#phobiashield

[foxy-lisard]

Open starter phobia shield

It started out, as you'd expect, like any other day. It always does. But as expected, this day didn't continue like any other day. One minute Shadowblade is just walking down the halls back to her habsuite, the next she has a feeling someone is watching her as the walls seem to close in on her. Her servo twitches as she tries to keep a straight face, her attention on the area around her. She tenses as she hears claws scraping across the wall and heavy footsteps- like someone with a tank build was walking behind her. She spins around and-

No one... Shadowblade shivers as she feels a servo ghosting down her back but as she spins around there is still nobody. “I told you that I would find you.” SHe spins around again at the sudden voice in her audial receptor and stares up in fear at Tarn. Or rather, the servo he uses to hold Sideswipe up next to him, who is looking at her in betrayal. She watches helplessly as Tarn crushes Sideswipe's helm and throws him at her feet like some doll. 

The walls start closing in on them until Tarn can barely stand straight and Shadowblade can't help herself- she fleas. She runs as hard as she can. “I'm sorry Sides...” She whispers under her breath as tears run down her face, Tarn's laugh echoing down the hall. She keeps on running until she runs straight into someone, promptly falling backward.

[thebestdecepticonleader]

"Starscream, what's wrong? Why are you so frightened?"

“Megatron, Megatron’s coming, he’s going to kill everyone I love.  Run Firewall!”

[fiirstaiid]

:: I need help, I need back up, I’m trapped, I’m being cornered, I can’t get away they’re going to kill me they’re going to kill me-- ::

[verdigrisprowl]

((... y'all got that the phobia shields generate actual, physical, external threats, right? like, things you can see and touch and run from or punch? not headvoices?))

((i mean if your muse's greatest fear is the judgment of their dead friends rather than a pursuing monster then sure they'd hear their friends judging them, but like... it'd still be external. Other people can walk into your muse's room and SEE AND HEAR the dead friends judging your muse.))

[forgedcold]

M!A: Phobia Shield! On Halloween, a Phobia Shield will be dropped in your muse’s vicinity. They might not notice its presence, but they probably WILL notice its effects: your muse’s greatest fear will be brought to life! (As a holomatter simulation, at least.) The effects will last as long as it takes for the Phobia Shield to be found and destroyed. Happy haunting and happy hunting! #phobiashield

A shadow crept along the edge of his peripheral, bringing Megatron to a halt as he glanced to his left side, wondering and cautious. 

Navigating the long corridors of the Lost Light was generally uneventful, save for the occasional overheard bewildering conversation or overseen activity, and sporadic prank from crew members who were feeling particularly and foolishly bold. Unwilling to be the butt of someone’s joke, Megatron casts his field wide, searching for whoever it was whose shadow he had seen flicker briefly upon the wall beside him. “ I’ve little time and patience for games, ” he warns into the space. “ Show yourself at once. ”

Nothing.

— Not until his field suddenly scrapes against a presence of violent and wrathful hatred so strong, a cold ripple of fear slithers up his spinal strut. Anxious mechanisms behind his red lenses force his optics to dilate as dread burns heavily through his circuitry. 

Slowly, he turns, pulling his field in tight. 

A gasp falls from his intake as he meets what went beyond an elaborate prank and rather seemed to be a monstrosity summoned straight from the Pit itself. The sheer horror of it froze him where he stood, forcing Megatron to gaze upon that what he feared the most: himself. 

— At least, an amalgamation of sorts. Though mangled, twisted, and coated and stinking of blood and rot, the monster boasts his frame. Yet, in the place of its helm was a monitor, as such was the case for many victims of shadowplay and empurata.

The black screen flickers suddenly, illuminating the phrase: I WILL CURE YOU.

Its arm raises, and Megatron steps back, aching for the familiar weight of his cannon as needled fingers extended towards his face. 

His whole body reacts as the monster suddenly advances, taking two steps upon him for the one he took away, and as terror gnaws the edges of his spark, Megatron, in all his might, tears a terminal from the wall, hurling it at the thing before him as he roars.

