#Functionalists suck

[spacemothsota]

Cybertron Cybersphere

You know, we don't know much about the era of Cybertron when the tribes ruled, as well as about the worldbilding back then. We know about this period very vaguely, foggily, it seems like some bots should have been around during those times, but they don't really talk about them (we only have five really old mechs: Nova Prime, Cyclonus, Jhiaxus, Galvatron, and Dai Atlas ), not to mention the Thirteen, damn it, guys pulled Cybertron out of barbarian times, maybe you could throw in some info about what was before you? It's just that this time can't be nothing and emptiness, you know? Alpha Trion, am I looking at you? You were supposed to keep history like no? Okay, tribes, okay, but what about the world outside of this? A small conclusion I can make is that Cybertron was a pretty deserted place back then, but not devoid of life. I like to speculate a lot and although the organic approach doesn't really fit with metallic life forms, why not speculate a little on the topic.

Sometimes I think that in reality, before the industrialization we see in the comics and the unification of tribes in the past, Cybertron had a very unique biosphere (cybersphere? mechasphere? I don't know). My idea is based on such small things as the existence of acid rain, dust storms, "sorrow flowers". (I wanted to include crystals and Praxus gardens, but I couldn't find canon information about it).

Just imagine what kind of crystalline or metallic "plant" structures this world could have. It could be something familiar to us, like flowers and trees, or something completely unusual for people. Flowers made of crystals or metals useful for the developing culture of Cybertron. We know that there are flowers of sorrow that form from the remains of Cybertronian sparks, but imagine more complex cyber vegetation. Trees, flowers, bushes, vines, etc. Deserts, steppes… And although trees, for example, do not make much sense within the framework of Cybertron as a source of oxygen, like our Earth, could they have a structure with fruits full of energon? (Why not, that would be interesting). As for the "climate" zones, they generally would not exist, but given that Cybertron is Primus, it should also have zones with uneven heating, for example. Simply put, some zones may be warmer than others, but there are no sharp temperature drops on Cybertron. (I'm not a big fan of thinking that Cybertron is cold, maybe during the war it was like that because Primus almost kicked the bucket there. So probably during the war Cybertron was cold and a bit lifeless. Yes, my whole idea is based on the fact that Primus, a damn living giant and essentially the differences on the surface would be just what is needed to support his creations and himself. You know… As a single well-coordinated organism).

Incidentally, this would explain acid rain and dust storms, which would be the result of the disruption of the cybersphere and growing industrialization.

Because we don't know much about Cybertronian animals, sometimes I guess that Cybertronians were part of this system too (we know that there are turbofox, but if there are them, then we can speculate more about it). Each would occupy its natural "ecological" niche to maintain an equal balance for the work of Cybertron. From seekers in the sky like birds, to motorcycles (in my imagination they would look like cheetahs) or insecticons (in my imagination they are something like orderlies and protectors of the depths of Cybertron). Of course, with the development of Cybertronians, this faded into the background, industrialization absorbed the nature of Cybertron, leaving only a part in the wild areas. This would actually give unique interaction patterns for Cybertronians, between the bots' relationships with different altforms due to their past niche placement (Functionalists can go to hell, because their system is extremely industrial and denied the need for any given frame to exist for the well-being of their world. Thanks, no one likes extinction). It would also give more ideas for behavioral traits and cultures of different frames (thanks to the bird-like Seekers, I love them). I don't really have a precise diagram of what type of bot would do what in the "ecosystem", so I'll leave that up to you! Just remember that they are sentient and not animals, but Primus still needs them all to live a peaceful life.

In general, I have another idea related to this, concerning the Titans. In my opinion, the Titans are something like megafauna? These guys have such a large size and strength due to the fact that Cybertron does not have the same level of gravity as on Earth, they probably do not experience the feeling of being “heavy” (the same with other large bots like shuttles, etc.). Since their function is to preserve, distribute and found colonies, in essence, they would probably prefer “ecologically” clean places for their rest and the formation of settlements. Just imagine how the ancient Cybertronians see how Titan has calmly settled in a good place to rest and are like “Oh, since he settled there, this is a great place for prosperity and the founding of a settlement! Thanks a lot bro, we will take care of your comfortable rest! And the cybersphere will also flourish here. Primus will be happy”

Giaent cat found nice plase for rest

In short, the cycle of life and well-being, where everyone is needed. (I like the idea that everyone is connected to each other, it would solve all the problems with belittling and the system of damn functionalism.)

To hell with Functionalism and their caste system, that stuff doesn't work.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival part 10 Finale

First contact, take two.

Go check out @keferon as the creator of the AU!

———————————————————————

Prowl stared at the lifeless body on the floor.

Visor dim, chest closed. Were it not for the absolute silence it offered, one might, without listening closely, assume it was merely an unconscious mech.

He ran the numbers again.

Odds of Survival 17%

The edge of his desk pressed a hard line against the backs of his legs and the palms of his servos. A steadily growing back log of frantic comms messages plinked across his processor like marbles rolling down a flight of stairs.

Red Alert: 13 messages and counting.

Velocity: 2 messages.

Elita One: 3 messages. . . 4 messages.

Odds of Survival 15%

Knocking- no, banging at the door. Red Alert, 76%.

Muffled, “Prowl open the door!”

“Answer your comms!”

“What’s happening in there?!”

Red Alert, 99%.

Slowly, Prowl moved his doorwings in a slow arch, quadruple checking that everything in his office was exactly where he needed it to be. Maximizing his chances.

“Open the door. Now.”

Elita (98%) was still speaking to him and not physically breaking into the room by force.

Odds of Survival 20%.

Without looking away from the body, Prowl unlocked the door to his office.

Guarded and cautious, the captain and security officer entered the room. Elita had a weapon drawn, but kept her blaster aimed at the floor, locking onto the body with an iron focus.

Conversely, Red Alert sucked in a vent at the sight, immediately raking his optics over every visible surface, searching frantically for signs of danger.

“What happened-how’d he get in here-who’s he work for-why’d you stop responding-where has he been-WHAT HAPPENED?!”

The mech was practically bouncing off the walls, static crackling with enough excess charge to diffuse the room with a heavy scent of ozone. The only reason Red Alert wasn’t currently tearing the place apart already was the way he looked at every object like a potential improvised explosive.

Ignoring the smaller mech, Elita ordered an answer, “Prowl. Explain. Now.”

His fans were audibly running high. Prowl did nothing to mask the obvious sign of stress. He carefully recited his script.

“Roughly one cycle ago, I rescued an unconscious mech from deep space after he’d fallen from a quintesson gate tear. He was friendly, albeit very unfamiliar with his surroundings. Including some of the very common alien species on board our transport.”

Calmly, Prowl looked up to read the other mechs reactions so far. Elita was remaining mostly focused on the body, but sent a sidelong glance aimed towards the tactician. Meanwhile, Red Alert looked ready to burst, about to interrupt Prowls script.

“You may search my office as I explain.” The security chiefs engine practically growled by the fourth word of being given permission, and dove behind Prowls desk for frantic inspection.

The captain nodded her head for Prowl to continue.

“Over the course of our short time together, I collected more unusual details about this mech. Compiling them in an effort to better understand “Jazz” as he refers to himself.” With a flick, Prowl brought up the conspiracy board for Elita Ones review.

The blue glow helped illuminate the dimmed office interior.

The alternate Functionalist Creation Theory was already deleted, leaving just the alien theory.

“On route towards the pick up location, Jazz, through somewhat clunky common, explained he was built specifically to fight quintessons. This claim immediately became verifiable when we were attacked by a not inconsiderable quintesson force.”

His doorwing twitched another scan.

Without turning around, Prowl knew the exact moment Red Alert discovered Jazz’s shoulder piece he’d stashed in his desk to be found. The sound of sudden disgust followed by a dropped clunk was reassurance enough.

“He then saved my life, multiple times and at significant injury to his own frame, as you are no doubt aware of Captain.” She did in fact look more closely at the fresh welds along the shoulder she’d seen barely clinging on not forty breems ago.

“After sustaining these injuries, I assisted Jazz with some basic field repairs. During which I discovered they had no previous experience with anesthetic and generally seemed to expect significantly harsher treatment than what I would consider “normal or ethical” medical care.”

Prowl vented, nodding towards the screen. “Bluestreak can verify the accuracy of these statements. There are some transcripts of our conversations on the board as well.”

Faintly, Prowl could hear Red Alert mouth the words, “ -don’t always die either, sometimes they just go crazy??” in quiet horror.

Odds of Survival 25%

The increase steadied Prowl slightly as he continued. “On our way to the medbay, Jazz expressed some anxiety over being treated by a professional. He-“

The praxian swallowed.

Prowl couldn’t really act, but luckily he didn’t have to. “He requested not be restrained or sedated, and gave- permission, to use force against him if he did become.. ungovernable.”

For the first time, Prowl released a servo from the desk and used it to gesture broadly to the whole situation.

It fell somewhat limp at his side.

“Velocity preformed the necessary repairs, noting a sudden decline in Jazz’s language capabilities as well as strong evidence for prior medical abuse.”

“Shortly afterwards, Jazz temporarily fled the medbay.”

That eleven letter word was a load bearing component of Jazz’s survival.

Some of the tension returned to the room as they were all reminded of the inciting incident. Prowl had significant practice in withdrawing his emotions, and now more than ever did he need to appear neutral.

“Jazz escaped by utilizing a strong magnetic grip to both damage the locks as well as scale the ceiling through the blind spots of the cameras. He traveled only a short distance into Rune’s office, where the therapist was able to talk him down somewhat. Jazz then sought to “tell me something important” encountering Whirl along the way.”

Red Alert had finished tearing apart Prowls desk, and was now carefully inching his way closer to the body still on the floor. Hesitantly, as if it could strike without warning.

Prowl resisted the urge to tense.

“Both mechs can corroborate the timeline. Shortly after, I discovered Jazz lost in the halls and brought him to the nearest room I had control over. My office.”

Inspecting the frame for subspace pockets it didn’t have, the security chief crackled lightly with frustration.

Snippily, Red Alert snapped at him, “So the oil pot got you alone, in your office no less, under the pretenses of distress JUST like I said he would.”

“Red Alert.” The smaller mech jolted but looked his Captain in the optics. Elita One held a steady, cold Calm over the room. Her field not to be overruled. “Have you found anything yet?”

“Well, no. But I haven’t looked everywhere.”

The Captain silenced him with a raise of her hand. “Then finish your search, and Prowl will finish his report.”

She nodded for them both to resume their parts.

Odds of Survival 33%

The tactician nodded gratefully in return.

“Jazz was behaving irrationally. Nervous. Confused. He made statements that didn’t make sense and given his helm injury, I had strongly suspected he was crashing. Or his species equivalent to it.”

Prowl watched very carefully as Red Alert finished his search, faster than expected. The total lack of any signs of life coupled with the mention of crashing made the mech’s optics go impossibly wide. “Did he- is he?”

Prowl passively waved his servo at the body. “He’s not dead, although by cybertronian standards it may appear that way. This state is relatively normal from what Velocity has noted.”

“So if you thought he was having a medical emergency, why didn’t you call for help?” The captain didn’t quite relax, but did seem to accept Jazz wasn’t going to spring up at any moment.

No no no no. Please god no.

Prowl snapped out of the memory. Once more resetting his optics.

“He. . asked me not to. I chose not to risk agitating him or his injury further.” Prowl’s wings twitched minutely, tracking Red Alerts movement towards Greens habitat.

“And then?”

“He confessed to me he was an alien.” Prowl stated mirthlessly.

For the first time Elita took her eyes off the body, cycling her optics and turning towards Prowl, who could only press his mouth into a thin line.

“Jazz was totally unaware he was completely isolated on an unknown alien vessel. At least until very recently.” Prowl finished.

There was a flicker of some other emotion through Elita’s field. He’s had enough people pity him to recognize the sensation.

A yelp from Green’s habitat had both Prowl and Elita One rounding on Red Alert. The mech was clutching his servo like it’d been lacerated.

“It tried to bite me! It tried to bite me!”

Sure enough, a low throaty hiss emanated from the top of Green’s enclosure. The flyt glared down over the edge of her highest platform at the short mech. Her crest and throat were flushed a dark purple with territorial fury.

“An erratic mech is forcibly intruding on her personal space. The urge to bite is a sympathetic one.” Prowl growled, stood in the center of his completely overturned office.

“Leave the damn flyt alone Red. Prowl, get to the fragging point.” At last, Elita holstered her weapon, glowering at them both.

Odds of survival 45%

The tactician turned back to the captain, “Between the shock, exhaustion and his injuries, I believe Jazz went into his species version of an involuntary shutdown. I have done everything I can to stabilize him from crashing.”

He rubbed his helm where his own would-be crash had wanted to form, “I have the relevant experience.”

Elita One studied Prowls face with a piercing gaze. Narrowing slightly.

“Why did you stop responding to comms for almost a full breem?”

His fans still running on high, helm burning and sensor net itching, Prowl put all his will into suppressing any exhaustion born sass.

“I nearly crashed.”

“You nearly crashed.” Elita reiterated.

Prowl nodded.

The captain considered this for a time.

“Red Alert, I want this ship deep cleaned. Full search and scan from top to bottom. Get the ceilings covered and figure out something for the locks to counter the super magnet situation.”

Optics brightening to luminosity of head lights, Red Alert stammered in reply, “E-even your quarters Captain?”

Elita looked like she was contemplating the taste of a fistful of nails, rolling her optics as she grit out, “Yes. This one time, and you explicitly do not have permission to place any form of surveillance inside.”

Red Alert saluted so hard he left a dent.

“YES CAPTAIN I WON’T MAKE YOU REGRET THIS CAPTAIN THANK YOU CAPTAIN!”

“Go!”

The red mech had his sirens blaring before his tires even hit the ground. Leaving the remaining mechs almost alone.

The sound of Elita One’s peds clacking against the metal floor made Prowl’s wings twitch.

Arms crossed, she stared the praxian down.

“Tell me everything you just redacted.”

Prowl did not immediately respond, still staring down at the body on the floor. His doorwings rotated satellite slow.

Without a word, Prowl took his weight off of the desk, walking up to Greens enclosure, where he gently pushed the flyt aside and collected what was hidden beneath her.

“This-“ Prowl cupped his servos around a small white and blue form, “is Jazz.”

——————

The logic cascade nearly consumed him.

Prowl was holding Jazz’s spark.

