#Serial Cleaner

[bowlorass]

Somebody PLEASE play Serial Cleaners. It doesn’t even have a fandom. LOOK AT THE ART!!

For some context: You play as a crew of cleaners in the mid to late 90s, cleaning up the aftermath of crimes. The gameplay can be pretty janky at times, but it’s got my heart.

[glubidi]

Feel free to come say Hi ! (If you are over 18 though)

[dandysnob]

[thestoryteller4]

New video! Here are some funny moments from various videos on my gaming channel, aka, reasons you should subscribe to me! I need 500 subs before I can apply for monetization (and 3k watch hours in a 90 day time period), and right now I have 35 XD please help a queer youtuber out. I've been told my voice is soothing sooooo if that's something of interest. I also have a cat I can show if that's an incentive.

[you-know-i-get-itt]

fixing my intro post

hello!! this is technically an aftg side blog but it got away from me very very quickly so expect to see just about anything i’m obsessed with here :) this includes anything and everything related to aftg, history, and shakespeare (and i also love the goldfinch, trc, and james joyce). my main is @giaswritingarchive

socmed au: 5 4 3 2 1

completed fics: 1. Sunrise, Abram, Death 2. Heaven Is Not Fit 3. Je Te Laisserai Des Mots 4. Hijack Heaven with Another Memory 5. The Outer Rounds of Heaven 6. Apollo Showed Me the Sun 7. My Brother’s Keeper

ongoing fics: 1. Outpace the Dawn 2. Gravity of an Unadorned Song 3. Always an Angel

wip masterpost

[skgtp-vn]

Sketching

[hauntedwizardmoment]

me coming up w/ the world's worst guy as an OC: wow this guy sucks. who came up with him.

[lovelornings]

@starlixir ll SC

❥ - "Are you looking for mother ?"

It's the only thing she can think to answer with to the stranger at her door. The same thing she would have asked when that woman was here. Normally, she'd add the usual 'I can tell her you're here' or ' she'll be back later' - but neither of those would be the case.

Mother hadn't been home for a few months now.

"She's..."

Her gaze diverts to the ground, not staying nearly long enough on the visitor's face to place if she recongnized her or not.

"She doesn't live here anymore."

It's just me now.

[mojana]

I also fully agree, i filled out this same ship chart a while ago on the train for both of them and this was what i came up w

(Incomplete bc i filled it out w my phone lmao)

I'm a firm believer that matoba's more extroverted than shuuichi

[vivanightcity]

thought i was being so clever doubling the night time contracts needed for the achievement with getting each level 100% clean

only to finally finish - and level 17 the mafia one is a FUCKER to get all the blood on - and find out it didn't count because i was playing nightime mode and not classic story mode

fuck me sideways

[gremlingottoosilly]

König x Housekeeper!Reader? He was expecting some little old lady, not a college student looking for an extra side hustle to pay their tuition. He can already picture them as a housewife as they work around his mess of a place.

You're playing with the poor man's heart! When he was signing up for the weekly maid services, he hoped that it would be different people each time. Calling in for a housekeeper and a cleaner is already embarrassing enough at his grown age - there is a voice inside his head that tells him he should man the fuck up and stop being so damn difficult about watching over his own house, but having a regular maid who would know just how messy his life is...yeah, he was not having it. He needed someone old and boring, someone who, preferably, doesn't even speak German so he won't have to awkwardly master the conversation. He got you instead. You're...you're fucking perfect. In cozy and comfortable clothes, nothing that hugs your body and suggests something innappropriate - and yet every time you bend over, he can't help but imagine the way your ass must look under these baggy pants and has to fight the urge to just grab your waist and slam his erection against the curve of your hip. You're eager to work, you buzz around the messy house like a busy bee you are - there isn't much of his personal items inside, but his clothes and various gear laying around does make it a messy space. You were wondering if he is either a soldier or a serial killer, judging by the amount of weapons you got laying around...but it's better to not ask this question. You just needed some money, and the maid services are paying on the day of work - with repeating clients actually sometimes leaving you a nice tip or something to eat if you were to clean their houses at the dead of the night...it's really nice, somehow. Konig just can't keep his hands to himself sometimes. You look too adorable not to compliment on how you look - although he never dares, usually just staring at you from the corner. You're probably thinking he is afraid of you stealing something, but it's not like you really care about any of this, to be completely honest...you just want to keep your head low and get money. Unfortunately for you, Konig has a thing for housewife and domestic life. One time you were doing the routinely cleaning and it got really late - and with Konig literally having his house as far from civillization as possible, ass the buses were already leaving from the stations, leaving you stranded until the morning...and you'd be fucked or in for a very hefty taxi bill if it weren't for Konig oh so generously allowing you to spend the night at the guest room. You knew each other for a few months already, and the guy is harmless...naturally, you agree. Naturally, you never left this house without him again.

