kalelactually

[kalelactually]

wrote a little something short for the mclaren boys. adore them both <3

set in some nebulous scenario where oscar wins 1st on podium. lando wins second. (oscar’s loved lando for a long time. lando’s just catching up.)

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— wrap me in your warm embrace (strip me of my sins and pain)

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And Oscar dismounts from his car and tugs off his helmet, nomex still on underneath as he turns to face the sea of orange; and Lando feels himself start walking forward, an irresistible pull tugging him closer and closer to the man standing twenty, fifteen, twelve, ten feet away on the tarmac.

Oscar yanks his nomex off in the next moment, revealing flushed cheeks, mussed hair, and an absolutely radiant smile that lights up his whole face. And it’s the smile that’s lived on the inside of Lando’s eyelids for the past six months, and upon seeing it again a heat pours itself into his gut, molten and burning, and he wants, he wants, he wants.

His mouth opens, and he’s yelling Oscar’s name, legs picking up speed and propelling him faster and faster into the other’s orbit, and there’s no way Oscar should be able to hear him over the crowd, the ocean of chanting orange and the cheers of the entire pit crew, but somehow, inexplicably, he does — and he turns to greet Lando, that blinding smile taking up his whole face, along with his cute, sparkling eyes, his mouth opening as if to say something.

Lando slams into him, and instinctively wraps his hands around Oscar’s waist, as he dips them into a little twirl built off his own momentum, and Oscar lets out a little “oof” as he does so, which changes into a soft smile meant only for Lando as their eyes meet.

He speaks softly. “Hi.”

Lando grins back, wetly. “Don’t ‘hi’ me.”

Oscar’s little smile grows as he reaches for Lando’s face, cradling it in his hands like he’s something precious, something fragile, something delicate; and Lando’s hit with a shot to the gut all over again, his body starting to tremble. Oscar only adds to it all as he whispers, their foreheads now touching. “Hey. I missed you, you know,” and here, Oscar’s nose gently nudges his. “Wondered when you’d catch up.”

Lando smiles too, matching Oscar’s with one of his own, even as tears slip free and roll down his face without care for the audience. His hands leave Oscar’s hips and encircle his waist, holding the other in place like Oscar will break if he moves, like Lando won’t be the one who breaks, cracks open, right down the middle. Lando’s voice wobbles when he tries to talk, painfully, horribly sincere. “Well, but. I’m here now?”

And Oscar’s eyes squint nearly closed with the force of his smile, one of his thumbs now gently tracing Lando’s cheekbone. “You are. You’re here now.”

And time slows to a halt, everything around them going still as they breathe together for a minute.

Lando manages to choke it out first, into the space between them, looking down at their chests and the orange of their uniforms blending together, and tears tighten even deeper in his throat at the sight. “Oscar, I. I love you, you know? I really, really love you. A lot. So, so fucking much.”

And now Oscar might be crying too, both his hands tracing Lando’s features like he’ll never get another chance, and he tilts his head up; whispering his answer into Lando’s hair, pressing a kiss into the messy, sweaty curls.

“Well, don’t worry. Because I really, really love you too.”

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they will not leave my head. genuinely love them so.

thx for reading, and stay safe lovelies !! <33

title is “heaven written” by soldana.

side note :: i’m already leaving my personal trademark note below, but i’m adding this on for extra clarity — this is rpf. do not take and repost this anywhere drivers can see. let’s keep fandom behaviors in fandom spaces — thank you !!

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• all written works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not repost, republish, or steal my works without explicit permission, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[kalelactually]

chapter three of send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) is up on AO3 !!

rated teen, tagged dratchet, based on the tf mecha au by @keferon.

enjoy !! <3

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[kalelactually]

finally,,, i make my little guy do a little dance,,, the power i hold,,

(based on choreo by Molly Long - song: Pop Muzik by M)

[kalelactually]

Hundred days - Skystar animatic

[kalelactually]

second chapter of ratchlock mecha au !! you can find the first one on my tumblr profile or my ao3 — as always, inspired by @keferon ‘s mecha au, based on pacific rim !! check out their blog, it’s full of delicious art. :3

chapter summary :: in which ratchet swears and has a vaguely southern accent, deadlock still hasn’t woken up, and the author uses the phrase “back to the garage” a ridiculous amount of times. heavily sprinkled with apostrophes.

thx for reading, enjoy !!! <33

fun little note: read ratchet’s voice and thoughts with a southern accent / drawl. it makes for an exhausted, no bs kind of hilarity. i can’t explain it to you, but trust me. XD

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• send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) — chapter two

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Ratchet stands on a log that’s halfway suspended off the ground, the figure splayed out in front of him (he’s hoping the height will give him a better vantage point to visually assess priority injuries.) He’d just made a run to the garage and hauled back whatever supplies Lassie (his all-terrain rover) could fit.

