#dark praxus

[puraiuddo]

༺JazzProwl Fic Recs༻

— brought to you by puraiuddo -

This is by all means not a complete list of banger JP fics! It's my personal favorites—those fics that lodged themselves in my brain for one reason or another and never left.

Hopefully this list satisfies at least some of the sudden influx of interest for JP fics (and given how well rec'ing a fic turned out last time...) But, nah for real, not to make rec'ing fics fake deep or anything, but I think the fandom would be a better place if people were more unapologetically enthusiastic about fics and less afraid to interact with authors. So if you use this list to find some fics you have to promise to leave some unhinged comments! ٩("•̀ᴗ•́")و ̑̑

But before I start, I want to acknowledge the prevalence of potentially stereotypical depictions of Jazz in regards to his speech (❞), criminal/violent/sexual characterization (▾), or backstory/origins (⟲) in the JP/TF fandom. I've attempted to flag fics with the corresponding symbols above, because I'd like to recognize those problems while still rec'ing for a variety of other fantastic qualities. That said, I'm not infallible so please use your own discretion.

I've also tagged fics with "hiatus" if it's been a while between updates, but the author hasn't made a comment—these fics are especially important to interact with, b/c you never know if the author stopped posting b/c they weren't getting any reviews!

Now, without further adieu...

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༺JazzProwl-centric༻

Mistakes on Mistakes Until— by jabberish

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 280,212 - Alt-War AU』

Ricochet's got a bad case of conscience and he's pretty sure it's about to get him killed. (aka I think I've read every defection/ex-Con au and now I'm forced to make my own. Jazz-centric.)

* (づ ᴗ _ ᴗ)づ♡ The crème de la crème of JP fics. I really can't properly articulate the sheer amount of love and respect I have for MOMU other than that if you haven't read it, your life is worse for it. Go read it. Then read it again. Now. (I've read it 4 times. No, I'm not joking) I love all the fics on this list dearly, but MOMU holds a very special place in my heart. Flawless characterization, flawless dynamics, flawless plot, one-of-a-kind writing style... it's got it all. Of note: I've not flagged it despite its premise, because it will expertly subvert your expectations and you need to read it to understand. Bonus: it's got a lot of well-deserved fanart!

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Untitled Series by Need2Scream

『(2/?) - ffn - Words: 158,064 - War AU - hiatus』

Where the Lonely Ones Roam - 116,327

"Say you have a little faith in me. Just close your eyes and let me lead. Follow me home. Need to have a little trust in me. Just close your eyes and let me lead. Follow me home. To where the lonely ones roam." Eventual Prowl/Jazz

Spark - 41,737 - hiatus

"Chase you deep into the unknown. In my dark, in my dark, you're the Spark."/ "Roam with me, come down to where all of the others fell. Get lost, in the dark to find yourself. Just remember what I said, 'cause it isn't over yet."/SEQUEL to Where the Lonely Ones Roam

*It's not clear by the summary, but the series is essentially about Jazz and Prowl's developing relationship as they overcome war-related trauma, intermingled with a spectacular amount of original lore. See the author's ffn bio for a rundown. The originality and attention to detail in the world building in this AU is awe-inspiring. There are 2 fics in the JP series, but the author has a bunch of other Gen fics set in the same AU and another on ao3. Bonus: some of the Gen fics are Jazz & Prowl-centric and can be read as romantic!

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Crime in Crystals Series by Aard_Rinn

『(7/?) - ao3 - Words: 258,030 - Crime/Hitman AU - hiatus - ▾ ⟲』

The Hitman - 6,942 - pt 1

Prowl is the last clean cop in Praxus, the final flickering light in the darkness. There are plenty of people who would like to see him snuffed.

2. The Clarification, 3. The Kill, 4. The Capture, 5. The Prime, 6. The Talk, 7. The Chase 8. TBD

*The main plot is broken into 7 separate fics, but it's all one continuous story. Read the whole thing! It's on my all time favorites. It's thrilling, tremendously action packed, and the character dynamics are some of my favorites. It's also hysterical and wholesome and I've reread it a stupid amount of times. Bonus: it's got fanart + there are 5 extra fics, including a Jazz-centric prequel, in the same AU.

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War Eternal Series by Hearts of Eternity

『(3/4) - ffn - 2m? idk it's insane - Bayverse War AU - discontinued - ▾ ❞ ⟲』

Where You and I Collide - 362,090 - prequel

Separately, Jazz and Prowl are like forces of nature- they are uncompromising and uncontrollable. But what becomes of their natures when these two unstoppable forces collide? Will one break the other, or will they both be stronger for it?

As We Come Together - 485,586 - pt 2 - Gen

While the surviving Autobots begin to flock to Earth in response to Optimus' call, trying to find a new home on the strange organic planet called Earth, some unfortunate bots are beginning to realize the price of war may have been too high. Sequel to Time

May We Never Let Go - 408,409 - pt 3 - Gen - d/c

Hell literally lies in wait above Earth as the Cybertronians and Earthlings coexist uneasily, rattled by every attack the Fallen and his master launch on them. With new evil rising, the powers that be on Earth and beyond are gearing up for war.

1. As We Come Together, prequel 2: Surface of the Sun

*Long, convoluted explanation coming up given that this series is obviously a whole different beast compared to likely any other fanfic series you or I have ever encountered in our lives... b/c the author is just superhuman or smth idk...

The series is officially listed as 4 parts (WYaIC, WTWHL, AWCT, MWNLG). Where You and I Collide is the JP-centric prequel to the other 3 Gen fics (that have substantial background JP). WTWHL is technically part 1 of the series, but it's sorta more character-focused ficlets than a continuous story... which is why I didn't specifically list it as a rec even if that makes things more confusing... (ᵕ¬ᴗ¬) Also the author didn't list Surface of the Sun as part of the series, but it's a direct prequel (like WYaIC) starring the Lambo twins and it's... oh it's so good... absolutely shatters my heart that it's been d/c'd.

I've not listed an exact world count, b/c if you want to read every bit of the AU with all its prequels and offshoots (which I would highly recommend and have done)... I'm not gonna do the math for you, sorry. The main 4-part story is ~1.7m+ which I realize is frankly insane and extraordinarily intimidating, but it is so sooo sooooo worth it. The author has created their own fully fleshed out TF world with its own lore and characters and the time and effort they've put into is mind-boggling .

Anywho, despite ultimately being d/c'd, the series is still tremendously readable and nothing about JP is left feeling unbearably unfinished. I also happened to track down the lovely author and beg for a summary of the ending, b/c I'm a bit of a freak and they very kindly provided it so if not knowing how a fic ends bothers you/prevents you from reading, you have the option of getting closure even if you can't have it written out.

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Fathomless by Sroloc_Elbisivni

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 19,949 - Fantasy AU - complete』

Jazz is drowning on dry land on the other side of the world. Once upon a time, before Jazz was born, the Rust Sea covered a swathe of Cybertron bigger than the territory of any city-state except Iacon. The sea had been more powerful than any engine besides the one at the heart of the planet itself, big enough to swallow a metrotitan in its depths, the birthplace of storms. Thing is, none of that was Jazz. He doesn’t remember those days, before he was himself, except in his dreams. And his dreams are terrifying.

*This fic makes me feel some type of way... it gives me shivers. It's so eerie and the premise is so unique. It's also beautifully bittersweet, which is a hard concept to pull off.

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The Judge by SilenceoftheLlamas

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 107,653 - Alt-War AU』

Prowl’s got a secret, and he’d rather be dead in the ground before he let anyone find out about it. Jazz’s got one too, but he’s not as good at hiding it. Prowl is a secret superhero, Jazz is a secret fanboy who doesn’t know that he works with the guy. By night Prowl is the virtuous hero The Judge, but by day he’s just an unassuming tactical officer.

*Jazz and Prowl are sorta painfully adorable in this fic and the JP is so sweet it makes my teeth hurt. Plus it's got a really fun premise with lots of shenanigans.

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Black on White on Black Series by pipermca

『(3/?) - ao3 - Words: 86,248 - fix-it, War AU - complete』

Anamnesis - 31,097 - pt 1

When Jazz and his team are lost on a mission, Prowl has to carry on alone. But a discovery a thousand vorn later could turn his life upside down again.

2. The Ghost of the Howling Plains, 3. Pulling Strings

*Super interesting sorta-kinda-fix-it fic and/or explanation for the events and characterizations in IDW. There are 3 stories in the main JP plot line. Bonus: there's 2 "Extras" fics for cut scenes from the main fics.

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Crystal Ghosts Series by Rizobact

『(2/2) - ao3 - Words: 85,688 - Fantasy AU - complete - ⟲』

Enduring as Crystal - 40,517 - pt 1

There were a lot of reasons Prowl visited the library. He never knew the most important one was waiting for him in the garden behind it.

Eternal as Love - 45,171 - pt 2

Prowl promised he would help Jazz, the ghost of the crystal chapel in the garden behind Praxus' central library. He just couldn't anticipate what shape that help would wind up taking.

*Another super unique premise! I love a good historical mystery and the imagery is specularly evocative! And I'm a sucker for the trope... which I can't reveal, because of spoilers.

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Untitled Series by Vaeru

『(2/2) - ffn - Words: 10,766 - War AU - complete - ❞』

Descant - 7,925 - pt 2

G1/Jux compliant. Requiem sequel. Prowl doubted that his desired image of Respected Superior Officer came across very well with a half-scrapped mech clinging to his hand, but he loomed as best as he was able and glared.

*Requiem is Jazz-centric and I'd say more of a prequel to Descant than Descant is a sequel to Requiem... if that makes any sense. Regardless of how you view it or what order you read it, it's fucking brutal. (-‿-“) Bonus: author also wrote another really great fic called Transformers: Juxtaposition which is Lambo twin-centric and OC-centric, but perhaps one of the only OC fics that I've ever enjoyed.

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Domino Milkshake by SilenceoftheLlamas

『oneshot - (1/?) - ao3 - Words: 24,886 - War AU - complete - ❞』

Jazz drunkenly pretends that he's dating Prowl. Only he isn't, and the mech is right behind him.

*It's a fake dating AU... what more can I say? I love the the begrudging developing romance and the meddling friends. Bonus: it's got fanart!

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Hunter's Spark by WandersUnderStarlight

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 43,645 - Alt-War AU - ❞』

Jazz disobeys orders to abandon the ruins of Praxus and runs into one of the Senate's dirty secrets.

*This author also has a few more JP fics that I enjoy like An Offer He Can't Refuse and Long Patrol. I gotta offer aisclaimer though: the fics are... fairly cliche and a bit OOC. Hunter's Spark is much more tame than the other two, though. They're all sorta a guilty pleasure of mine, because it's fun to enjoy Prowl being a bit of a BAMF and Jazz being a bit of a damsel on occasion even if objectively I understand why it's not everyone's cup of tea. ("￣▽￣";)ゞ But the author definitely deserves credit for creative and entertaining premises and a really nice writing style!

༺☆★☆★☆★-ˋˏ ♫ ♡ 𓆩𓆪 ˎˊ-★☆ ★☆★☆༻

༺General༻

Little Brother by Meiza

『oneshot - ffn - Words: 64,542 - War AU - discontinued』

Prowl is infamous for being a logical, nigh emotionaless thinker who's better at battle calculations than interpersonal relationships. How he was roped into taking care of the last survivor of Praxus is anyone's guess.