Jazz.

The mecha’s chest plate had opened. Revealing only the faintest glow within, washed out entirely by the harsh overhead lights of Prowls office.

Irrationally, Prowls higher functioning stalled out and his processor defaulted to some spark deep coding to make sense of what was happening.

He’s exposing his spark. He’s showing me his spark and he’s still crashing.

He’s going to crash and die with his fragging spark out in my office Oh fragging Primus Not here not like THIS.

A ringing.

Shrill and strangled. A dissonant sting.

An EM field.

Jazz’s EM field.

Faint. Faint but sharp, like an almost invisible shard of glass that only becomes known once it’s lodged itself beneath your armor.

The scream warbled and popped like a blown radio speaker. Some-thing fell forward from Jazz’s chassis.

His spark his spark his spark is falling out of his chest.

Jerking forward on instinct, Prowl cupped his servos and caught what wasn’t a spark- that’s not a spark this is NOT A SPARK.

A body, limp and silent. Tissue paper light in the way only non-metallic life forms can be.

It’s in his servos it’s in his servos it’s in his ser>%$.

Prowl was static. From his mind to his body. Pure static. Frozen yet screaming internally on his knees, staring down at everything that made Jazz alive.

He held the Spark-body-organic-not spark- Spark-SPARK-SPARK-ITS NOT JAZZ-NOT A SPARK ITS \#}>%*!? JAZZ-IT IS JAZ%-IT IS-IT IS- in his servos.

Gently.

Sparks Organics were very fragile.

He knew that. Prowl held onto that. Gently. Very gently.

He slotted the simple equation into place.

How to keep Jazz not-spark alive.

Odds of Survival. . .

——————

The weight in his palms felt imaginary. Too small to be real.

Yet here was Elita One as his witness. Thrown Off was a look seldom worn by the Captain and it was clearly an uncomfortable fit.

“This is Jazz?” She echoed Prowl, reaching out a servo to the unconscious whatever Jazz was.

The praxian stiffened, manually canceling the move to pull Jazz away from the other mechs reach. He didn’t, however, quite manage to cancel his vocalizer, a “Please be careful.” busting out despite himself.

Elita shot him an affronted look, plucking Jazz from his servos. “I know how to not kill an organic Prowl.”

She turned her servo over, using her thumb to roll the alien onto its back. “You let me hold Green.” She muttered.

“Green is much larger and I actually know what she is.” He was hovering, Prowl knew he was hovering and that Elita hated it when people hovered but it was really just a race to see who pissed off who first right now.

“Okay, okay, so what’s wrong with.. this one?”She gestured with the digit she was using to prod Jazz, closely examining the unconscious organic.

Not for the first time that day, Prowl rubbed a servo over his head, “I-I am unsure. It’s incredibly faint but he is breathing. I did mean it when I said I think he fainted from shock and possibly exhaustion. Organics typically require rest and fuel much more frequently than us and Jazz was extremely active for a highly extended period of time.”

Prowl cleared his vents, “At least, compared to a flyt. I do not have many other data points for comparison.”

Considering this, Elita frowned at the aliens inorganic casing and then at the motionless mecha on the floor. Definitely an aesthetic match. She considered something for a moment, frowning.

“Do you- Ew, ew, it’s twitching. Take it. Take it back.”

Not quite panicking, Elita effectively half-tossed half-dropped the alien back into Prowls anxious servos.

For several long and ancient clicks, neither mech moved, holding perfectly still as the alien shifted in Prowls servos.

Holding him like this, Prowl can feel Jazz’s field again. Faintly, like the sound of rustling branches on the edge of conscious hearing, the field tickled his palms. Unlike the mecha, Jazz’s visor wasn’t opaque, allowing Prowl to see the faint scrunch of his face and the way it smoothed out again once back in Prowl’s care.

His field dropped back into a near silent whisper.

Prowl made a ball of his servos, sealing off Jazz from anything else that might happen.

“We can set them up in a holding cell or something.” Elita said quietly, flicking her hand in exasperation. “Maybe under a glass bowl. I’ll arrange for someone else to handle questioning.”

The praxian straightened up at that, looking back to his captain, “Sir, I am the best suited to question Jazz.”

Arms crossing, Elita One gave Prowl an appraising look. “You said so yourself that you nearly just crashed. Why can’t anyone else do it?”

Nodding in understanding, Prowl pitched his counter argument, “As it stands, I have the best rapport with him. The only other mechs Jazz has met is Bluestreak, Velocity and yourself.”

“Jazz gets along with Bluestreak, however my brother is not well suited for interrogations.” Which wasn’t entirely true, Prowl kept to himself. Subjecting detainees to Bluestreaks small talk for several groons frequently made said individuals much more receptive to questioning by subsequent officers.

That currently didn’t help however.

“Velocity is a medic, which Jazz is terrified of and has zero experience with interrogations.” The knowledge of where this chaos began was still fresh. Fresher still was Prowl’s memory of Jazz pleading to not wake up on a table.

“And I mean no offense captain, but the last time Jazz saw you, you had threatened to rip off one of his arms and beat him with it.” Elita shrugged and gave Prowl a “Fair Enough” look.

“Statistically speaking, Jazz is most likely to answer honestly to someone he considers an ally. Regardless of how others may view my reputation, Jazz did specifically choose me to explain himself to before he lost consciousness.”

Venting, Elita considered the facts and stepped slightly closer. Prowl held his posture as formally as he could despite how his servos were positioned. The harsh look in his captains optics softened only slightly hearing his fans continue on high power.

“Are you sure you can handle this? Medically speaking?”

In a rare break of form, Prowl let his doorwings sink to a less physically taxing position. “The initial shock has passed. I will not crash.”

Probably. 67%.

Breaking eye contact, Prowl stared at the mess of data pads now scattered on his office floor. 85% of which was commissioned work directly from Megatron.

“I do not know how long it will take for Jazz to wake up. I do know I will not be very effective at my job until this is resolved.”

Finally stepping back, Elita had the look of someone using comms. “Officially, I’m putting you on medical leave for the next couple cycles. Megatron will have to make his own poor decisions for awhile.”

She paused by the body. “What do we do with this?”

It was heavier than it looked. Prowl knew now from experience. The mechs needed to remove it would add to the list of possible loose ends to an already sensitive situation.

“We can leave it for now. I will not allow Jazz access to it until I am more certain of his intentions.”

She hummed in response. Eyeing where Jazz was currently contained, Elita made her way to the door, “I need to go do damage control, alert me the instant their condition changes. Yours too.”

“Understood. And thank you. For listening.”

Awkwardly, Prowl looked anywhere but the captain, and Elita wordlessly waved him off. Both mechs quickly abandoned the moment of mutual care and thankfulness in favor of their usual personas.

Soon enough, Elita was gone.

Cracking open his hold, Prowl peeked at his alien charge.

Still sleeping.

Almost imperceptibly, Prowl could make out the slight rhythmic expansion of his chest. Limbs tucked close, Jazz was loosely curled on his side into a ball, showing no signs of waking.

Odds of Survival 63%.

The gauntlet was over, now it was all up to Jazz.

——————

Prowl lay slumped over on his desk.

His arms fenced in a pile consisting of every instant cold pack he kept in his office, which were currently arranged to completely bury his head.

After two and a quarter groons, the packs were mostly room temperature but the way they blocked out most light and sound was nice.

The door to Green’s habitat was left open. It was a risky move but a pleasant surprise that the flyt chose cuddles over consumption in regards to the small alien. Prowl hadn’t counted on her getting protective over the fellow organic, but it was certainly a relief.

Placing Jazz back in Greens nest seemed the safest option at the time. Soft but contained. Green certainly had no qualms and arranged herself as she saw fit. Prowl figured she must know more than him about this and let her be.

Currently, the flyt had started trilling happily. Prowls doorwings twitched. Scanning the room for the umpteenth time before relaxing again.

The only other sounds were the noises the Lost Light usually produced and Prowls own body functions.

It was quiet. As quiet as his office normally was anyways. The flyt continued her quiet song.

Actually, Green was trilling very loudly right now.

Then, Prowl picked up on a second, much stranger pitch.

Speech. Specifically speech in the tone of cooing.

Rising from his mountain of maladaptive coping, Prowl lethargically turned his helm to the habitat. The cooing continued unawares.

Standing now, Prowl looked into Greens nest to see what was going on.

The flyt had her beak almost tucked against her belly, forehead pressed against Jazz’s chest.

Awake, and lying on his back, the alien was reaching around the flyts comparatively massive head to scritch and scratch at the back of her neck. Paying special attention to the crease where Green’s crest met her head, causing the flyt to trill like crazy.

All the while, the alien matched her vocal tone, speaking absolute nonsense in his native language. {D’aww you like that big guy? Yes you do! You’re just a giant love bug aren’t you?}

It took a couple tries, but after several resets Prowl believed his optics were working.

The alien noticed him at last and smiled at him from around Green. “Oh hey Prowler!”

“Are-“ his voice clipped.

Resetting his vocalizer this time, Prowl tried again, “You are remarkably calm right now.”

Not stopping his ministrations, Jazz hummed nonchalantly, “Well yeah, s’not like this is real.”

Prowl felt he had underestimated Jazz’s capacity to screw with his head.

“What.” He searched for any signs that he had fallen into defrag. Finding none.

“You think this isn’t real?” Prowl asked incredulously.

Jazz raised an eyebrow, smiling at the tactician.

“Prowl. Babydoll. I’m petting a {dinosaur.}”

He said with the most “you serious right now?” look reserved for only the most ridiculous of questions.

Prowl, might, kill Jazz himself.

Very hide-able body.

Very feasible.

He’s hidden bigger.

Instead, Prowl schooled his emotions. He would not, under any circumstances, allow himself to loose control like he did during Jazz’s confession.

Bringing his servos together as if he was a praying mech, Prowl calmly asked, “Why do you think this isn’t real?”

Jazz shrugged, “I mean, which is more likely? That I fell through a space spanning portal only to be rescued by some handsome alien who’s entire species just so happens to look exactly like mechas? Or that going through that portal permanently damaged something in here?”

The alien pointed at his own head for emphasis, carrying on, “And this is all some end of life {hallucination} my brain came up with where I’m actually fine, dinosaurs are pet-able and robots turn into cars.”

Prowl stopped Tacnet before it could take the prompt. Because it would calculate those odds, it would agree with Jazz, and then Prowl would crash for real this time.

“Well then can you at least pretend this is actually happening?” He was getting angry. He was getting angry again and he needed to stop before he did any more damage.

His doorwings and servos shook from how tightly he was holding them. He would stay calm. He would stay calm.

His field was seeping out again, but Prowl now knew from experience that trying to stop it now would just cause whatever hold he had on it to break loose.

[PROWL]: Jazz is awake. I am handling it]

[ELITA-1]: Keep me appraised]

[ELITA-1]: If Jazz turns out to be a liability he’s gone, and you’re going to scour the outside of the shop for all those “listening devices” Red Alert is now freaking out about]

The cold packs had done wonders earlier and Prowl was about to undo all the good they’d done.

He let the anger stay but cool into something usable. “Listen to me.”

Prowl leaned in just close enough to feel the bare hint of Jazz’s field. It was still incomprehensible but maybe he’d understand Prowl’s.

“My boss is currently demanding to know what you and your intentions are, and if I can’t provide a satisfactory answer we’re both going out of an airlock.” Prowl hissed.

Jazz stilled.

He looked over Prowl again, then back to Green. A melody Prowl hadn’t been aware of juttered to a stop, and that reedy dissonant sting reappeared. The alien looked down wide eyed at Green, slowly raising his hands away from the massive animal.

“Oooooh Fuck me this is actually real.”

The wonderful scritches having suddenly stopped, Green clicked unhappily and shoved her forehead more forcefully against Jazz’s chest.

The alien wheezed as all the air in his body was forced out, eyes bulging and panicked. Jazz began rapidly tapping Greens head, trying to speak without breath, “Help. Help help help help help.”

“Green! To me!”

The flyt thankfully followed the hurried command, only needing to flap once to clear the distance between her nest and Prowls pauldron. The sudden gust of wind had Jazz jerking into a ball at the gale force buffeting.

Lightly keeping one servo on his flyt, Prowl leaned in close as he could to check Jazz over for damages.

No bodily fluids leaking, no screaming, still breathing. Good.

Jazz uncurled slowly, making intense eye contact as he pulled air back into his body.

He coughed, “Uh, hi.”

“Hello.” Prowl unconsciously copied the motion, clearing a vent, “Are you hurt?”

Jazz patted his chest in a few places, “Nothing broken. A little dizzy but I’ve felt worse.”

A little bit of relief went a long way right now, and Prowl pretty much sagged with it. “Good. Right. Now, if you could describe what insane circumstances resulted with you, inside of that, I would greatly appreciate an explanation.”

Prowl waved his free servo over to the mecha still on the floor. He didn’t miss the way Jazz’s eyes lit up seeing it and the following look of concentration as he suddenly realized how high up he was.

“Right, right. Okay, I’ll try.” Jazz swung his legs over the side of the nest, needing his arms to keep himself upright.

Idly, Prowl pet Green to keep her content on his shoulder, as Jazz centered himself to try and bridge the gap of misunderstanding.

———

About a decade and a half ago, my world started to end.

Giant fuck-off aliens descended across the Earth, destroying everything in their paths. They didn’t know the difference between cities and savannas, just plowed on through from one to the other. Maybe they actually did but it just wasn’t a difference that mattered.

That all changed once we fought back.

Conventional weapons worked at first, but then they started sending bigger, faster and meaner motherfuckers. The first wave didn’t care, just dug around in random places.

But the second wave?

We were fucked.

The biggest problem was that the thing’s barely cared what was attacking them. Civilian casualties skyrocketed. Fighter planes couldn’t keep their attention and tanks couldn’t maneuver well enough through the shattered landscape.

There was one thing the fuckers never seemed to ignore though.

Statues. Big ones.

Christ the Redeemer, The Statue of Liberty, if it was huge and human shaped the invaders would B-line for them.

One day some genius pitched the idea of J-Boy and Lady Libs bitch slapping some aliens, and most of the world was at the “Fuck It” stage anyways.

Next thing we know, there’s this, gigantic, fuckin’ robot stumbling around the West Coast.

The first ever mecha.

Built from hopes and dreams and I think a couple decommissioned battle ships, the Vanguard had one real job.