(And listen, he didn’t pick the name, that was all First Aid — affectionately named due to her wide dual antennae and Rough Collie color scheme. Ratchet kind of loves it, but don’t tell Aid. He’ll get ideas.)

Wheelie (one of his med drones, also named by Aid. big surprise,) flits around overhead, actively taking visuals of the figure and digitizing partial schematics based off those. He chirps inquisitively from the side, systems whirring as Ratchet jams a hastily-assembled sandwich in his mouth (he forgot to eat it on the way.)

According to Ratchet’s initial assessment, the figure appears not to have any sort of respiration system — sure, there’s external vents on the figure’s upper torso, but there’s no circulatory air flow or chest rise and fall to indicate lungs. That, fortunately, takes two major concerns out of play.

Having finished his sandwich, Ratchet jumps off the log to reassess the mouth and airway. The airway’s still patent, and Ratchet’s pleased to note that the pink liquid dripping out of the mouth and nose seems to have clotted on its own.

And the fact that the liquid stopped flowing on its own indicates that the being likely has some type of clotting factor, or self-diagnostic repair system — which in turn indicates some type of independent processes, and a partial measure of intelligence. And while it might be a new branch of A.I. programming or something similar he hasn’t come across yet — he gets the feeling that isn’t just a new software. (Honestly, either way, he still notes it down with a carefully restrained glee.)

No, something in his gut is telling him that this — this figure, being, or whatever it is — is simply just different. True, it could be some experimental military hardware or equipment, like a remote-controlled mecha suit (which was his initial hunch) but this thing? No. This thing’s alive — and he thinks it’s sentient.

(And this thought, if verbalized to anyone else, might have them look at him like he’s crazy and send him in for a couple rounds of psych. And like, he loves Chromedome and his sweetheart of a husband, but he’d rather not, thanks.)

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He just knows. However, based on that hell of an assumption — he’s currently making a lot of choices that could and will come back to bite him later. (Such as not reporting whatever the hell happened in the last two hours to someone who can actually do something about… well, whatever this thing is. Patient? Yeah, patient works.)

He shakes his head, forcing himself out of it. He’ll have more than enough time to second guess his decisions later. Right now, he has a patient, and that’s all he’s ever needed to know.

Having already felt the being’s neck earlier to try and detect any type of pulse (and come up with nothing,) he moves on to assess and neutralize any major fluid leaks as best he can before transport. He marks down the worst bits of exposed internals and hot spots as he does.

The figure’s broken shoulder joint will have to be stabilized before he can even think about transport, and when he shifts the being’s right arm (with the help of Wheelie,) he finds deep lacerations running through the upper abdomen. (And it. It looks bad. Like it was shredded — like someone took claws to it.)

Ratchet’s not going to even begin to unpack that. Unfortunately, there’s not much he can do for the abdomen at the moment without a welder, but he clamps torn fuel lines and caps exposed wiring in an attempt to buy time.

He takes a moment and sends out an alert for the rest of the med drones to meet them at the site, inputting coordinates with one hand and grabbing a sample jar with the other, an easy confidence in his posture that radiates experience.

And meanwhile the glee from earlier keeps coming back, growing up his spine the more he examines the being’s mechanics (mechanics that someone, somewhere) crafted and poured into them. He runs his fingers down a seam, featherlight in a kind of reverence — even bashed and dented to high heaven, this figure is a vision.

He drops his hand as he catches himself — he still has a patient here, and they’re not getting any better out here exposed to the elements. He really needs to get his priorities straight — he hasn’t slipped like this at a scene since his very early days, when everything was still new, fresh, and stimulating. His entirely professional mechanic’s awe (and mild jealousy) over the being’s construction can keep.

He carefully takes a sample of the pink liquid, catching it in the sample jar as it drips directly from an open line in the being’s dislocated shoulder just before he binds it closed. He tucks the jar safely in his bag, wrapping it in shop towels just in case it decides to corrode its container. It hasn’t shown any signs of corrosion to the nearby environment or his work gloves so far, but you can never be too careful.

(The incident at Jasper Base II comes to mind. Some people could benefit from basic lab rules. Why, yes, he is looking at you, Wheeljack.)