*Prowl & Bluestreak centric, but Jazz has a solid amount of screentime. The subplot is pre-relationship, co-parenting JazzProwl and it's cute as hell. It's not 'officially' discontinued, but it hasn't been updated since 2010... so... At least it doesn't end in a cliffhanger. (╥﹏╥|||)

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Things We Don't Tell Humans by SineadRivka

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 363,057 - Bayverse War AU - complete』

This was a first for us Autobots; never before have we come in contact with a species like these humans, so eerily similar to our own race and twice as tenacious as Sparklings. The question was, how far can we trust the humans with our culture? Some things have translated between cultures without much effort. Other subjects, however…

*Please note the tags! Also... I'll be honest that I mostly skip to the JP parts and main plot points in this fic as it's about a very ensemble cast and I'm not interested in TF humans ... so I can't entirely vouch for the integrity of the whole thing. (￢ω￢;)

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Echoes of Messatine by MlleMusketeer

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 303,863 - Alt-War AU - complete - ▾ 』

Cybertron hurtles toward war, and only a handful of mecha see it. Not Megatron, whose inflammatory writings gain him agonizing attention from those on high. Not Ratchet, the Iacon Medical Center’s most prized practitioner, whose Dead-End clinic remains the worst-guarded secret on Cybertron. Not Overlord, whose iron hold over Cybertron’s underworld is beginning to falter. Not Orion Pax, whose concern over the sudden silence of one of his favorite writers drives him to take up his hero’s pen. Not Terminus, who only wants to survive. But Trepan and Senator Shockwave both know well what’s coming. One aims to use a defiant miner’s fall to crush the aspirations of the masses. The other wants to use that miner’s triumph to ignite them. Neither much cares about Megatron himself, or his ultimate survival. Therein lies their fatal error.

*Not clear from the summary, but the premise is essentially "what if Megatron got the matrix instead of OP" and how their pre-war lives would have to pan out for them to ultimately switch roles. Just a really fascinating, supremely well-done "what-if" fic, but also probably the weirdest one to put on this particular list, b/c JP turns into megatron/JP at the very, very end... but... I just kinda ignore that development since it happens in like almost literally in the last chapter and you can def read it as friendship up until that point... (¬⤙¬ ᵕ)

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༺Mature༻

*listen... don't @ me. They're definitely saucy, but they're not explicit. Yada, yada... hey minors, don't read these! ...But we all know you will so just don't talk to me or anyone else about it, cool? Cool. (☞ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)☞

Intermission by crabapplered

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 5,049 - War AU - complete - ▾』

As the war stretched on for interminable vorn, Prowl found himself faced time and again with the mounting stress of his position. Many of those times he was forced to face alone, the gear grinding stress sending him to Ratchet for system overhauls and forced defrags. But every so often he'd be fortunate enough to have Jazz on hand, and when he did, well, it didn't take much. Pressing Jazz up against the wall, cramming him into corners, pinning him facedown over Prowl's desk. It didn't matter as long he could keep Jazz still.

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Audition by crabapplered

『oneshot - ao3 - Words: 12,783 - War AU - complete - ▾』

If one were to be delicate, one would say that Jazz and Prowl are incompatible. The blunt truth? 'You just lie there with this blank expression on your face,' he'd been told by his last partner. Signal had stayed longer then most, willing to try since Prowl was so obviously doing his best, interfacing to please his partner and give him what Prowl himself disliked. In the end, though, it hadn't worked. 'You don't like me touching you, you don't like the mess, you don't even like the overload, and half the time I swear you're running economic simulations in your CPU you look that bored. I don't want that. I don't want you miserable, and I don't want me miserable, either.' So why can't Prowl stop wishing?

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That's all, folks.

ദ്ദി(｡•̀ω-)✧ ~Happy reading!

and for the shit tumblr search/tag system, i offer: #jazzprowl #jazzprowl recs #jazz x prowl #jazzprowl fic recs #jazzprowl fanfic recs #tansformers fic recs #tf jazzprowl #tf fic recs

[smokescreenimusprime]

Bruh I’ve have this fanfiction idea for awhile in my head and haven’t had the motivation to write it and probably never will, but imagine, sparkling Smokescreen. Like I know Sparklings aren’t canon in Transformers, but it’s used enough that I like them and write about them. But when Smokescreen crash lands on Earth and stuff, the pod around him makes sort of a hologram for him, that builds around his younger body to make it seem as if he’s older than he is for protection. It makes him stronger, faster, smarter, everything. Idk who’d program the pod, maybe another cybertronian who doesn’t want to see the sparkling hurt and turned into a cold hearted killer, so they program the pod and send him off into deep space, and knowing that they’ll be killed at some point, give Smokescreen their memories so it’ll be like Smokescreen was actually a fully grown mech. The Autobots don’t suspect anything, as he has adult memories, he’s in an adult body, and despite acting younger, he acts just like Bumblebee, so why would anyone suspect anything? Maybe in a battle, a vehicon, or maybe when Arcee and Smokescreen were fighting Megatron, that one hit with the dark star saber, caused the program that the pod made to fail and turn back into his younger self. So of course, when he wakes up, he’s really confused and can barely use his limbs as in his older body, he never actually grew, so it’s basically a mech trapped in a Sparklings body, except Smokescreen is actually a sparkling but doesn’t truly know it as he was too young to remember before the bombing of Praxus, and the crash of the status pod probably rattled a few things in his processor.

So idk how this would go, haven’t really thought about it too much but here y’a go :D sparkling Smokescreen, very adorable

ooooooooooo that's a neat idea 👀👀👀

what if the pod sorta worked kinda like how Ultra Magnus did in the IDW comics? Like, "Smokescreen" was originally an armour used by various minicons/smaller bots to fight and this time around was Alpha Trion's guard, but when Iacon fell it wasn't just Trion who was hiding deep in the Archives. There were loads of other bots who seemed shelter within its walls and now were unfortunately trapped

so "Smokescreen," in an attempt to save at least one more life, ends up hiding a sparkling in the frame in their place. Unfortunately in all the chaos they didn't have time to let Trion know about this so the newly made Smokescreen ends up still getting Omega Key-d. When he wakes up he's super confused and is just barely able to shamble his way over to some escape pods and then goes into his multi millennia stasis

and when he wakes up..... well, it's certainly been long enough for his frame to have connected and the processors to have synced together. Smokescreen doesn't even fully realise what's going on because of just how disorienting everything is, and his memories are clashing and trying to fit together. Because of the rush, the Old Smokescreen didn't have time to fully disconnect, so maybe there are still some of their memories lingering in the system which transfer to Current Smokescreen

I'd imagine Smokescreen would be rather clumsy outside of battle. When he fights he can rely on the battle protocols and "muscle memory" of the armour (not that he realises), but outside of that he's a mess. Quite literally tripping over his own feet, misjudging distances and how far his reach is, not knowing his own strength, he's an absolute mess and it frustrates him to no end. He'll also have seemingly random bouts of really bad body dysphoria for no apparent reason

his emotional state is........ very complicated. He gets along GREAT with the kids, but the other Autobots? ehhhhhhhh it's a bit difficult at times, and it really doesn't help that he's consciously aware of how "irrational" his emotions are. He can't help it that he feels so much, but not knowing why he feels the way he does is frustrating at best. Not to mention his social skills are VERY lacking which makes actually communicating what he's feels so much harder, and this definitely creates a bit of a rift with the other Autobots

as for how the Autobots find out........ I had an angsty thought

what if it happens when Smokescreen's on the Nemesis

when Knockout uses the scanner to search for the Omega Key he does find it yes....... but he also sees something very very strange. Another frame inside, a very small one but..... it's different from a minicon......

and the second the Decepticons learn about this they start losing their goddamn minds

because this is a sparkling. A fragging SPARKLING. HERE. MILLIONS UPON MILLIONS OF YEARS AFTER THE WELL WENT DARK. ON E A R T H

naturally the Decepticons are horrified and do everything they can to safely remove the little thing as quick as possible. Knockout in particular is freaking out because he ripped out the Omega Key rIGHT NEXT TO THE SPARKLING!!!! WHO KNOWS WHAT DAMAGE I'VE CAUSED TO IT-

Smokescreen ofc is also confused and panicking since There's A Sparkling Inside Of Him?!?!?!?!!? but when it gets removed, suddenly things get even more chaotic

I'll admit I'm not super sure how exactly things go from here, but I do have three thoughts

1) Now without the battle protocols and armor stuff constantly yelling at him, Smokescreen's able to act way more like a child, however given how long he was in the armor he still has to deal with the memories from inside it and without the armors added processing power

tldr, the little bean now has Adult Trauma And Memories he's gotta work through while having the brain structure of a child

2) Smokescreen is younger than the kids, but older than a toddler. I was thinking maybe he was the Cybertronian equivilant of 8-9 years old

and 3) what is essentially a custody war starts between the Autobots and Decepticons

[anon-e-miss]

War's Bride - 3

Prowl waddled down the path. His belly was hugely swollen, the newspark was due to emerge any day. He had thought there would be concubines for this, though Jazz had told him early on there would only be him, he had just thought it was too unlikely that his Alpha spark would kindle. It had though, and kindled quickly. The medic declared Prowl had conceived on the dark-cycle of their bonding and he had conceived not only one but two bitlets. Jazz said they were splitsparks but Prowl did not entirely understand the significance of the glyph. It did not exist in the Praxian dialect.

He leaned against a low wall and panted. With his belly, he waddled enough but now that he had a huge falsespike magnetized in his valve, it was so much worse. Prowl shook as he sank to his knees. There was no ignoring it. The toy rubbed against his biolights and nodes as he walked and Prowl was desperately aroused. Sitting in the dirt, he rubbed his node and thumbed his nozzle, desperate for release. It was difficult. His frame had been conditioned to overload on Jazz’s spike and knot. Jazz was away however and if Prowl wanted release he needed to find it for himself but it was never as satisfying as when Jazz fragged him.

If he could take the false spike out, maybe he would not be always so desperately aroused but it was magnetized and locked and he could not remove it. Because the bitties were large and he was an Alpha with a less elastic valve than that of an Omega, they wanted to keep his valve dilated so emergence might go more smoothly. Punch, Jazz’s originator thought such steps would be less necessary with any successive carrying; Prowl did not want to think of that, he wanted to survive this carrying first.

“Look at you,” Jazz crooned. Prowl lifted his helm and saw his King walking towards him.

“Jazz,” he moaned, still stroking his node.

“ ‘M impressed ya walked this far with that girder stuck in y’a,” Jazz said. 

“Took four breams,” Prowl grumbled.

“Don’t worry, darlin’,” Jazz crouched and cupped his face. “Ya won’t be walkin’ once ‘m done wit ya.”

Jazz took him face down in the dirt, right next to the garden path. It was like he had said he would have done, when they had faced each other in battle, if Jazz had not thought he would be shot for it. Prowl cupped his huge belly as Jazz took him from behind, spike gliding effortless in and out of his slackened channel. It felt good all the same, Jazz had girth enough, even alongside the toy, to steal Prowl’s intakes.His wells swung back and forth, bouncing off his belly. Beads of energon fell from his stiff nozzles. They had started to leak. Jazz declared they would have no further need of the toy that had been plugging Prowl’s aft so he pushed it up Prowl’s aft and locked it there. Prowl squealed and overloaded as it vibrated against his transfluid duct. He had not known it could do that.

“As for the matter of Tarn…” Prowl mewled, helpless as he girated on Jazz’s lap. His aftpipe strained around the toy the same way his valve strained around Jazz’s knot. As Jazz spoke to the Vosian envoy, he digit fragged Prowl’s sheath with buzzing digits and massaged his swollen well. His huge belly jiggled as he writhed as he was made to warm his King’s spike before the Seeker trine. Even when the Prime came to feast with them, Prowl was trapped on Jazz’s knotted spike, never was he allowed to be empty. 