“ GET AWAY FROM ME! ”

[ask-smokescreen]

M!A: Phobia Shield! On Halloween, a Phobia Shield will be dropped in your muse’s vicinity. They might not notice its presence, but they probably WILL notice its effects: your muse’s greatest fear will be brought to life! (As a holomatter simulation, at least.) The effects will last as long as it takes for the Phobia Shield to be found and destroyed. Happy haunting and happy hunting! #phobiashield

At first, Smokescreen doesn’t really notice the feeling of the room getting smaller. And he seems uncomfortable as the room starts to turn yellow, but isn’t too bothered.

.But soon, he sees a shadow looming over him. He turns around, and sees Optimus! Optimus is alive again! But he seems odd. His usually peaceful EM field feels unfamiliar to Smokescreen, and he doesn’t have the smile Smokescreen remembers him having.

In fact, his optics look seem to be purple, and he seems to be frowning in disappointment at the elite guardsmech.

The room felt small at one point, sure, but Smokescreen felt smaller, and smaller, under this displeased Optimus. His doorwings drooped, and he tried to give this Optimus a goofy smile, with no real response given for several minutes.

When Optimus does finally speak, Smokescreen is still, completely silent.

“Why did you let me die, Smokescreen?”

[spitshineandhammertime]

*Papa’s not in a good way. Impact was in her room when...things...happened, but she can get the gist of it. Enough of a gist to see that it is imperative that she transform into the most loving and comforting mechanical limpet known to Cybertronian kind.*

[alacritysparked]

As expected, his return to Iacon became something of an event. Even before his political expulsion, Bumblebee was always uncomfortable with how many citizens knew of him. Though his audials were turned down, Scout programming picked up on the muffled whispers around him. Before his logging habit kicked in, Metalhawk steered him into the main hall.

“I’ll admit Bumblebee, your request shocked me,” the Council member began, leading Bumblebee down far too familiar corridors. “But it was not unwelcome. I, and the other Council members, appreciate your change of spark.”

Finally, they arrived at the private office. Only once the door was locked behind them did Bumblebee speak.

“I’m not doing this for you or the Council. This is about Cybertron’s survival and aiding the reconstruction efforts. I’ve been across the planet to areas we haven’t even touched yet. Cybertron may be alive again, but the energon veins are still recovering and hard to come by.”

“So you have a solution?”

“I have a proposal.”

That made Metalhawk pause. His optics narrowed and Bumblebee met his gaze. “Enlighten me.”

“I need a promise and to have it in writing before I leave this room.”

“I cannot guarantee anything, but you need to name your price first. What are your demands?”

“Surrender all blackmail material against me from the drugging incident or destroy it in front of me.”

Silence.

Though Metalhawk had been one of the few to protest against the event, that didn’t mean he was willing to lose leverage on a public figure. Most of the damage to Bumblebee’s reputation had been done from the collective few breems of clips that had gone public, but news carried fast and it was quickly becoming a scandal that few cared about or remembered. In the interest of the Council, they needed the other ace up their sleeve: the footage of the spark merge.

Bumblebee knew that and that even now, many bots would view that merge as a perversion. You don’t merge with bots you don’t know or trust. The social repercussions would destroy any and all credibility he had left. He needed it gone.

“And what are you willing to share in exchange?”

“The complete Cybermatter formula.”

This was it, the gamble. No matter how many times Bumblebee ran the scenario through his processor, he couldn’t guarantee a win.

“That’s impossible. We’ve gleaned what we can from the Nemesis’s systems and in all those files, none contained the Cybermatter formula. Even as a trained scout, you couldn’t have found or deciphered the information, let alone know what to look for.”

Ouch. Ok. So they still didn’t understand his role in the war. Helpful.

“Work would be involved fully deciphering and synthesizing it, but I’m not lying. I have the answers and I’m willing to share them if you delete or surrender the footage.”

Dangle the carrot, Bumblebee. Make him want it.

“This is not my decision alone to make. I will have to discuss any actions with the rest of the Council—“

“Then do it. But I’m walking in a joor and I won’t be offering again.”

“You more than anyone know decisions take longer than that.”