Draw away the invaders, take hits and probably blow up.

Story goes that one of the pilots decided this wasn’t going to be a suicide mission anymore.

They fought, and they won.

San Francisco. The first city to have more living than dead after an attack. My home.

After that day? The mecha program was officially formed. More mechas were made, more pilots were trained, and ten years later we’ve fought the invaders to a standstill.

Someone finally suggests taking the fight to them, and bada bing bada boom ya boy Jazz is getting shot into space.

———

“Then a, what was it, a quintessential showed up.”

“Quintesson.” Prowl corrected through his servos.

“Thank you! I kicked it in the face, we fell through the tear into some kind of command center. Everybody freaked out, somebody reactivated the portal machine thingy and well, you know the rest!” Jazz at last stopped emoting with his hands, letting them come to rest on his lap. His story complete.

Prowl had to get a chair halfway through.

He was not going to crash.

He fragging wasn’t.

The fact that his face was buried in his servos and that Green was anxiously trying to preen his chevron meant nothing.

He listened to Jazz say one insane thing, and put a pin in it. He then heard a second insane thing, and added a second, larger pin.

And so on.

There where quite a lot of pins at this point and Prowl wasn’t entirely sure how to grab just one without poking himself on another.

His fans were on again.

The tactician wiped his servos down his face, “Who- who are your allies? How many planets does your kind control?”

Meeting his gaze, Jazz frowned. “Do you mean alien allies? Cause no, it’s just us. One people, one planet.” He said holding up a solitary finger.

Currently Jazz was sat on the floor, leaning against Greens nest. Earlier, the pilot had tried to stand briefly but nearly collapsed. Waving off Prowl’s concern with an “I’m fine! This is normal.”

One. More. Pin.

“Hell, you’re the first alien I’ve ever met that didn’t want me dead.”

Shaking his helm in disbelief, Prowl started cutting back logic branches that’d surely result in a cascade. “This, this is a lot to process.”

Jazz had the audacity to laugh, “Hey, you’re tellin’ me.”

Eyes roving Prowl’s frame, Jazz sat up a bit straighter as they realized something.

The alien rubbed the back of his neck, “Uh, I’d like to also apologize. For what happened earlier.”

Resting his elbows on his knees, the space around Prowl’s optics tightened, “Yes. Well, I did not behave in a manner I will ever be particularly proud of either. I assure you I do not usually loose control like that.”

“I hope you can forgive me.” Staring at the floor between his peds, Prowl’s doorwings fell low in apology. He was so caught up in his own self righteous rage he’d screamed down at a mech who’d needed him. Who trusted him.

Jazz however, just seemed confused. “What? You didn’t do anything wrong, I was the one getting all handsy on the bridge.”

The praxian snapped up straight.

“Right. That. I also, yes. That.”

“In my defense,” Jazz raised his hands and bowed his head, “I thought you were a guy in a suit like me. Didn’t know I was actually grabbing the real you.”

Resetting his vocalizer, he spoke much more quietly. “Yes, well. It was an understandable mistake.”

“Still would though.”

“What?”

“What?”

They stared at each other in silence for several clicks.

For all his expressiveness, Jazz had a way of totally shutting off any visible tells the second he wanted to. The only tell of any kind was a practiced deceptively neutral smile beneath his visor. His mouth twitched.

The silence finally broke when Jazz growled.

Immediately leaning back defensively, Prowl wrinkled his nose when Jazz started laughing like crazy, snorting a bit before finally loosing steam.

Taking deep breaths, Jazz closed his eyes.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t directed at you. My stomach does that when I haven’t eaten in a while.” He rolled his head over to look at Prowl, eyes peeking back open. “Could’ya help me back to my mecha? I’ve got some rations in there.”

Prowl was already moving his servo inside before he could think better of it. From there, Jazz did not so much climb as he did roll over onto Prowls open palm. Sitting crisscrossed.

Something faintly like a pleasant hum touched his field.

Once out of the enclosure, the tactician studied the now conscious creature curiously. Bright eyed and without hiding it, Jazz studied him as well. A melody he didn’t recognize played against the pulse of his wrist.

He found that if he turned Jazz just the right way, the light from the theory board would turn his visor opaque. Every time he turned Jazz back, the visor cleared, and the subtle shock of sudden eye contact had him repeating the motion. Prowl got lost in trying to find the exact angle where Jazz was halfway between hidden and revealed.

Every time he did, Jazz would shift almost imperceptibly. Hidden and revealed again at his own discretion.

They stood there together, longer than either had expected.

Eventually, it was Prowl’s turn to break the silence, “You trust me. Why?”

Finally moving towards the mecha, there must have been some proximity sensor on Jazz’s person that triggered the chest plates to open.

Wings fluttering, Prowl subconsciously averted his gaze as Jazz scooted off his servo and into the cavity. The sound of tiny boots clanking.

Still not looking, he heard Jazz answer, “Breaking it down into three layers, there’s number one: I don’t exactly have any other options.”

A quick doorwing scan revealed the incredibly complex interior of Jazz’s suit, which somehow felt even more inappropriate than openly staring. Prowl pinned his wings together and stared resolutely at the ceiling.

“Number two: If you were going to kill me, you would have by now.” The sound of Jazz rustling around in their mecha abruptly stopped as the pilot spoke to Prowl more directly. “Hey, you good?”

Determined not to address this right now, Prowl simply shook his head. “I’m fine. Continue.”

He could almost hear Jazz thinking at this point, “Oooh right, the open chest cavity is probably pretty gross for you huh?”

Prowl squinted harder at the ceiling, “Not. Exactly.”

Jazz made some sort of noise of interest but thankfully choose to leave it for now. Instead, Prowl felt him clamber back onto his servo and heard the chest plates close back up.

Prowl finally looked back down at the human who’d gathered a backpack full of supplies. He carried him back to his desk and sat, releasing the small alien and leaning down low to look him in the face.

Jazz smiled back at him, “Reason number three: I like you.”

Prowl reset his optics and swore that made Jazz smile even harder. “Why?”

“Beats me.” Jazz shrugged, pulling out some ration packages.

“It’s probably a bunch of little things all added together. Super smart, fun to piss off, likes animals, can hold down a job, didn’t freak out and squash me like a bug. Hard to say for certain, but yeah, I like you.”

That was an exceptionally rare opinion to hear.

Gradually, Prowl began to feed all the information Jazz had provided into Tacnet in an effort to focus on more productive things.

There was an alien species capable of monumental destruction currently at war with the quintessons. Jazz liked him. Jazz held a favorable opinion of Prowl and could possibly be convinced to view Cybertronians in general with similar affability. Jazz was a fantastic ally on the field. There were multiple other fighters like Jazz on his home planet. They might also be convinced to “like” cybertronians.

The entire reason Prowl had been in deep space that cycle was because he was on a mission to find potential allies with other alien civilizations.

On the transport back, Prowl had written the mission off as an abject failure. Organics generally either hated Cybertronians, or feared them to the point of uselessness.

And yet.

Prowl crossed his arms on the table, getting more comfortable.

[PROWL]: My original mission has become a tentative success]

[PROWL]: Jazz has been cooperative so far, and if we can verify everything he’s told me, we could potentially form a highly favorable alliance with his people]

[ELITA-1]: He’s not freaked out about being tiny and squish-able any more? How’d you get him to talk?]

[PROWL]: I simply listened. He’s a shameless flirt]

[ELITA-1]: What]

[PROWL]: I will elaborate later. I am technically on medical leave still]

[ELITA-1]: Prowl what]

A rare sense of smugness filled Prowls field. He watched as Jazz played keep-away with Green for his limited rations. To give him some peace, he recovered the flyt, and Prowl set his mind to finding this Earth as soon as possible.

———

Jazz folded his hands behind his head, staring blankly at the star map.

“So?” Prowl prompted.

The human looked relaxed, maybe almost disinterested, however that dissonant ringing sting was back in his field. “I have no idea what I’m looking at.”

Fine. Fine. This was fine.

The map probably wasn’t formatted in a way Jazz was used to viewing. Prowl skipped around through a few other maps, landing on some deep space photographs instead. “Okay, well, what’s the farthest your species has traveled into space?”

“Our planets moon.” Jazz smiled in a tight-eyed sort of way with too many teeth.

Prowl stalled out, “I- How?!? How does your species have the technological development to create drivable weapons shaped like people but you lack the technology to reach past your own moon? What method of space travel are you using where the moon is the limit?”

“Big missiles.”

The tactician slowly raised his servos to his face.

“Jazz.”

“Yeah Prowler?” He said with faux casualness.

“When you said that you, and I quote, “got shot into space.” Prowl took a long deep vent. “You were being literal?”

At the very least Jazz had the decency to look sheepish. Risking a glance, he saw Prowl’s irises spinning like crazy again.

The tactician brought his chevron back down to his most used pillow, his desk. He crossed his arms over his helm for good measure, willing his helm to not explode.

What kind of demented species was so overly specialized for combat that projectile explosives were considered a reasonable form of transportation?

. . .The same kind that can hold off a Quintesson invasion by themselves.

He needed Jazz. The whole Decepticon movement needed that alliance with his people. They were spread too thin. Too many enemies. Not enough support.

Megatron barely approved Elita-one’s proposal to attempt to establish trade relations with known organic civilizations. And only under the condition that the trade heavily favored the Decepticons.

But these were fellow combatants. For all the high command’s xenophobia, they at least respected exceptional acts of violence.

It was a solution just out of reach.

Earth was presumably located on the edge of the Quintessons territory. Given the necessity of using rifts to approach the planet, there was likely a dedicated Quintesson Gate Station somewhere within the Human’s solar system. When asked to describe the type of Star his planet orbited, Jazz answered with a less than helpful “Yellow.”

If roughly 18% of the average galaxy had yellow stars, then that would still be around 80 billion stars. Even excluding stars without Earth sized planets, that’s easily still twenty billion different stars in just one galaxy. If they could somehow accurately survey up to 8 planets per breem, it would take a little over 761 Vorns to finishing sweeping one galaxy under Quintesson control.

Assuming the Quintessons didn’t kill them first that is.

He’d need to find another way.

The human blew a raspberry after Prowl didn’t move for a good forty seconds. “Are you calculating our “Odds of Survival” again?”

Peeking through his forearms, the praxian squinted at him, Tacnet whirling away, “No. Just yours.”

“Ah, gotcha.” Jazz, who was feeling much better after eating properly, expertly slipped past Prowls barrier a breath away from his face.

“Is it more than zero?” He said leaning back against Prowls arm.

“It’s a decimal point.” Prowl muttered. “With many, many zeroes before the point.”

And now those damn sounds were back again.

It had to be Jazz’s field, there was no other correlation.

It was always on the edge of perceptibly, like a song playing in another room. Prowl had to constantly check he wasn’t imagining things, because EM fields did not make sounds and yet here was Jazz, breaking everything he knew about what was possible.

Currently, the field brought to mind a steady smooth hand on a bowed instrument. A couple notes plucked in a major key.

“Then I’ll survive.”

Scrunching his brow, Prowl pulled away so he didn’t go cross eyed looking at the little impossibility. “That’s not how this works. Your odds of survival are microscopic, Jazz.”

“Buuut there’s a chance yeah?” Jazz pulled himself up to sit on Prowls forearm. “It’s more than zero, and I’ve worked with zero.”

Prowl tapped his digits, “We’ll have to convince the captain and her crew to keep you aboard.”

“I’m effortlessly charming.” He winked.

“Everything will be dangerous for you here.” Prowl pointed out.

“Everything already was.” Jazz shrugged.

He wiped a servo down his face, not even sure why he was arguing with him, “It’s going to be statistically impossible.”

“Prowl.” Jazz stood, “I am impossible.”

The silence ran to the Earth and back.

Neither broke the eye contact, waiting for the other to break first. Desperately, Prowl needed something to keep Jazz from making him crash. This could not become a pattern.

Quickly, he considered every data point he’d collected on the pilot, and compiled it into an extremely temporary equation.

<< Jazz + [Odds of Survival] = 99% >>

Something in Tacnet wound down finally, and Prowl actually relaxed. It was a lie. But it was a lie that Tacnet didn’t need to know about. For now.

Automatically, Prowl held out a servo and Jazz hopped on.

“Finally believe in me?” He said, lightly grasping his thumb as a hand hold.

“No, but it will literally kill me if I don’t try.”

Prowl turned down the hall, trying to ignore the subtle auditory hallucination of an energetic leitmotif. Picking up a little speed despite himself.

“Before anything else can be done, we need to make our case. Are you ready Jazz?”

“This is something straight out of a TV show Prowler. Hell yeah I’m ready.”

Together they would face the music.

———————————————————————

Coda

———

Humanity’s Finest: “Yeah we don’t know why but for some reason these things just fucking hate giant metal people.”

Jazz, being introduced to Cybertronians: “I have a theory.”

1 Breem = 8 minutes

1 Groon = 320 minutes or 5.3 hours

1 cycle = 16 groons or 3.5 days

1 vorn = 50 years

Well how about that. What was started as a four parter evolved into ten.

This’ll be where I’ll leave Jazz and Prowl off for a time. Other stories wait in line.

Thank you to everyone who’s followed along for this and a special thank you to @keferon for laying the groundwork for the story and for @glitchgh0sty’s absolutely amazing fanart of Odds of Survival.

Still crazy to me how much talent and care random folks can put into things to share with one another.

Also huge shoutout to the people who leave comments! You guys are awesome and hearing about all the stuff that sticks out to you or made you go crazy really does help me as a writer! I learn things! Woo!

Thank you all for reading, and I wish for each of you a very high Odds of Survival.

-SSTP

<- First

[weirdlookingreptile]

“Fetch me the Decepticon scum.” - Optimus

“… Scum?” - Ratchet

Camera pans to Starscream, now a shriveled husk

"It's been done Optimus, the decepticon SIC has been captured."

Optimus turns to his ever loyal medic and long time friend. "Very good Ratchet. Now, fetch me his scum."

There's a long silence as Ratchet's face changes from seriousness, to confusion, to shock.

"you want me to what?"

"Fetch me his scum."

"......Ok..."

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

Starscream looks up as the door to the brig opens, electric field disabled for only the short time it takes for the medic to enter, bucket in servo. Despite being bound, his wings raise in challenge.

"Come to bore me with more of you functionalist autobot propaganda medic?"

The way the medic steps forward, face set in determination, has Starscream's wings and face falling.