They sang Psalms in the temple, with dignity and solemnity. Save for Prowl, who could only mewl as Jazz had him seated on his spike again, with digits deep in his sheath. Behind the curtain, Prowl’s half brother was being taken for a bride. Praxus had not learned from Prowl’s defeat and Jazz’s army’s servo. Jazz refused to take another bride or consort and so it was his Twin who had taken his virginity in his tent when the battle had closed and was now taking him for bride. Jazz stuck his digits in Prowl’s mouth as he moaned and mewled, overloading himself as his brother cried out in ecstasy as he took his Lord Consort’s knot. 

Barricade took to pleasure well and Prowl was relieved. His brother’s temper was hot and he had been worried he might resist out of pride or spite. It seemed Ricochet had not forced himself on Barricade in that tent but had seduced him and seduced him well. To be seduced like that was scandalous given their rank but it mattered not to the Polyhexians. His belly was small now, but it would soon grow round as Prowl’s had, Punch had confirmed that Ricochet had worked hard that dark-cycle in the tent and had left Barricade with spark to ensure Praxus could not refuse his claim. 

It was stranger to hear that they would have yet another sibling in half a joor’s time as someone across the desert had claimed their Omega originator and bedded him well. Prowl knew it was not his originator’s consort who had ensparked him this time as Camshaft had killed Barricade’s cruel progenitor long ago and had not taken another. The Duke preferred not to share his power. There was no suggestion there had been a bonding, just a mating claim, but Prowl did not know if that was his originator’s preference. Jazz was trying to arrange a visit but the renewed hostilities had stopped him from travelling and he had been delayed in an oasis, where he had been kindled. At some point Prowl would hear the story, as much of it as he would want to.

Prowl groaned as he bore down, crouched on his peds, he pushed as he was supported by Punch and Jazz as he medic directed him to push. Perhaps being knotted nearly constantly had not been such a terrible idea, the bitlet slipped from his valve, followed quickly by his twin without the need for surgery, as the medics had feared. The bitlets were cleaned and nursing lustily from his wells when Barricade and Ricochet came in to meet their nephews. Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were quite perfect, everyone agreed. 

“Ricochet finally found the nomad that claimed Origin,” Barricade told him. “They’ll be given save passage to visit the capital soon.”

It could have been far worse, Prowl thought, all things considered. When he had been chosen to be the Bride, he had expected that he would never see his kin again but the only kin he cared for would soon be close at serve. Perhaps this nomad who had claimed Camshaft could be convinced to stay.

[levityleviathan]

Personally, ive never been a big fan of the Headcanon that Prowl and Bluestreak are siblings. People not only assert it as canon, but will look at you weird if you question it. Hell, in Aligned, they were implied to be lovers if anything (there was more romantic tension than with Knockout and Breakdown.) I personally write them as Amica Endura who used to date back in the day. Blue is From Praxus, Prowl is from Petrex (like in idw 1) They act as narrative mirrors of one another. calm and composed vs outward and energetic, and yet on the inside, Prowl is focused and compassionate despite his inability to really showcase it externally, where as Bluestreak is struggling with some incredibly dark demons regarding her (Blue is trans in my writing) kill count/role in the war as the Autobots gunner. I dont like when people insist upon babyfying Blue's personality or making her a companion character to whatever Prowl has going on. they're both people and deserve to have a sense of individuality.

[nn1895]

Quiet Fics: Garden

Garden

“We’re going out today,” Prowl announced, putting his empty cube into the spotless sink.  

On the front room sofa, Bluestreak’s wings flicked.  

“We are?”  he asked, pushing himself up to see over the arm of the couch.

It was the first sign of interest in months. 

Please work.

“We’re going to the garden shop to pick out crystals.  Finish your breakfast.”

Bluestreak threw back his helm and chugged the cube.

0-0-0

Prowl was not, by nature, a nurturer.  

Lead a desperate last ditch effort against impossible odds when the syndicate set its sights on Praxus?  Absolutely.

Recategorize the ENTIRE file room because someone auto-sorted all the dates, but not the rest of the file?  He had a hot cube of energon and a fresh packet of rust sticks ready.

Crack his entire pelvic casing in a high speed crash?  A welcome sacrifice. 

Mentor new recruits?  

….he’d make sure to crash harder next time.  

It wasn’t that he disliked younglings or cadets.  He just preferred to let others deal with them during all of the awkward growing stages.  Like the “shoot themselves in the pede” stage and the “I’m certain I can do everything on two hours of recharge” stage.  

Then his cousin Spiral had been offlined during a routine surgery and there had been no one else to take in his grief-wracked sparkling.

So here he was, dead center in the “my whole world has crashed down” stage, with a sparkling he’d only met once at a family reunion.  Absolutely every decision he’d made so far had been shots fired so haphazardly in the dark he probably wouldn’t know if he’d hit a target until the sparkling was an adult.

They stepped out onto the quiet street and transformed.  It took a few tries for Bluestreak to maneuver behind Prowl, but it was getting less awkward each time they went out.

“The garden shop is on the other side of the city,” Prowl commed him.  “I’ll let you know when we get close.”  

He got a near silent, “Thank you, Uncle Prowl,” in return.

Towing was a new experience.  And…not an unpleasant one.  The (thankfully rare) times he’d had to tow injured enforcers had been spent trying to get them to let him drive.

The sparkling, on the other servo, was content to let Prowl pull him through the dense, Praxian traffic, without trying to steer or brake, wheels spinning freely.  

Bluestreak had even less experience with it all than Prowl.  It had been only a few days of cohabitating before Prowl had discovered that the sparkling had simply never been taken anywhere.  It explained a lot.

The night of Spiral’s funeral, after Prowl had explained everything to Bluestreak, they’d stepped out onto the driveway and both frozen.

Prowl had absolutely no idea how to transport a sparkling that didn’t fit in his altmode and the sparkling wouldn’t be road-safe for several dozen vorns.  He’d seem older sparklings towed, was this one big enough?

Prowl looked him up and down as Bluestreak pretended to be fussing with his mourning decals. Probably.  Maybe if they went slow.

“I’ll transform here and tow you to the road.”  Anything said with enough conviction became fact.  “Transform behind me and I’ll engage the towline.”

The sparkling nodded, still trying to press out the bubbles from the black lettering across his forearm.

“Right.”  There.  Simple.

It was not, actually, simple.

The loud thump echoed over the soft crick-crick of the circuit-crickets.

“Sorry!” the sparkling nearly wailed after the fourth time he’d misaligned and rammed Prowl’s back bumper.  

“It’s fine.  Try again.  Just a little bit back and over.”  At least it was dark.  He’d have time to polish out the scratches before anyone saw.  Not enough to pop out the dents though…

Prowl was halfway to suggesting they try it the other way, but he was worried his sensors wouldn’t pick up such a small vehicle.  He still had a patrolbot’s sensors despite being years off of a beat.  They were meant to take more of a beating and be less sensitive.  The thin, fluttery field of the sparkling was nearly invisible to them.

“O-okay.”  Prowl heard the small wheels on the gravel shift and vented in relief as he felt the towline catch.  

“Got it!”

“Yes.  Good job, Bluestreak.” 

The praise was automatic, but with the way Bluestreak’s field warmed, you’d have thought Prowl was awarding him the Primal Award.

0-0-0

Prowl stepped into the shop and he was slammed back into his sparkling days with the force of a zero-G take off.  The two-story tall quartz at the back still towered over the ruthlessly organized seed crystals bins.  Everywhere, flickers of multicolored light bounced and refracted into a hazy sheen.  The smell of fertilizer and impurity packets coated his chemical receptors like cheap wax.

He’d forgotten how much he used to enjoy growing crystals.

“Uncle Prowl?”  Bluestreak inched closer, his wide optics full of twinkling colors as he stared.

“We’re going to start a tabletop garden.”  Should he?  The sparkling might not want- what if -

Bluestreak’s wings flickered up and down as Prowl cautiously settled an arm around his shoulders.  

“I don’t know anything about crystals,” Bluestreak admitted, but his doorwings were twitching more actively than ever.

“It’s not hard.  First, we pick out a few seeds and a nice shallow dish.  We’ll pick up some growth medium and some fertilizer.  Depending on the crystals we might even be able to get some impurities to make them different colors.”

“Really?  What kinds should we get?”  He was actually leaning into Prowl!  Success!

“I think we’ll start with a nice quartz mix - easy to grow, easy to keep indoors.  These are the bins here.  Pick whichever ones you like.”

Bluestreak stiffened against him.  Scrap.

“They’re all good ones,” Prowl continued, pretending not to notice as he steered a now-reluctant Bluestreak closer.  “Each crystal will grow well, even if it grows differently.”  Prowl dug around in the bin of loose seeds.  “See this one?  That crack just means that it’ll branch there.  It’s one of the smaller ones, but it’ll catch up.  Now you pick.”

Bluestreak reached out and hovered his servo over the bin.  His field flickered up and down Prowl’s in a mixture of dread, uncertainty, and the faint trust that had started to thread through it recently.  He picked up a large, pale purple seed crystal.

“That’s a good one too.  We need two more.”  Bluestreak’s next choices - both clear quartz - were chosen a bit faster.

“Now we’ll pick out a dish.”  Less dread, more uncertainty, a stronger vein of trust dividing them.

It was progress.

0-0-0

Prowl had only attended the funeral and the reading of the will because his creator had asked him to.

Spiral’s carrier had been his Aunt and his creator’s only sister.  She’d felt some sort of obligation to have someone there “from the family” that Prowl just didn’t understand.  His creator hadn’t even liked her sister.  Prowl certainly hadn’t liked Spiral.

Prowl had attended the reading of Spiral’s will at the request of the lawyer who had seen him arrive and cornered him in the second entrance room.  Apparently the reading was going to get heated and he wanted someone representing the other side of the law there.

More like he wanted someone to act as a bouncer that the funeral goers would think twice about before crossing.

Prowl didn’t think he had much to worry about.  The kind of bots Spiral attracted were thin plated, stylish types with more insulation behind their optics than processor.  Well, insulation and pure, black spite.

“-and to think I thought Spiral had such good taste!” one of them was saying loudly.  Prowl took more fried energon balls from the buffet and wished he was out on patrol.  Out on patrol in the shopping plaza. Out on patrol in the shopping plaza in the pouring acid rain.

“It’s positively tragic!” another bot agreed.  They were criticizing their dead friend’s taste in wall art.  At his funeral.

Like called to like, carrier had always said.  

Prowl turned to grab another serving of the fluffy goodies when he caught sight of something small pressing itself into a corner.  

It took him a moment to recognize Spiral’s sparkling.  He was very thin and covered in mourning decals.  Prowl vaguely remembered seeing him twenty - thirty? - vorns ago when he was just starting to walk and roll on his wheels.  He couldn’t be that old then.

“And those drapes!”  More high, brittle laughter and Prowl saw the sparkling flinch, his optics darting around the room.  He was edging towards the doorway to the rest of the house.  Ah.  Prowl wouldn’t want to be here if he was the sparkling either.  Who was even supposed to be minding him?  It was cruel to leave a newly orphaned sparkling alone like that.

“Officer!”  Scrap, the lawyer found him.  “Officer, we’ll be reading the Will and Testament in a moment.  Would you come with me?”

Prowl tossed his half full plate back on the buffet table.  

0-0-0

Bluestreak was analyzing the two crystal garden dishes as if he was deciding which of his servo to cut off.

“This one is more sturdy,” he whispered, “but this one has better drainage.  I like the color on this one more, but I think this one will match the crystals.”

It was the most he’d heard the sparkling say since they’d met.

“Is matching the crystals important?” Prowl asked, hoping to keep him talking as he shifted the weight from one arm to another.  His arms were weighted down with growth medium, impurities, seed crystals, misters, and two beginner care books.

