  Winch snapped his head around to stare fiercely at Trapper.  “Trapper!  On yer feet!  Double time!  We gotta git this scrap offa this boat in less than two breems or it’s leavin’ with or without us.  C’mon, let’s move boys!  Go, go, go!”

In a panicked frenzy, all four Cybertronians hastily scrambled to their feet and began to move the cargo with all due haste, Winch overseeing the affair.  As Trapper hefted up the last cargo container and moved it outside onto the wharf, he turned sharply to set it down when he heard a heavy clunk.

Trapper’s optics widened, and he quickly set the crate down to see what he’d knocked into the Sea of Rust.  It was Pressure.  Pressure stared back up at him with a glare that could have shot lasers through reinforced steel.

“You’re gonna pay for this, Trapper!  By Primus, I swear!  You’re gonna pay!”

“Ha!  That’s a good look fer ya, Pressure,” Winch said, coming up beside Trapper.  He patted the blue and magenta mech on the back.  “Ah, good work today, ‘Trap.  Don’ let Pressure scare ya too much.  He’s all bark an’ no bite.”  Turning, Winch strode back to the main warehouse on the wharf to finish up the days paperwork.  But Trapper wasn’t looking at him.  He was still looking at Pressure, whose venomous gaze was now locked on Winch’s retreating back.  He cast a worried glanced at his superior, but then noted the time and hurried off to his second job.

Nighttime, The Sea of Rust

Trapper strolled across the bottom of the Sea of Rust, setting up steel cages with energon cubes inside of them.  Right now it was ‘low tide’ when the sea consolidated enough to walk around in without too much trouble.  It was the best time to set and check traps.  Trapper’s other job was actually functionally assigned one.  He was pest control.

Some snarling and metallic clinking sound let him know that he’d caught one of those pests.  He knelt down beside the trap and took a look at the furious piranacon inside.  One of the Rust Sea’s most common inhabitants.  They were non-sentient as classified by the Senate.  Didn’t speak.  This one had somehow gotten its head caught in what looked like a rather painful position in the cage.

Trapper opened the cage slightly, enough to stick his hand inside.  The piranacon’s struggles renewed intensely as it tried to snap and bite at Trapper.  Gently seizing the creature’s neck from behind and clamping its jaw shut with the other hand, he worked it free of the cage’s grip.  Of course, as soon as he let go of its jaw, it bit down fiercely on one of his digits.  Trapper yanked his hand away and pulled the beast free of the cage.

He turned it around and looked it in the eye.  The piranacon knew what was coming.  It glared at Trapper angrily as if to say, ‘Well?  What are you waiting for?!’  Seizing the pest’s head in his bitten hand, he sharply twisted its neck and popped its head off cleanly in one fluid motion.  Tossing its body into the trap, he set it up again.  Piranacons were cannibalistic.  It was just one way to conserve energon.  Trapper moved on.

This is cathartic, Trapper mused as he watched a sharkticon assail a cage with a piranacon trapped squealing inside.  The sharkticon halted in his assault of the cage when he noticed Trapper’s approach.  It lunged at him.  Sharkticons ranked somewhere above piranacons in sentience though they didn’t quite make the cut by the Senate’s standards.

Trapper leaned forward and tackled the sharkticon, grappling with it across the ground.  This was a place of peace for Trapper.  Solitude.  Just him and the sharkticons and piranacons.  He enjoyed it.  It was his sanctuary.  Few ever went into the Sea of Rust.  Trapper slammed his fist into the side of the sharkticon’s massive head, stunning it.  Drawing out a spear licensed to him by the Senate, he plunged it through the sharkticon’s open maw to whatever spark powered it.

Trapper always killed quickly.  To minimize the suffering of his quarry.  He knew how painful that kind of suffering could be.  Waiting for one of the many painful blows to be the unfortunate, or fortunate, last one.  He turned his gaze to the whimpering piranacon in the cage.  The sharkticon had torn through some of the grating and had bitten a chunk out of it.  He ended it quickly as well.

After more encounters like that, Trapper had completed his rounds about the time when the sea was beginning to liquefy.  He climbed out of the sea and pulled himself onto the docks.  Dusting the rust particles off as best he could, Trapper stood and looked out across the wharf.  It was wharf nine.  A door closing drew his attention over the warehouse.

Trapper blinked.  It was Winch.  Looking particularly irate.  Well, it wasn’t any of his business.  Trapper turned to begin the long walk home when Winch’s voice rang out across the empty pier like thunder.

“TRAPPER!  THAT YOU?!”

Trapper flinched and looked over to Winch, waving slightly.  Winch grinned widely and jogged over, smacking him on the back amiably.  “Well looky here, it is you.  Where ya headed, ‘Trap?”

“Home,” Trapper answered, looking at his boss uncertainly.

“Home?  Hm…why don’ ya join me for some drinks, ‘Trap?  I’m buyin’.”

Trapper shook his head in the negative when Winch clapped him on the back a couple more times.  “Aw, c’mon, don’ gimme that.  Jus’ a couple, ‘Trap.”  It became increasingly clear that Winch was not going to take no for an answer.  Trapper sighed again inwardly and shrugged, gesturing for Winch to lead the way.

“That’s the spirit!  Ah know a great dive jus’-“

Nighttime, The Streets of Polyhex

“-an’ ‘fore ah knew it, he had rustled up- Oh, look, ‘Trap!  We’re here.”

Trapper shook himself out of the mental coma that listening to Winch had put him in.  He glanced around to find that he was in a part of Polyhex that he didn’t recognize.  He looked up at a blue neon sign that read: Blue Stars Bar.  Winch practically dragged him inside.  Inside were many a downtrodden looking mech and some familiar faces too.  Fellow dockers having a drink here and there.