That taken care of, he grabs some construction grade rebar and an extra tarp he had lying around to use as a temporary splint. With Wheelie’s help, he ends up being able to stabilize the shoulder relatively easily, despite the being’s size (and current state of unhelpfulness.)

And once that’s complete, he decides he’s finished what he can, quickly packing up the site. The figure’s as stable as they’re going to get before transport, and the drone squad is almost here — there’s absolutely the concern of more going on with the figure internally that he can’t ascertain, and he needs to get them in for extensive scanning like, yesterday.

He puts in another call to Orion while he waits — but just like earlier when he called at the garage, Orion still doesn’t pick up. And while Ratchet’s never been one for paranoia (that was always Red Alert’s thing,) he’s starting feel something chewing away at the back of his brain. Something feels off about this whole situation (aside from the huge, hulking metal figure,) and he’s never been one to discount his intuition.

(Mostly because it’s hard-earned — but also because he has the skills, knowledge, and temperament to back it up.)

He taps the figure’s undamaged shoulder carefully (as if to acknowledge that they’re still there and very much real,) sighing loudly. The whole shift of his body changes as he does, exhaustion coloring his bones for the first time since he stumbled across a figure in the woods. He glances up at the figure’s face a second later, looking for any hint of consciousness, something to tell him that they’re alive, and listening.

“Hey. I don’t know if you can hear me, but,” and he pauses for a second. “Well, weirder things have happened. Hopefully you’re just out cold — you better not be in a coma or something, because I have no idea how to pull you out. I do not get paid enough for that.”

He watches Wheelie flit around Lassie, her antennae moving up and down as she tracks the drone’s movements, and if Ratchet didn’t know better he’d say they were playing like a couple of kids. Cute, carefree, and oblivious to the world around them that witnessed upheaval only a few hours ago. He continues.

“I hope you’ve got a name. Mine’s Ratchet, in case you were wondering. It’s military,” (and that part is said longsufferingly.) “I’ve just been calling you Scrappy in my head. I hope that works for you, because until you wake up, or come out of stasis, or whatever, that’s what you got.”

He absentmindedly starts brushing dried mud and old paint off the being’s arm as he talks. “And you better wake up soon, kiddo, I got questions. My best friend isn’t answering my calls, which means you’re gonna be stuck with ‘em; so please, be prepared. I’ve got a notebook stash to rival Alpha Trion’s and a 82 year old whiskey cellar on hand, so you better have some answers,” and here, he uncovers some gray paint, voice trailing away as he brushes off more dirt. His eyes widen, eyebrows raising as he reads.

“D34D106K, huh?” and he lets out a whistle. “Hell of a name, if that is, actually, your name. Well,” and he shrugs, “gives me somewhere to start, I guess.

He pats D34D106K on the arm consolingly. Damn, and if that isn’t a mouthful — Scrappy’s better, honestly.

“Can’t make any promises, of course, kiddo, but I’ll do my best to find out what happened to you.” He glances down at his PADD, glaring at Orion’s contact without any real heat. “That is, if my best friend ever feels like calling me back.”

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thx again for reading !! appreciate each and every one of you. <33

disclaimer :: i am not an engineer, a mechanic, or a programmer; i know nothing of which i speak. but i do happily take feedback, so if something seems wildly off, pls let me know and i’ll go bother my mechanic relatives until i figure it out.

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• character credits belong to hasbro, idw comics, and the respective transformers franchise. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not republish, steal, or likewise pass off my works as your own in any manner, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[kalelactually]

The second one goes in the wild, run my child, run, bite people Song: I was made for lovin' you by Kiss

I keep making the same mistake by paying more attention to colors when could make instead more movement rrrrrRrrRRrr I SWEAR TO GOD I WANTED TO MAKE SOMETHING WITH THEM, RUNNING AWAY, A CROWDED PLACE AND A "BATTLE" IN THE MIDDLE FOR SO LONG *head in hands* It actually isn't even close to what could be, I lack skills and time to take it out of my head XDD

[kalelactually]

hi tumblr! here i am again, posting smth for a fandom that literally hasn’t ever existed: CHiPs 1977. (well, except for maybe your grandparents.) welcome to my hell.

i watched this show growing up and lowkey always wondered what jon and ponch had going on. i rewatched it again a few months ago, and oh my god, i didn’t imagine it. they were definitely something.

this is a short little drabble for them. enjoy!

title is “ride” by twenty one pilots.