“Of course.  Everything you bring into your home is a statement about your taste.  You wouldn’t want something in your hab to clash.  What would bots say?” Bluestreak answered with frightening automaticity.  Then he flinched.  “I mean…”

Prowl had seen Bluestreak’s mouth move, but the words were all Spiral, the fragger.  He had enough time to lecture his sparkling about ‘taste’ but not enough to tow him to the nearest playground?

“I’m sure Sergeant Strongarm appreciates your consideration.  Next time she visits we’ll point out to her that we selected this dish to match the patches on the wall AND the stain on the kitchen floor.”  That startled a laugh out of the sparkling.  Finally!

“Visits?  You mean next time she drags you home from work?”

There!  A twinkle of mischief!

“Same thing.  I think you should get this one,” Prowl said, tapping the teal dish.  “You said you liked this color better.  Me too.”

“Okay.  Now we’ll go buy them?”

“Yes.”  Prowl took the rejected dish and set it back on the shelf.

“Did we get everything?”

“I think so.  If now, we can always come back.”

“Hey, Uncle Prowl?  Why is everything so damp?” 

“They spray the crystals in the morning.  It helps them grow and makes them shinier so bots will want to buy them.  Here hold this.”  He handed Bluestreak the lighter bags and took the teal dish.

“How do you know so much about growing crystals, Uncle Prowl?” he asked as they wove through the aisles.

“I used to grow them before I left home.  My creators still have a few of my larger gardens.”  He got to hear them complain about them every time he called.

“Really?  Why did you start growing crystals?”

Prowl was thrilled with each question.  “I needed something to do in the evenings that wasn’t too expensive and my creator got me a datapad from the library about crystalology.  When I grew my first citrine I decided to -”

0-0-0

Prowl looked around, keeping the contempt in his field tight against his frame, letting the boredom leak through.  There were certainly more bots here than he’d seen at the funeral itself.  He was going to stay in the back, against the wall, in case any of them were spitting actual acid.

“WHAT!  I put up with his disgusting jokes for two hundred vorns and all I get is the vintage Lunar collection?!  I bought half of those pieces for him!”

“If you expect me to accept a third - A THIRD - of the Chrome Enterprises account then -”

“What do you mean he didn’t leave any money for the remodel?  I’m scheduling the dumpsters right now to throw out these tacky paintings and those cheap rayon rugs.”

“Those are my paintings and my rugs you glitch!  I SAID I’d get them in the morning!”

“PLEASE!  QUIET!” the lawyer shouted from the table in the front.  “You may not throw away anything in this house until everything has been distributed to its recipients.  I can arrange an emergency moving service if necessary.  Anyone caught interfering will be removed from the premises and charges brought against them.”  The bots grumbled, but quieted down, claws out and poisoned words at the ready.

“Moving on.  All of Spiral’s bank accounts have been transferred to his creators except for the joint ones which will be transferred to the other name on the account.  As stated, you have a week to collect the physical items from the house and the bank will be expected you for the items in his safety deposit boxes.”  He leveled a knowing glare at them.  “The bank WILL be checking IDs.

“Furthermore, any custody of the mechanimals in the menagerie needs to go through the WildLife Preservation society.  Once you sign, you are responsible for transport, housing, and feeding.  There is no stipend.”

“If there aren’t any questions, we can move onto the land deeds and then get your signatures on the paperwork.”

“What about the sparkling?” someone asked.

Oh.  That had been him.

The lawyer squinted at him and looked down at his notes.

“Officer Prowl?  Well, it looked like Spiral didn’t say anything about him.  If no one wants to take him in I guess we’ll call Sparkling Services.  That is the correct procedure, yes?  I’ve never dealt with custody cases.”

All helms turned towards Prowl who had also never had anything to do with custody cases, but he’d be damned if he let that show.

“I’m sure it won’t come to calling SS,” Prowl said, scanning the bots in the room.  “If Spiral didn’t make arrangements then the next of kin - “

“Pit no!  I don’t want a sparking.”  Spiral’s brother.

“There have also been cases where family friends have -”

“What?  I don’t have time for a sparkling.”

“Spiral wasn’t that good of a friend.”

“I’m going to one of the moons this week!  I don’t have time -”

“Doesn’t he get some sort of maintenance check or inheritance?” called a sulky young mech in the front who hadn’t gotten anything in the Will.

The lawyer clicked through the Will again.  “No, it doesn’t say anything about provisions for descendants.  Spiral didn’t arrange any inheritance either.  I guess his upkeep will fall on his new guardian.”  He shrugged and then turned to Prowl again.  “Will you make the call after the funeral?  The house will need to be packed up and distributed.”  There was nothing in his tone that indicated the sparkling was any different than the tacky wall art or the cheap rugs.

Prowl’s processor spun through the scenarios as the crowd settled.  If Bluestreak didn’t come with an inheritance, money or land, then he was valueless to these bots. Given the lengths Prowl had seen others go to, he decided that was probably a good thing.  No tragic accidents or quick arranged bondings.  But SS was already overloaded and it would be easy for a quiet, sheltered sparkling to be swallowed up by the system.  He didn’t want to make that call.

Prowl scanned the room again…

…family, friends, business associates.  None of them gave a damn about Spiral and none of them would take in his sparkling - 

- his pale opticked, thin fielded sparkling.

“No need,” he heard himself say, before the thought had fully formed, “I’ll be taking him with me once everything is arranged.”

0-0-0

Prowl watched as Bluestreak carefully unpacked everything from their shopping trip and set it on the table.

“What do we do first?” he asked, sounding like a normal sparkling for once, excited and eager.

“We’ll put the medium in first and then you’ll figure out how you want to arrange your crystals.  This is a tabletop garden so we can put them closer together.”

They poured the medium together to keep as much of it off the floor as possible and Bluestreak started flipping through one of the datapads for layouts, asking Prowl’s opinion on each one.

Then, somewhere between choosing a layout and showing Bluestreak the trick of mixing the impurities in the mister, Prowl’s world rocked and resettled.

He lifted his helm and looked around his tiny habsuite.  

He had a table and chairs now, because they couldn't both eat on the couch.  It was tucked into the corner with a pile of goodies they’d bought yesterday driving home from the grocery store.  

He’d finally nailed up those shelves to hold all of his mystery novels and Bluestreak had shyly set his own beginner readers up there.

The kitchen stain would be gone by next weekend - Prowl had bought the cleaner - and he’d set aside money to paint over the patchy gray walls.  He’s planned on picking the color together.

In a few minutes they’d have a fresh crystal garden to add to it too.  

“There!”  Bluestreak set the final wire in place to hold that first cracked seed crystal up against the taller amethyst.  He grinned up at Prowl and Prowl found himself smiling back, his spark spinning dizzily.

“It looks great, Bluestreak.  I can’t wait to see it grow.”

I can’t wait to see you grow.

Bluestreak’s face lit up.  “You think they’re really going to grow?”

“You did an excellent job.  They’ll do fine.”  That bloom of warmth again, a warmth Prowl finally recognized.  It had been coming and going in Bluestreak’s field since that first night - 

They’d arrived at Prowl’s tiny, barren habsuite in the early morning hours. The street was empty - too early for anyone in his part of town to be up - and still dark.  He could see his trash bins tipped over in the side alley, waiting for the garbage trucks.  His downstairs neighbor had left her holovision on again.  He could see the faint reflection of the news program on her window. 

The familiar place had not brought the comfort Prowl had hoped for.  Instead a cascade of doubt, failure, anger poured through his spark.  What was a bot like him thinking about bringing a sparkling - a sparkling! - back to this facade of a home.  He could barely handle the grown recruits, this was a young, grieving, vulnerable sparkling.

“I’m sorry,” the sparkling whispered and Prowl realized Bluestreak was shaking.

A young, grieving, vulnerable sparkling standing on the sidewalk, in a place he’d never been, after driving all night, the day of his creator’s funeral.

“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” Prowl said, trying to gentle his tone.  This was impossible.  He was called gruff on a good day.  

“I know you didn’t want to take me.  Creator said no one would.”  The sparkling’s shoulders hunched tightly up around his helm.  “I heard all his friends at the funeral.  I’m sorry you won’t get any money for it.”

Prowl felt all the indecision drain from him.  

Blinding rage would do that to a bot.

He vented.

“No…I’m glad to do it, Bluestreak.  I want you here with me.”

“You don’t have to -”

“I don’t have anyone,” Prowl interrupted.  “I’m glad to have you with me now.  Very glad, Bluestreak.”  Oh.  He didn’t know his voice could sound like that.  “I hope you’ll be happy here. With me.”

Bluestreak hadn’t answered.  He’d reached out and taken Prowl’s servo and followed him up the stairs and into the habsuite with its single table, single second-servo couch, and pitiful kitchenette.  

Bluestreak hadn’t let go of Prowls servo until he’d fallen into recharge on the lumpy couch, leaning up against him, both pretending to watch the holovision as the sun came up.

So Prowl was not a nurturing bot, but he was trying to learn how to be enough of one for Blue, because he deserved better than what Spiral had given him and Prowl would be damned if he failed like that.

[cherrytimemachine]

Breakdown: Arcee

Boy, do I have a treat for you.

How I feel about this character: Sheeeeeeeee. <3

I haven't read any of her stories in the comics, but I enjoyed the Arcee from TFP a lot. She's got her own struggles, she broods a lot, and she has to learn to heal from her trauma over losing her previous partners and let go of the hatred that clouded her judgement at times. I vibe with her closed off defensive personality, and I think her being trans like in IDW1 and being wary of mistreatment would add another layer of depth to her personality and motivations.

All the people I ship romantically with this character: Hehe, I like the Greenlight ship. Yeah yeah, I'm using the IDW1 trans identity and the IDW2 lesbian relationship. You can't stop me. I find their potential interesting, with Greenlight being a more level headed scientist who already has a community among Elita One's team, while Arcee is still trying to find her place in the Autobots when she meets her. Arcee hasn't been there for that long compared to the other Autobots, and she hasn't felt at home there yet. Granted, she hasn't felt at home anywhere she's been since her childhood, and even that was kinda shit. So when she meets this group of women, some like her, she feels like the world got brighter. And that connection she makes with Greenlight gives her something to be happy for when she wakes up in the morning.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: Tailgate, Cyclonus, Prowl, Springer, Hot Rod, GALVATRON- She has a lot of people around her that she has interesting dynamics with. I mentioned this in my Cyclonus breakdown, but I think they come from similar backgrounds. Like Cyclonus, Arcee and her twin were forged with dark sparks (my current term for the Dark Energon sparks), and they both grew up in different versions of that culture. Cyclonus was part of his town's church in Tetrahex, and he grew up playing the ceremonial drums and singing holy ballads since childhood. The twins, however, were basically raised in a cult town (more on that later). Despite that, they have a shared heritage that isn't often discussed or appreciated like those of the Thirteen. Arcee and Cyclonus have a mutual respect for each other, both as fighters and as comrades. He was rather disappointed in her when she defected and left Galvatron behind. He's not one to forget a slight against his faction, and he can hold a grudge for a long time if he believes it's justified. He was still upset at her for a long time after she left, and he still was a few million years later when they met again.

Tailgate was her partner in the intelligence department. It was Prowl who took her in as one of his subordinates, as the other members of high command weren't too fond of her. He had a preference for pairing up his subordinates; one he kept from serving as an enforcer in Praxus. He intentionally paired Arcee up with Tailgate, who had recently returned from medical leave after battling Cybercrosis, which he was able to beat thanks to Pharma developing a cure. His extended absence left him without a partner, and Prowl saw it as the perfect opportunity to expose Arcee to socializing in their faction. At first, Arcee was less than pleased to be working with Tailgate. His chipper demeanor and childish attitude made her feel like more of a babysitter than an equal partner. She didn't even like kids. After working with him, she finds that he's quite intelligent, more than she gave him credit for, and he gets shit done on missions. She decided he wasn't so bad to hang out with in time. It was Arcee that originally didn't want Tailgate hanging around Cyclonus, but she was moved after a little while of Cyclonus being there.