"I'm afraid Optimus has made a special request..."

NSFW BELOW

"AHH W-WAIT!-"

Starscream yells, moaning uncontrollably and writhing as Ratchet fists his spike with a vengeance. If he gripped it any harder he's sure it would be ripped straight off.

There's no mercy in his grip or his pace, only pausing to aim the spike towards the bucket, collecting Starscream's first overload. He doesn't stop, and those moans quickly turn into screams.

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

"Please... S-stop, I - AH- I CANT!"

The seeker sobs as another overload is wrangled from his spike, not a single drop of transfluid missing the bucket.

He let's out a full on wail when the stimulation only continues, this time in the form of the medic's vacuum like intake. It's like he's trying to suck his spark straight from his spike.

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

By the half hour mark Starscream can do nothing but weakly paw at the floor with his bound servos and cry pathetically. His plating dulled from the sheer amount of fluids lost and spike near shriveled and malformed. Even his hysterical sobbing has calmed to pathetic little whimpers and tiny 'please's.

This final overload barely rewards Ratchet with anything, only adding a few drops to the nearly filled bucket.

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

"I have retrieved Starscream's cum, exactly as you asked Optimus."

"Very good old frie- Why do you have a bucket?"

[anony-man]

Chubformers drabble #175!

Character: Rodimus (IDW)

Word count: 1.1k

Rodimus was gaining weight again, and by Primus, it was going to be everyone’s business.

Well, what wasn’t there to like about growing a pot belly and flaunting fat thighs that jiggled with every step? Bots could hear him coming now, and helms turned in every which direction anytime he so much as passed on by. The Lost Light was a voyage built for dreams, and if his dream ended up being to grow old and fat with optics on him at all times, then hell, he’d take it.

A mech didn’t grow confidence like this overnight, that was for sure. Functionalism still ran rampant in the streets, and despite his best efforts at picking and choosing only those who would truly enjoy the company he provided on their trip, Rodimus couldn’t just vet every single bot aboard for every single opinion they held. Shedding old classist beliefs was hard, especially when he bore the body of a speedster in an off-season. This new build of his was permanent, though, and it was staying.

Rodimus didn’t give one singular frag what anyone said. Not that anyone had said anything to him just yet, but if they did, he’d tell them where to shove it. Maybe he’d even put on a little show while he was at it, wiggle his hips and jiggle fistfuls of his belly with a smile wider than his waist had grown. He was fat and happy now, and nothing could be better.

Even aboard the ship, there were still responsibilities. Someone had to keep the peace, and that someone was usually him… even if he didn’t like it all that much. Someone also had to make sure that their endless journey didn’t end in crashing and burning amidst some freak accident or getting bombarded yet again with old arch enemies that just kept coming from every fragging end of the galaxy. Peace was a fickle thing, and it wasn’t something they could take advantage of. Been there, done that, after all. Still, they needed balance. He needed balance.

He’d been working most of the day by then, and at that hour, over half of the ship would have been up and active. Ultra Magnus wouldn’t be pleased, but if Rodimus made it quick… aw, hell, who even cared? He was going for it.

Nothing beat watching flustered faces turn and gawk as he stepped out of the captain’s quarters, and Rodimus sucked in the attention like it was his last meal—which it definitely wasn’t, given the size of his belly as it sagged and swayed with every step. The stretched protomesh hidden beneath his armor was exposed to the world on his off-day, and against the pale orange curving and rolling over his frame, streaks of striking white marks were just starting to appear. He blew up big, and he blew up fast, but it was all in good fun. He liked the lingering stares from bots who practically counted the rows and rows of stretch marks crossing over every surface of his softening body.

The Lost Light came with all shorts of different shapes and sizes, and that included frames similar to the one he sported nowadays. Rodimus hadn’t always been so into the whole “Ratchet after retirement” look until recently, but on him? Boy, now he understood. It was as comfortable as it was hot, and it circumvented the expectations of a mech of his frame type in literally every sense of the word.

Rodimus quite literally had an alt mode of a race car. He wasn’t built to be fat, say the functionalists. But now, if you asked him? Pfft. He’d laugh in your face before sauntering off, all while making sure every last bit of his thick, juicy aft cheeks were on display with every step.

Ratchet, Drift, even Megatron now, and slag, the rest of the medics, too… they were all getting a little soft around the edges, the hard lines of war cracking under the steady pressure of having a roof over their helms and companions to watch their backs. Peacetime didn’t seem so foreign when it was built up in the pounds adding onto their frames, and the more Rodimus thought about it, the happier he became. This would be their new normal, if it was the last thing he did (and he really hoped it wouldn’t be the last thing he did, but still).

They were all healthier this way, happier, too. At least he was… and from the looks of it, everyone else seemed to be following suit.

“Hey guys,” he said with a click of his tongue and a wink of his optic to the few mechs passing him by. “Looking good~!”

He hardly knew them—didn’t even know their names, really—but it felt good to reach out and connect, even if it was only to justify how smug he felt when the pairs of optics turned and gawked when he walked by. He made quite the sight anymore, and he knew it. It was all in the name of making a better tomorrow though… or something like that. Really, he just loved the way his frame felt anymore.

Everywhere he turned, Rodimus was met with the same. Bright optics and pleasant greetings fell short as mechs and femmes alike stopped to stare at the spectacle passing them by. He wasn’t in any hurry that morning, which meant he could saunter on by and tease everyone within an inch of their lives before moving down the next hall.

It felt good to embrace his new build. It felt refreshing, rejuvenating, and Rodimus simply couldn’t get enough.

The medibay was his first official stop that morning, and if Ratchet were at all annoyed to see him, he hid it poorly. Drift was there, too, to no surprise of his, and the two stopped midway through their hushed conversation to glance up and greet the newcomer.

“Rodimus,” Drift said with raised optics and a polite smile. “I… hadn’t realized you were coming in for a visit, too.”

Ratchet grunted at the swordsmech’s side. “That’s what you’re here for, right?” he asked. “No stupid injuries from doing something stupid?”

“Maybe a touch of fatigue,” Rodimus said, one arm thrown over his optics as he leaned against the doorway. “It’s tough work being the talk of the ship, after all.”

There was another unimpressed sound, but neither bot did well at hiding their exasperated amusement.

“Right,” Ratchet said with a roll of his optics. “Come on, then. Surely you’ve come here with something in mind.”

That he suppose he did. A simple check-up, maybe, a check-in on his weight, perhaps… of course, Rodimus really just wanted a pair of optics he knew and loved to roam his frame for a little while, but why not make his visit worthwhile?

“Sure,” he said with a smile of his own, already heading across the medibay towards the scales. “Why not start here first?”

[searchingforatrail]

I think while a portion of the fandom has issues with Megatron's redemption, it's not actually a very bad redemption. He never excuses what he does, he dies/is imprisoned at the end, he's a prisoner on the LL, he introspects on the messed up crap he does, and strives to be better, even that the expense of sacrificing his own life if necessary (and he tries to).

A lot of his redemptions is considered bad because we see it done off screen in the functionalist Universe, but even with what I've read of the LL/MTMTE , he does a shit ton of work while away from the functionalist universe.

His redemption arc is often a criticism of his character, and it's not perfect, but it's also not at all terrible.

He takes accountability, serious accountability. He could kill absolutely everyone on the ship if he wanted to, and he doesn't. He makes amends to the people he's able to (even apologizes to tailgate for no reason lol), and continues to strive to put others before himself.

It's not as shitty as people try to make it. And I often wonder if people hate Megatrons' redemption arc, or if they just hate Megatron. Because if their fave was given the redemption arc megatron was, I doubt they'd be complaining.

Because his crimes were never forgiven, he never got a slap on the wrist. He understood what would happen to him, and eventually accepted it. He also worked to make the strong relationships he had, and while people consider the LL just openly accepting him, they really didn't. He had to work his ass off.

Eventually, it just becomes, "well my fave didn't get this ending so Megatron's actually sucked"

And not all the time, there are some valid criticism, even some I've made. But it's not the scum of the earth like people make it out to be. And I love that it was received well enough to be adapted in to ES.

Just thoughts.

[agentsquirrelsgotrobots]

Here's an au where the senate kidnapped and removed Optimus's voice box a la empurata

Tw: Mutilation and discussions of trauma

As soon as Heatwave pulled him from the flooded river, Optimus knew he was doomed. He could feel the water in his mask, which would be mildly unpleasant if he was Heatwave, but was potentially live threatening to Optimus. If something damaging got into his voice box - no, no time to panic - just follow Heatwave, use the radio backup, and duck into the wash rack as soon as possible.

He transformed and followed Heatwave out of the danger zone, the flood redirected by the levee Optimus just fell off of.

They made it back to the firehouse, and Optimus couldn't help the horrible grinding, choking noise that came out as water leaked from his battle mask. He ran through the door, past Blades, who was setting up a systems check, routine after a submersion, and dunked into the bot sized wash rack, locking the door behind him.

He retracted his battle mask and took a catheter out of his subspace, fumbling with the sterile wrapper. He finally got it open and stuck it in a drainage port on the side of his prosthetic. He attached a plastic syringe to it and sucked out all the water from the tiny tank meant for this purpose. There was still water after the first syringeful, but after the third, the catheter pulled up nothing. Unfortunately, he still could feel wetness inside his neck and the back of his throat. It would all have to come out.

Optimus struggled to find the hidden latches at first, not used to doing this completely by himself, but he eventually got it, opening his neck and removing what remained of his ruined voice box and the attached prosthetic. He finally allowed himself to look into the mirror, at his missing lower jaw, chipped and broken dentae, and gaping nothingness of his mouth and upper jaw without the prosthetic. He focused on cleaning the polluted water out of his voice box. He started taking it apart, removing the screens of the main speaker that projected his fabricated voice.

He disconnected the original pieces from the fabricated ones, looking for any loose wires, burst welds, or fried components. To his relief, the waterproofing of the container with the more fragile pieces stayed intact. It was the actual speaker itself that needed the most attention.

His plans to take things slowly was destroyed by Blades overriding the door locks and rushing to his side, audibly gasping at the scarring on Optimus's face. Optimus ignored him as he fussed, taking out some cotton swabs and a gentle cleaner and cleaning out the bolt holes just under his nose. They always got gummed up with gunk, the metal permanently pierced and gunmetal gray and dead.

He checked that there wasn't any more cracking on his nose, the metal fragile and irritated from constant rubbing on his battle mask.

The battle mask is essential. He didn't want to spend his days explaining over and over again that he doesn't want a full jaw prosthetic, just the voice box. No, the old bolt holes are fine. He couldn't drink like that anyway, with the speaker. He shuddered as he remembered the feeling of Megatronus holding him down while Ratchet clipped the bolts attaching the heavy rectangular mask, branded with the Functionalist seal, to his face. He remembered choking on a fragment of one of the bolts, Ratchet shoving his hand in the mass of crudely cut and sealed wires and hastily rerouted energon lines to keep him from drowning in his own energon. By then, they had made it to Ratchet's illegal clinic. He was put into stasis as soon as he arrived and taken into the operating room to repair the damage. He couldn't get help from a legal hospital, the brand barring him from care by anyone except illegal clinics and council approved and supervised medics.

Blades insisted on bringing him back out into the main garage, telling him that he would need to run diagnostics anyway, and he wasn't going to do that in the damp wash rack.

"Optimus, may I ask what happened to you?" Cody said, staring at the disassembled pieces of Optimus's speaker in his careful hands.

Optimus paused his cleaning, and closed his eyes briefly before opening them again as Blades plugged himself into the medical port on his wrist. "Before the war, I advocated for necessary changes to unjust systems that threatened the people in charges' access to absolute power, and they tried to silence me by any means necessary." The room sat in silence as Optimus continued to tinker with his prosthetic.

"You were an activist?" Charlie asked, his eyes wide at the implications.

"Yes, I was an activist under a government where peaceful protest was illegal, punishable by mutilation or death. The Functionalists didn't keep prisoners, political or otherwise. I took their cruelty as a sign that our efforts were working. It doesn't matter. Within a few decades, they had been overthrown and the civil war that destroyed our home started in earnest." He got up and disconnected Blades from his wrist, calling Ratchet for a ground bridge. It opened in a side wall, and Optimus walked through it.

He felt… numb. He didn't want to give out as much information as he did, but the idea of having to deflect questions over and over and over again until it all spiraled out of control made him want to lock himself in his room and never leave.

He walked into the medbay, and First Aid got him settled in a private room with a fake window, a cube of energon, a warm blanket, and reassurances that Ratchet was on the way before he could open his mouth to speak.

He sat on the bed now, the energon finished, fighting the urge to fall asleep. Knowing Ratchet, he would turn off Optimus's pain receptors, do the repairs while he was asleep, and leave him to rest for as long as he could get away with it under the guise of Optimus being under observation.

He finally decided to just sleep, and he shut down as soon as his head hit the padding.

He woke up to Ratchet testing his speaker, the differently pitched tones echoing in the tiny room.

"Optimus, everything looks fine, but I want you on vocal rest for the next few days."

Optimus tapped out Affirmative on Ratchet's wrist. Ratchet put his tools aside to be sanitized and insisted on helping Optimus stand.

They went back to Optimus's room, and Optimus took a book he had been meaning to get to off one of his shelves and sat on his bed. Ratchet left him to read, and Optimus sighed.

He never intended on telling the Rescue Bots what the council had done to hum, but now that he did, it felt like a weight was off his shoulders. He started to read, and the stress of the day rolled off him as he lost himself in his book.