[chanelgrll]

Maybe could you do Ronin with a reader who gets kidnapped and almost murdered by another serial killer/stalker?? Please and thank you I need more angst/comfort fics in this fandom 🙂‍↕️

A/N: hell yeah i can

The room stank of bleach and blood. Not the clean kind. Not the kind you smell in hospitals or behind a bartender’s counter at 3 AM. This was rust and rot and something darker.

Your wrists were raw from zip ties, skin chewed up where you’d tried to fight. Your breath came in ragged, dragging gasps as you sat curled against the wall, half-conscious. The blindfold was gone now, cut off with something jagged. He’d wanted you to see him, see what he planned to do. But he’d talked too long. That’s what saved you.

Because Ronin found you first.

The door burst open like a shotgun blast, hinges screaming, and then everything moved too fast for your mind to catch. One moment you were preparing to die. The next, the world was blood and heat and shouting, and Ronin was there, crouched in front of you, saying something your brain couldn’t understand yet. His voice didn’t sound like it usually did on calls. Not cocky. Not smug. It was shaking. Quiet and sharp like broken glass.

"Hey. Hey, darling.. look at me. Come on. Open those pretty eyes."

Your eyes fluttered open, barely. Light stabbed through your skull. Your throat was too dry to speak. His hands didn’t touch you at first. They hovered, trembling fingers an inch from your bruised cheek, afraid to cause more damage. You managed a sound. Something halfway between a sob and his name.

“Ronin…”

He pulled you into him, ignoring the blood, the smell, the way your body shook. His arms locked around you like he could piece you back together with pressure alone. Your face buried against his chest, where his shirt was damp with sweat and blood, his or someone else's, you couldn't tell.

"I’ve got you now. You're okay. You're safe, y’hear me?” he whispered, over and over, his voice cracking like a fault line. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. No one’s ever gonna touch you again.”

You weren’t sure when you passed out, but the next thing you knew, you came to in a dim room filled with soft yellow light, the scent of antiseptic cleaner replaced by cologne, warm cotton, and Ronin’s cigarettes. You were on his bed, tucked under a weighted blanket. Everything ached. But the panic was gone, you felt safe again.

He was in a chair beside you, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. He hadn’t changed clothes, but his gloves were off. His hands were bloody at the knuckles.

“Did you kill him?” you asked, voice rasping like gravel. Ronin blinked and sat back, looking you over like he hadn’t let himself until now. His expression was something unreadable. Fire and guilt and something desperate.

“I gutted that bitch from the inside out.” He ran a hand through his burgundy hair, wild and sweat-stuck. The silence stretched, heavy.

You broke first. “He said he’d been watching me for months. Said he found me through the server. Said I ‘talked so sweet for a killer’s partner.’” Your voice cracked. “He knew everything, Ronin.

He stood, jaw clenched. “If I find out which sick bastard leaked your info, I swear, I’ll rip out their—”

“Ronin.”

He stopped mid-step. You had to reach for him. Had to. Because if you didn’t anchor him, you weren’t sure either of you would make it out of this spiral.

“I’m still here,” you whispered. In two steps, he was at the bed, sinking to his knees in front of you. His hand reached up, so gentle now, and brushed back your hair, eyes fixed on your battered face.

“I should’ve kept you safe,” he said, voice thick. “I let myself get soft. I forgot what kind of world we live in.”

“No,” you said. “You loved me.” His fingers tangled with yours. They were shaking.

“You don’t have to be okay,” he murmured. “Not now. Not for me. Just… stay with me. Let me take care of you for once.”

You let yourself lean into him, let your head rest against his. The pain didn’t vanish. The fear still ghosted your bones. But in his arms, it didn’t feel like the end of the world anymore.

[ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat]

morbid meeting - spencer reid x fem!reader

reader runs into a stranger in a coffee shop—a very smart stranger

genre: fluff wc: 800 warnings: reader is supposed to be alt/goth, mentioned kissing, kidnapping of an umbrella, mentions of serial killers and morgues a/n: requested by @westanleovaldito!!! ty:) also it's come to my attention that not everyone knows what a london fog is????

The rain made your hair much flatter than you had in mind when you back-combed it this morning. It’s a miracle it managed to not get soaked completely if we’re looking on the bright side.

But who are you kidding? You suck at looking on the bright side.

So you pat down your hair and shake off your umbrella.

You wonder to yourself if the craving for a London fog was really worth the wet tights (not to mention the scribbled-on Converse that most definitely don’t have stick men on them anymore). You’ll have to remind yourself to hold a wake for said stick men.

The shorts you put on this morning were a better idea before you saw Mother Nature’s idea of a good time.

Your feet move quickly to the back of the line.

“Excuse me?” You turn to see a tall man with shaggy hair and a satchel. An awkward smile adorns his boyish face–a face you could see yourself kissing. But that’s irrelevant.

A tilt of your head conveys your confusion and you're sure your wide eyes do too.

“Sorry, just–uh–is that your umbrella?” he asks, pointing toward the door.

When you look in the direction he’s gesturing toward, there’s–of course–a man walking out the door with your black and white polka dot umbrella.

“Shit!”

His head dips as his eyes lock onto his shoes. With your jaw slack, your head shifts back to him and, naturally, you follow his gaze down.

A complete 180, you grin. “Nice shoes.”

Your eyes meet and he mirrors the curve of your lips. “Thanks. You, too.”

“They–um–used to be nicer but, y’know, rain,” you shrug awkwardly.

“I understand,” he nods, that same smile on his face, “I’m really sorry about your umbrella, by the way.”

The way his nose scrunches makes you want to look at him longer. You’re blushing and you don’t even know his name.

“It’s okay! I like the rain.”

An honest, adoring look lands on you right before he says, “me, too! Did you know that the average speed of rain is fourteen miles per hour or twenty-two point five three zero eight kilometers per hour?”

Something about how he knows that makes you admire him. You mean, who just has that knowledge tucked away? Except maybe you.

“Did you know that the chainsaw was originally invented to assist in childbirth?” you chime happily.

His jaw goes slack in what you assume is impression.

“I did! Uh, th–there are roughly fifty active serial killers in the United States at all times.”

You giggle. “I knew that, I watch my crime shows. You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

It’s obvious he wasn’t expecting quite a response but he recovers. “Okay… Did you know that, in the mid eighteen hundreds, morgues brought in more onlookers than museums?”

“They did?” you narrow your eyes in curiosity.

He nods eagerly, a curl falling loose in front of his face. “Around forty thousand visitors a day! Children drew the largest crowds.”

“Wow,” you smile. You bite down on your crimson lip bashfully before muttering a soft, “you’re smart.”

You watch his throat bob as he swallows. A meek, gentle–and honestly adorable–”thank you,” leaves his lips.

You nod and your pupils dilate while they trace every curve and slope of his face. He has on a button-down and a tie, a cardigan on to keep him warm. The rain outside has started to dry, leaving messy but defined curls behind. His shoes are also muddy, yet, still cleaner than yours.

“Box Jellyfish possess at least twenty-four functional eyes,” he whispers under his breath as if to defeat the silence.

A soft giggle leaves your lips. “You just… know that?”

Proud of himself, he nods. “I read a lot.”

“Oh, yeah? What–”

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks.

And you’re pulled out of your real world reverie. The dreamy haze you found yourself in with a complete stranger.

How curious is that?

Your mouth opens to speak but you find it near impossible to get a word out. “Oh! Uh–” you clear your throat, “a medium London fog, please? Extra foam.”

The change in your red leather wallet practically hits the poor girl in the face with how quickly your manicured fingers ruffle through it. But the swiftness in which you pay doesn’t help you, because the minute you tell her the name for the order, the stranger–the one that’s not so strange–his phone starts ringing.

“It’s–uh–work, I’m sorry, I have to–I have to go,” he rambles, hand slipping into his satchel for a cellular device you haven’t seen in five years.