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— i’m falling, so i’m taking my time (taking my time on my ride, oh) —

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And Ponch turns to his partner to see if he overheard the joke, hands loose in his pockets and laughter on his lips, only to find the other missing, vanished from his side without him noticing.

He looks around, confused, and spots Jon a few steps away. His partner is standing by the line of bikes, not paying attention to him at all. In fact, he’s ignoring Ponch and the others entirely, instead clicking his helmet in place and pulling on the new regulation gloves handed out by the department this morning.

And as Ponch stands there and watches, Jon, oblivious to an audience, casually flexes his hands, swinging them open and shut, trying to break out the stiffness that new gloves always seem to carry, pausing to fold the cuffs up like he always does, to keep his wrists from chafing while he’s on his bike. He then picks up the radio one-handed, signaling to dispatch that he and Ponch are ready for patrol, not even sparing a glance Ponch’s way.

And the causal sort of certainty that Jon radiates like a star catches Ponch deep in his chest, a familiar heat bubbling in his core and up his spine even as he stumbles off the curb in the middle of his next step.

The ground rushes up to meet him before he can grasp what’s happening, his leg twisting underneath him and laughter long forgotten as heat blooms cherry-pink across his neck and face.

And as he lays on the ground, back to the pavement and face to the sky, Jon’s wide grin appears in his vision, blue eyes sparkling even as they’re tucked behind aviators, overtaking Ponch’s higher processes and saying something that he can’t catch.

And Ponch looks up in that moment and thinks that Jon looks like something out of a dream, fuzzy and just out of reach, unattainable even as his brain laser-focuses on the brightness of Jon’s smile and the curve of his mouth.

Oh, and he feels a twisted ball of longing make itself at home in his gut, ratcheting tighter like a screw the longer he stares, and that’s a feeling he’s only used to experiencing when he sees a pretty girl in heels walking by, hair curling over her shoulder, or when he watches his favorite action star on tv, flipping and pulling stunts for an captivated audience.

And he’s never noticed it before, but he looks at Jon like he looks at a pretty girl — watches him when he walks by, like he’s a headliner or bombshell in one of Ponch’s favorite films — and something warm finally blossoms into recognition in his chest, settling peacefully like it’s always had a home there.

Jon’s smile fades away from Ponch’s line of sight, but a deep, throaty chuckle sounds from the other side of Ponch’s bike.

It breaks through the haze of Ponch’s ill-timed, self-induced breakdown, Jon’s laughter rumbling through him like an earthquake, and he pauses for a second to put his hands over his face and silently scream.

He’s in love with his best friend; and it’s burning him from the inside out, with wide sunshine honey smiles, and tousled hair, and pride laced in a voice that etches itself around the syllables of the word partner, and Ponch’s heart pounds in his chest as he realizes there was probably never another outcome — not to them, to this.

And ultimately, he thinks he doesn’t mind, because to regret this would be to regret Jon; and it’s too late in his life, his career, his two year friendship, and his newfound sexuality crisis to even start considering that as an option.

“There’s worse things to be than in love,” his abuela quotes in his head, like he’d only just spoken to her yesterday, and damn. He should probably tell her, because she’ll have seen this coming, and he knows that she’ll be happy no matter what.

He takes his hands off his face and stares at the sky, his hands shaking just a little, and he thinks absentmindedly that the blue is close to the shade of Jon’s eyes. And it slams into him again just a little bit harder, because how did he not notice his feelings for his best friend.

He shakes his head once, twice, tries to blink away the image of Jon’s smile making a home behind his eyelids, grabs onto the curb as he props himself up, dusts off his pants in a daze.

He grabs his helmet, buckles it in place as he mounts his bike, and turns to his partner and grins shakily, praying to whichever saint is nearby and listening that Jon doesn’t notice how off he looks, and he tries valiantly not to stare at how the sun rests on the curve of Jon’s shoulders as the station fades away behind them.