Winch continued to drag him until they were both seated at the bar.  Trapper would have personally chosen a booth tucked away in the corner of the bar.  But as it was, here they were.  Trapper sighed and glanced over to Winch, who had his hand raised in the air.

“Oy!  Goldrush!  Gimme two o’ the usual,” Winch called.  Not long after, two drinks slid down the bar, one right into Trapper’s hand.  He glanced down at the energon skeptically.  Sliding his mouthplate back, he took a small sip of it.  And nearly gagged.  It had so many additives mixed into the low grade energon.  His mouthplate slid back over his face as he glanced over to Winch who had, bafflingly, chugged his in one go and was lifting his hand for another.

Trapper watched in sickened amazement as Winch downed not one or two, but five in quick succession.  After that Winch began to slow down and savor his drink a bit more, though that might have been because he noticed Trapper hadn’t yet finished his first.  And then came the incessant talking.  Talking about his life and other things that would once again put Trapper into a mental coma if he listened too closely.  However, one tidbit did catch his attention.

“An’ look, ‘Trap.  Ah been hearin’ things ‘bout…these…pits.  Gladiatorial style fightin’.  Jus’ rumors tho’.  Sounds like a good time tho’.  An’ it ain’t sanctioned by th’ Senate neither, so there’s no discrim’nation ‘bout alt modes.  Oooh…ah see that look in yer optics.  Don’ go chasin’ tall tales, ‘Trap.  Senate would never let anythin’ like that last fer long.  Wupah!  Crackin’ down.  Speakin’ o’ which, ya heard ‘bout the new ruling?  Some construction alt modes are getting’ demoted down to th’ disposables.  Poor glitches…It jus’ ain’t right.”

Trapper began to tune Winch out again as he went on his anti-functionalist rant.  He didn’t feel especially comfortable about sitting next to someone who publicly denounced the Senate.  Overenergized or not.  He kept glancing at the door for some Polyhex police to burst in and arrest them both.  None did, though it did very little to pacify Trapper. 

After a long while, Winch finally looked like he’d had enough.  He was holding as well as he could in his hands, looking awfully wobbly.  “Oy…’Trap…ken…ken ya do me a favor an’ take…take me back ta th’ wharf?  Ken…ken’t ‘member th’ way to mah place…”  Trapper sighed and nodded, grabbing one of Winch’s arms and slinging across his shoulder.  Winch glanced back at the barkeep and waved.  “Put et…put et on mah tab…”

Pressing onward, Trapper all but carried Winch through the streets of Polyhex, trying to find his way back around to the wharf.  He turned down an alley from a side street in the hopes that it would get him back to some kind of familiar territory.  Only it was a dead end.  In more ways than one.

As Trapper turned around to leave the alley, he was confronted by a group of mechs.  And not just any mechs.  Pressure and his crew along with a hulking bruisers and a smaller mechanoid.  Trapper took an uncertain step back.

“There he is!  The one that the big guy is holding!  That’s the dissenter!” Pressure said, pointing to Winch.  The two giant mechs approached with the smaller one leading the way.

“We are from the Polyhex Police Department.  Turn over Winch to us, disposable,” the smaller one ordered.

Fear sparked through Trapper’s circuits.  He couldn’t run.  They had cornered him.  He certainly couldn’t…couldn’t fight them.  But if they took Winch, the odds were that no one would ever see him again.  While he debated mentally, the police officers were already moving toward him.  One of the larger goons reached out for Winch.  Trapper’s hand shot out before he even knew what he was doing.  He held the officer’s wrist, shocked at himself.  The smaller police officer gave him a look before the larger one raised his fist, and the lights went out.

Polyhex Police Lock-Up

“Uhh…” Trapper mumbled as he came to a state resembling consciousness.  He glanced around.  He was in a cell.  Graffiti marked the walls.  He was on the floor though there was a bench behind him.  Standing and moving over to the cell bars, Trapper glanced around with a concerned look on his faceplate.  He spotted a police officer sitting on a chair, glancing through his datapad.

The officer glanced up.  “Ah, you’re awake, are you?”  He moved over to Trapper’s cell and gave him what was supposed to be a reassuring smile.  It wouldn’t have assured anyone.  He looked completely disinterested.  “Now…you’re…Trapper.  You have no prior record…but I’ve been told you assaulted an officer…?”

Trapper shook his head vehemently, “I…I just grabbed his wrist.  It was a reflex.”

“Alright…and what is your relation to this mech?” The officer asked, turning the pad around so Trapper could see Winch pictured on it.

“He’s my boss,” Trapper replied.

“Boss?  So you’re a member of his little…dissenter ring?”

“What?  No.  I work at the docks…I load and unload cargo transports.”

“That isn’t listed in your file,” the officer said, retracting the datapad, presumably to look again.  “Nope, you’re slated under pest control in the sea of rust.”

“I do that too,” Trapper said, “But Winch offered me a position.  He said he needed some more hands.  That he’d take care of the paperwork.”

“Ah, I see.  Sorry to say, but your boss was a supporter of an underground movement whose agenda is decidedly anti-Senate,” the officer explained, “Don’t worry though.  If your testimony checks out, you’ll be free to go once the investigation is over.  We’ll still need to hold you until it’s concluded though.  Make yourself comfortable.  Energon rations are distributed daily.”

The officer left, leaving Trapper stunned.  He staggered back and sat down on the bench with his head in his hands, staring down at the ground in disbelief.  This…This all happened because of Pressure.  But he just couldn’t understand it.  Why?  Why did Pressure hate him so much?  What had he done to deserve this?  What had Winch done?