Ok, now this is getting kinda long, so I'll just do one more. GALVATRON. Her beloved, stupid moronic twin brother. Her and Galvatron have always had it rough, even as children. The two of them grew up in what was basically a cult that worshipped Unicron as their god. Their town in the Darklands was small and rather rural, and they weren't welcome outside of their own community due to the fear around dark sparks. They always supported each other, even when no one else did. Galv was the first person to really listen to Arcee about her struggles with gender, and he still is her most vocal supporter. They fought like hell to stay together, even when outside forces tried so hard to separate them. They bicker and argue all the time, and from the outside it seems like they don't like each other, but they have an unbreakable bond. Galvatron was devastated when she left. They'd stuck together all this time, and when they finally have their own freedom and control of their lives, she ran away. He was hurt and angry with her, but he was also very sad, even if he refused to show it. They wouldn't end up meeting again face-to-face for a few million years, but they crossed paths many times, and each knew when the other was near. Both of them see their broken bond as a tragedy.

Enough of my ranting, back to the post.

My unpopular opinion about this character: They make her so dainty and thin in everything, and I'm not a fan. Like, especially with her relation to Galv, and them having a similar frame type when forged, I feel like she should be more buff. She did get a reformat done, but I feel like she would still be a bigger bot based on my interpretation of her. She was a gladiator, she's a heavy hitter, and she values her power as a means to defend herself from further hurt. Let her be buff dammit.

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Let her be bros with the Wreckers again. The dynamic between her, Springer, and Hot Rod was funny. I want that, except with her as less of a generic woman character. They weren't great at writing female characters in the 80s. And I'd like them to have a friendship without there being this implied love triangle thing or whatever. One thing I appreciate is when there are explicit platonic relationships between men and women characters without the "they have to be romantically involved" subtext. That doesn't mean don't ship any characters if they work well together, but I hate forced straight relationships where the writers feel like they have to make two characters kiss because they're the opposite gender. Write people normally, please.

If you want more of these, please ask. I love doing these. I have a more in depth origin story for them, including the cult they grew up in and their tenure with Jhiaxus.

[mann-walter]

Read Exodus earlier, just found out that:

Optimus Prime was sort of idolized by the clerks in the Hall of Records during the war, a sort of zero to hero inspiration for them and an occupational pride.

Ironhide was skeptical of Optimus Prime's leadership before the war destroyed his hometown, Praxus. He became one of the former's most ardent supporters and along with Jazz, acted as Optimus' closest advisors.

The war, as all wars, quickly turned into a war of resources, especially fuel. The situation was so dire that some factories had to cease operation. On another occasion, a loyal city sacrificed their energon supply for the war effort (this is actually very dark because it means they starved themselves).

Very early into the war, both sides really fought for the industrialists' support.

Decepticons had a winning streak early on due to air superiority, but when that was withdrawn, the Autobots won in more and more occasions due to... I think better technology, professional soldiers, more cash, and an upper hand in terms of fuel after Kalis. Remember, they're the state. But the table was turned once more shortly after with the siege on Iacon.

Alpha Trion still called Optimus "Orion Pax" at times and thought of him as "Orion Pax" out of habit.

[seekerblue]

The war had ended - it must've been years ago, now. He'd been a passive observer in the final year of the war, finally revealing himself only after the fighting stopped. Having been separated from the Decepticons since a while before Cybertron went dark, he avoided serious charges; really, he got off with what was effectively a slap on the wrist and was asked to return to Cybertron, to aid in reconstruction.

He had heeded that request, overseeing reconstruction in what had once been Praxus, but in time, he opted to leave again. Not out of dissatisfaction with the new Cybertron, no - things were wonderful compared to the war. But he almost found himself romanticizing those long periods of time alone in space, and it led him to strike out again, just to see if reality lived up to nostalgia.

It didn't.

After the first crash-landing on Earth, and factoring the ship's age, it had seemingly endless problems. The entire journey was a nightmare, and by the time he reached Earth orbit, the ship was yet again running on fumes. Thundercracker found himself once more running only his primary systems, so low on energon it was a miracle he could still stand. The engines died as he entered atmosphere, as expected. The Arctava dropped like a stone, just over the Caribbean Sea; sank like a stone, too!

The crash left the seeker with barely enough power to keep his optics online and trying to figure out how in the name of Primus he was going to get out of this one. And he thought he always left the bad ideas to Skywarp? He couldn't help but laugh at the followup thought: that he was picking up the slack in his brother's absence.

After a brief diagnostics check, he found ship communications were still online, but only just. An S.O.S. signal is sent out on all open frequencies, just seconds before the last of the ship's power is drained and all systems, S.O.S. included, click off. He's left in pitch-black darkness, night vision kicking in almost immediately; unfortunately, draining more power from him.

"Sure hope somebody got that. I'm not built for swimming. Especially like this." Thundercracker stands, shaking his helm. Optics flickering, he moves to the back of the ship, just to make sure it's not leaking.

Wouldn't want to rust while waiting on a rescue.

He's sure he remembers some mention of them; Auto Rescue? Rescue-trons? Protecto-bots? Something like that. Some secondary faction of Autobots working search & rescue. He sure hopes one's good in deep water.

Then again, what's the alternative? Sharkticons? ... He might prefer the rust.

@captainseamech hit the starter call!

[thelastpathfinder]

In your dreams, there is a beast beneath the floor.

You walk a long hallway, one of many you recall from the Praxus Institute of Science. The entire facility has no power and the lights are off, but the walls and floor have been polished to a high shine until they resemble pools of still water. They reflect your pale white form like a house of mirrors. Your reflections move out of synchrony with you, a stuttering effect that fractures into infinity.

You are the only one walking forwards.

And then the lens through which you perceive this unconscious reality shifts, and you're looking at the vaulted ceiling of the Institute's museum hall. You recall being here, before, when you were allowed time outside your cell. You'd marvelled at the various fossilized specimens on display; relics of a time that even you were not around to witness.

You were alone, then, save for the fossils. You're not alone now.

The motion of some long, sinuous creature ripples across the floor, just beyond your peripheries. You can't look down. You want to look down. Something is keeping your head, your frame, locked in place.

It speaks, a rattling hiss: "Mild... and... meek. One... path... to seek."

You can see in a narrow field of view directly ahead of you. You see Longwing, his face a ruin, crawling away from you. You see the bounty hunter, a shadow flecked with stars. You see Perceptor, aiming his gun at you. You see Prowl at his shoulder, his mouth moving soundlessly. You see Glowfin's round face stricken with terror.

What's happening? you try to cry out, but the beast beneath the floor has wrapped its coils about your neck. What are you? Are you what's been giving me these visions?

"I... am...," it tightens its grip, and forces your head down, "what... they... made... me."

You peer into the abyss beneath your feet, struggling and failing to make sense of the shape you see. You can't feel your body. You blink and the beast opens its eye—your optic, it's you, staring back as the mirrors parallel to yours shatter one by one, and you scream as one as you begin to fall—

You wake with a dull pain in your head, and realize you'd rolled off your recharge slab while thrashing about in your sleep. You pull yourself upright with a groan, rubbing at what is surely a dent in the back of your head. And you think.

I am what they made me. A vision of the inevitable, or merely a possibility, one you can avoid? A warning from whatever deep, dark secret of the cosmos expanded your perception to begin with? You sit with your back to the wall, knees pulled up to your chest. You're not foolish enough to dismiss it as a simple nightmare, not when you can recall every detail with perfect clarity.

After all—what is the point of your power if you can't use it to save yourself?

[brandwhorestarscream]

Praxus as Gotham city: aesthetically dark and alternative, the citizens are a bit strange/bizarre/insane (everyone thinks it's something in the energon and no one understands why they don't leave)

And most importantly: the authorities tried to get rid of them

But instead of the fate they have in canon medias, they survive the "no man's land" and are much more angry and suspicious of outsiders.

(except those who lived in aerial/flying cities)

I feel like I'm missing a lot of information here. But this has potential! I like the idea of Praxus being completely cut off and isolated, harsh and very anti-outsiders save for their skybound cousins. For some reason I'm imagining this Praxus as an island citystate/nation, surrounded by a noxious, corrosive acid sea that keeps pretty much everyone out

When you say the citizens are bizarre, is this like... kind of akin to the cryptid seekers stuff? They just have very strange unexplainable tendencies? If so, what sort were you thinking? :>

[autobot-jazzs-pussy]

Crime in Crystals | JazzProwl | Series

Completion Status: 10 Fics Complete, 2 Fics Ongoing, Last Update - 12/25/2020

Word Count: 348,131

Rating: G-T, One Fic is Unrated

Pairings: Jazz/Prowl (Main), Mirage/Hound (The Mirage/Spec Ops Stories)

Minor Ratchet/Wheeljack, Inferno/Red Alert, Megatron/Oprimus Prime

Mentioned Sunstreaker/Bluestreak/Sideswipe, Ironhide/Chromia

Warnings: Graphic Depection of Violence, Murder, Police Corruption, Mirage Helps Kill His Terrible Family, Implied/Referenced Suicide in one story not a common theme, Kidnapping

Plot: In an alternate universe in which instead of a Civil War Cybertron fought the Quintessons, Prowl is living in the incredibly corrupt and isolating Praxus (If you have any familiarity with Gotham, Praxus is Gotham) as the only Clean Cop. He is trying desperately to improve anything and stop the worst of the city from hurting people when he is kidnapped by the mysterious assassin Meister (Jazz) who it turns out is not a gun for hire but a serial killer vigilante working his way through the Crime Lords.

Prowl and Jazz (and Jazz's Alfred Ratchet and Oracle Red Alert) begin working together and eventually catch the attention of the Prime's government, which is finally paying attention to at home issues with the war over.

Personal Thoughts: I love this fic. It's world building in the history and personal relationships is pretty interesting. Jazz and Prowl feel significantly younger than the usual "main cast" who are all old war buddies who are forming the new government.

Jazz and Prowl's relationship is lovely and I deeply enjoy their characterization. Jazz is terrifying (see : Bee situation) and Prowl is horrifyingly lonely. Their time in Praxus you can feel the suffocating nature of the city and the solace they take in each other eventually.

The side relationships have some interesting development as well. Optimus and Ratchet's friendship is particularly enjoyable and fraught. And Ratchet is one of the main side characters.

Mirage and his whole story is fascinating. I want to wrap him in a blanket.

Worldbuilding for the different coding is also something that was interesting and unique and how Conjunxes bonding was handled.

Overall highly recommend! But it is very much crime and hitman drama so may not be everyone's taste. Not investigating murders but focused on that. So dark subject matter such as murder, trafficking, drugs, etc. is kind of the thesis statement and Jazz is a killer.

[anon-e-miss]

Shaping You - 7 Weaving Threads

“It’s okay!” Jazz caught Prowl in his arms before his humiliated consort could flee. “Ya didn’t forget yerself, Prowl. Ya fuelled, that’s all.”

“I made a porcineacon of myself,” Prowl counter. It broke Jazz’s spark to hear the self-hatred in his consort’s voice.

“Hardly,” he argued and stroked Prowl’s chevron. “Ya ate yer fill. No shame in that. The way yer armour’s cut, it don’t see like was meant to fuel at all.”

“Since I cannot help myself, it was designed to stop me from over indulging,” Prowl replied.

“Is takin’ more than three sip o’ energon o’er indulging?” Jazz asked.

“If it makes me grotesque?” Prowl asked as means of answer. “Yes.”

“Y’re not grotesque,” Jazz replied. “Yer gorgeous. Voluptuous. Every one o’ yer curves is perfection.”