“And I know you can hustle when you need to, especially given how fast information travels. What if I went to the datanets with this? I’ve miraculously uncovered a solution to our energon and power shortage, but the Council wouldn’t even hear me out because of things that happened over a year ago. I’ve been building myself back up too. I found more bots displaced by the war in eight months than your services have since reconstruction began. Citizens will listen to me and if I have to play every card in my arsenal to make this work, then I will. I’m offering you the easy way, the one that makes both of us look good.”

Metalhawk was the right choice, more level-headed than most and highly analytical. And even after everything, Bumblebee knew he cared about their planet. But he also cared about the Council’s approval within their society. They needed elected officials to work, they needed to ease tension and recover.

They needed as little bad press as possible.

“One joor, I will make the argument. We will need proof of the information existing before any formal agreements can be made.”

“Once you supply a written contract outlining my request, I’ll give you the information. Every Council member will sign it in front of me and as they do, I’ll supply my documentation and proof.”

“...Very well. Come, we have little time to lose.”

[cavalierautobot-a]

[the dead body holograms are gone]

[hot rod is too drained to process anything]

[autobot-scout-riella]

@radioactivibee liked for a phobia shield starter

She doesn’t know what’s happening anymore. It’s not a dream. It’s not real. It might be real. Maybe she’s just finally lost her mind.

She’s watched Blackout die twice. Maybe one was real, maybe neither. It looks real, and feels real, and sounds real, and it hurts like someone’s ripping her spark out every time he cries out in pain and finally goes still. She’s sobbed and screamed and pleaded, and still watched the light die out of his optics twice. The second time, after a brief stab of hope and relief when she saw him alive, was worse.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been curled up on the floor, covered in his energon, huddled against him shaking and crying. The sound of footsteps catches her attention, but she doesn’t look up. Why would she? She doesn’t want to see it again.

[boomtanknotboombox]

He was only on his peds by sheer force of will at this point. Everything hurt, his throat from screaming, his helm and arms from constant clawing at them, and his spark from the reminders of what he had been. Of what he still was. Murderer. Monster. Oath-breaker.

Nothing he did would make those sins go away, the genocide he’d help bring upon the ones he’d been pointed at. And it only got worse when he saw Soundwave. Not one that was his, but it was still one. He recognized him, some small part of him latching onto the fact that something was different about him. Something that put Soundwave apart from the others in the shadows.

And then he can’t tell anymore.

Not when he hears a familiar voice – so familiar it physically hurts to hear – and Soundwave is the furthest thing from his mind.

“Hey, Coach.”

It was Eject. Blaster nearly broke his neck as he whipped around to face the source of the voice, stumbling with the force of his turn, staring in horror.

“N-no. NO! You’re DEAD! I felt you DIE! ALL OF YOU!” his spark lurched painfully, admitting that out loud hurt more than he was ever going to say. His vents wheezed in an effort to keep his core temperature stable, as painful memories were torn up from the dark corners he had shoved them into. He stumbled back, Because it sounded like Eject. Felt like he was there...but-

-But it didn’t look like him. No, it did but, the sparking wires, crushed chest, and free-flowing energon was not a look he had ever seen on his symbiote. The colors leeching from the small frame had him jerking forwards, against what little sense he had. His steps only faltered when he looked behind the standing symbiote, to see several others, cold and gray, behind him.

“We are, though.” the voice crackles, and Blaster is frozen in place, denial choked in his throat. His spark twists, the remembered painful snap snap snap of breaking bonds bringing a full frame shudder with it. A pained noise, one that was almost a word, maybe a name, makes it’s way past the lump in his throat, as his greatest failure lies in front of him, as Eject topples over to join the rest of Blaster’s family on the floor.

And the mech, still clad in the armor he’d never wanted to wear again, sinks to his knees beside them. Words, comprehensible words, don’t come out. The one promise he had hoped to keep, to stay true to...lies as broken as the shells in front of his optics. The reason he’d tried to never make promises he didn’t know if he could keep. Why he tried so hard to not break this one, even if it tied him to a position he never wanted. To a title he  was ill-prepared for. Not when compared to...to him. Because he never could compare. Not now. After all he had done, the promises broken, the deaths of cities on his shoulders, and it still wasn’t enough. He couldn’t protect six mechs, ALL of whom could fit in his chest compartment, and he’d still managed to find a way to let them down. How did he ever think he could lead, when he could barely keep others around him alive? He couldn’t escape what he was.