Cycles passed.  The energon rations were meager.  The cells grew noisy as rowdy prisoners moved into them and then quiet again when they moved out.  Trapper sat in his cell in a daze.  He finally snapped out of it when a peculiar, repetitive, tapping sound annoyed him out of it.

“Hey.  Psssssst!  Big guy…hey!  C’mon answer me, will ya?”

“What?” Trapper growled out in irritation.

“Whoa!  He speaks!  Hey there.  Name’s Swindle.” A hand stuck out from the cell beside him in front of his cell.  Trapper looked at it as if it were a piranacon doing a jig.  “No shake?  Well, alright.  You look like a bit of a bruiser, huh?  I heard you were in for assaulting an officer…Nice!  Well, I’ve a little…monetary type offer for you.  Interested?”

“No.”

“Whoa, whoa, lemme finish before you shoot me down.  Ever heard of the Pits?  Hm?”  Swindle paused for a moment before continuing, “They’re these little arenas where…brawls for the entertainment of all Cybertronians regardless of function take place.  It’s a great time.  Really.  And well…you seem like a bit of a scrapper, huh?  Here.”

Swindle tossed a data slug through the cell bars.  “Just think about it, okay?”

Trapper glanced down at the data slug.  Despite himself, he was intrigued.  He knelt down and scooped the slug up, stowing it somewhere safe.  Almost as soon as Trapper had done that, the door at the end of the hall screeched open.

“Scrap, they’re here already?” Swindle whispered, “Act natural!”  Trapper listened intently as the guards approached, hoping that he would finally be free to go.  Unfortunately, it was Swindle whom they came for.  They took him and left, leaving Trapper alone once more.  He let out a heavy sigh.

One of the officers, having heard Trapper, walked back and glanced into his cell.  It was the one that had interrogated him cycles ago.  “What are you still doing here?  I thought they gave the order to release you cycles ago,” he said, clearly baffled at Trapper’s continued presence in the cell.  He unlocked the cell and opened it, gesturing for Trapper to get out.  “Come on.  Out.”

Trapper stood uncertainly and moved past the police officer, the officer closing the cell behind him.  He was escorted out of the station and outside.  It was nighttime.  And he was alone on the streets of Polyhex.  Trapper dragged himself back to his home, which constituted a makeshift shelter under a bridge on the very edge of the Sea of Rust.  A piranacon awaited him in his little hut and hissed at him as he approached.  Trapper grabbed one of his spears, resting against the outer wall of his hut, and killed it almost immediately.  He had absolutely no patience left.  He collapsed inside of his hut and entered a deep recharge cycle.

Polyhex, Wharf Nine

Trapper reported to work to the docks, though he was in something of a sorry state.  He glanced around for Winch wondering what assignments the noisy mech had slated for him today.  What he saw instead confused his energon starved mind.  Pressure was barking orders to the dockers with Prow and Stern relaying them across the cargo ship.

Trapper’s optics narrowed as he approached Pressure, tapping the mech lightly on the shoulder.  Pressure flinched and rounded with a vicious slap to Trapper’s head.  “How many times to I have to tell you idiots not to sneak- Oooooh…Trapper….”  A wicked sneer spread across Pressure’s faceplate.  “They finally let you out, huh?  Well, as you can see, I got promoted.  I’m the boss now.”

“Where is Winch?” Trapper asked, his face unreadable as he stared down at Pressure.

“I don’t know,” Pressure said dismissively.  “Figure the police still got him.  Didn’t think I would see you or him again.”

“What did you do?!” Trapper growled, seized by anger for a moment, grabbing Pressure’s collar and pulling him close.

“Ah…I would let go if I were you, disposable,” Pressure rumbled dangerously.

Trapper blinked for a moment and looked down at where he had grabbed Pressure.  He let go and staggered back in shock.  He hadn’t…what had come over him?  Pressure smirked imperiously.  “Good, good.  Now, you should know that I just did my civic duty.  I simply must report someone after I learn that they’ve been illegally employing disposables, and they actively denounce the Senate at a public bar!  What else could I do?”

Trapper could only stare at Pressure in disbelief.  “Now, disposable, we have a problem…sss…You see…You’re not employed by the wharf anymore…and we just really can’t…afford to employ you…”  Pressure pursed his lips together in mock sorrow.  “Hey, but…you know…I could cut you a break and employ you as my personal assistant.  How’s that sound, huh?”

Trapper stared with wide optics at Pressure.  Due to his size and alternate mode, he needed more energon than average, which was why he had to work two jobs in the first place.  If…he was cut off from the dock then…he wouldn’t get enough energon to function.  He’d rust away into nothing as he entered stasis lock.

“What…What would I have to do?” Trapper managed to choke out.

“Ooh, let’s see…” Pressure cackled with glee, “Hm…transform.  I want to see what kind of beast you are.  Oh, and stay that way.  Disposables need to know their place after all.”

“Why do I-“

“Ah-ah!  No talking!  Beasts do not speak,” Pressure chided.  The imperious mech looked at Trapper expectantly.  As Trapper felt himself being crushed between his dignity and his need to survive, something welled up from within him.  Something cold.  Something cruel.

Trapper rarely assumed his alternate mode.  He felt a measure of shame when using it alongside the cranes or forklifts or any of the higher class alternate modes.  Like he was overstepping himself.  Like he was a lesser creature.  Not this time.  As his gears churned and parts shifted, Trapper doubled over as he assumed his alternate mode.

Reptilian golden optics gleamed with a fierce intensity.  A shell armored amphibious beast formed from what was once Trapper.  Pressure’s faceplate contorted giddily.  As he raised his leg to plonk it atop Trapper’s shell, the amphibious reptile lunged with an open maw.