“It’s okay! I… it was nice…” and he answers the call, tongue sweeping across his lips. You continue to yourself, “talking to you…”

Peculiar.

Yet, you find yourself interested.

[ceilidho]

I see your investigator!Price/Crime cleaner reader and raise you this

Cop turned Serial Killer!Simon who kills just to keep running into the cute cleaner who cleans up his work

that's a very neat meetcute too!!!! he likes how hard she works to clean up the mess he made and how thorough she is, paying attention to every single detail. makes him feel powerful.

[teriterina]

ok but why I kinda thought of a hasemura au where Kamimura is a crime scene cleaner who keeps finding strange flirty messages while he works, and Hasegawa is a genius prodigy-slash-serial killer who leaves those just for him to find?

bonus points if Ken tries to appear confident and smooth, but still gives away his dorky personality to Kazutoshi ;)

[woradat]

SCENARIO: The Field Butcher

PAIRING - scavenger x reader

NOTE - the draft of Dear Memory suddenly disappeared.. luckily I had a backup in my doc, btw I decided to post this instead..

The air stank of scorched energon and melted armor, thick with iron dust stirred by a dying breeze. Somewhere near the perimeter of yesterday’s battlefield, you’d set up your ‘clinic’ — if one could call a dented shipping container with rusted med-kits and jury-rigged tables a clinic

You never thought you'd end up being a "doctor"

Not because you didn’t dream of it—but mostly because the term “medical ethics” meant absolutely nothing to you

What you did know was this: torn-up bots were fascinating. Especially when you got to crack them open and see what was ticking inside

You started small

Salvaging bits and pieces from the battlefield outskirts, selling them on the black market but anytime you found something new, you'd bring it back, clean it up, lay it out neatly on your table like collectible figurines…

Then tinker

Pry – Slice –Rewire

After that, you were hooked

You started studying Cybertronian anatomy for real

Through corpses. Through... well, let’s call them “patients” Most of them didn’t really have a choice and you learned through wild, reckless trial and error

It didn’t take long before they started whispering your name

Some said you were insane

Some said you were a genius

And honestly? You weren’t arguing with either

—

But hey, you’ve seen worse

Today’s patient wasn’t bleeding out — not anymore — but sat eerily still on the edge of your operating slab. SPINISTER didn’t speak a word. He simply watched

With those wide optics, tinted faintly with blue and wariness, he stared at your fingers as they hovered near the frayed conduits in his left arm. You traced one cable with your thumb, then flicked it experimentally. The response: a slight twitch in his elbow

“Hmm…” you murmured, mostly to yourself “That shouldn't spasm unless—ah. Rerouted nerves. Or maybe just leftover trauma from the last missile strike”

Spinister said nothing, his head tilted faintly, almost birdlike, curious, not afraid, not quite trusting, either

Your grin curled up as you pulled a box cutter from your belt. Not a surgical tool — a literal box cutter. You flicked it open with a shnick “Don’t worry. I’ve carved cleaner lines through Decepticon corpses than this.” You winked “This won’t be the worst thing to happen to your arm this week”

Still, he didn’t flinch

You began slicing carefully through the plating at his forearm, easing metal apart with steady hands. The smell of energon and scorched silicon rose up, comforting in its own grotesque way. Spinister kept watching

“You know” you added, conversationally “the first time I tried this, I was working on a dead guy. Well, he was mostly dead. Only his backup battery was still twitching. Sort of like you, except you’re a lot more agreeable”

At that, he blinked once. You could’ve sworn he smirked

Your eyes narrowed in interest “Wait a second... have you done this before?”

No answer — but Spinister reached forward and picked up your wire shears. Delicately. Like he knew how to hold them. He turned them in his hands and adjusted the tension

You raised a brow “You’re either a closet medic or a highly specific kind of serial killer”

He gave a tiny shrug. Then pointed at the junction in his own elbow, looking at you as if to say: "Cut here?"