Murderer.

He had never looked back to see who’s lives he’d just ended. He’d been told who to kill, pointed at a target and let loose. Him and several others, in direct response to the Decepticons doing the exact same thing first. They hadn’t been selective. Civilians that had failed to flee...he didn’t lift his helm, knowing the burning gaze of families was on him.

Monster.

A lab. His first memory was of a lab. Being brought online with a singular purpose. To be the unfaltering weapon of whoever held his chain. To use his ability – developing into the plural at the ending of his testing and training – to whatever ends he was ordered. No thought. No deviation. Point A to point B with no questions. And if anything but his Master’s orders got in the way? He was to go through them. He thought he was free of that. He’d been wrong.

Oath-breaker.

He’d promised. He gave his word they’d be safe. That he’d keep them safe. Above himself. His own safety had meant little in the face of making sure his own were safe. But that hadn’t been enough. Had never been enough. They were dead. Everyone on that base were dead. He’d tried, he’d told theme he and Perceptor were working on a way to fix things, to release their friends and comrades from the Decepticons. He’d failed in that too. So far, every promise that meant anything to him laid at his peds in shattered remains. And this one, this last one, that’d he’d not abandon the Autobots, was looking like it was going to end up just as broken. Because the fine threads that had been holding him together were snapping, and something just broke.

His own digits dug into his helm, covering the visor over his optics, as he hunched forwards. Laughing. Laughing and laughing, the pitch rising in hysteria, before it begins turning to screams. Loud and agonized screams that drowns out any noise from the surrounding area, as he nearly pitches forwards into the messy tangle of bodies in front of him.

[shatteredvoiice]

M!A: Phobia Shield! On Halloween, a Phobia Shield will be dropped in your muse’s vicinity. They might not notice its presence, but they probably WILL notice its effects: your muse’s greatest fear will be brought to life! (As a holomatter simulation, at least.) The effects will last as long as it takes for the Phobia Shield to be found and destroyed. Happy haunting and happy hunting! #phobiashield

He’s not expecting Skids to slam his way into his hab, far too reminiscent of Before--the time when it wasn’t uncommon for Skids to storm into their hab and hurt him when he was upset about something that’d gone wrong during the cycle. He tries not to think too hard on it, sure that Skids would keep his promise not to hurt him; the certainty lasts right up until the other mech yanks him up by the mask and shoves him to the floor with a snide remark about being gullible and bad. That bad pets don’t deserve a berth or soft blankets and pillows, they belong on the floor with the rest of the trash.

Tarn flattens to the ground immediately and doesn’t protest when Skids twists armor painfully in reprimand for not doing it faster. He whimpers an apology, sliding into begging when SkidsMaster tells him to try harder. He’s sorry Sir, see? He’s a good pet and he’s sorry.

@shatteredtheories

[thebestdecepticonleader]

"C-commander Starscream?v Dawn asked as she pulled her brother along, "W-we need help."

Starscream’s eyes grew wide, he’s terrified, “Stay back!  Stay back!  I can’t lose more to him!  I can’t!  Please go before he comes back!”

[sniproscope]

In, and out.

The phobia shield is destroyed but a new opponent is up to bat.

Perceptor’s spark is twitching and ticking, trying to align with Tarn’s voice and fighting to keep spinning as the ex-Wrecker seizes again, reticule pinging off to clatter over the floor like the chime of a dying clock.

In, and out.

His vents crack and clatter, opening and closing out of time and tune.

The paint around the window of his chestplate has crackled and curled away from the heat of a spark trying to go nuclear, and time is running out.

[verdigrisprowl]

Phobia Shield 3

«Emergency dispatch. Fire, police, or medical?»

Prowl froze halfway down the stairs. Oh, thank goodness, they'd picked up. He'd spent his entire confrontation with Hook on hold, which was absolutely unacceptable from emergency services. He'd have to investigate this slip—later. «Pol—no—medical. I'm police, I need medical.»