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i hope whoever reads this enjoys it a little! i’m so serious, they live rent free in my head.

i also fought with myself on whether or not ponch thinks of himself as ponch or frank for the purposes of this oneshot. ultimately, i stuck with ponch.

thx for reading! love you all <3

(side note: i understand that this piece of media was originally made and used by the CHP as propaganda for recruitment. this is in no way meant to support that movement, the past and current state and system of law enforcement as a whole, or to cast it in a positive light. this is purely fictional, written for my own enjoyment, and meant to be an exploration of feelings and love between two people who happen to work in that particular field. <3)

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• character credits belong to their respective owners and franchises. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not repost, republish, steal, or otherwise use my works under your own name without explicit permission, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[kalelactually]

“You know the greatest danger facing us is ourselves, an irrational fear of the unknown. But there's no such thing as the unknown, only things temporarily hidden, temporarily not understood.” — Captain James T. Kirk (Star Trek: The Original Series, Season 1: The Corbomite Maneuver)

“And as we’ve come to understand, there is no such thing as the unknown, only the temporarily hidden.” — Captain James T. Kirk (Star Trek: Beyond)

— from captain to captain.

(happy birthday, Jim. <3)

[kalelactually]

this little oneshot is a prelude into a transformers human/mech au by @keferon , loosely based on pacific rim (i think?) go browse through their au/art tag, their work is incredible and a ton of fun. :3

i focus mainly on ratchet and deadlock here (even thought deadlock isn’t even officially named yet) but don’t worry, there’s more on the way :P

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— send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) —

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and as ratchet walks through the forest, a heavy sense covers his shoulders and folds over his head, fastening itself across his chest with a kind of foreboding he hasn’t felt since he left the war.

he grimaces, and tightens his grip on the wrench over his shoulder he nabbed on the way out of the garage. of course, in an ideal scenario, he wouldn’t have to use it — but if war taught him anything, it’s to prepare for everything. (besides, even he’s not above admitting that something out there [God, the universe, fate, whatever] has a taste for irony.)

as he makes his way north in the direction of the river, the whirring sound he heard from overhead before now winds its way towards him between brush and trees, along with the distressingly familiar groans and creaks of settling metal.

a heavy breeze follows the noises a second later. it ruffles ratchet’s hair on the way by, and sends any remaining wildlife into a flurry. ratchet cocks his head, thinking almost absently that the sound was similar to a sigh.

he then catches himself and pauses to shake his head. he must be losing it. (it’s boring out here, and his mind’s finally given up the ghost.)

he grips his wrench tighter all the same.

he finally rounds a patch of thick pines, and as he takes in the view his jaw drops in a display of surprise that hasn’t caught him dead in years. in front of him, covered in earth, countless branches, and skewered trees, lies a being made of sheer plated metal.

ratchet takes a second. he shakes his head in disbelief. he blinks his eyes once, twice; shakes his head again — and, well, the view still hasn’t changed. he blinks one more time just for good measure, then picks up his jaw from the forest floor. he mentally starts to assess the scene in front of him with both an engineer’s and medic’s eye as he steps closer, wrench still held high for (ahem.) reasons.

(listen, he’s still not willing to play chicken with a higher power, alright?)

the majority of the large plates that make up the figure’s external armor are severely dented, scuffed to hell, and some are full-on buckling. there’s also a luminescent pink sort of liquid dripping from multiple cracks and scrapes, spreading quickly across forest floor and coating its surface in a glowing, iridescent sheen.

he can also hear the telltale crackle of electric currents running unchecked even as he catalogs multiple sparking wires, and he makes sure to avoid those with full caution until he can come back with proper gear. (and oh, God. he’s already thinking about coming back, isn’t he.) above it all, the smell of smoke still hangs in the air as it slowly rises off superheated metal.

upon closer inspection, he can make out grey and white paint underneath all the dirt, scrapes, and pink liquid. the colored paint seems to alternate between armor panels here and there to provide some aesthetic effect, and there’s yellow accents and teal trim that seem to be faintly glowing, lit from underneath by some internal power source. ratchet definitely puts its overall frametype down as humanoid adjacent, as he rounds the figure’s side and finally makes out an arm, along with a head.

the arm itself looks like it’s barely hanging on, a throughly busted shoulder joint leading down to an extended claw-tipped hand, as if to brace itself for the crash. the head, meanwhile, has a series of white finials that frame a dark grey faceplate with shut optics, and a bashed-in nose ridge and open mouth with pink liquid trickling out of both to nicely round off the list.

and with that note, he remembers hearing whispers about a project that had been floating around for months before he left the war (and moved to his chosen place of reclusion) but he never put much stock in them — the government was always trying to spread things and elevate itself, constantly fighting a battle with their ever tenuous self-righteous image.

nevertheless, the thing he’s looking at now proves that maybe someone out there did follow through on their promises, and although he does have questions, concerns, and a whole lot of notes, this figure is a thing of ingenuity and marvel. the engineer in him is absolutely thrilled, eager to examine its joints, wiring, and materials — to get deep under plating and find how it ticks.