“…Huh”

You moved aside “Be my guest”

He went to work with silent focus, slicing away burnt cabling and clearing the joint. His movements weren’t flawless — but they were clean, deliberate, and scarily competent for someone who hadn’t said a damn word all afternoon

You folded your arms, watching

“Alright, I’ve decided” you announced “You’re hired. No license needed. Field experience counts more anyway”

Spinister paused to glance at you - you pointed to yourself “Me? Oh, I’m self-taught too. I just have a different definition of malpractice”

Then you handed him a full energon injector “You mind stabbing me with this? My hand’s full”

He took it and administered it with surprising precision

You made a pleased noise “Oh-ho. You are good”

Silence again. Spinister just stared, expression unreadable

You could practically feel the static hanging between you. The buzz of barely understood connection. Maybe it was the shared love of sharp things. Or the unspoken language of: “I won’t kill you if you don’t kill me”

“Say, Spinister. You wanna stick around? I’ve got a few other, uh… experiments. Some of them might even survive”

He cocked his head, considering

Then — a slow, solemn nod

You grinned “Perfect. I’ve been dying to try out this new cranial implant. Might give you night vision. Or seizures. Fifty-fifty, really”

Still no protest — Not even hesitation

You weren’t sure if that meant he trusted you… or just didn’t care. Either way?

You liked him

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: SPINISTER

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (No one's entirely sure why)

CONDITION: Moderate external trauma. Multiple internal combustions (intentional?). Severe disassociation from reality

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still not licensed, please stop asking)

Arrived with smoke leaking from six different panels. Declared “not an emergency” while visibly on fire

Did not react to pain, or to questions, or to gravity when he slowly tilted sideways mid-sentence and collapsed

Possesses an endearing sort of calm, similar to a patient who’s just accepted the existence of death and made it a roommate

Followed instructions silently, then offered me a flower-shaped bolt in thanks. I don’t know where he got it

Repair successful. Patient now smokes from only three ports. Declared “this is probably fine”

RECOMMENDATION: Skilled with basic tools, potential assistant or at least live test subject (consenting? uncertain) and doesn’t scream when I bring out the bone saw — major plus

MENTAL STATUS: Stable… in an abstract, modern-art kind of way

Possibly communicating with beings only he can perceive. Should investigate later—unless they start helping

—

The curtain fluttered again

You didn’t even need to look up from the mech-slagged mess you were currently disemboweling on your table to know who it was. No one else announced their arrival with a loud “Hi!! I brought snacks!” followed immediately by the sound of a ration cube hitting the floor

MISFIRE

“...You brought what?” you asked, finally glancing back

Misfire was standing proudly in the middle of your wrecked, haphazard med-bay, holding up something that might’ve once been a ration cube but now looked like it had been drop-kicked into a trash compactor

He looked far too pleased with himself

“For you, Doctor Scary!” he beamed “To say thank you for patching up Crankcase. I mean, he’s still swearing about it, but I figure that means it worked”

You stared at the cube, then at him “It’s moldy”

“Vintage!”

“It’s fuzzy”

He blinked, then squinted at it “Oh. Uh. That might be a fungus. Adds flavor!”

You sighed and set down your plier-like tool — which was currently half-submerged in someone’s damaged voice modulator “What do you want, Misfire?”

He clutched his arm and gave you the most over-the-top wounded expression you’d seen since the war started “Can’t a guy drop by just to bask in your lovely, mildly terrifying company?”

You deadpanned “Do you need field repair?”

“…Yes”

That was more like it

“Alright” you gestured to your very sanitary examination area — a broken recliner salvaged from a half-melted shuttle and duct-taped to hell “Take a seat. Tell me which part is falling off”

Misfire hopped onto the chair without hesitation, then winced “Okay so it’s my right shoulder—some internal gear’s jammed. Probably happened when Fulcrum accidentally shoved me into that munitions crate last week. And by accidentally I mean ‘on purpose but with plausible deniability’”

You circled behind him, humming “Shoulder joint, hmm... I’ll have to pry open the outer casing”

“You’re not gonna use that claw-thing again, are you?” He pointed at the three-pronged tool still sizzling on the table

You picked it up and grinned “This old thing? Only if you scream too loud. It gets jealous”

His optics widened “Wait, you’re joking—right?”

You didn’t answer. You just flicked the tool and leaned in close

He flinched “You are joking. Right?”