[conorthecapybara88]

*cracks knuckles because my sociology brain is about to have a blast and i need to have some fun today*

there are a few ways i can interpret OP's post. i could see it as someone who's being a little rhetorical/pessimistic about the structure of society OR i could see it as someone who's probably fiercely capitalist/meritocratic and doesn't want social services. the latter interpretation would just be an absolute asshole of a human BUT it's the first interpretation that's fun to dissect

there's lots of ways to understand society as a collection of interconnected parts and systems, like parts of a machine or organs in a body (perhaps my nerdier friends might know this as the structural functionalist perspective). from this framework, even the Bad Things in society serve a purpose. for example, crime can be beneficial because it helps societies define cultural values about right and wrong! these clear cut definitions help people feel connected.

there's a lot of criticism relating to this framework, and a lot of it boils down to the underlying assumption that "if some things are bad for people but good for society, we should let those people suffer for the Greater Good". perhaps honour killings should remain legal so we can ensure that only the best people for our society take part in it, ykwim? [please note this is not my perspective on honour killings- simply *A* perspective] this is my biggest issue with the framework- it leads to a lot of justifying flaws in society instead of shifting our collective efforts to finding solutions.

but. what does this have to do with dairy queen?

poverty is like... bad. we know this- it sucks to experience poverty! there are so, so many bad things that come from it! but let's imagine that poverty does in fact serve an important function in society. what could this function look like?

the primary one is motivation. there are some jobs that really nobody wants to do. actually, most jobs nobody wants to do! most people hate working!! for good reason!!! but some jobs are just extra bad, and if there are alternatives to those jobs, most likely their positions would go unfilled. sadly, those jobs often serve vital functions. we need people fulfilling jobs at all level of skill, in all sectors. if we don't, a society's economy- such that said economy is capitalist- will most likely crumble

so. how do we force people to fulfill these positions nobody wants to do? we establish and maintain poverty. we create violent policies and systems to ensure poverty remains present, and people have no other option than to settle for jobs that treat them horribly, because they need the money. but we can't give them too much money, or else they might be able to afford to seek opportunities elsewhere. they might be able to get out of poverty, and now someone else has to become impoverished to replace them.

poverty is intentional. it is maintained by capitalist oligarchs who want to be able to oppress the masses in a discrete manner so that nobody really questions the systems. delusions of meritocracy are fed to the public and white supremacist/hegemonic ideologies are used to prevent communities from rising together and overthrowing the existing economic systems in the name of collective liberation. the goal is not for the people working at Dairy Queen TO live. if they had wages that ensured they could live, how on earth would the rich white men with a stick up their asses stay rich?

admittedly. a cashier at Dairy Queen is not like, the Worst Ever Occupation. there are many other jobs- often in the primary or secondary sectors- that are even more exploitive and oppressive. we also have to think globally- how does global oppression/exploitation (eg, in developing countries/the Global South/colonized countries) support the power of the Musks, Tates and Bezos' of imperial/colonizing countries?

all systems of oppression are delicately interconnected and work together to maintain each other. yes- a capitalist society requires poverty to function. without it, the economy would crumble. this is why we need a new economy, so that we can have one where people can work and still afford to live after working. where poverty isn't needed

*exhale* thank you for coming to my tedtalk

[crazy-god-bunker-jughead]

My textbook for this online sociology class clearly favors functionalist theory over conflict theory and it's very fucking frustrating. Conflict theory clearly is a much more thorough analysis of capitalist society. Finally finding my motivation to read more Marx bc this textbook sucks ass.

[sightseertrespasser]

I just wanted you to know that I SEE you in the latest bit of Odds of Survival with the purple brand on Bluestreak hidden deftly between the flirting and the swearing, but I didn't want to spoil your Megatron reveal for anyone else.

You.

Been waiting to answer this ask for a while!

In part because it’s a vehicle with which to sum up my thoughts on how the Decepticons play into all this.

The short version is that the Functionalists still suck badly enough that an outspoken opponent like Megatron could gain quite a bit of traction. Even if Megatron isn’t a good option, he’s still an alternative to Sentinel, who’s a dictator in his own right.

For a lot of folks, the options were either stick with what they know, which is terrible and shows no signs of changing. Or try their luck with the Decepticon movement, which is its own brand of terrible but at least there’s the possibility of change.

For people like Drift/Deadlock, he did actually manage to get a lot of upward socioeconomic movement. Going from rock bottom with nothing at all to a highly feared, high ranking Decepticon hit man is far and away one of Megatrons favorite “success” stories.

For Prowl, he’s the perpetual Cassandra. Always knowing how things will fall apart but never being listened to. With the Functionalists, Prowls predictions and counter plans were not “convenient” and Sentinel in particular found him more annoying than anything. Megatron on the other hand actually does utilize Prowl for all he’s worth (and then some) so even though he’s just another dictator, at least working for him Prowl gets to DO something.

I love when folks pick up on the hints I drop. Activates my diatribe trap card.

[themainspoon]

Actually you know what? Fuck it, here's what Brutalist buildings actually look like:

This shit fucks actually. Stop using it to mean "building built after the fucking middle ages that I think is stinky". I'm sorry not everything looks like a quaint little British village or ancient Greece. I know that must piss you off severely.

Get it twisted: This is 100% more human than any of the mcmansion stroad bullshit America is doing. This is hyper-functionalist architecture, This is an architectural style that was used for social housing and public infrastructure/services. Brutalism is an expression of egalitarianism in architectural form.

It is above your fake-nostalgia poisoned cries for the kind of shit European monrarcists squirted in their britches over. It is above the hypercapitalist, fake-minalist, offensively inoffensive, sterile white, office-esque bullshit of our current era. It rejects the aesthetic obsession with the past, in which most of us would have been living in shitty hovels on generational dirt farms while the wealthy lived in mansions of marble and gold trim. Those styles were not made for you, Brutalism was.

It only appears cold when it isn't lived in, when these places get neglected. The flat concrete is the best canvas street artists and taggers could ask for, as it ages moss and lichen can begin to grow on and around these places, literally bringing them to life. These buildings were built for you, not your idiotic aesthetic hangups. These buildings aren't trying to hide from you and deceive you, they are honest to a fault.

You like urbanism, you want walkable cities and shit? Brutalist architects were pushing for shit like raised pedestrian area's above roads. Again, these places were built for you, they exist to serve you with honesty and integrity. All this makes Brutalism as human as it gets. These places are not hostile, they are made to accommodate humanity and exist alongside us. If anything, Brutalism loves us, in its own angular concrete way.

It must suck to think this shit sucks. All of you dumb motherfuckers want to club wire mother to death so that cloth mother can call you slurs and kick you down the stairs.

I think being autistic has made me realize how extremely hostile the environments we have designed are. And I don't mean "this environment is uniquely hostile to me because I am autistic" I mean that even normies are just existing in brutal, stagnant spaces, they have just internalized them as normal. We could have it all, we could live in such a beautiful and fascinating world, designed by humans and for humans who actually enjoy life and it's complexity and wonder. but even now it's like, seen as kinda hippy-dippy bullshit to have "excessive" indoor plants in a workspace or something

[midnightactual]

What Is Shunkō: Raijū Senkei: Shunryū Kokubyō Senkei?

Introduction

Some interpersonal discussion on this happened a few days ago but I was in the middle of having to put my computer's guts into a new case, so I didn't have time to think about it. The truth is, for several years, if I've thought about this form at all, I've only really thought about what it might be from a functionalist point of view: what was the point of trying to create it? And I thought perhaps it was an effort to try and use the cat transformation while Shunkō was active to try and create a melee-focused combat mode, which then went wrong and had to be sealed away. Job's done, right?

But that never really addressed why Kisuke would have the power to unseal it, which quite frankly Yoruichi would never normally permit because she would never let anyone have such power over her, least of all Kisuke, because he's annoying. No, really. This even carries over into CFYOW:

“But Ms. Hiyori did see through me. That’s why, to take a neutral position…well to be accurate, it’s not neutral, but I decided to entrust some matters to a very Soul Reaper-like Soul Reaper.” His features softened then as he spoke about Hisagi. “When the time comes that I really do become someone who could be called a villain, it would be best to leave behind someone who can definitively determine that I’ve sinned, right? I’m sure that Mr. Hisagi, who saw how Mr. Tosen was and saw how he left, well, he would do that. Of course, Mr. Kurosaki or Ms. Kuchiki would work as well.” Yoruichi jumped onto Urahara’s shoulder and protested close enough that she could have bitten his ear. “Are you saying I’m not cut out for that job?” “No, no, but you’d be on my side no matter what anyone says, right? You’re not impartial.” Urahara smiled, and Yoruichi acted exasperated, with her tail hanging down. “I don’t even know where to start with that pretentious attitude you’ve got.” “Also… if you thought I really crossed a line, you’d stop me even if you had to kick me, Ms. Yoruichi.” “I’m telling you to stop being conceited. As if I’d stop at kicking you. I’d snap your neck to stop you.” “You’re so severe.”

It also never addressed why the "seal" is so weird and nothing at all like Kidō or any other magic we ever see in Bleach. Seriously, what the fuck is this:

So there I was earlier today, minding my own business, watching a video about how trash Vegeta's Ultra Ego transformation is just to listen to something because I don't even keep up with Dragonball Super as a manga or anime, when near the end (9:24) there's this:

But a transformation like Ultra Ego should be the spotlight, as transformations are a celebration of all the character's hardships and struggles as they break their limits and ascend to a higher form of themselves, and fulfill the shōnen power fantasy. As they immerse the audience in a world where all their problems can be screamed away as they transform into a version of themselves with more control and autonomy over the world around them.

And I said to myself, you know, by this definition, Shunkō: Raijū Senkei: Shunryū Kokubyō Senkei is a joke. Let's count the ways:

it doesn't highlight anything about Yoruichi as a character because it explicitly eliminates her personhood

it doesn't advance Yoruichi in any meaningful capacity because of the above

she can't even talk in the form let alone scream, just hiss

it removes all control and autonomy, all agency, from her

So, thematically, as a transformation to get you hype, Raijū Senkei sucks. So what was it about then?

The Mystery

If I've learned anything after interacting with Bleach to some capacity for 18 years, it's that Tite Kubo is a troll before he's anything else—and that includes being a screwup. So when I made fun of him for giving two different answers to functionally the same question, I was actually underestimating him. Let's review:

Q331: I want to know how Yoruichi can turn herself into a cat. Is it a technique she herself invented, or does she actually use some sort of spiritual tool belonging to the Shihouin clan? Or perhaps a tool or technique invented by Urahara Kisuke himself? I can’t think of anything else. A331: Yoruichi uses a technique she herself invented so she could sneak out of her clan’s mansion.

Q465: I would like to know why Yoruichi can take the form of a black cat. It seems possible to interpret it as binding Yoruichi-san to another form, a black cat, but it seems to be fundamentally different from hado and bakudo. Is it a power different from Kido? Or is it Urahara-san’s technology? A465: It is the bloodline of Shihōin. From time to time, there are members of the Shihōin family who can transform into beasts.

You see, these only appear to be two different answers to the same question. If you try and look up compilations of Kubo's answers on Klub Outside, you'll find people only list off a fraction of the total number of questions he answers, because most of his answers are non-answers or bullshit. Once you understand his nature, you can realize a fundamental truth: these aren't two different answers, they're two parts of one answer.

Pay special attention to the differences between the questions. Yoruichi using a technique she created is an answer to how she can turn herself into a cat. It being the bloodline of the Shihōin Clan is an answer to why Yoruichi can turn herself into a cat. The former is a process only made possible by the latter. It's thus simultaneously true both that:

some members of the Shihōin Clan can turn into beasts

Yoruichi developed a technique to turn into a black cat

The only thing you have to accept to make these two statements line up is that the beast Yoruichi turns into isn't a black cat. Rather, the black cat form is something she can utilize because she can turn into a beast. It's worth stopping and looking at Kubo's answer in Japanese now:

A465. 四楓院の血筋です。四楓院家からは時々獣の姿に変化できる者が出ることがあります。

The important character here is 獣 in the second sentence, kedamono or kemono, or as Wiktionary puts it, "literally 'thing of hair'", and "an animal covered in fur, a beast".

Now, at this stage it's worth remembering Yoruichi's transformation in chapter 115:

Not a lot of detail here. You could easily think that was a human silhouette pulling out of the cat's body. However, the anime tells a different story, and it's worth remembering that Kubo was quite intimately involved with the anime's production back in the first three seasons. So when we see this from episode 40:

It was probably signed off on with Kubo's approval. And Yoruichi is much bigger than Ichigo here. And then we see this in episode 41:

Now it sure seems as though everyone just assumes this is an intermediate phase in Yoruichi's cat transformation, but I think the truth is now quite apparent: this werecat form is being used to facilitate Yoruichi's transformation into a house cat.

By the way? This has been referenced all along by way of jokes. Take chapter 628:

Or even more on the nose, Bleach: Official Bootleg KaraBuri+:

(Also, what have I said about monsters before?)

So, I think that Yoruichi at least partially transforming into this werecat form while in Shunkō is the essence of Raijū Senkei. Now then, let's talk about that directly.

RAIJŪ SENKEI

Let's talk about the name first, Shunkō: Raijū Senkei: Shunryū Kokubyō Senkei (瞬閧 雷獣戦形 瞬霳黒猫戦姫). This is given by the Bleach Wiki as "Flash War Cry: Thunder Beast Battle Form: Flash God Black Cat Warrior Princess". This is mostly right but wrong in at least a couple important ways.

Now, @littleeyesofpallas has a wonderful essay on the terms related to Yoruichi. (If I may have a little indulgence with its earlier observations: "Becuase [sic] if taken literally, [Shunkō] [瞬閧] means something like, "Instant Battle" or "Flash Battle" which is a little silly, and redundant", is true, but we have a loanword in English which is close: blitzkrieg.) But you'll notice that the essay stumbles upon this character, 霳, ryū, which not even Wiktionary defines. A lot of speculation follows, but I'm going to trace my own route from here.

Google suggests it means "hail":

I'm not sure where they get this from, to be quite honest. I can't find any other definitions in Japanese for it, just like littleeyesofpallas. But it does have a meaning in Chinese:

Now I'm real tempted to end the search there, quite honestly, but I'll humor a slightly deeper dive. If you use Google Translate on Baidu for it, you'll get this:

Now if you search those characters (靊霳) you'll get this entry, which relates it to a 丰隆, Fēng Lóng or Hong Leong. If you search for that in English, you'll mostly get a Singaporean bank. But if you search the hanzi, you can find:

If you search that name, Fēnglóng, you can find this, which associates it with the Chinese god of thunder, Leigong. If we read the Wikipedia page on Leigong, we find he is described as:

Leigong is depicted as a fearsome creature with claws, bat wings, and a blue face with a bird's beak who wears only a loincloth.

Raijū Senkei puts Yoruichi in a skimpy electric bikini not so different from a loincloth, and she has claws.

The Jade Emperor instructed Leigong to only kill bad people. But the sky got really dark whenever he struck people. So sometimes he killed the wrong people since he couldn't find his quarry.

Raijū Senkei also has poor target acquisition.

With all due respect to littleeyesofpallas, I think that this is a much more accurate pathway than supposing Kubo got the kanji wrong. I'll return to the two possibilities in a moment.