his eyes are wide as he reaches a hand out to carefully examine the being’s faceplate with an appraising hum, the material looking softer compared to the hardier metal of its armored frame. it had to be some kind of polysynth mesh, perceptor was working on a similar project back whenever he had time in the labs —

the being’s left optic cracks open without warning, drowning ratchet in crimson light as it looks around wildly, trying to orient itself. it zeroes in on him a second later, and he yanks his hand back as he raises his wrench, instinctively retreating a few paces.

the optic moves, looking him up and down, and bathes him in light for a few moments as ratchet breathes in and out, steadying himself, his hands firm as his eyes stare back into unforgiving red.

the being scans him one more time, and lets out a sigh as its optic closes. a rush of air escapes its whole frame as it finally settles, sinking further into the ground.

ratchet slowly pulls himself out of whatever… that was, and after a moment of deliberation he lowers the wrench, reaching forward again to tap on the being’s faceplate, more sure that this time it won’t wake up.

the face is indeed soft underneath his fingers and warm to the touch, with a cool undertone as he gently strokes it. it’s definitely some kind of polysynth material, and as he stands there, wrench at his side and other tools weighing his pockets, stroking the face of a metal figure that, effectively, crash landed in his backyard, ratchet comes to a decision. he’s going to help.

(oh, he’s kidding himself. he was always going to. he’s hardwired for it, and besides, how else is he supposed to get his kicks since he left those slaggers at back at base? damn if he doesn’t miss orion, though.)

besides, this is the most exciting thing that’s happened since he moved, and there’s no way he’s letting something like this just sit out here among the trees.

he strokes the being’s face one more time, and lets out a sigh of his own. “well, scrappy, guess i’ll be back,” and here, he grins slightly at himself. “don’t go anywhere.”

mind made up, he turns and starts to make his way back. he’s got tools to collect, a sandwich to grab, a few calls to make, and something brand new waiting for him to pick apart.

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i hope someone enjoyed !! feel free to ask questions, i’d be happy to answer them, and i’ll definitely have more of this au coming soon !!

(p.s. sorry for the tag, keferon !! just wanted to make sure and give credit <33)

fic title is adapted from “halo” by starset ! it’s very dratchet coded.

now with chapter two !!

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• character credits belong solely to their respective franchises and creators. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not repost, republish, or steal my works without explicit permission, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[kalelactually]

“From Palestine to the Phillipiness…Stop the US war machine” seen in Mexico City

[kalelactually]

so so happy ravi is coming home i missed him :(

[kalelactually]

second chapter of ratchlock mecha au !! you can find the first one on my tumblr profile or my ao3 — as always, inspired by @keferon ‘s mecha au, based on pacific rim !! check out their blog, it’s full of delicious art. :3

chapter summary :: in which ratchet swears and has a vaguely southern accent, deadlock still hasn’t woken up, and the author uses the phrase “back to the garage” a ridiculous amount of times. heavily sprinkled with apostrophes.

thx for reading, enjoy !!! <33

fun little note: read ratchet’s voice and thoughts with a southern accent / drawl. it makes for an exhausted, no bs kind of hilarity. i can’t explain it to you, but trust me. XD

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• send out a signal, and i’ll fly low (i’ll find you by the light of your halo) — chapter two

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Ratchet stands on a log that’s halfway suspended off the ground, the figure splayed out in front of him (he’s hoping the height will give him a better vantage point to visually assess priority injuries.) He’d just made a run to the garage and hauled back whatever supplies Lassie (his all-terrain rover) could fit.

(And listen, he didn’t pick the name, that was all First Aid — affectionately named due to her wide dual antennae and Rough Collie color scheme. Ratchet kind of loves it, but don’t tell Aid. He’ll get ideas.)

Wheelie (one of his med drones, also named by Aid. big surprise,) flits around overhead, actively taking visuals of the figure and digitizing partial schematics based off those. He chirps inquisitively from the side, systems whirring as Ratchet jams a hastily-assembled sandwich in his mouth (he forgot to eat it on the way.)

According to Ratchet’s initial assessment, the figure appears not to have any sort of respiration system — sure, there’s external vents on the figure’s upper torso, but there’s no circulatory air flow or chest rise and fall to indicate lungs. That, fortunately, takes two major concerns out of play.

Having finished his sandwich, Ratchet jumps off the log to reassess the mouth and airway. The airway’s still patent, and Ratchet’s pleased to note that the pink liquid dripping out of the mouth and nose seems to have clotted on its own.