Still no answer. You tapped the casing lightly “Yup. Gonna need to open this. Try not to move. Unless you want an extra joint”

Misfire grumbled something but sat still, occasionally twitching while you worked. Your fingers were efficient, tugging apart armor panels, probing with delicate instruments, and casually muttering things like: “Wow, this is worse than I thought. This looks like someone tried to replace a gear with a coin. Wait. Is that a coin?”

Misfire laughed nervously “Heh… oh hey, is that my lucky shanix? Thought I lost that in the riot on Velocitron…”

You pulled it out and twirled it between your fingers “Found it. Inside your shoulder. Next to a wad of insulation foam. I have questions”

“I have regrets”

The actual repair only took a few minutes, and despite his dramatic flinching, Misfire barely needed any anesthetic. You tightened the final bolt with a satisfied hum

“All done. You’ll be good as new. Maybe even better, depending on how you feel about unlicensed upgrades”

He rotated his arm “Wow, hey—this feels great! I mean, I’m still emotionally unstable and deeply unlucky, but physically? Ten outta ten”

You handed him the shanix and gave him a crooked smile “Souvenir. For bravery”

He smirked “Does that come with a kiss on the cheekplate?”

You stared at him for a beat too long

“…No?” he tried

You leaned in just slightly, close enough for him to short-cycle “You want a souvenir kiss from the bot who’s elbow-deep in your shoulder hydraulics?”

He paused. Thought. Then leaned back slowly, optics wide

“…You know what? The coin’s fine”

You laughed — a bright, buzzing thing that made him fluster even more

“I’ll tell Fulcrum you survived” you said, already turning back to your workbench “Go before I decide to install a third elbow in your leg”

He scrambled up and halfway out the curtain before popping his head back in with a grin

“You’re the weirdest medic I’ve ever met” he said “And that’s a huge compliment”

Then he vanished into the dust

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: MISFIRE

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Allegedly. No one seems to have formally admitted this)

CONDITION: Repeated joint trauma. Psychological instability. Chronic flirtation disorder (self-diagnosed)

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (unlicensed):

Presented with shoulder malfunction. Initially distracted by moldy ration cube (believed to be edible)

Displayed minor signs of emotional detachment from own physical pain—possibly due to prolonged exposure to Fulcrum’s company

Right shoulder casing contained one (1) lucky shanix, insulation foam of unknown origin, and what may be a chewed gum wrapper. (Origin undetermined. No jaw articulation in subject)

Exhibits nervous laughter and deflective humor under duress. Coping mechanism? Flirting mechanism? Both?

Repair successful. Patient demonstrates increased mobility and decreased survivability due to persistent attempts at charming his field medic

RECOMMENDATION: Do not encourage him but also… maybe do. He’s kind of entertaining

MENTAL STATUS: Stable. In the way a spinning top is “stable” Until it stops spinning

—

FULCRUM walked into the clinic with the same air as someone entering a crime scene they were legally obligated to ignore. He stood in the doorway a few moments too long

“…You’re not going to sedate me, right?”

You didn’t look up from your tools “Only if you scream too much. I do have neighbors”

“You don’t have neighbors”

“Exactly”

He stiffened

With a resigned sigh, Fulcrum sat himself down on the edge of the slab, his posture the definition of regret “I’m here for a system check. Minor internal trauma. No visible wounds”

“Oh” you said, finally looking up

“That’s boring”

“…What?”

You gestured at his chestplate “You’re saying there’s nothing exciting going on in there? No ticking bomb module? No internal shrapnel slowly migrating toward your spark?”

Fulcrum visibly paled “I—I’m 80% sure the ticking is just cooling fans!”

You leaned in, optics gleaming

“Let’s find out”

Before he could object, you’d already activated the scanner, which buzzed ominously. The screen flickered through static before displaying something that looked vaguely like a Danger symbol in three different dialects

“…Heh” you said, tilting your head “You might be fine. Or you might violently combust in 6 to 8 cycles. Either way, not my fault”

Fulcrum let out a strangled sound “You’re supposed to say something reassuring!”