“My curves are just brands of my excesses,” Prowl said, flicking his servo over his thigh with disgust. Jazz smoothed his servo up Prowl’s thigh. “What are your subjects going to think of me?”

“Remember, I told ya, we like our curves in Polyhex,” Jazz replied. He held Prowl’s servos and smiled at him. “They’re gonna be happy to see the Prince Consort is healthy ‘n fertile.”

“Fertile?” Prowl frowned.

“This,” Jazz said, cupping the curve low on Prowl’s belly, the evidence of their lovemaking. Prowl blushed a deep scarlet and Jazz kissed his cheekplate. “Is the sign o’ a fertile frame ‘n a productive bond. ‘M thinkin’ its playin’ a part in yer armour not closing.”

“Oh,” Prowl looked down at himself. “I do not believe I have seen this on any Praxian.”

“Probably ‘cause Praxian armour compacts it,” Jazz replied. “Don’t sound like a pleasant thing to me.”

“I cannot see your Aunt like this,” Prowl sighed. “I am indecent.”

“‘M gonna grab ya a sheet from the berth,” Jazz said. “‘N cover ya up. Won’t bother her, Prowl. Not even a little.”

It bothered Prowl. Jazz could see it and feel it. He went to the berthroom and stripped the top sheet off. When he returned, Jazz wrapped the sheet around Prowl, tying two corners below Prowl’s doorwings. The results were what Jazz would have imagined a witness of the nomadic tribe creating from memory, see receptive mates among the tribesmecha. The traditional wrappers his kinsmecha wore were made from fabrics with bright and intricate patterns. This sheet was more material than a wrapper was meant to have but more would probably make Prowl more comfortable anyways. In calor, Jazz would bring Prowl a proper wrapper and see if it suited him better than conventional armour in the hottest quartexes of the desert.

“What if it falls?” Prowl asked, arms crossed over his chassis.

“It won’t,” Jazz promised. “Y’re gonna find different types o’ wrappers ‘n kilts are common garb here, especially in calor. I learned to tie a wrapper from my ori, seen ‘m fight in one. The knots’ll hold.”

“You... go without armour?” Prowl asked, shocked.

“When it’s proper,” Jazz replied. There was a clear knock at the door. He rose from the couch. “Here she is. Don’t worry Prowl. She’s gonna like ya.”

“I hope so,” Prowl murmured.

“Auntie!” Jazz exclaimed as he opened the door. “Ya outdid yerself.”

“I tried my servo at some more recipes from Praxus,” Dipole explained. “‘N I got pressed energon for everyone. The cantine’s got yer consort’s brew. He likes it dark.”

“Ya ne’er waste yer time figurin’ how mecha like their press,” Jazz smiled. “Lemme take that tray from ya. Must weigh as much as ya.”

“I know you’ll insist,” Dipole replied. “Don’t go and drop it. I won’t ever let you forget.”

“Oh I know,” Jazz laughed. He turned back into the room and saw Prowl watching. “Come inside, Auntie. I wanna introduce ya to Prowl proper.”

“My pleasure,” the femme replied. “Dearspark, are you overheated again? I can get some ice energon for you.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Prowl said, blushing sweetly. “My armour won’t close. I fuelled too much.”

“Ya did not,” Jazz gently corrected as he set the loaded tray on the low table in front of the couch Prowl was sitting on. “That torture device ain’t cut to fit ya. It’s the problem, not ya. Auntie Dipole, this is Prowl, my beautiful consort.”

“I know from my kitchen you like your pressed energon like the enforcers take it,” Dipole declared, pouring a mug for Prowl as Jazz sat down. “You never ordered anything else.”

“I should not have even had that,” Prowl said, taking the cup and smiling a little at the ominously dark fuel. “But my helmaches if I don’t have it. As it was, with just this, that armour barely fit.”

“That’s just cruel,” Dipole said. “Armour isn’t meant to be a punishment. I don’t know what your favourite fuels are yet so I brought a little of this and that to make sure you liked something. I haven’t made steamed lotus buns before. You let me know how what you think of them and I can play around with the recipe.”

“You did not need to trouble yourself for me,” Prowl said. Jazz placed one of the amber custard filled talc buns on a plate for Prowl and gave it to him. “Thank you. These are one of my favourites.”

“What else, Dearspark?” Dipole asked. “Everyone needs their favourites from time to time and they don’t always think to ask for them so I like to know, so I can make sure everyone is taken care of.”

“I like dumplings,” Prowl said. “From any culture. If you take dough and fill it with something, I like it. I have a weakness for rust sticks.”

“There’s a femme in town who makes the best sweets,” Dipole replied.

“Mirror is amazin’,” Jazz agreed. “There’s a line ‘round the block for her shop on Prima-tur.”

“What specifically about Prima-tur?”  Prowl asked.

“She sets out trays of treats to sample,” Jazz explained. “Treats mecha on the roughside o’ life can’t afford. She makes sure everyone can have a treat.”

“That is very kind of her,” Prowl said.

At first, Prowl only nibbled at the fuel but Jazz could see Dipole was taking no offence. Prowl was embarrassed he could not fit his armour and nothing Jazz or Dipole or anyone could say would make that go away. But as they spoke, he relaxed a little and Dipole took advantage. She asked him his opinion on different flavours of different fuels and with this be of underhanded guidance, Prowl ate a proper meal. Jazz was relieved. It was more easily done by Dipole then him. He never wanted to see Prowl starve and deny himself again. His consort needed his energy and his vibrancy to help Jazz bring Polyhex back to prosperity. How could Prowl carry a bitlet for him if he was starved? No, they needed to get Prowl comfortable taking his fill of fuel. Ori would have no use for a consort who fainted whenever he was called to work and that was a battle Jazz did not want to fight.

“I’m thinking you have Hotwire coming by for an armour fitting?” Dipole asked.

“Yeah,” Jazz confirmed. He was on his second steamed lotus bun. The silky bun and sweet filling was one of his new favourite fuels. “Even if Prowl’s armour wasn’t out to crush’m, it’s ununtrium. Too heavy ‘n too hot for Polyhex. Don’t know how they didn’t know. They trade out here.”

“They knew,” Prowl replied. “I have no doubt. My originator insisted on ununtrium due to its value. They wished to showcase their wealth using me as their billboard.”

“‘M sorry, Prowl,” Jazz squeezed his servo. Prowl hardly even dipped his doorwings.

“It is an ostentatious waste,” Prowl sighed. “I never wore ununtrium at home. It would have been seen as tacky to wear such armour to the Hall of Justice.”

“What had ya at there?” Jazz asked.

“I was an attache to the Lord of Law,” Prowl explained. “It would have been unsightly of me to serve something as menial as the enforcers.”

“Did ya like it?” Jazz asked.

“Aspects,” Prowl replied. “I would not have dared where ununtrium there. Question of my professionalism due to how I was armoured came up often enough as it was.”

“What didn’t they like?” Jazz asked.

“Me,” Prowl replied. “My originator would come to me raving about some complaint. It did not matter what shape or style of armour I tried. Something about it was always indecent.”

“I think your originator had some frame image issues that he put onto you,” Dipole declared. “You could have be covered from knees to neck and he would found a reason to complain.”

“He did complain,” Prowl murmured. “When he inspected my bonding armour. He wanted it cut lower down my legs but the designer set it was not possible if I was to walk.”

“I don’t think I like that mech,” Dipole grumbled.

Auntie stayed for moral support as Hotwire arrived. They nibbled on the snacks she had brought with her as the detailer had Prowl try on a dozen or more different cuts of girdle and chestplate. It suited the shape of his legs to have the girdle cut high on his hips and would let him move freely and quickly. Jazz did not think Prowl appreciated the newfound mobility yet. The curve of his hips was traced to perfection with none of that ugly, extra padding to make Prowl look straight and shapeless. After much back and forth, they settled on an adjustable waist, set higher at the moment, to make Prowl more comfortable. It too hugged the voluptuous Praxian’s soft belly, rather than squishy it and Jazz liked the subtle display it did of his contributions to his consort. Prowl’s chestplate was entirely revamped. Gone was the flat, crushing plate and in its place was a bumper that hugged his wells and showed off his broad, strong shoulders and wide, proud doorwings. Together, they showed off Prowl’s beautifully lush hourglass shape.

“Are you sure this is acceptable?” Prowl asked after he and Jazz were finally left alone. Jazz nodded his helm.

“It’s armour fit for a prince’s consort,” he replied. Prowl was only wearing the mock up for now. Hotwire would use fine crystals for his headlights and accents. He would not look like a pauper’s consort but neither would he look like a greedy bride.

“There is no season where ununtrium armour is appropriate here?” Prowl asked.

“No,” Jazz replied. “It... ain’t just the weather it’s.... just ain’t somethin’ done here. Ununtrium is for medical use, for construction. It’s too valuable to waste on armour.”

“I am amazed I did not have oil thrown on me,” Prowl sighed.

“Hey,” Jazz held him at the shoulders and reassured his consort. “It ain’t like that.”

“I am sure it was for ones suffering from fuel insecurity,” Prowl replied. “To see a foreign title hunter garbed in precious metal bonding to their war hero prince.”

“Prowl,” Jazz sighed.

“It can be melted down,” Prowl said. “Can it not be? Would it be improper for me to donate the armour for the rebuilding efforts?”

“They’d be in awe o’ it,” Jazz replied. He hugged Prowl to him. “How about ya ‘n me take a tour ‘n we can see were the need is greatest. We can see where yer armour ‘n dowry can do the most good.”

“I would like that,” Prowl replied, relaxing into the embrace. “I want to help Polyhex. In every way I can. It is my home now. They are my mechanisms now.”

“Remember how ya said I wasn’t yer dream mech ‘cause yer dream mech was a humourless brute?” Jazz asked.

“Yes?”

“Darlin’, I can’t call ya my dream mech either,” Jazz replied. “I might o’ imagined a beauty, ‘n ya are. I might o’ imagined a savant, ‘n ya are. But I could not o’ imagined that Praxus would give me such a generous ‘n devoted angel for my consort.”

[battlexworned]

𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐓

Name:  Ironhide of Praxus

Alias: Holoform Alias is Isaac Hyde Velazquez, as for common nicknames: big red/red, 'hide, big lug

Gender: Male, goes by he/him Age:  millions of years old. but if ironhide was ever human, he'd be in his late 50s or early 60s

Species:  Cybertronian

Zodiac: aquarius / aries / cancer / capricorn / gemini / leo / libra / pisces / sagittarius / scorpio / taurus / virgo / unknown

Abilities/Talents: enhanced strength and durability, weapon knowledge and flexibility, combat strategist, lots of soldier/body guard experience.

Alignment: lawful / neutral / chaotic / good / neutral / evil / true

Religion: Agnostic. He’s not a big fan of religion, nor does he despise it. To him it’s just— there. He acknowledges that beings such as Primus, Unicron and the primes exist (hell, he literally fought with one), but the superstitious side of things ain’t his style.

Sins: envy / greed / gluttony / lust / pride / sloth / wrath

Virtues: charity / chastity / diligence / humility / justice / kindness / patience

Languages: modern cybertronian along with iaconian and praxian dialect, and is currently trying to learn eukarian. As for human languages, he speaks English, Spanish and Creole fluently.

Family: We dont talk about that

Friends: Ignite, a young bot who slowly turned into his mentee and the dynamic between them and ironhide is more of a child/father one. Blackarachnia, an eukarian who he met in... rough circumtances, but they saved his life, which he is grateful for. Rest is verse dependant.