CRUNCH!

With a snap and crunch, Pressure’s leg separated from his body.  The stunned Cybertronian toppled backwards and landed with a thud, staring wide-opticed at his stump of an appendage.  Trapper snarled and stepped forward menacingly, making Pressure reel back in terror.

“H-Help!  Help me!” Pressure cried out, causing Prow and Stern to race over as well as a few other curious passerby.  Trapper glanced around, seeing the crowd drawing in and transformed back into robot mode.  He sprinted toward the edge of the quay and leaped off into the Rust Sea.  He plunged into its strange liquid form and transformed again, using his aquatic alternate mode to swim deeper and deeper, and farther and farther away from Polyhex.

Somewhere in the Sea of Rust

Trapper trudged along weakly as the Rust Sea began to consolidate into its desert form.  His energon levels were low.  He needed to find someplace to hide before any search parties came looking.  If they hadn’t deployed fliers already.  Though…if he thought about it…he wasn’t sure that they would send anyone looking for a runaway member of the disposable class.  Pressure, sure, but the city of Polyhex or the Senate?  Surely they had bigger things to worry about.

As Trapper’s thoughts drifted toward the underground group, he remembered Winch and Swindle’s words about the Pits.  Transforming back into robot mode and carefully handling the data slug that Swindle had given him, he accessed its contents.  A date.  A location.  Presumably of the next Pit.

Trapper checked his internal clock.  It was in two days.  Going to be held at Tarn.  Where…where was he?  Figuring that out was less trivial.  He knew roughly that he had been heading straight away from Polyhex and that wharf nine pointed in the general direction of Tarn.  If he kept going until he left the Sea of Rust…then he would probably make it.  He glanced at his energon levels.  But he would hardly be in any shape to fight unless he found some energon.

Trapper’s head snapped up as movement ahead alerted him.  He drew out one of his collapsible spears and prepared for a fight.  Fortunately, it wasn’t an angry mob out to drag him back to Polyhex.  Unfortunately, it was a school of ravenous piranacons.  They spotted him quickly and charged.  Trapper lunged with his spear, impaling one of them but getting bitten and swarmed by the rest.

He snarled and transformed, his shell armor giving him some additional protection as he snapped at the piranacons and trampled them under his feet.  After a breem or so, Trapper was the only living thing left standing.  Energon pooled out from the various wounds on the piranacons.  Trapper stared for a moment, then transformed and picked one up, holding it above his head.  He retracted his mouthplate and drank the energon, repeating this process for each of them.

Primal.  Bestial.  That was what some would consider his behavior.  But at that moment, Trapper did not care.  He would do what was necessary.  He glanced down at the data slug.  A new life awaited him in Tarn.  And…maybe, it would be a better one.  Standing up, Trapper collected his spear from the impaled piranacon and put it and the data slug away.  He was bound for Tarn.

Outskirts of Tarn

Cradled by a valley, the Rust of Sea tapered off before reaching the city of Tarn.  A lone mechanoid stood on one of the cliffs forming this valley, staring down wistfully at the churning water fluids.  The winds kicked up a bit of powdery rust from the surface of the sea and carried it skyward.  The blue mechanoid sighed happily.

“Huh?” he uttered as he saw something bob to the surface of the sea.  It was a blue…blue round thing.  Like a ball?  He kneeled down over the edge of the cliff and leaned out, straining his optics to make out whatever it was drifting in the sea.  It was…headed in his direction.  Kinda bobbing in and out of view as it sunk and rose to the surface.  What even…was that?

As it got close enough for the blue mech to begin to pick out some kind of indentations on the round blue thing it disappeared into the unstable planetary matter that composed the Sea of Rust.  After a long moment, it seemed like it had gone away.  The blue mech tilted his head and sighed, feeling kind of sad that he hadn’t gotten to find out just what it was.

A hand shot out of the rust right for the mech, causing him to reel backwards in surprise as he let out a little squeak of fright.  The hand latched onto the edge of the cliff and was soon followed by another, heaving a rather large and imposing mech out of the Sea of Rust.  The blue mech stared at Trapper like he was simultaneously the most awesome and terrifying thing that he’d ever set optics on.

Trapper looked down at the mech uncertainly before glancing from side to side warily.  He looked back to the mech on his aft.  “You never saw me.  Understand?”  The mech nodded his understanding.  Good enough.  Trapper swept past the mech and continued his march toward Tarn, bite marks and other perforations marking his armor.

The stunned blue Cybertronian stared after him with his mouth hanging slightly ajar.  Looking on in shock long after the Trapper had vanished from view, the land-lock mech finally returned to his senses.  “Oh slag!  It’s gonna start soon!”  Hurrying to his feet, he dusted himself off and made to make a dash for Tarn when he remembered that larger mech.  He had gone that way too.  Maybe he would see him again!

Tarn

Examining his injuries mildly, Trapper wondered whether he were really fit enough to do this.  His energon wasn’t leaking out or anything like that, but his limbs ached, and his armor was marked by gashes.  But if he didn’t do this, then he would have no money to get repairs or even energon.  Trapper really didn’t have a choice.

Trapper had kept to the outskirts of the city for the most part, unsure if he was considered a fugitive or not.  But the coordinates…they were well within the city and slightly…under it.  Which was why Trapper sought a service tunnel.  Many had fallen into disrepair after the Golden Age and his kind tended to make a home out of them.