And the fact that the liquid stopped flowing on its own indicates that the being likely has some type of clotting factor, or self-diagnostic repair system — which in turn indicates some type of independent processes, and a partial measure of intelligence. And while it might be a new branch of A.I. programming or something similar he hasn’t come across yet — he gets the feeling that isn’t just a new software. (Honestly, either way, he still notes it down with a carefully restrained glee.)

No, something in his gut is telling him that this — this figure, being, or whatever it is — is simply just different. True, it could be some experimental military hardware or equipment, like a remote-controlled mecha suit (which was his initial hunch) but this thing? No. This thing’s alive — and he thinks it’s sentient.

(And this thought, if verbalized to anyone else, might have them look at him like he’s crazy and send him in for a couple rounds of psych. And like, he loves Chromedome and his sweetheart of a husband, but he’d rather not, thanks.)

He doesn’t know how to explain it. He just knows. However, based on that hell of an assumption — he’s currently making a lot of choices that could and will come back to bite him later. (Such as not reporting whatever the hell happened in the last two hours to someone who can actually do something about… well, whatever this thing is. Patient? Yeah, patient works.)

He shakes his head, forcing himself out of it. He’ll have more than enough time to second guess his decisions later. Right now, he has a patient, and that’s all he’s ever needed to know.

Having already felt the being’s neck earlier to try and detect any type of pulse (and come up with nothing,) he moves on to assess and neutralize any major fluid leaks as best he can before transport. He marks down the worst bits of exposed internals and hot spots as he does.

The figure’s broken shoulder joint will have to be stabilized before he can even think about transport, and when he shifts the being’s right arm (with the help of Wheelie,) he finds deep lacerations running through the upper abdomen. (And it. It looks bad. Like it was shredded — like someone took claws to it.)

Ratchet’s not going to even begin to unpack that. Unfortunately, there’s not much he can do for the abdomen at the moment without a welder, but he clamps torn fuel lines and caps exposed wiring in an attempt to buy time.

He takes a moment and sends out an alert for the rest of the med drones to meet them at the site, inputting coordinates with one hand and grabbing a sample jar with the other, an easy confidence in his posture that radiates experience.

And meanwhile the glee from earlier keeps coming back, growing up his spine the more he examines the being’s mechanics (mechanics that someone, somewhere) crafted and poured into them. He runs his fingers down a seam, featherlight in a kind of reverence — even bashed and dented to high heaven, this figure is a vision.

He drops his hand as he catches himself — he still has a patient here, and they’re not getting any better out here exposed to the elements. He really needs to get his priorities straight — he hasn’t slipped like this at a scene since his very early days, when everything was still new, fresh, and stimulating. His entirely professional mechanic’s awe (and mild jealousy) over the being’s construction can keep.

He carefully takes a sample of the pink liquid, catching it in the sample jar as it drips directly from an open line in the being’s dislocated shoulder just before he binds it closed. He tucks the jar safely in his bag, wrapping it in shop towels just in case it decides to corrode its container. It hasn’t shown any signs of corrosion to the nearby environment or his work gloves so far, but you can never be too careful.

(The incident at Jasper Base II comes to mind. Some people could benefit from basic lab rules. Why, yes, he is looking at you, Wheeljack.)

That taken care of, he grabs some construction grade rebar and an extra tarp he had lying around to use as a temporary splint. With Wheelie’s help, he ends up being able to stabilize the shoulder relatively easily, despite the being’s size (and current state of unhelpfulness.)

And once that’s complete, he decides he’s finished what he can, quickly packing up the site. The figure’s as stable as they’re going to get before transport, and the drone squad is almost here — there’s absolutely the concern of more going on with the figure internally that he can’t ascertain, and he needs to get them in for extensive scanning like, yesterday.

He puts in another call to Orion while he waits — but just like earlier when he called at the garage, Orion still doesn’t pick up. And while Ratchet’s never been one for paranoia (that was always Red Alert’s thing,) he’s starting feel something chewing away at the back of his brain. Something feels off about this whole situation (aside from the huge, hulking metal figure,) and he’s never been one to discount his intuition.

(Mostly because it’s hard-earned — but also because he has the skills, knowledge, and temperament to back it up.)

He taps the figure’s undamaged shoulder carefully (as if to acknowledge that they’re still there and very much real,) sighing loudly. The whole shift of his body changes as he does, exhaustion coloring his bones for the first time since he stumbled across a figure in the woods. He glances up at the figure’s face a second later, looking for any hint of consciousness, something to tell him that they’re alive, and listening.