“I did! ‘Not my fault’ is my version of reassurance”

He gave a long, slow blink

“…I’m going to die”

“Eventually” you nodded solemnly

“But for now—”

And with that, you jabbed a connector probe into his side. Fulcrum’s whole body jerked “—your coolant lines are backing up a little. Could’ve led to system overheating. Also explains why you’ve been radiating mild anxiety like a broken anxiety-scented air freshener”

He stared at you in mute horror “…Please tell me that wasn’t an actual medical term”

You grinned “I make them up as I go”

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: FULCRUM AFFILIATION: Scavenger (Technically Decepticon, but mostly just stressed) CONDITION: Mild to moderate plasma burns, stress-induced fuel reflux, excessive shouting

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (still operating without any actual credentials):

Arrived in full panic, claiming he was “totally fine” while actively smoldering. Body temperature elevated—not due to malfunction, just from yelling

Most vocal patient so far. Screamed “What is that tool?! Is that a bone saw?!” before treatment had even begun. (It was not. It was a wrench. Maybe) Kept mumbling something about “imminent death” and “this is how I die"

Calmed somewhat after being asked to hold tools for me. Gave him a fake diploma to “make him feel included” He still carries it

Treatment completed successfully. Requested anesthesia after it was done

RECOMMENDATION: Let him panic. It burns energy and makes it easier to sneak in sutures

Tell him he’s doing great. He’s not, but he needs it

MENTAL STATUS: Holding on by a wire. Possibly about to snap. Possibly the only one trying to be normal, which makes him the craziest of all

—

You didn’t expect CRANKCASE to walk through your door

Technically, it wasn’t even a door — just a heavy curtain you’d ripped off a wrecked Decepticon dropship and pinned into place. But there he was, looming in your makeshift threshold, glowering like he wanted to punch the wind in the face

Which, from what you’d heard, was a standard Crankcase greeting

You looked up from the mess of servo joints and cracked optics on your workbench “Oh good, another volunteer! Take a number, and by number I mean a seat, and by seat I mean that fuel drum with the mystery stain”

Crankcase didn’t move. He crossed his arms “I’m not here for your freak-show experiments. I’ve got a blown vent coil and a leaking wrist actuator”

You raised an oil-slicked brow “So… you are here for medical assistance”

He scowled “Field repair”

“Same difference,” you chirped, already gesturing him forward “I won’t bite. Unless you count removing faulty plating with my teeth. Kidding—mostly”

The fuel drum groaned beneath his weight as he sat. You could hear his joint hydraulics hissing with effort. He was trying very hard not to look worried

You crouched beside him, lifting his forearm and turning it this way and that “Hmm. Someone’s been punching things they shouldn’t. This isn't just a leak. You've got shrapnel embedded in your coolant line. Wanna keep it?”

Crankcase blinked “Keep it?!”

You gave him your best "I'm totally serious” look “Could turn it into a charm. Lucky shard. Something to ward off infection. Maybe your attitude”

He started to pull his arm back

You yanked it right back “Too late. I’ve named it. This one’s Steve”

“What the frag—”

With a quick flick, you plunged your gloved fingers into the small open seam, locating the shrapnel shard with tactile precision. You ignored Crankcase’s strangled hiss and produced the sliver with a flourish

“Aha! Steve the Shard, free at last. Say thank you”

Crankcase stared at you, deadpan

“You’re insane”

You smiled sweetly, plucking a soldering tool off the table “That’s Doctor Insane to you”

Bzzt

The tool sparked, lighting up your eyes like a child at a fireworks show

Crankcase tensed “You’re not putting that near me”

“I am” you said “Because if I don’t cauterize this line in the next thirty seconds, your arm’s going to start leaking coolant like a sobbing Wrecker”

He snarled — but didn’t stop you

You worked fast, too fast for his liking. Sparks flew, cables sizzled, and Crankcase let out a string of swears that could probably make a Seeker blush. You ignored all of it, whistling a cheerful tune as you worked

When it was done, you patted his arm

“All fixed. And you didn’t even pass out! Proud of you”

Crankcase glared. “I should report you”

“To who?” You grinned “You think we’re in a jurisdiction that still has a licensing board?”