After a bit of searching, Trapper found an old station.  Stepping down the stairs, he looked around cautiously.  A dark cylindrical tunnel stretched out horizontally before him.  To either side, just seemingly random collections of junk, but looks could be deceiving.  Others of his class probably resided here, hiding their homes for fear of thieves.  Trapper was better than most at recognizing the signs.

To his optic, only one camp existed here, but how many occupants it had was another matter.  Some, like him, were solitary, but others lived in groups.  Still, they didn’t seem to be around, so it did not concern him at the moment.

Pressing on, Trapper entered the cylindrical tube and trudged on into the darkness.  His footsteps crunched the powdery debris beneath his feet.  Letting out a quiet sigh, he tracked his progress constantly.  It seemed as if going through the tunnel system had been the correct decision.  As he reached a junction, he paused.  Three ways to go.  The most direct route would be continue on straight ahead.  Could be a dead end though.  He didn’t have a lot of time before this Pit was supposed to happen either.

Pressing on, Trapper went with the most direct path, going at his relatively steady pace.  After a long breem or two, he noticed a slight change in the luminosity of the tunnel.  It was getting brighter.  Ahead, the light at the end awaited him.  As he breached into the light, Trapper came out into an enormous cavern.  Several old transport shuttle husks were strewn about.  Much further ahead, some of the shuttles were pushed into a circular ring.  The arena presumably.

Upon further examination, Trapper could see mechs scattered throughout the area below in throngs.  Well, this was it.  Movement to the side caused Trapper to flinch and whirl about to face the presumed assailant.  It was a large mech, but a little shorter than him.

“I haven’t seen you around before,” the mech grumbled aggressively, “Who are you supposed to be?”

Trapper took a step back as the mech kept coming before digging out the data slug.  “Someone named Swindle gave this to me.”

“Oh, you’re one of Swindle’s recruits?  That’s fine then.  Just go on down until you get to the arena,” the mech said, pointing down to the ring, “See that red shuttle there?  That’s where you can sign up.  Good luck.”

Moving past the gatekeeper and down a slight slope to the transport shuttle graveyard, Trapper observed other mechanoids milling about.  Several of the shuttle husks had been converted to merchant stalls.  Some offered energon or refreshments.  Others had paraphernalia of all kinds.  Trapper looked over at one stall.  It was selling cheap looking models of a…two-headed reptilian Cybertronian?

Trapper shook his head and pressed on.  He soon found the red shuttle.  It had been crudely painted red to make it stand out from the other shuttles.  To his mild surprise, there was no one currently in line.  He stepped up to the counter.  A rather bored looking green and purple mechanoid was fiddling with a datapad.  After a long moment of the mechanoid not noticing him, Trapper tried clearing his vocal processor to get his attention.

“I see you,” said the green and purple mech, not bothering to glance up from his datapad.  He let out a prolonged sigh and lifted his optics to Trapper. “Hm…don’t recognize you.  This is where fighters sign up.  Spectator entrances are over there,” he said, waving in a general direction behind Trapper.

“I am here to fight.”

“Pffffffffft! You?” the mech began to chuckle, “But you’re a mess!  You wouldn’t last a breem.”

“I came to fight,” Trapper insisted grimly.

“Alright, if you insist,” the mech said, finally relenting, “But it’s your funeral.  Name?”

“Trapper.”

“You’ll be going up against-“

“Hook!  Hook!” called a voice from afar.

“Oh Primus, help me…” the green and purple mech mumbled.  Swindle popped out from behind a nearby shuttle and jogged over to the counter, slapping a piece of junk down on it.

“I found one,” Swindle said, grinning from audio to audio.  Hook glanced down at the rust-coated part in disgust.

“I’m not paying for that.”

“What?!  This is the best value for your shanix!”

“No."

“Tch, fine,” Swindle grumbled, swiping the part off of the counter and stowing it away somewhere.  “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”  Swindle turned to walk away, pausing as he looked at Trapper.  “Hey…Don’t I…Oh!  You’re that bruiser from Polyhex!  You made it!  I knew it.  I never forget a face, you know.”

Swindle gave Trapper a big grin and clapped the larger mech on his back.  “Looking forward to seeing you in action.  I’ll be putting some shanix on you!”  With a little wave, Swindle moved off, disappearing into the maze of transport shuttle husks.  Trapper watched him go before turning back to Hook.

“Don’t believe a word that charlatan says,” Hook said flatly.  “Anyway, your opponent is…Goldion.  You can go on in there and wait to be called in.  Now get out of my face.”

Trapper turned to the hole carved out of one of the shuttles.  He supposed that this was what Hook had meant by ‘there’.  He stepped inside and marched onward into the darkness.  Shuffling through the tight confines of the shuttle, he finally came out to a smaller ring of shuttles that had their outer casing cut off to allow for easy access to the benches within the shuttles.

Several Cybertronians were scattered throughout the area.  No one that Trapper recognized.  He took a seat on an empty bench and glanced around at what he supposed was the competition.  One lanky mechanoid spotted him, perking up slightly.  Trapper’s optics narrowed as dread began to fill him.  He sat down next to Trapper and fidgeted.  Trapper covered his face with a hand, applying gentle pressure his temples.

“Hey.”

Trapper didn’t respond.  Maybe if he just ignored him, the pest would go away.

“Psst.”

Any second now.

“Hey!  Big guy?”

When Trapper was nudged by the lanky mechanoid, he lifted his head up and stared with intense disdain at him.  The lanky mech was completely oblivious.  He gave Trapper a big smile and stuck out his hand rigidly.  “Hey!  I’m Sharp!”

“Clearly not,” Trapper grumbled under his breath.

“Huh?  Well, anyway, let’s be friends!  Buddies!  Pals!  We’ll stick together through thick and thin, grease and gristle!  What’dya say, uh…didn’t catch your name!”