“Hey. I don’t know if you can hear me, but,” and he pauses for a second. “Well, weirder things have happened. Hopefully you’re just out cold — you better not be in a coma or something, because I have no idea how to pull you out. I do not get paid enough for that.”

He watches Wheelie flit around Lassie, her antennae moving up and down as she tracks the drone’s movements, and if Ratchet didn’t know better he’d say they were playing like a couple of kids. Cute, carefree, and oblivious to the world around them that witnessed upheaval only a few hours ago. He continues.

“I hope you’ve got a name. Mine’s Ratchet, in case you were wondering. It’s military,” (and that part is said longsufferingly.) “I’ve just been calling you Scrappy in my head. I hope that works for you, because until you wake up, or come out of stasis, or whatever, that’s what you got.”

He absentmindedly starts brushing dried mud and old paint off the being’s arm as he talks. “And you better wake up soon, kiddo, I got questions. My best friend isn’t answering my calls, which means you’re gonna be stuck with ‘em; so please, be prepared. I’ve got a notebook stash to rival Alpha Trion’s and a 82 year old whiskey cellar on hand, so you better have some answers,” and here, he uncovers some gray paint, voice trailing away as he brushes off more dirt. His eyes widen, eyebrows raising as he reads.

“D34D106K, huh?” and he lets out a whistle. “Hell of a name, if that is, actually, your name. Well,” and he shrugs, “gives me somewhere to start, I guess.

He pats D34D106K on the arm consolingly. Damn, and if that isn’t a mouthful — Scrappy’s better, honestly.

“Can’t make any promises, of course, kiddo, but I’ll do my best to find out what happened to you.” He glances down at his PADD, glaring at Orion’s contact without any real heat. “That is, if my best friend ever feels like calling me back.”

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thx again for reading !! appreciate each and every one of you. <33

disclaimer :: i am not an engineer, a mechanic, or a programmer; i know nothing of which i speak. but i do happily take feedback, so if something seems wildly off, pls let me know and i’ll go bother my mechanic relatives until i figure it out.

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• character credits belong to hasbro, idw comics, and the respective transformers franchise. all works enclosed are solely my own, and are purely fictional and meant for the enjoyment of the reader. please do not republish, steal, or likewise pass off my works as your own in any manner, otherwise you will be blocked and reported. ty !! •

[kalelactually]

"Do I look like him?"

[kalelactually]

M-miss nami sir...

[kalelactually]

Optimus still tries to run towards the eye of the storm.

Song: Waiting on the Sky to Change - Starset

[kalelactually]

okay tf fandom i have a question cuz this has bugged me for YEARS. confused rant incoming.

ratchet’s alt is an ambulance. i mean, obviously. BUT — ambulances are rather large regardless of alt mode origin, like earth or cybertron.

now i know a lot of people like to draw or depict drift (and/or other characters) as being the same height or taller than ratchet. which is fair, and i’ve seen so much absolutely lovely art!

but what do ambulances do? they transport.

now, is ratchet’s alt designed to transport cybertronians? on earth, when they take on an earth vehicle form, presumably not. however, i think i remember an g1 ep where either ratchet (or ironhide??) load and transport one of the minibots in their alt mode.

so is his earth mode still capable of cybertronian transport, even if only one of a minicon / minibot size? and going off of that, was that the same back on cybertron — he could transport, but only those of a particular size? or does he have some kind of mass displacement drive, either one he can utilize on his patients or himself?

am i just overthinking this or missing some obvious fact? (probably.)

conclusion :: if ratchet can transport cybertronians in his alt mode, it stands to reason that he would be of a certain bulk and height. aka, he would be taller than drift — who has a sports car alt (even if drift’s alt is modded and muscled.) anyway, it’s always seemed to me that because of this, their size difference should be reversed.

all this to say — i would love to see drift as a small, slender, will o’ the wisp thing in comparison to ratchet’s bulk.

please share your thoughts!

(also, someone please let me know if this seems inaccurate, or if i’m missing something. thank you <33)

— • edit :: this is purely from my own personal viewpoint !! there is nothing wrong with different depictions of ratchet and/or drift — that’s part of what makes fandom so fun to be in !! keep drawing, writing, etc., all variations of media and your favorite characters are welcome here. <33 • —

[kalelactually]

Sometimes I give Ace the "Dead Wife" treatment