First, I think it's very obvious that Kisuke came up with the name Shunkō: Raijū Senkei: Shunryū Kokubyō Senkei. It's long, it's redundant, it's reductive, it's stupid, and it probably contains at least a couple of puns, none of which are the hallmarks of Yoruichi's choices in naming things and have Kisuke written all over them. Also, Yoruichi isn't conscious so how could she come up with a name for it?

As was noted in the essay, Raijū (雷獣) is a thing in Japanese mythology. I feel the need to add, however, that it has no strong association with cats. I therefore think that Kisuke named it to pun off of the (deliberately chosen) Raijin Senkei, making allusion both to the fact that Raijū accompanies Raijin and the fact that many of the animals associated with Raijū are kedamono, beasts. As mentioned, it literally means "thunder beast".

I then think you can take your pick on exactly which pun you think is being made with 霳. If you think it means "pissed off", then the name is Shunkō: Raijū Battle Form: [Instantly Pissed-Off] [Black Cat] [Battle Princess]. If you think it means the ancient Chinese god of thunder, then the name is Shunkō: Raijū Battle Form: [Instant God of Thunder] [Black Cat] [Battle Princess].

Now, I think changing Raijin to Raijū only to shoehorn in a completely different title for a different god of thunder (Leigong) in a format that evokes Yoruichi's title of Shunshin (Shunryū) is something Kisuke would do. However, given all his complaining to Askin about how "moody" Yoruichi is, I think putting "Pissed-Off" in the title is more likely. So my money is on Shunkō: Raijū Battle Form: [Instantly Pissed-Off] [Black Cat] [Battle Princess].

(This is purely headcanon but I have to imagine Yoruichi would find being called "princess" insulting in the present, which also makes it clear Kisuke came up with this name, in my opinion.)

Great, so now we know what the name means. So what is this form? For the rest of this I'll also be featuring the original Viz translation for the purposes of consensus-building so I don't have to refer to the Japanese:

Kisuke obviously knows about this form. It's worth noting at this point that Raijin Senkei was fairly obviously only created during the time skip between chapters 423 and 424 (circa December 2001 to April 2003) and is a comparatively recent invention. We can assert this as fact from Yoruichi's complaints that her Shunkō wasn't well-controlled versus Soifon (chapter 159), her use of only partial Shunkō versus Aizen (chapter 405), her completely different and perfected base Shunkō versus Askin (chapter 656) and her complaints about how fast Yūshirō has picked up Shunkō and demonstrated an evolved form akin to Raijin Senkei (chapter 657).

So you can say that maybe Raijū Senkei comes from this time period too. But maybe it doesn't. Let's keep going.

We can also say that Yoruichi has been in this form at least once before. The translations agree quite well here regarding her sentiments of it being half-assed and grotesque/disgusting. The fact she can even make such judgments however, means one of two things: A. either testing of it was documented somehow, or B. she retains memories from her time transformed. (A) is not very on-brand for Bleach as a series (at least on Kisuke's side; that's an SRDI/Visual Department thing), so (B) seems more likely. Yoruichi is either "still in there" but can't act, or she can understand her memories well enough after the fact.

While calling something half-assed usually suggests it's done with little care, and is incompetent or inadequate, it can also suggest that it's incomplete; the very word itself suggests this, that it is half of something full. It's implied to be half of a transformation.

We then get the scene we saw earlier. Yoruichi to my eyes looks as angry as she does shocked or disbelieving. It's a 'you wouldn't dare' kind of expression to me.

Now, above is Yoruichi's release of energy upon transformation. Below is Kenpachi's release of energy from Bankai in chapter 669. I believe you can see that these are relatively comparable. We are presumably seeing a Bankai-level energy release here. (Keeping in mind that Yoruichi is described in CFYOW as being a "powerhouse" of reiatsu but not "beyond reason" like Kenpachi plus the fact we seem to be seeing the former from farther away explains the differences handily.)

There is something of a question here of whether the transformation is increasing her energy, or this instinctual form is simply releasing all of her native energy at once without any restrictions, because we know that Yoruichi is normally masterful at reiatsu control. (We also know that even highly experienced Shinigami can misjudge reiatsu, like Retsu with Ichigo on the way to Fake Karakura, so we are left to wonder how high Yoruichi's reiatsu is and if the narrator of CFYOW is truly third-person omniscient or not, which it likely is, but it's still worth pondering.)

However, if it's increasing her energy (which it could very well be doing), then I feel that alone rules this out as being simply forcing a cat transformation, along with Kubo's dual Klub Outside answers earlier; there is no particular reason to believe that giving Yoruichi the mind of a cat should increase her power in a fashion similar to Bankai, and if that were the case, why bother with Hollowfication to increase power rather than just hybrid-animal soldiers? Mayuri would totally be down for that.

And now we get the form itself. We can see that physiologically, the main difference is just that Yoruichi gets a tail. It's impossible to tell if her claws on her hands and feet are physical, or just manifestations of reiatsu and electricity. What previously seemed to be intended to be horns on Raijin Senkei now serve as cat ears. Her preference in terms of how she carries herself and moves reflects an altered mind however, which appears to be that of a cat.

Now, honestly, I can't imagine Yoruichi really giving a damn about having a tail, or claws for that matter. We also know that she doesn't particularly care about showing a lot of skin or not. So it has to be the mind aspect that bothers her. She hates that she's not in control. (And it does prove to be a major hindrance in this battle too.)

We know that this form is being selected for not because of any power increase, however, but because it cycles Yoruichi's reiatsu at a speed of 48 Hertz, which we learn after interminable bloviating about moods and infections.

And we come to the conclusion of talk on the form's nature, wherein Kisuke claims he (and seemingly only he) can "control" it, and that Yoruichi will only return to normal from this form when she feels like it.

Now, I don't know about you, but I didn't see a single instance of "control" on his part throughout the use of Raijū Senkei. I saw a lot of Kisuke narrating what it was in a distracting and time-wasting way while Yoruichi did whatever she felt like. I also saw no evidence that Kisuke can predict or forecast how Yoruichi's behavior will shift, he just points it out when it's visibly apparent.

I wouldn't call this "control". (The color fanlation is closer to being accurate, by the way.)

Also, if he can't end this transformation of his own accord, then to me that also suggests his method of initiating it is incredibly crude. I've heard it conjectured that Kisuke had to seal this form away because it was dangerous or something, but I'd put forward from the evidence that there is no magical seal, and that there's nothing outwardly magical at all about the method by which the transformation occurs; it's more like some kind of post-hypnotic trigger mechanism, like the suggestion to play Solitaire in The Manchurian Candidate. Odds are it's a set of uncommon characters or an unusual image.

However, if that's the case, then odds are Kisuke didn't invent it and implant it in Yoruichi. Odds are he learned it from her in confidence. Think about it. How does Yoruichi turn into a cat? She does it at will, sure, but what's the actual process? There's no verbal command or external trigger like a Soul Candy dispenser. It must therefore be a mental choice. She has to think of something to trigger it. The same must be true for a werecat transformation.

Kisuke knows what that something is, that's all. And we have perfect evidence for transmission of this kind of knowledge in Bleach already, all the way back in chapter 81:

It follows that both the werecat and cat transformations have a similar mental initiator, and the latter is probably a modification of the former. Raijū Senkei is just Kisuke forcing a werecat transformation during Raijin Senkei, such that the werecat also has it. Why is it only a partial transformation? I can't quite explain that except to say that perhaps Shunkō, or more particularly the Raijin Senkei form itself, arrests it and prevents a full transformation. ("Godly" form plus animal form equals still mostly human? That kind of makes sense if you squint.)

Synthesis

So let's bring it all together:

Some members of the Shihōin Clan can turn into beasts

Yoruichi is probably one of those members and has a werecat transformation

Yoruichi created a technique to turn into an ordinary cat

Yoruichi's cat transformation appears to piggyback off her beast mode

Both cat and werecat transformations are likely purely mentally initiated through some kind of highly specific thought

Raijū Senkei is created by initiating a werecat transformation during Raijin Senkei

Kisuke knows how to do this because Yoruichi somehow told him what the trigger for the werecat was, maybe through Charades?

Yoruichi mostly retains her human form from Raijin Senkei partially cancelling out the werecat transformation

Raijū Senkei is essentially the werecat "wearing" Raijin Senkei

Raijū Senkei was named by Kisuke and is largely a joke name

Have a chart that I think roughly summarizes this:

Now maybe you think this is all way too crazy for this kind of throwaway ability that didn't achieve anything, but I'd like to point you to a quote from Ryōgo Narita in his author's postscript at the end of CFYOW:

By the way, after Matsubara and I heard the story of how Kisuke Urahara and Yoruichi Shihoin met, both of us said the same thing immediately. “You have to draw that with your own hand as a manga, Kubo!” Or “Really, I’d like to read that as a manga!” Those fascinating characters as well as a story hidden within the world… I do not know if the day will come when that will be created in some form, but as a fan, I will pray that the BLEACH story will continue to expand.

Apparently the story of how Yoruichi and Kisuke met is so interesting that both he and Makoto Matsubara felt it could be a whole manga. Not a chapter, a manga. Their story (and their relationship, as that quote near the top from CFYOW and my analysis on Yoruichi and Kisuke finding one another show) is not nearly so simple as they met and were just friends. (I leave you here with a thought that Kisuke is a vassal and vassals are usually conquered or otherwise obliged to follow their lords.)

What does that have to do with anything? Don't you think that, since Yoruichi and Kisuke likely met before they entered the Onmitsukidō and Gotei 13 respectively, and thus neither would've had zanpakutō, a werecat transformation would be a very interesting thing to help make such a manga-length story work?

Implications

In CFYOW, we're given the following:

Taking a step forward and stroking his beard, the Osho continued. “But there were those who did not believe that was a good world. Although they did not reach the level of the Reio, there were five people who possessed powerful abilities. …They were the ancestors of the Five Great Noble Clans, the Shiba family included.” The Osho spoke. Their motives were different. The Tsunayashiro clan’s ancestor feared that the power of destruction might someday be turned against him. Another clan’s ancestor believed a lid was needed to cover the pit that would later become known as “hell.” The Kuchiki clan’s ancestor believed a new order was needed to guide the world into stability. The Shihoin clan’s ancestor believed that an even greater cycle of circulation was needed to progress the stagnant world forward. The Shiba clan’s ancestor believed that it was necessary to explore the route of purification rather than destruction for Hollows, as Hollows also had minds.

Of course the Shihōin would advocate for such a thing if they were werefolk. Or hanyō, not that those are a thing from classical Japanese mythology. Although note this from Klub Outside:

Q282: Do Yokai and Fairies exist within the world of Bleach? A282: It would be quite fun if they did.

I don't know about you, but this feels rather wink-wink, nudge-nudge to me.

Anyway, I've been pointing out that Yoruichi is ridiculously strong and something is interesting about the Shihōin for a while now and we finally have another intriguing piece to add to the puzzle.

You see, I've already noted that Bleach generally operates by the same rules as Dragon Ball's Saiyans when it comes to Zenkai Boosts—that is to say, after surviving a near-death experience, you gain a notable increase in power. If the Shihōin Clan has beast forms, and those beast forms increase their power output, then we have another analogy with Dragon Ball in that the Shihōin would be even more like the Saiyans, complete with their own Ōzaru mode. This also only strengthens the obvious comparisons to be made between Shunkō and Kaiōken.

Another example might be the "immortal" Ctarl-Ctarl of Outlaw Star, which have their own werebeast transformations.

Both these races are infamous for their martial prowess largely on the back of these transformations. Perhaps the same was also originally true of the Shihōin Clan, before it switched to techniques and technology, and gained higher base power?

You might even extend this to some personality traits of Yoruichi's, which I noted in Yoruichi Is A Killer, as she clearly has a kind of suppressed bloodlust and zeal for battle (can too much literally activate her beast mode?) as well as Yoruichi As An Embodiment Of War, as this "bestial" nature would surely play a role in enhancing her unpredictability (something Kisuke all but gestures at). And finally, it has interesting implications when viewed through the lens of Power-Stacking In Bleach, as if the werebeast transformation were equivalent to Bankai, then the possibility of pairing it with Shunkō and Bankai, among other things, is very crunchy.

Also, this very neatly explains why Yoruichi's Soul appears to be unique to an extent similar to (albeit through wholly different means from) Ichigo's. You might sort of say this werecat ability acts like a kind of DRM.

[singingcicadas]

I’ve thought about this scene for a long time, and I think, circumstance-wise, they could have acquitted Megatron if they really wanted to. If they really REALLY wanted to. Or if the author really wanted to, anyway.

Because by the time LL #25 happens, the majority of Cybertronians who hate Megatron are dead. The majority of people from original Cybertron are dead. Cybertron itself is gone. Of the ones that are left, Caminus and the other colonies never experienced the war firsthand, so they’ve got no personal beef with Megatron. The Autobots are the only ones with a deep legitimate hatred against him, but they’ve been a fractured mess of shambles ever since Optimus resigned in Death of Optimus Prime. Even the neutrals could push them around. With Cybertron and all the colony planets destroyed by Unicron, everyone is forced to live on Earth as refugees under another species’ roof, with said species not wanting them there. 

And then you get New Cybertron, the one from the Functionalist universe. Which comes with a full population that probably outnumbers the entirety of the refugees many times to one. Who knows Megatron not as the murderous despot but as the AVL leader. Who owes their lives to Megatron and Rodimus and everyone on the Lost Light. By that point, Megatron is the only one who’s been on, and invested in, Functionalist Cybertron for long enough to not be an outsider. So there’s a huge chunk of people who doesn’t want Megatron dead, if asked.

When it comes down to it there aren’t that many obstacles in the way of acquitting Megatron. The Autobots have good reason to hate him, but they’re weakened and Rodimus’ got like half the elite in his Lost Light crew. And Megatron is technically an Autobot. The neutrals may hate him, but they’re easily swayed; they’d even accept Starscream as their leader. Humans hate him, but would likely get over it either with time or necessity; they’d even work with Soundwave and Galvatron (that humans would accept alliance with Soundwave the mass murderer when he shows up with genocidal maniac #2 in tow but forever hate Jazz for killing 1 cop shows a lot about their priorities). The only uncertain factor in this is the Galactic Council, if they are forcing Cybertron to hand Megatron over as some kind of retribution for the war. But the way I’m understanding this ⬇️ panel, it sounds like Prowl initiated the request for the Council in order to use Megatron as a bargaining chip.