Trapper sighed deeply.  “Trapper,” he said.

“Trapper, huh?  Hm…I like it!” Sharp said with a grin.  “So, how about it, Trapper?  We can help each other out.  Sometimes they do free-for-alls!  We can team up and take the Pit by storm!  The dynamic duo for the ages!”

“Alright,” Trapper said simply, wanting nothing more to do with Sharp. “Will you leave me be?”

“Oh, sure!  You wanna focus.  I get it, I get it.  Good luck today!” Sharp patted Trapper lightly on the back before scuttling away to a different corner of the waiting area.  Trapper couldn’t have been more pleased.  Screens that hung above each of the shuttles flickered online, attracting the blue Cybertronian’s attention.  On it, a silver Cybertronian appeared.  He had fierce red optics that bespoke a certain ferocity, though Trapper could tell that he was likely a miner.  Or used to be anyway.

>>”Greetings fellow Cybertronians,”<< the silver mechanoid began, >>”I am Megatron, leader of the Decepticon revolutionary movement!  We are here in recognition of that which makes us great.  That which the Senate refuses to acknowledge!  Our worth as Cybertronians.  This shall be testament to what we can accomplish outside of their dominion!”<<

>>”To those of you who fight tonight, show us what you’re made of!  Fight!  Tear your opponent apart.  Show us your mettle.  Let it begin.”<<

The screen flickered off as a roar from the crowd echoed through the cavern deafeningly.  Feeling slightly uneasy, Trapper knit his actuators together and steeled his nerves.  There was no turning back for him.  He had to do this.  He must.  So distracted by this own worries, Trapper almost missed a diminutive mechanoid trot past him.  His amber optics flicked over to the small bot who stepped over to a shuttle door.

“Alright, ahh…We got a Trapper here?”

He was first? That didn’t seem right.  He was the last to sign up.  Regardless, Trapper stood, which attracted the attention of the little mech.  “Hey!” the little called as Trapper moved over to him.  “You’re up!  Give these people a rumble for Rumble!”

“…”

Trapper just stared.

“Me.  I’m Rumble.  Never mind.  Just get out there!” Rumble grumbled hitting the switch on the shuttle door.  It slid open with a slight hiss.  Rumble waved him inside dismissively.  Heaving another inward sigh, Trapper moved past the little mech and into the darkness of the shuttle confines once again.  However, he could very clearly see to the end out onto the expanse of the arena.

As he stepped into the light, the crowd seated all around him burst into a roar.  Trapper flinched at the noise as his optics adjusted.  Surrounded by a sea of Cybertronians.  All their optics on him.  It was a new sensation for Trapper, one who had spent so much time beneath the notice of most.  An uncomfortable one.

His optics snapped forward as the crowd erupted into an even louder roar.  His opponent Goldion had arrived.  Much like his name, the mechanoid was entirely golden.  He was sporting…a massive war hammer?  Trapper’s optics widened at the revelation.  He had assumed that this would be hand to hand.

Goldion grinned widely at the crowd and lifted his hammer over his head, spinning it before slamming it down on the ground.  The crowd ate it up and increased in volume.  Trapper stood uncertainly for a moment before drawing out his extendable spear.

>>”Heeeeelloooo, my good gentlemechs!  Your old pal Frenzy here!  The first of match of the Pits is…the dome-splitting Goldion!  You know him, you love him, you love to hate him!  This hammer wielding gladiator is no joke!”<< exclaimed a voice over some loud speakers.

>>”Versus a new contender who is making his debut tonight!  He goes by the name of Trapper!  Let’s see if this new scrap metal can hold his own against a tested Pit vet or if he’ll be joining the junk heap!  Ready down there?  Fight!”<<

Trapper locked his amber optics onto Goldion who smirked back at him.  “Bad luck, scrap metal,” Goldion chuckled out as he began to move toward Trapper, “You’re not gonna make it out of here alive, much less in one piece!”  Bracing himself and holding his spear out in front of him defensively, Trapper stood his ground.

Goldion paused in his approach and laughed. “That little poker isn’t gonna do squat to stop my hammer,” he chuckled.  Spreading his arms out invitingly, Goldion left himself open and vulnerable to attack.  “Come on.  I’ll let you get a hit in.”  The golden Cybertronian smirked as Trapper shifted uncertainly.

“Going once…”

Trapper’s optics widened as he stared at the cruelly sneering Goldion.

“Going twice…”

Tightening his grip on his spear, Trapper steeled his nerves and charged forward, the tip of his spear aimed squarely for the center of Goldion’s chest.  Goldion began to move, causing Trapper to hesitate for a split astrosecond.  In that time, Goldion sidestepped Trapper’s thrust and swung his hammer around to collide with Trapper’s back, sending the blue mech sliding across the arena.

“Gone,” Goldion whistled as he noted the distance that Trapper had slid.  “Ooh, that might be a new record.”

In a bit of shock, Trapper recovered slowly from his tumble, gathering his feet under him.  In that time, Goldion moved to his side, drawing back his hammer for a blow to Trapper’s side.  “You know…” Goldion began, the amusement beginning to drain from his face.

KRAK!

Another painful blow.  Slamming into the arena wall, Trapper grunted painfully before rising to his knees once more.  Goldion, swinging his hammer about haphazardly, continued his approach.  “I don’t think you get it, rookie.”  Trapper forced himself to his feet this time, bringing his spear to bare once more.  “This is the Pit,” Goldion continued.