Sexual Orientation: heterosexual / bisexual / pansexual / homosexual / demisexual  / asexual / unsure / questioning / other

Relationship status: single / dating / married / widowed / open relationship / other

Libido: sex god / very high / high  / average / low / very low / non-existent

Build: twig / bony / slender / average / athletic / curvy / chubby(-ish) / obese

Hair: white / blonde / brunette / red / black / other (in holoform, it's a dark brown with faded strands of dyed red hair and the natural white hair as sign of his age)

Eyes: brown / blue / green / black / other

Skin: pale / fair / olive / light brown / brown (in holoform + tan marks) / very brown / black / other (light-ish grey)

Height: under 3 foot / 3-4 foot / 4-5 foot / 5-6 foot (holoform) / 6-7 foot / above 7 foot (33ft)

Weight: under 100 pounds / 100-150 pounds / 150-200 pounds / 200-250 pounds / above 250 pounds

Scars: 3 facial scars: two of them are on his nose bridge due to a nasty punch, while the third one is a small scar on his lip.

Facial Features: His most noticeable features aside from the scars are: his blue eyes with lines that connect the faceplates (almost making it look like he’s tired but he isn’t), a slightly big hooked nose and a red armor piece that covers his stubble.

Tattoos:  (in holoform), two tattoos: one at his back which he got in his youth and the second was during the war, which is big gear with the autobot symbol inside and his name written above the gear. 

Dogs or Cats?

Birds or Hamsters?

Red or Blue?

Yellow or Green?

Black or White?

Coffee or Tea?

Ice Cream or Cake?

Fruits or Vegetables?

Sandwich or Soup?

Magic or Melee?

Sword or Bow?

Summer or Winter?

Spring or Autumn?

The Past or The Future?

tagged by: @13urningstars

tagging: YOUUUUUU

[papyrus126]

Video Game Idea: Transformers

NOT for players 16 and under. (Really don’t care, but must be address for legal reasons)

Mix between Skyrim and Fallout 4

Must refuel every now and again! Based on frame type chosen, player may have to refuel more often! Refueling stations are placed in certain locations throughout cities. During war, both factions have own mess hall along with fueling stations around in bases. If neutral, scanner on map will give locations of mining veins and mecha selling energon. Due to the times, it will not count against karma unless people are offlined/threatened.

Choose Your People: Whichever you choose, your people will respond better to you

Iacon

Kaon

Harmonex

Nova Cronum

Tyrest

Helex

Crystal City

Stanix

Polyhex

Praxus

Protihex

Uraya

Tarn

Valvolux

Vos

Velocitron

Choose Your Frame Type: Each one has their strengths and weaknesses- including fuel levels

Grounder

Flight frame

Mini-con

Beast-former

Nautical

Insecticon

Predacon

Dinobot

Story Begins:

First day online:

No sound besides player’s character breathing. Turning around, player watches as the Well of Allsparks slowly dims to nothing. A voice calls out from behind; player turns to see random mech. Backing away slowly, they only advance faster. In response, player turns and run (Player runs a short distance, dodging through random obstacles in basic tutorial of movement). The random mech catches up, pinning player down. Player then flipped over and knocked into attempted unconsciousness. Short cut scenes play along the way (first: initial capture, second: loading player into transport of sorts, third: falling out of transport after shot down, final: silhouette of random mech (based on chosen people) kneeling over player, then reaches towards them. Screen finally goes dark) (save point)

Player wakes in hospital berth. Player handed basic medical supplies and energon to start. May explore hospital and collect more supplies by stealing if going the bad route. (Cut scene having reached the front door) Player ushered out the door. (Save point)

Player steps into crowded city. A comm is sent by boss (don’t know who yet, work in progress here) outlining player’s job based on frame type. Point on map appears to direct player to job. Once arrived, cut scene plays (player meets boss who’d commed them, who then tells the player to punch in. Once done, player character steps through the doors. (Save point)

Job done, (a week at this point) player character punches out and rushes with everyone else from the building. Player’s apt. will appear on map, but player may explore. Few menial task scattered here and there. (Cut scene) At apt., the place is trashed, a note left on table, signed by The Council along with a summons. Character doesn’t understand, becomes frightened, throws it away. Character grabs a cube of energon, slugs it back, then heads to berth. (Save point)

Different menial tasks for explorative players from apt. Return to work. (Cut scene) Stepping up to the door, it flies open, character jumps out of the way. Random npc struggles against cops for thievery crime they didn’t commit, character watches npc beaten into submission before shoving through the crowd now in the doorway during event. Player may now explore workplace. Entering a back employees only room, another npc has the stolen object and laughing about it with two others, tossing it around (will be player’s first weapon based on frame type). Character steps out from hiding, calls out npcs. Npcs gets mad, chases after player. Player must escape aggressors. Successfully escaping, player runs into the boss. Npcs skid to a stop a distance behind with stolen weapon in plain sight. Boss directs authorities alongside them to arrest the three. In turn, the weapon is now the player’s possession as a reward. Player has now unlocked weapon’s training. Does not begin until next day. Work end, return to apt. Deal with whatever, then head to berth. (Save point)

Weapons training tutorial. Point on map leads to training building. Take time to get used to weapon, but don’t be late for work. Boss will make bullslag reason to have you shifted around to the most dangerous task (Will offline, must retry day) Report as usual. Return to apt after work. (Save point)

[nn1895]

Walking Through the Woods at Night

Keep your temper.  Especially when they’ve done something they know is wrong.  Nothing unnerves them more.

Elita-1 smiled and nodded to the senator.

“Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me, Senator Descaled.  I will remember them when I’m making evacuation decisions.”  She kept smiling as the Senator finally started to realize his mistake.

“I mean, I’m just a senator, ma’am,” he backpedaled so quickly she could smell the tires burning.  “I’m sure you’re better equipped to organize things that like.”

“I’m so happy to hear you say that. How kind.”  She let him flounder a moment longer, just to let her point sink home.  “As you know, living in the Silver District, with several modern defense systems, you and your family will not be our priority in case of an invasion.  However, now that you’ve brought it up, I’ll ask my surveyor to check again.  We might have overlooked some holes in the District’s defenses.”  She pulled out her personal datapad and pulled up her contacts.

“Oh, I’m sure that –“  His optics were darting towards the door.  Good.

“It’s no trouble!  Here he is…Cliffjumper.  Best surveyor I’ve ever worked with.  He really gets down to the tiniest of inconsistencies.  Nothing is too big for him to take on.  Now, you have a few main defenses I’d like to list here.  You have ONLY the public defense force, correct?”   She put her stylus to the pad and started to scribble nonsense.  She checked the time.

“Well, there might be a few, smaller security forces –“

“And ALL the defense taxes this year have gone to the Global Defense Trust, correct?  You didn’t use any of them?”

“Well, we might have updated the –“

“And remind me, how many turret guns do your city walls have?”

“Um, eight, Commander.”

Elita-1 pretended to be surprised, but not too well.

“Eight?  I could have sworn the catalog you sent me said two…”

“A…clerical error, I’m sure.  They probably weren’t counting the ones I’ve installed privately – purely for the good of the citizens of the Silver District!” he hastened to assure her.

“Of course.  Well, once my mech comes back with a new survey, I’ll let you know if my evaluation procedures will change.  If you have eight turret guns then maybe we can move you even further down the list.”  She smiled brightly at him.  “Is that all?  It is Wellhop Night, after all.  I don’t want to be held up further.”

Senator Descaled shook his helm fervently.

Elita-1 loved her job.

0-0-0

Elita tried to keep pace with the unhurried tumbling wireweeds on the way home.  She wasn’t, as a rule, a superstitious bot, but in the Darkling Season, well, even the skeptics opened their windows for the spirits and blackened the plating around their optics in the days between Wellhop and Hallowkin.

After missing the last two Wellhops, she wasn’t taking any chances.

The bots around her had already started changing their paint.  Every Iaconian she drove past had the tell-tale blackening and faint silver lines of luck-glyphs.

The Polyhexians glowed like diodeflies as they wove in and out of traffic.  Their intricate year-round designs were covered up with bold glyphs painted in brilliant glow-in-the-dark temp paint to bring luck during the season.  More and more of them had come to Iacon in recent years, running from the unrest she was working so hard to contain.

Elita turned from the main road to their narrow side street and released the vent she’d been holding.  Don’t vent until you reach home or demons will follow your spark heat. A Wellhop superstition passed down from her great-great-grandguardian when bots hadn’t yet understood the difference between spark energy and core heat

To ward off demons, Optimus’s friend from the Crystal City had carefully soldered lights up and down his frame.

In Praxus, they were probably already feeding their crystals with actinium and tritium and radium.

She pulled up to their habsuite – to their habsuite – and transformed.  Even without the wind, the chill in the air made her plating tingle and her spark spin faster to heat it.  The darkening sky was black and star-speckled and impossibly clear.

It’s the perfect night, she thought.  She walked up the – up their – walkway, kicking loose crystals back into the edging.  The click-clack as they bounced off the walk echoed cheerfully in the quiet.  She paused at the door.

 Residents: Commander Elita-1 & Orion Pax

She traced the engraving gently.  They’d waited vorns to afford their own place together rather than bunking in with half a dozen roommates (Optimus) or the army barracks (her).  It wasn’t big – barely enough for two – but it was theirs in a way nothing else had ever been.

She laid her palm on the scanner beside the door and pinged for entry.

The locks clunked and spun inside the – admittedly over-kill – blast door and she gave it a shove, slipping in through the narrow gap and letting it slam shut behind her again.  Another superstition – don’t let the demons in on Wellhop.

“Hello?” she called, transforming her pedes from treads to soft rubber soles and padding through the dark hallway.

“Here!” his voice rang out and it was Optimus tonight, not Orion.  “I’m nearly done, love!”

“Coming!” She emptied her subspace on the hall table – non-emergency keycards, datapads, spare blaster – and followed the sound of clinking pots.

The kitchen was boiling hot – like someone had kept the oven and the stove on all day – and her sparkmate was in the middle of it all, carefully sliding treats into their Wellhop tray.

“It smells amazing in here,” she said, looking around at the piles of pans and dirty trays.  It smelled like hot minerals and sweet additives and rich energon.

“Does it?  I stopped noticing around lunchtime,” Optimus joked and she could hear Orion peeking out from between the words.  “I think I’ve finally got it perfect though, look!”

He held out the pan to show her the fluffy lead flavored mallow crèmes dolloped on baking paper.

“They’re perfect!” she whispered.  And they were.  She grinned up at him.  “You’re amazing.”

This close, she could see his optics – so much more intricate than Orion’s had been, how did people not notice? – narrow as he zoomed in on her.   For a split-klik, she became his whole world and it never failed to make her spark flutter.  He wasn’t just her sparkmate, for that klik, he was the Prime and he was looking at her. Then it was over and she was standing in her kitchen again, looking at her sparkmate covered in smudges of jellied energon, the light outside fading.

“Ah, well.”  Then he averted his optics and shifted on his pedes and it was such an Orion thing to do that it made her spark ache all over again.

“Do you think the decorations are right?” he asked, holding the pan of perfect, crystalized spheres.  The gooey centers inside sloshed as he lowered them into a row of divets in their small Wellhop tray.

He’d clearly been working all day on it – the lines were mostly straight – he was an archivist and a scribe after all – and all along the edges were swirls and hexagons and clusters of abstract sparks in clusters of three.  Across the bottom of the tray – quickly being covered by the treats - were the glyphs for prosperity and protection.

“They’re beautiful,” she said.  They’d formed the sheet metal themselves into the simple tray shape.  She’d punched out the little divets since her servos were smaller.  Optimus had tried on a scrap piece and crushed the metal thin enough to read through.

They were taking no chances this year and every folktale, rumor, and legend said that a homemade tray warded off evil.

“Even if it’s not,” Optimus continued, gently turning the tray to fill the other side, “they’ll taste good.”  He inclined his helm towards one of the – many – pots on the stove.