And we all know that the Galactic Council are not very nice people.

So I think if the cards are played right, Megatron could walk away from this, free to embrace his changed life and go adventuring amongst the stars with Rodimus or lead Cybertron into a brave new order with his peace through empathy. The people of Functionalist Cybertron would support him, and everyone from the original universe isn’t going to be that much more dissatisfied than before. It won’t even be completely unfair, after all, he has saved Cybertron more than once, and the entire universe in the end, theoretically speaking, he has saved more lives than he destroyed. 

But maybe the fact that he could have chosen to save himself, and didn’t, is the whole point of his character redemption. The Megatron who loopholed himself out of prosecution on Luna 2 is not the same Megatron who submitted to his fate with the calm acceptance of “whatever happens, I deserve worse.” He is tired, the sins of his past weighs on him, it's not the world that's holding him in judgement, it's himself. It wouldn’t have mattered if the whole universe forgives his atrocities and sings his praise, nothing - no matter how many lives he saves onward - would erase the sea of flowers at his feet. And maybe Rodimus knew this, and respected Megatron’s choice - or maybe Rodimus didn’t think he could do more, he sucks at planning - or maybe Rodimus didn’t want to do more, he was also tired. Too tired to fight Prowl for Megatron, for his ship, even for keeping his life together. The only fight he could offer was the lie about the Matrix, the greatest defining achievement in his life, and lost.

rereading stuff and i noticed a parallel between mtmte and lost light :33

Mtmte 28 and lost light 25!

development ? :0

[blackwldcw]

@shiningsilverarmor asked: 😶 + "Would milady speak about Cybertron? Do thee think it has changed after the war? Or should it be changed now if not so."

Cybertron. The arachnid sucks in a breath, eyes briefly closing as they exhale it in a deep, long-suffering sigh. They had learned of Cybertron from what relics remained in the Forbidden City. It was a place of discord, certainly, but it was also a place on enlightenment. Of learning, technology, and infinite discovery. Such tales are what inspired a young web-weaver to forsake her tribe and don the Decepticon brand; the thought of freeing Cybertron from any remaining corruption and making it their new home was a tempting thought.

But alas, it was just a foolish dream. They know better now.

"The only thing that's changed is that the Functionalist Council and the Senate are no more-- I'll forever be grateful to Megatron, Starscream, and Soundwave for that, at least. But despite all the lives lost, much has remained the same. Organics, even distant relatives such as myself, are feared or shunned. The working classes are still struggling, and little care has been afforded to Decepticons returning home. They have been granted official political party status, but to what end? To argue endlessly with their former enemies about basic rights?

"Starscream and I are working to make therapy and reintegration programs more available, but I fear it isn't enough.

"All hot spots have been extinguished. I'm working on re-igniting them, but such is like... 'pulling teeth,' to adopt a human adage. Forge-masters are protective of their secrets, and I think many are afraid I'll mutate future generations to be more like me." They release an offended huff. "It'd be an improvement, but I'm not that unethical."

They glance downward, rubbing a forearm. "The war solidified a lot of prejudice, unfortunately. Cybertron is still a broken world. But I think for those of us who have an iota of humility and a desire to work together to fix things, there is yet some hope. Many of my colleagues are working alongside neutral and Autobot-affiliated scientists. Soundwave is doing quite well in preventing the Decepticons from starting another civil war; , in fact, he is advocating for more legislation regarding equal representation for the lower classes and those who were constructed cold. And Starscream is doing surprisingly well in keeping both factions and NAILs from tearing each other apart.

"It's a tentative balance, but if all goes well, maybe... maybe Cybertron will eventually become the home that I dreamed of as a child."

[sebibibebi]

the way i fucking hate writing lmao

okay this was gonna be a joke post but actually i'm gonna spill my guts here. i dont do fiction. i havent read a piece of fiction that wasn't on ao3 in YEARS. my piss fic was the first piece of prose i had ever written. then i shat out two more in a month and hated every second of all of them lol.

the ironic thing is i'm literally a writer. i'm an academic in the social sciences lmao i write for a living. and im good at it. but fiction is so alien to me it was like pulling teeth writing those fics i felt like i was trying to write w my left hand lol.

if i had to describe my writing style in one word it would be 'functionalist'. i mean i like my fics, but that's just because i literally just described my own sexual fantasies in precise detail to how they existed in my imagination. my process is to imagine something, then translate it into words so accurate that everyone would be able to imagine it exactly like i was. that sucked! its not fun! the most fun i had was writing my third fic, because i did a lot of character analysis for that in order to create a specific dynamic, and analysis is where i'm most comfy (again, what i do for a living). but yeah i read my writing and just think "this bitch doesnt know what a literary device is lmao wtf is a metaphor" im just. telling u what i see idk how to make it sound nice. that's why i only write sex lol exposition is my worst enemy

basically this is me announcing that i am not a writer and i will probably never write anything ever again lol i'll just shit out a bunch of horny thoughts every now and then i cant be fucked trying to make that shit into prose fiction bleurgh

[notesfromthefielddesk]

Episode 3 - Talal Asad Khartoum International Airport

Episode link; https://open.spotify.com/episode/07Pf4STyxpY5EcMMvBv4uH?si=7b4b9c36d9f44368

(Beep indicating a voicemail message) 

Susan 

Do you think I’m stupid? You think I believe your flight got diverted to South Sudan? South Sudan? Oh and it just so happens that it’s thematically appropriate for your little podcast? Get back to London. Now. We need to have a serious conversation.

(Fade in on airport sounds) 

John 

That’s the voicemail I got just after I arrived at Juba airport. I’d been ignoring Susans phone calls, because… well because i was scared of talking to her and I knew I was in trouble. 

I’m going to level with you listeners, in the spirit of honesty and full disclosure which I have learned is important to some people in anthropology. For some reason. The truth is my flight did not get redirected to Juba. The trunk of ethnographies is real but I already knew about evans-pritchard. I saw he did research in South Sudan and I fancied it, I’d never been and what’s the point of anthropology but to visit new places? 

It was actually really hard to get there. I flew from Brisbane to Dubai then from there to Kenya. Stayed in Nairobi for a night then went to Juba. Took me almost two days. 

I think that that gets lost in all this. That I’m working really hard, and in some ways what i’m doing is very innovative! 

I had been planning to go to Indonesia, I was going to cover Geertz next but I suppose I should head back to London and placate Susan. I just hope she doesn’t fire me. God my dad and grandad would be so angry. Do you ever feel like the useless one? My sister works at Shell you know? What am I doing? Sitting in an airport talking to no-one. I guess Indonesia can wait, an airport is as good a place to do an episode. I guess we’ll cover Talal Asad, seen he did his first ethnography in North Sudan. And we are in Khartoum. I’m not going to describe it, you know what an airport looks like. 

In Anthropology we are kind of into liminal spaces like airports. Liminal is just a fancy way of saying between two places. Anthros like a liminal space because they tend to be areas where normal social rules break down a bit, witches in some contexts tend to live in liminal spaces for example. Usually between the village and the brush. 

In other good news I managed to lose that weird guy who has been following me around. Gave him the slip at the airport, I told him I’d go back via Nairobi but then I booked myself onto a flight here. I mean it sucks now because the flight back to London isn’t until tomorrow, if i’d gone to Nairobi i’d be home by now. Worth it to get away from that guy though you would not believe what he told me he was doing in Papua New - 

(Phone rings) 

John 

Hi Susan. 

Yes I got your messages. 

Well I think you maybe weren’t getting through because I was in umm south Sudan, signal wasn’t amazing. I called O2 about it, they said it was not really within their service area.

Yeah, no i understand why you’re angry, but really it was purely an accident that I ended up in Juba. Act of God is a pretty good excuse right? 

Where am I now? Well… you’re gonna laugh, I mean it’s pretty hard to believe but there’s this guy who has been sort of following me around and I was running away from him so…

No, it is the truth…

Right… 

No I understand why you wouldn’t believe me - and why you’re angry. In my defence though, and I was just saying this on the podcast - 

No! No, no, Don’t listen. - 

Just because it’s not very good. - What do you mean you can believe that? Anyway, in my defence I think what i’m doing is quite innovative....

Well Derivative is a little harsh - 

Well, that’s as maybe but I think they students are getting a lot out of this, you know they’re more engaged with the texts than if I was just in London talking dryly about them - no, not your lectures they aren’t dry. 

Ah, I hadn’t thought of office hours. No, that’s my bad. No I didn’t reply to the students email but again, the plains of South Sudan aren’t great for wifi - yes I suppose that is my own fault. 

Well I’m coming back as fast as I can. 

(We hear from down the phone “What do you mean as fast as you can? Where are you!?”) 

I’m in Khartoum, like I said I was trying to run away from that guy. 

(Down phone “You have a tutorial today! When do you fly?”) 

Sorry, not till tomorrow. But I can do it from here, the airport has pretty good wifi. 

(Exasperated noises “If I could fire you right now I would.”) 

Sorry, Susan. 

She hung up on me! Well I suppose I should give you guys a little bit of background on Talal Asad before the tutorial seen as the students have dictated that that is what we’re doing next. 

The students have been insisting on Talal Asad for a while. So here it is. I was honestly unsure if Asad really fits into the tutorial, but then I found out Evan-Pritchard’s was Asad’s doctoral advisor.  So we’ve got some continuity going on. 

Anyway, I have been getting insistent emails about Talal Asad for a while. Hold on, let me read out one of them. (shuffling noises) ummm “Dear Mr. Johnson, You still haven’t given me feed—” okay sorry wrong email. Oh, here it is 

“Dear Mr. Johnson, I actually enjoy your tutorials. But I have some suggestions for the future. Also, if you could check my latest assignment and” Blah blah blah this and that, oh here it is. “I think Talal Asad would be a good fit for your tutorials. Asad is a postcolonial cultural anthropologist, he is Saudi-born and brought up in Pakistan—”

Ok see, here is where I think we all go wrong as a generation. People think where this man was born and brought up somehow changes what he has to say? Is he automatically post-colonial because he was born in the Middle East? Anthropology in practice is about being objective, being the fly on the wall, I know we’ve talked about objectivity, but I still think being an outsider gives a less biased look. What does identity politics have to do with it?

And I know the students have been insisting on alternate field work and auto-ethnography, but the feeling of being on the field. Being part of somewhere different, the grass under your feet, water in your shoes? Slipping out of yourself and becoming someone else! That’s irreplaceable. 

Tannoy

“Can the owner of a large wooden trunk full of books come to the customer service desk. It is blocking the Mens toilets. If the trunk is not collected it will be removed and destroyed. The name tag says John Johnson. Again, can John Johnson come to the customer service desk and retrieve his large wooden trunk.”

Oh that’s my trunk give me one second.

(transition thing)

Okay, where were we? Yes, the student's email. She says “Asad is a post-colonial anthropologist. Much of his work focuses on anthropology of religion. He will fit right into the introduction to anthropology course we are studying because he moves away from locations and towards themes. 

Most of his work focuses on being critical about the things in anthropology which are taken for granted. 

Specifically, the conceptualization of Islam and human rights in the global arena. He said that a lot of the colonialist anthropologists concentrated on categorising different groups of people. They went to the field and found differences through limited observation which they then turned into official documents. Those documents were used to justify colonialism and/or to divide and conquer”

Isn’t that a bit harsh? I said as much in my reply to this student. Which I CC’d to the whole class. I said these are still the fathers of anthropology. And as Asad himself says, historical context is important (smugly) Besides what is anthropology without the field? “A move to themes” Sounds like someone didn’t like getting their hands dirty. 

The back of that guy's head looks familiar. Is that him again? But no, I’m pretty sure I lost him in Juba Airport. 

(Deep breath)

Besides I’m pretty sure that student is wrong. Asad did do field work. His first book was built on his ethnography in North Sudan hence why we’re in Khartoum. Although it is true that Asad is careful to specify that his work does not encompass the lives of the Kababish tribe but rather focuses on certain aspects of their lives, such as their ecology, economics and social organization of the tribes. That’s a big change from traditional ethnographers like Malinowski who said the aim should be to describe all of society. 

After that first work Asad shifts towards being critical; critical of secularism, critical of human rights, and even of what his peers had to say. 

Like there’s this guy, an anthropologist, Ernest Gellner, and he is not exactly what my students would call ‘woke’ and the thing is I am not much for “cancel culture”. 

But Asad really rips him a new one. Very unprofessional. Asad criticizes Gellner for having a limited perspective of Islam. Gellner thought Islam had a strict blue print, whilst there is more flexbility in Judaism and Christianity. So Gellner is kind of a structural functionalist for Religion. But Asad said Islam was also felixible and Gellner failed to apply his critique of Islam to other religions...maybe because he had other motives? Like my students and their “anti-colonial” issues with EP. 

And personally I don’t think EP or Gellner were intentionally being colonial. Gellner’s ideas are based on the Middle East aka the birthplace of Islam. So surely that’s the authentic form? Also, I mean Gellner is an older man, he can make mistakes and he was a product of his time…. wait what? Sorry, it says here Gellner is only 7 years older than Asad. (clears throat)

Regardless, I don’t understand why we have to cancel EP or Gellner for it. 

Oh shit it’s time for the tutorial. 

(Skype call sound)

John

Wait is this everyone? Should I wait five minutes to start or something?

Zahra

No...I think it’s just me. After they read your email where you kind of ranted about cancel culture they all said they weren’t going to come. 

John 

Oh… Right, I guess I should keep my opinions to myself. (kind of mumble this) 

Zahra 

Um, Mr. Johnson? Sorry, I don’t want to be rude. But I don’t think anyone is trying to cancel Gellner? I just don’t think you understand what Asad is trying to say with his criticisms.

John 

Well why don’t you just explain it to me then. Because clearly you all understand anthropology better than me.

Zahra

Well that’s kind of your job but okay. 

Asad is not just being critical of Gellner, to be mean. He is being critical of the kind of academia that Gellner represents. Especially in Anthropology, where much of the colonial discourse argued that when someone goes into the field the outsider has an objective idea of the field. Hence, Gellner believing as a non-Muslim, and as not being a part of the group, that he has a more neutral understanding of the group he is looking to study.

While Asad is criticizing this exact practice, he is also saying there needs to be more of a focus on the history behind how certain concepts come to be rather than just the group. So for example, Gellner says Islam is political, and Christianity isn’t. So Asad wants people to examine where that idea comes from. 