Trapper hefted his spear and thrust it at his opponent who deflected it with the hammer head.  Goldion lashed out with a hand, taking Trapper by surprise and seizing him by his neck.  “We fight with our lives on the line.  There are those who win,” Goldion tightened his vice-like grip on Trapper’s neck.  While Cybertronians had no need to breathe, it was still an incredibly painful sensation.  “Or those who die.”

Tossing Trapper aside like a piece of scrap metal, Goldion lifted his hammer high over his head to deliver the kill stroke.  “It’s as simple as that.”  Goldion grunted as he swung the hammer down full force.

It collided with something incredibly hard, causing a dull tone to ring out through the air.  Goldion felt the reverberations through his own hammer, which vibrated in his hands violently.  “What?!”  And then he saw it.  Trapper had transformed just in the nick of time.  His reptilian alternate mode’s shell had taken the brunt of the impact.

“Tch.  That won’t save you!” Goldion snarled as he swung his hammer back to strike once more at Trapper’s side.  Trapper hastily lunged and bit down hard on Goldion’s leg, his vice-like jaw severing armor and servo neatly.  The golden gladiator grunted in pain, but did not stop, swinging his hammer and bashing it into Trapper’s side.

The tortoise flipped end over end a few times from the sheer force of the blow, somehow ending back up on his feet.  However, Trapper hadn’t gone without damage as before.  A crack on his underside leaked out energon slowly.  His armor was…weaker there?  Trapper shook his head to clear it, the pain dizzying and disorientating.

By the time he had managed to refocus his optics, Goldion was upon him.  His optics widened as he saw Goldion bring his hammer up.  Trapper jerked away, but it was too late.  The hammer came down.

KRSPURT!

Goldion grinned.  He hefted his hammer back up over his shoulder, staring down at the pink and blue mess of what used to be Trapper’s head.  The crowd was quiet for a long moment.  Goldion turned and lifted his hammer high over his head victoriously.  The Pit erupted into cheers.  Offlining his optics, Goldion took in his moment of victory.

Behind him, however, Trapper’s body began to move.  It shifted, transforming.  Rising to a knee in robot mode, Trapper held his midsection where the stump of his alternate mode’s head resided, energon surging from the wound.  Was…was he going to die?  Trapper forced himself to his feet, energon spurting out of him with the effort.  The crowd quieted as he did, causing Goldion to look behind himself.

“Huh.”

Trapper held another spear with both hands, wobbling unsteadily on his feet.  All he had to do was…drive it through.  He could…he could do that right?  Drawing the spear back for the plunge, Trapper noted that his vision was beginning to swim, the edges growing dark.  Goldion turned around, a somber look on his faceplate.  Feeling that this would be his last chance, Trapper thrust the spear forward with all his remaining strength, sending the barbed tip through Goldion’s chest plate.

But the blade of the spear was all that went in, and not very deep at that.  Trapper’s optics widened in horror as Goldion seized the spear and began to pull it out.  “You’re tougher than I thought you were,” he said as he yanked it free from his body and Trapper’s hands, tossing the spear aside.

“For that,” Goldion continued, his stance shifting, “I’ll give you a warrior’s death.  Come!  Face your end with that warrior’s spirit!”

Trapper stared at Goldion in disbelief.  He didn’t…he didn’t want to die here.  After a moment of waiting, Goldion lifted his hammer.  “If you will not make a move, then I shall!” he growled as he swung his hammer once more.  Trapper scrambled back hastily, narrowly evading another crippling blow to his side.

Balling his hands up into fists, Trapper lifted them up as his energon made the ground slick under his feet.  He moved in and punched Goldion ferociously, causing the golden gladiator to stumble back a few steps.  “That’s it!  That’s what I wanted to see,” Goldion said with a demented grin, “I’ll crush you and your warrior’s pride into pulp!”

Goldion suddenly lashed out with his hammer with greater speed than before.  Trapper reflexively back stepped, only to slip in the growing pool of his own energon.  The fall put his leg right in harm’s way.  It crunched painfully, yet Trapper bit back his cries of agony.  He struggled to sit up but was met with a swift kick to his side.

Trapper’s vision went dark for a moment.  When his optics flickered back online, he was met with Goldion’s sneering visage and the gladiator’s hand around his neck once more.  Trapper seized Goldion’s arm and squeezed with all his might, trying to force Goldion to release his grip.  The golden mech’s optics widened as Trapper’s digits began to dent the armor plating on his arm.

Tossing Trapper onto his back in an effort to dislodge the reptilian Cybertronian from his arm, Goldion stood over Trapper, hammer in hand.  “This is the end,” he grit out, lifting his hammer up high into the air, “Good-bye.”

KRAAAK!

Pain.

KRUNCH!

Agony.

KRSLUP!

Darkness.

SHLAP!

…

The Pit

“These are the casualties from this cycle’s Pit, Megatron,” Soundwave reported as he and the silver Cybertronian approached a pile of Cybertronian bodies.  Rumble and Frenzy trailed along beside Soundwave with Laserbeak circling above.  “How would you like to dispose of them?”

“Does Scrapper require any more materials?” Megatron queried as he held his arm out.  Laserbeak alighted on it, allowing the silver mechanoid to caress his head.

“No,” Soundwave replied in his usual monotone, “Not until we relocate.  Suggestion:  Feed them to Hun-Grr.”

“His pet is probably already on his way here,” Rumble said, piping up.

“It looks as though something has come and gone at least,” Ravage purred from behind the pile of corpses.  Megatron moved over curiously, accompanied by Soundwave and his minions, to see a trail of energon leading away toward the tunnels.

“Looks like Hun-Grr’s pet already came,” Frenzy commented.

“No,” Megatron said thoughtfully, “If Blot had, then there would be nothing left.”