A pause. «Prowl?»

«Yes!» He hurried down the rest of the stairs. «I've got four injured—possibly dead—stab wounds...» He fell to his knee next to Bonecrusher's body, and looked over it. The gash in his neck had been filled in with something puffy and off-white. «... Stab wounds filled with blood foam.»

Blood foam was a banned weapon, invented by Autobots and used by Decepticons. If it was sprayed into a wound, it expanded to fill in the gap, making it almost impossible to pull out to repair the wound, but still remaining permeable enough to let energon continue freely leaking out.

It was, officially, intended to be a medical tool (although Prowl has good reason to suspect that that was a cover story to deny its genuine intention as a weapon)—and in a few limited circumstances it did in fact have actual medical applications—but did Hook have any? Or did the assailant bring their own?

Prowl started picking what foam he could off of Bonecrusher's neck. A bit flaked off easily, but when it got level with his neck, it was like trying to scrape through armor. «Plus one down with percussive head trauma. Assailant still unknown.»

«Okay, okay—» The dispatcher sounded distracted. «... Can—can any of them wait?»

«Excuse me?» In Prowl's head, Devastator roared.

«Like—in your professional opinion, sir, on a scale of 1 to 10, what level of emergency—» «Four of them are dying!»

«You said they might already be dead—»

«That's splitting wires and you—»

«I mean—if they're already dead, that's a lesser emergency than—»

«Just send someone!»

«I don't have anyone else to send!»

Prowl froze, with a wad of foam from Bonecrusher's chest wound in one hand. Something prickly like fear ran up his arms and down his back. «... What?»

«Sir, you're the captain of—! Don't you know what it's like outside?!»

Prowl looked at the balcony door. Lights were flashing outside.

He got to his feet, pushed outside, and looked out at Iacon. Red and blue emergency lights lit up buildings in every direction. There were more screams than Prowl could count. The prickling fear grew worse, crawling over his chest.

«We've got reports of the DJD from four different places, Megatron from nine places, the Prime is out there somewhere, alien invasion in the Decepticon slums—»

Prowl sent a ping to the police department clocking himself in. «The Constructicons are a 3.8 at most. Four are probably dead and at worst the fifth's got a concussion. Adjust your triage accordingly.»

«Yessir.»

He shoved his grief onto his wailing fragment of Devastator and locked them both away. He'd learn to function without the Constructicons—but he'd have to learn after he'd saved his city. «Tell me where I'm neede—»

He'd looked down at his arms.

The prickling he'd felt wasn't fear. It was a swarm of tiny purple beetles, crawling under his armor.

[forgedcold]

Reference [ 1 ]

Whatever his hands managed to find and tear free, Megatron threw at the atrocity of himself. He thought not of the damaged walls, of the corridors he’d littered with destruction and debris, only of how he might get away, of how he might kill this thing.

It seemed too easy how molten fear had blistered open raw defense protocols he’d long since buried away, quarantining the binary as best he could so that he might not be as susceptible to reactions of violence. How sluggish his frame seemed, the weight of his sheer fright making it far more difficult to maneuver, let alone think. 

He hated it bitterly, spitting curses as the monstrosity seemed to mock him, its monitor-head flashing images of those he had killed, of the deceptive glory he’d risen to and supposedly forgotten. Then, the screen-head flickered: » YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TO THINK, DO YOU?

“ You will not change me back. ”

» PROTEST IS A FORM OF SICKNESS, MEGATRON.

A hallucination. Surely this had to be a terrible hallucination, but Megatron dared not let his optics offline in an attempt to blink his nightmare away. As a dreadful sense of weakness seemed to cause the energon within his lines to curdle, he desperately fought back the urge to collapse, to press his back against a wall and clutch his knees to his chest.

Help.

The distressed ping erupted from his communication systems before Megatron could process what had happened or who it had been sent to. He amended the plea quickly.

Under attack near the fuel furnaces — in need of an immediate assist.

Silently, he willed someone might come, if only to confirm if what he did see was indeed real, and perhaps, to help him get rid of it. But in the event no one did, Megatron took another step back, moving closer to the furnaces. Certainly there was something in there which could be of use.