To do that Asad says there needs to be like frameworks that look at religious tradition not as static and the opposite of modernity, but rather look at tradition and modernity together and how they create specific social structures and varied collections of beliefs and customs. So we should think of  religions as conversations between lots of people throughout history rather than a monologue laid down by a handful of powerful people.

So it’s like academia, we build it together, Malinowski has an idea then EP criticises it and improves it and so on. It’s not cancel culture, we’re building knowledge as a community. Sometimes that means saying your hero is wrong, or even - maybe - like racist. 

Are you listening to me?

John Johnson 

Yeah, yeah sure...I - I just saw this guy who has been like chasing me. It’s definitely him! 

Zahra

Chasing you?

John 

Well not exactly chasing but like pursuing? 

Hey sir, can you help me take this desk into that toilet?

Yeah that toilet there. 

Hey Zainab, sorry I need to hide. Why don’t you just finish out the tutorial by listening to this extract. 

Zahra 

It’s actually Zahra--

Extract 

In 1975, while I was teaching at the University of Hull, I learned that my mother had advanced cancer. I decided to go to Saudi Arabia and stayed with her there until she died a year later. The political atmosphere and the social rigidity in a society awash with newfound wealth was very uncongenial, but the entire experience had a considerable impact on me and my ideas. I tried—unsuccessfully—to sort things out in my 1978 Malinowski Memorial Lecture (which I had been invited to give before my year in Saudi Arabia) in which I dealt with the definition of ideology, the classic Marxist theoretical term for false consciousness, as well as with the ‘authentic’ accounts of cultures studied by anthropologists. I tried to distinguish language in life from the language used by anthropologists about life, and to trace the slippery role of ‘meaning’ in anthropological accounts of other cultures. I tried to think in that presentation about matters that interested anthropologists of the time, as well as larger issues that had shaped my life up to that point.

Improbable though it may seem, my struggle to articulate my ideas and criticisms was largely prompted by my reflection on my mother's religious life. My father spoke and wrote impressively about the religion to which he had converted. My mother, by contrast, lived as a Muslim without expounding the doctrines of Islam, without defending it from attack or trying to persuade others of its superior virtue. My point is not simply that she was a pious woman—that she performed her prescribed prayers regularly, read portions of the Qur'an aloud early every morning, and fasted during the month of Ramadan. It is that I now realized I had thought of her life in terms of a lack instead of trying to understand it in her own terms, as she had lived it. I began to see that, like so many non-intellectuals, her religious practices were embodied, and that her embodied religion did not offer itself to hermeneutic methods—to the deciphering by observers of the real meaning of what she did—although it obviously ‘meant’ much to her.

In a very fundamental sense, these ‘religious’ activities had been no different from the mundane part of her life because they were mundane and integral to her everyday life. And while I had seen her act in this way as far back as I could remember, it was only after her death—when I turned in a sustained way to Wittgenstein for an understanding of religion (although he himself was not ‘religious’)—that I began to see her life differently. I saw it now not as an attempt to deepen and aestheticize her experience (as it is fashionable in some quarters to say), but as a way of being. My mother didn't intellectualize her religion, but by that I don't wish to say that she was ‘a blind follower’. Her prayers, recitations, and fasting were intended neither for other people to decode nor for enhancing her own experience; they were addressed to her God. During her married life she had not been always receptive to my father's enlightened arguments about changing some of her religious practices. Was this because she was irrational, incapable of responding to a rational argument, as I thought at the time? I have come to believe that I was wrong in thinking so: she didn't abandon particular practices because she felt that the change wouldn't fit easily into the entirety of her life as a Muslim. The idea that her feelings of fear, reverence, love, and so forth were to be understood as ‘emotions’ and therefore as ‘non-rational’ had for long seemed to me an unsatisfactory way of thinking about devoutness. This became clearer over time as I learned to think of embodiment not as mechanization but as the articulation of a particular encounter—in my mother's case, of her relationship to her God.

John

Okay, i’m safely in the bathroom, so sorry for any - (flushing) interruptions… 

I’ve been really struggling with my students. It’s like they want to challenge everything. What about theories that are good? Can’t we leave well enough alone? Do they think i’m like stupid or something? I just have respect for those that went before me. Even if I didn’t agree with EP, or Malinowski or Gellner, academic freedom is a thing you know? I’ll defend their right to say their theories to the death. Students be damned.

Zahra 

Umm Mr. Johnson - I’m still here. 

John 

Oh, hi Zahra, look I didn’t mean you. I’m sure you’re a very respectful - okay she hung up on me. Why is everyone doing that today? 

Gellner was trying to make an honest attempt to understand Islam. Objectively. Not with the bias of being a muslim. Isn’t that what we were criticising EP and Malinowski for? Their personal opinions affecting their theory? Sure maybe if you’re muslim you can have a more nuanced view and understand how it feels to be within that religion. 

And maybe people should have a say in how they are defined. Especially when those definitions can have a massive impact on your life. Like under colonialism. And maybe Gellner had a blindspot for Christianty, but so what? I like Gellner. His theories make the world simpler. Sometimes you need to use simple categories to clarify a complex world. Asad just complicates everything. And if Asad can see everything that’s wrong in Gellner, What’s his solution? 

Susan calls

What do you mean “a complaint”? 

The email? Oh my goodness I'm being silenced! I have complaints about them too like how they aren’t showing up to the tutorial. 

Well, yes the tutorial was a little short today but in my defence that guy is after me. And I had to run away. 

Well, You don’t have to believe me but it’s true. Do you think I usually take phone calls in a bathroom?

(flushing sound/bathroom sounds)

Yes I’m in a toilet. 

You know what, i’m sick of being told what to do and think by you and the students and my parents and my grandparents! I’m going to indonesia. And if you want to fire me then go ahead and talk to my grandfather, I believe he made a very generous donation that he would like back!

Ha! His time I hung up. Okay, I’m going to get a flight to Indonesia, hopefully that’ll shake this weirdo following me. 

Thank you for listening to notes from the field desk - this episode was written by Fatimah Ahktar and me. 

Lucy Hansen was supervisor Susan 

Our artwork was by Julie Karremans 

Our music was “dark side of my students” 

Asad, Talal The Kababish Arabs 1970

Asad, Talal Genealogies of Religion 1993

Asad, Talal Anthropology and the Colonial Encounter 1973

Asad Talal Autobiographical Reflections on Anthropology and Religion 2020

Gellner, Ernest Muslim Society 1981

Acclivity - Dubai Departures 

https://freesound.org/people/acclivity/sounds/49118/

Astounded - Christopher J Astbury Switzerland Airport departure lounge Zurich International

https://freesound.org/people/Astounded/sounds/481818/

Polymorpheva - London Heathrow Airport 

https://freesound.org/people/polymorpheva/sounds/104541/

Mario1298 - Waiting for passengers at the airport background. 

https://freesound.org/people/mario1298/sounds/155798/

For full Links visit us on Soundcloud, twitter and instagram at notesfromTFD

[anon-e-miss]

Stupid Snippet Because Stupid Muse is Stupidly Stupid

“How many bitlets do you have?” Jazz asked as he looked at the three mechlings babbling excitedly up at the dour Praxian. Like their procreator, they were all Praxian, all different ages. The youngest of the sparklings, correction, sparklings and newling. The youngest was close to his upgrade from newling to sparklings but the little grey and red mech was still uneasy on his peds, the second, all over blue was sure on his peds, a late first tier sparkling, and was chattering in a mix of binary and Neo Cybex, the third, grey and blue with distinct golden faceplates was speaking in proper sentences but with the sweet, innocent accent of a sparkling, from the looks of him, he had approaching his second tier upgrades, which explained why he was not in school, but the time was coming soon.

“Four,” Prowl replied, guarded, the Polihexian realized, vulnerable. “From youngest, to oldest, Bluestreak, Skids, and Camshaft. My eldest, Smokescreen, is at school. Mechlings, these mech is one of my colleagues, Jazz.”

“Hi!” Camshaft greeted him with unbridled enthusiasms, while Skids hid behind his procreator’s legs.

“Hiya bitlets,” the saboteur said, smiling at the brave, and the shy mechings. He looked to Prowl. “Everyone talks ‘bout how ya work insane joors, ‘n are always in yer office, but ya ain’t, are ya?”

“No,” The Praxian said as he leaned down and picked up his youngest. A panel on Prowl’s chassis slid back and the mechling latched onto the feeding line. It should not have been a vulnerable moment, but Jazz realized that it was. Prowl was looking away, looking as his creations, but at the same time not. Jazz was an intruder here. “I do work “insane” joors, a mix of here and on base. The majority of my work is done via telecommuting.”

“How did I not know?” Jazz asked, more to himself than to Prowl. “It’s my business to know everythin’ ‘bout everyone.”

“The nature of my family is known only to two mech, three now, I suppose,” Prowl explained. “Optimus Prime, and Ratchet.”

“The Raid on Tyger Pax, the one were ya saved our afts ‘n got yerself enlisted as a strat, these bitlets were with ya in the youngling centre Prime got cornered in,” the Polihexian guessed.

“I have always thought my actions there self serving, not the selfless heroics some have painted them to be,” the tactician said. “My life, those of my creations and other young mechanisms were in immediate, lethal danger. I saved my life, and there’s, Optimus Prime merely got lucky.”

“Did he ever,” Jazz let out a long vent, then asked. “Anything I can help ya, with, while ya take care of this lil’ mech?”

“Camshaft, please show Jazz to the fuel storage,” Prowl instructed. “I believe you and Skids would both like a snacks. Take a cube for yourself, Jazz.”

The Polihexian followed the happy little mech as he skipped into the alcove that served as the family’s fuelling are.  Considering the number of mechanisms living in the habsuite, it was really quite small, though painstakingly neat. Tactical Officer to Special Operations or no, wages within the Autobots officers were generally low. Prowl likely could not, or felt like he could not afford a larger suite. Considering he had  kept his young family a secret, he probably would not have wanted to draw attention to himself by renting a habsuite anyways. Why the secrecy, Jazz wondered. Other Autobots had bitlets, the tactician would not be an anomaly, but the answer, the saboteur thought would not likely be forthcoming. Camsaft led Jazz over to the fuel cabinet, and in a feat of surprising strength, he managed to pull the door opened. He looked up at the Polihexian, optics glowing with pride.

“Good job, mechlin’,” Jazz grinned as he gave the sparkling the praise he knew Camshaft was after. “So what would ya like? Some gels? Some energon?”

“Gels! Gels” Camshaft squealed excitedly. “Blue ones are my favourite, Skids likes pink ones. Bluestreak likes or’gin’s fuel best.”

“Bet ya did at his age too,” the Polihexian said. “What does your origin like best, Cam?”

“Mid grade with copper and zinc,” the sparkling replied. “And rust sticks!”

“Rust stucks, h’uh?” Jazz said. “Why don’t ya help me make up a lil plate for everybot to share?”

“Yah!” Camshaft cheered. He showed the saboteur where the rust sticks were kept, and help Jazz arrange them... artfully... on the plate. When the snack was ready, and the adult mech had mixed two cubes, the carefully carried the plate over to his originator, who at this point was sitting on the plush couch. Bluestreak was half dosing at this point, though Jazz could here him continue to suck. Skids was tucked in tightly to his originator’s side, watching the intruder suspiciously. Though at the sight of the plate of treats, he perked up.

“Hope this is alright,” the saboteur asked.

“It is, thank you,” Prowl replied.

“Sit with me, Skids!” Camshaft called to his brother as he sat himself, and the plate down in a makeshift nest of blankets Jazz guessed was the mechlings preferred spot to rest as they watched holovids. Lured by the streets, Skids slid off the couch and sat with his brother in their nest and helped himself to one of the pink gels. Jazz took up his vacant place on the couch, but not near so close to Prowl. He handed the Praxian the cube he had mixed for him.

“If secrecy’s what ya want Prowl, I ain’t gonna blab,” Jazz said. “Keepin’ secrets is as big a part of my job as uncoverin’em.”

“Thank you,” the Praxian replied. “I do wish my family to remain a secret. I do not want my commission called into question.”

“Why do ya think that’s a question?” The Polihexian asked. “Y’er the best tactician to join the ‘Bots. Y’er one of the big reasons we’re holdin’ our own.”

“I am their only procreator,” Prowl explained. He paused a moment and turned on the holo-imager. In an instant the chattering of the sparklings ceased and they became entranced by the cartoom playing. “That is enough to call into question whether it is acceptable for me to risk my life by actively serving, despite the fact I do not attend battles. Bluestreak’s young age is another matter.”

“What happened to their ‘genitor?” Jazz asked. If the other mech did not wish to answer, he would not press, but he need not have worried.

“I left him,” the tactician explained. “Praxus is Functionalist. Artists create art, musicians create music, strategists serve the Enforcers, or government, and originators bare creations. I have hyper-fertility. If I engage in interface during a procreo cycle I kindle. My arranged mate saw fit to use me as a broadcarrier. After four cycles, each resulting in a kindling, I knew I would die in emergence before he left me in peace, so I fled in the dark-cycle shortly after Bluestreak emerged.”

“Tyger Pax shouda been a safe but the ‘Cons thought they were buildin’ a super weapon,” the saboteur said.

“I prefer Iacon, and the Autobots,” Prowl replied. “I am able to use the abilities I have trained, with some anonymity.”

“Y’re afraid of being discovered?” Jazz asked, his plating prickled. It was good then that Prowl had let him into the secret. If any mech made a move on the family, they would be quietly disposed of, no better mech to take care of those sorts of problems than him.

“Less than I once was,” the Praxian said. “Iacon is actively opposed to Functionalism, it would be difficult for their progenitor to build a case. I am not altogether sure he would be bothered. Burning so many creations off of me was a matter of ego to him, he was less than concerned with our creations in general. Their care was entirely left to me, it was easy to slip away with them. Prior to being paired off with him, and my first carrying I served the Enforcers for vorns. Emerging sparkling after sparkling, raising endless creations was never what I planned for myself. I always wished to work It was a relief to return to some sort of service.”

“He ever turn up, Prowl, gimme a comm ‘n he’ll be gone,” the Polihexian promised. “Y’er an Op, sorta, ‘n I take care ‘o Ops.”

“Thank you, Jazz,” Prowl replied. “I do not believe that will be necessary, but should it be, I will take you up on your offer. My creations will not be raised Functionalist, and I will never go back.”