“Looks like they were dragging themselves along…”  Ravage muttered, following the trail until he reached a large pool of energon.  “Until they collapsed.  Then…they were carried away.”

“Wonder who it could be,” Frenzy said, glancing back at the pile.

“Who cares?” Rumble muttered with a shrug.

“You know…I’m not seeing one guy…he was uh…the first match.  Big.  Blue.  Think his name started with a ‘T’…T…Tr…Trap?  Something-trap?  Ah, guess it doesn’t really matter,” Frenzy said with a shrug, “The guy’s a loser.”

Soundwave turned toward Megatron.  “Your orders?”

Megatron stared at the trail of energon thoughtfully for a moment longer before turning to address his navy blue and white friend.  “Salvage what parts you can and feed the rest to Hun-Grr.  Has Starscream gathered the victors?”

“Affirmative.”

“Excellent,” Megatron said as he began to walk back toward the arena, “Come.  The recruits await us.”

Outskirts of Tarn

”…ey, I think he’s waking up!”

”Are you sure?”

”What kinda question is that?  Of course I’m sure!”

Voices…muffled.  Hard to make out.  Trapper tried to focus on them.

”Fiiiiiiiiine…I’ll get up…”

”Careful not to ooze anywhere near the big guy, alright?”

“I know, I know!  Sheesh…”

There.  He could hear them clearly now.  Trapper tried to speak.

“Ungh…” was all that he could manage.  His amber optics flickered online, noting two figures above him.  As his optics adjusted, he could make out their features.  One, possessing a mouthplate, was closest to him.  The other stood back a fair distance, watching from afar.  As his systems slowly rebooted, Trapper attempted to rise only to be met with gentle resistance.

“Whoa, whoa there, big guy!” said the one with the mouthplate, “Take it easy.  You’re among friends.”

“Who...” Trapper trailed off shakily.  His voice was weak.  In fact, his whole body felt achy and drained.  “Who…are you?  What…what happened?”

“Name’s Overbite, and that sorry excuse for spare parts over there is Skalor,” replied the one with the mouthplate.  Skalor gave Overbite a dirty look from where he stood.  Skalor glanced down at Trapper, shaking his head.

“Don’t mind that idiot.  He’s got piranacons for brains.”

“At least I do something other than sit around all day,” Overbite snapped back before looking back to the perplexed Trapper.  “We saw your fight in the Pits.”

“Pretty nasty,” Skalor commented.

“They don’t usually set up new fighters with guys like Goldion,” Overbite muttered, clearly bemused.  “Maybe someone screwed up?”

“Who knows?” Skalor said with a shrug.

“After…the fight…” Trapper interjected, the two having strayed off-topic.

“Oh!  Right, well.  Skalor and I were headed home, and we happened to pass by…uh…the loser pile.  We saw you dragging yourself away.  And-“

“Overbite decided we just couldn’t leave you,” Skalor sighed.

“Hey!  We disposables gotta look out for each other!  If we don’t who will?”

“Yeah, yeah…Funny how someone as energon-thirsty as you can be such a bleeding spark…Anyway, we picked ya up an’ brought ya to a clinic that treats us disposables.  A decent one too,” Skalor grumbled, glaring at Overbite sidelong.

“They patched you up, and we brought you back to our place for the time being,” Overbite continued, ignoring Skalor.  “It’s not much, but it’s home.  How you feelin’, big guy?  Alright?”

“I ache,” Trapper replied, finding it a bit easier to get the words out now.

“That’s to be expected,” said Overbite.

“Ya got the tar beat out of ya.  Coulda sworn I saw cracked spark casing when Goldion was whaling on you with that hammer of his,” Skalor said, drawing closer.  A pungent odor crept into Trapper’s olfactory sensors.  He could see lubricants and other substances oozing from Skalor in hideous fashion.  Trapper stared hard at the mechanoid, causing Overbite to look as well.

“Hey!  Give the mech some room before you introduce him to your stench,” Overbite growled.

“Pfft.  He’s gotta get used to it sometime.”

“He doesn’t need this right now!”

“That’s what you say.”

“You oozing waste of-“

“Why?” Trapper asked with enough volume to interrupt the two squabbling mechs.  “I’m not…worth saving.”

“Whoa, whoa.  Don’t say that,” Overbite said, his attention immediately turning back to Trapper.  Even Skalor looked at the blue mech with some concern.

“We already told you why,” Skalor said with a frown.  “Don’t make us go repeatin’ ourselves.  We saw a fellow Cybertronian in trouble.  We helped out.  Ain’t a big deal.”  Turning with a heavy sigh, Skalor looked back at Trapper.  “If ya wanna pay us back, ya can start by resting up for now.  Bah, Overbite, you look after him.”

“Wait a breem!  It’s your turn!”

“You’re better at that than I am.  Best to leave it to ya,” Skalor said with a wave as he began to walk off.

“Agh, that slagging glitch!” Overbite hissed out under his breath.  He sighed and looked back at Trapper, patting him lightly on the shoulder.  He turned around, allowing Trapper a moment to assess his state.  His body ached, but it looked, for the most part, repaired, though he wouldn’t know that for sure until he was well enough to move on his own power.  Right now, his energon reserves were far too low for much unnecessary movement.

“Here,” Overbite said as he turned back around with an energon cube in hand.  A swirly straw stuck out of it whimsically.  Trapper stared for a moment before taking it with one hand.  He sipped from the cube slowly.  After he was done, Overbite took the cube and began fiddling with some machinery.  “Alright, gonna set you up for a recharge cycle.  Let you get some rest.  Understand?”

Trapper nodded.

“See you on the other side.”