He opened his mouth, paused, then shut it again

You leaned in “Besides... you’re walking out of here with full function, no fees, and a souvenir” You handed him the shard of metal with a crooked smile “Steve says hi”

Crankcase snatched it from you with a growl. But he didn’t throw it away

Not yet

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: CRANKCASE

AFFILIATION: Scavenger (violently)

CONDITION: Multiple surface abrasions. Chronic irritation. Terminal grumpiness

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (yes, still me):

Arrived under protest. Yelled “I’m fine!” while leaking energon like a guilt-ridden faucet

Displayed strong resistance to bedside manner. Calmed slightly after being asked if he wanted to watch me extract a bolt with pliers “just to see if it screams”

Requires verbal distraction during treatment; otherwise clenches up like a seized servo. Suggested topics: how annoying Misfire is, dirt, taxes

Responds well to threats. Especially ones that sound made up, like “scalp grafts”

Treatment successful. Patient limped off muttering about “invasive freaks with too many teeth”

RECOMMENDATION: Do not show weakness. Or enthusiasm. Or joy. Pretend you also hate everything—it soothes him

MENTAL STATUS: Functionally cranky. Potentially immortal out of sheer spite

—

The clinic—if one was generous enough to call a rusted-out storage bay with dangling lights and an energon-stained slab a clinic—was unusually quiet for once. No shouting. No crashing. No Misfire trying to flirt with his own reflection or you

Which meant something was wrong

“You’re late” said the voice from the dark corner. It belonged to the ‘doctor’, of course. You were hunched over a datapad, stylus tucked between two digits, not even bothering to look up “Your shoulder is making that noise again, isn’t it?”

KROK stepped in like a soldier reporting for punishment. His frame stiff, his expression more so

“I’m not here for a chat. I just need a recalibration”

You blinked slowly and finally glanced up

“No one ever is’

He hesitated, optics scanning the room. No restraints in sight today. That was probably a good sign

You patted the slab “Lie down”

“I’ll sit”

“I said lie down. You don’t argue with doctors”

“You’re not a doctor”

You grinned “And you’re not winning this one”

Krok muttered a curse under his breath and complied, lowering himself onto the slab with the grace of a war veteran who’d fought too many battles and not won nearly enough

“Left shoulder, right?” you asked, already activating a scanner that beeped in several colors it probably wasn’t supposed to “Tell me what happened”

“Misfire fell on me” Krok replied, voice tight “During training. He called it ‘combat bonding’”

You nodded sympathetically, even as you grabbed a wrench that had definitely once been used to pry open cargo doors “Ah yes. The age-old bonding ritual of ‘launch-yourself-at-your-commander’?"

"Classic"

“I think it dislocated again” he said, biting the inside of his cheek “I can’t rotate it past—argh!”

You'd already shoved it backward with a practiced snap

Krok nearly sat bolt upright “WHAT THE FRAG?! You didn’t warn me!”

“I didn’t have to. I’ve done this to corpses before. You should be grateful you screamed—it’s how I knew it worked”

He glared at you “That is not reassuring”

You beamed “It wasn’t meant to be”

Silence fell, broken only by the sound of metal creaking as you adjusted a few connections, then pressed a cooling gel pad over the joint. It hissed

Krok’s field softened just slightly “...You’re getting better at this”

“Oh?” you replied innocently

“Is that professional admiration or resignation to fate?”

“I’m not sure which one worries me more”

You leaned in, lowering your voice like a conspirator “Krok... You know this makes me your personal physician now, right?”

He stared at you flatly

“I will self-repair next time”

You smiled sweetly, scribbling something onto a datapad “Too late. Already logged it. You’re mine now"

↓

SUBJECT PATIENT RECORD

DESIGNATION: KROK

AFFILIATION: Scavenger leader (self-declared, no one’s argued)

CONDITION: Shoulder joint misalignment. Minor processor lag. Leadership fatigue.

NOTES BY ATTENDING FIELD PRACTITIONER (not approved by any health council anywhere):

Walked in with a stiff limp and a stiffer attitude. Tried to diagnose himself

Kept correcting my terminology. Said “That’s not a circuit, that’s a triple-fused control relay!” I responded with “Sounds infected” Believes himself to be the voice of reason. Believes wrong

Endured treatment with the patience of a bot who has seen some things. Possibly in denial about the chaos level of his team

Asked if I could do anything about “leadership-induced migraines.” Suggested decapitation. He did not laugh. Left with improved range of motion and deeply haunted expression. Probably unrelated

RECOMMENDATION: Respect the chain of command—then wrap it around his legs and drag him back when he tries to leave

He's the glue holding the team together. The glue is melting

MENTAL STATUS: Exhausted dad energy. Probably dreams of retirement. Will never get it