Elita stepped closer and looked inside.  The extra sauce at the bottom of the pan was iridescent and so concentrated it was opaque.  She dragged her finger through and tasted it.  It was impossibly good – it ought to be, it had almost a month’s pay’s worth of ultra-refined energon in it.  S&S Brewery had come out with a Hallowkin and a Wellhop line of energon and it was not cheap.

She winced at the memory of going in to buy it.  They had both stood awkwardly at the counter, ignoring the looks they’d gotten when buying such expensive energon just before Wellhop.  So what if they were a little desperate?  She’d miss the last two and there was a terror nipping at the back of her processor that the next few Darkling seasons wouldn’t be any better.

It had to be this one and they were going to need all the luck they could get.

Luck!

“I forgot the silver paint!”  Frag!  Fragfragfraggityfrag –

“Here.” Optimus handed her a Wellhop kit – silver paint, stencils, extra-thin tipped paint brushes.  “I thought it would be better safe than sorry.   Bought it this morning after you left.”

She deflated with relief.

“You think of everything,” she said.  “Do you want to hop in the washracks first so I can help you or should I –“

It had to be perfect.  They couldn’t mess it up this vorn -

Optimus kissed her, large, warm servo cupping her face gently.  She let her spark settle, leaning into him.

“Go,” he whispered, pulling back.  “I’ll clean up.”

“You do no such thing!” she scolded.  “It’s bad luck to clean before getting back from Wellhop night!”

“You better hurry then.”

She smiled and went, her servo lingering in his only a moment.

She washed with more reverence than usual.  This would be her first proper Wellhop as an adult.  It would be her first time making the journey into the woods.

She’d been an only creation of three very rich and doting guardians.  Every Wellhop, her guardians had paid their respects for their ancestors, warded the house against spirits, and spent the evening tell her stories curled up in their berth.

She stepped out and looked in the mirror.  Were they proud of her?  Were they watching?

She opened the small window in the washracks and carefully smudged a line of crystal paint across the sill.  A ward against evil, an invitation to her family visiting from the Well.

“Ready?” Optimus called from downstairs.

“Coming!”  She looked once more to the window.

Please, she thought, I need your guidance tonight.

Then she grabbed the paint thinner and rushed back downstairs.

0-0-0

“No, higher.”

“Here?”

Optimus swiped at his helm and missed the paint smudge again.  At least the silver blended in better with his paint than it did with hers.

She could admit that choosing pink as a cadet had been a bit arrogant.

Optimus was the color of the sky and oxidized steel- steady and wistful all in one.

“Oh, come here.  Bend down.”  He bent obediently and she took the cloth from him.

“You are helpless.”

“Not everyone has Commander Elita-1 as their sparkmate.  I am but a humble librarian.”

Except he wasn’t.

Elita was sometimes still struck by how impossible her reality was.  She would be doing something normal – buying energon cubes on the way home or trying to fix the stuck window – and then it would all crash down on her.

On Wellhop, in the Darkling season, with the sky black and the wind howling, everything was distant and strangely shaded.  She felt like she was standing on shifting metal sheets, all going a different way.  Except the shifting was going on inside her processor and she was trying to stay upright and look like it was easy.

Were her servos shaking?

The world knew him as Orion Pax, archivist, friendly librarian, Commander Elita’s sparkmate.  Only she knew him as Optimus Prime, Matrix bearer, peace-keeper.  Possible Leader of Cybertron.

She asked Primus every night to keep that secret.  As long as peace continued on Cybertron, Orion Pax would have a place.  Primes would remain the stuff of legend.

She wanted to be the only one touched by war.

“Elita?” She lifted her helm.  He was watching her and that look wasn’t Orion’s at all.  Orion had been kind and concerned, but that look of knowing…that was new.

“I love you,” she said, the feeling shuddering through her spark like a train running freight.

“And I you.”  How he could go from fumbling a dish one minute, to speaking like a Gilded age hero?

“It’s going to be okay,” she reassured him.  “Everything will work out.”

“Of course it will.”  There was no trace of doubt in his face or spark.   She took comfort from that – if the Matrix bearer thought they’d be okay, they would be.

She vented heavily anyways, bleeding excess heat to cool her processor.

The smear taken care of, they were ready.

Elita looked over their silver paint once more, looking for mistakes, misspellings, and smudges.

Optimus carefully wrapped the tray in cloth for the journey, tucking it around the corners and tying it snuggly.

“Are you sure we shouldn’t stop by and store and pick up some professional goodies?  There’ll be plenty tonight-”

“Don’t be silly,” she kissed him with a loud smack, “everyone knows homemade is better.”

She laid her helm over his spark to hear the stead movement of its spin.

There had been a time when she’d thought this would be impossible.

Sometimes she still did.

0-0-0

It was the perfect night.  There was a chill in the air that stung their plating and made her optics tear up.  The trees had dropped most of their leaves, baring the branches.  They looked like the delicate wiring of a circuit board – silver and copper lines and swirls.

They stood at one of the gaps in the low wall that served as an unofficial entrance to the forest.

There was a faint scent of goodies on the evening breeze: gooey, sweet mallow cremes dyed and shaped like leaves, crunchy energon drops, gelled energon squares and soft jelly drops with rust flakes.  She remembered them from her own sparkling days.

“Ready?”  She looked up.   Optimus was pretty on a bad day, here and now with the metal around his optics carefully blackened and his plating covered in her own messy stencil work, he was devastatingly handsome.  He looked like something out of a Hallowkin storybook.

“Ready,” he whispered back.  She looped her arm through his and they stepped into the forest, their pedes stirring up the fallen aluminum leaves as the bare branches closed over them.

Please guide us, grandguardians, she prayed, rubbing her fingers over their names, scrawled over her servos.  They were barely into the forest – she could hear the hum of the city noises behind them.  Still, she kept her optics open and scanned every wavelength of light she could.

The wind was softer in the forest, buffeted by the thin tree trunks.  Thin wisps stroked over her shoulders and down her upper arms.  Without the wind, the air was warmer, the crunch of the leaves was louder.  Everything felt close and small.

She knew they were walking through one of the largest forests on the planet, a jealously guarded resource, a forest she’d written laws to protect in her younger days with the Environmental Corps.  The twists and turns and tiny side roads shrunk the massive forest into matchbox sized pieces, a series of rooms to be searched.

It wasn’t hard to imagine that they were the only ones out in the forest tonight, walking with hope in their sparks, and the names of their ancestors painted across their plating.

She looked at Optimus’s arm, her servo curled around it, the names of his friends in her untidy glyphs.  She looked up to see the bare branches, curling over the path like protective servos.  She looked at the names on her own frame.  She leaned into Optimus.  They weren’t alone out here, she reminded herself.  Everyone she’d ever loved in the Well would be with her tonight.  She hoped they were happy for her.

The sounds of the city faded and the steady hum of the wind got stronger overhelm, even if they were protected on the pathway.

“I remember nights like this as a sparkling,” she said.  “My guardians would made spiced energon and make mine extra sweet.  We’d open the windows and listen to the storms coming in.  Guardian Flicker liked to talk about everything that had happened that year so the spirits could hear her.”

It was one of her oldest memories, sitting on their berth and listening to stories of the grandguardians she’d never met.   She looked forward to Wellhop every year.  She’d race home after school and spend the afternoons helping Guardian Swivel grind the minerals for energon or sweets.  That had stopped slowly, in spurts, as she grew up and homework and friends started to intrude.

     “I don’t care, Flicker!  I just wanna go with Arcee and Kickstar to the party!”  

Later, after the accident, Guardian Towline kept up the tradition so that Flicker and Swivel would know how everyone was doing.  Elita had tried to keep it up herself now that Towline was gone as well.

“I remember sitting up in the archives and opening the windows – even though Alpha Trion told me not to,” Optimus said.  “I’d hate if I’d left a story unfinished and no one let me in.  He only caught me once – on Hallowkin.”  Optimus lifted his optics skyward, as if remembering something horrifying.  “I can still hear his lecture.  He accused me of mistreating the Archives.”

Elita laughed.  “Every librarian’s worst nightmare.”

“Of course,” he intoned seriously, optics sparking with mischief, “second only to miss-shelved datapads.”

“Did you ask anyone to open the windows this vorn?”

“I did.  Young Smokescreen has promised to do it.”  He lifted her gently over a protruding root as if she weighed nothing.

She snorted as he set her down and her pedes sunk back into the soft, crumbling leaves.  “You mean you told him and then set up a timer.”  She could see the tiny tendrils of the roots sneaking out to reabsorb the leaves and made sure to step around them.

“I like to give him the chance even if he is…less than reliable.  I’m sure he will grow into his responsibilities.”

“And until then you’ll be his safety net?” she teased, though it warmed her spark to think about Optimus and his young, eager apprentice.

She paused and he lifted a low hanging branch out of her way.

“He is coming along.  Yesterday he asked me about taking on extra field of study.  I’m not sure how Hand-to-Hand combat will be useful in the Archives, but he assures me it will.  He said something about defending the books from – what’s that sound?”

Off to the side they heard voices, one of the main roads crossing into theirs.

“We should turn here,” Optimus rumbled.  “Don’t want to get too close to –“

“Wait – I think that’s – it is!  Hey!  Flyby!   Hey Flyby!”  Elita turned and skipped ahead to where the two paths were converging.

“Flyby!  Hey!”  Elita waved and the pair of jets stopped and turned towards her.  “I didn’t know you guys would be out tonight.”

The taller mech smiled at her and ambled over.  His sparkmate hung back slightly, holding a tray carefully balanced in his servos.

“What can I say,” Flyby said, as they got closer. “I have a romantic spark.”

Elita-1 laughed.  They both knew that was an understatement.

“Is that your new sparkmate?” Flyby asked, looking behind her.  Elita turned.  Optimus was standing awkwardly, their own tray dwarfed in his enormous servos.

“Yes – Optimus come over here and meet Flyby and Rocket! – it’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“A perfect night,” he agreed.  Rocket and Optimus both got closer in the ageless dance of ‘our sparkmates are friends, but I don’t know you from Primus.’

“It’s good to meet you,” Optimus said in his ‘hello patrons’ voice.  His smile was lighter and just a touch empty.  Customer service smile.

“You too!” Flyby gushed.  “Elita is always talking about you.”

Elita punched his shoulder playfully – and gently.  Flyby was a scout, not a warrior and his armor was even lighter than a civilian’s.

“Like you have any room to talk – ‘Rocket’s taking me to the movies’ and ‘I’ll ask Rocket if he wants to go with me to the opening of that new restaurant,’” she mimicked.

Rocket laughed and nudged his sparkmate.

“I love you too,” he said, the treats in his servos clinking.  Elita looked down and felt her optics widen.

“Oooo, that’s a nice tray,” Elita complimented.

It was too – and not store bought.

Flyby had purchased one of the ceremonial trays from the temple – all ornate metal work and inscribed prayers.  Meant to be a keepsake.

Elita felt Optimus quickly subspace their flimsy, home-folded metal tray with clumsily painted swirls and sparks.

It was full of different treats, each with its own flight-frame specific symbolism.

“I don’t recognize any of these,” Elita said, staring.

Rocket perked up a bit.

“The pink drops symbolize the energon spilled by our ancestors,” he said, pointing at the generous pile of tiny crystals.  “These,” he pointed to very thin, very flat jet-black wafers, “are supposed to look like the sky.  The spirits see them and think they’re flying towards the sky. Once they land, they have to walk with us and bring us luck.  The shaped crèmes are specific to the temple we bought the tray from – their symbol in a seeker with blue and purple stripes.”

Their own tray looked a bit plain with just the spheres and the plain white mallow cremes.

“They’re beautiful,” she said pushing down the jot of jealousy.

“Thanks!  We went to the same temple that officiated our bonding.  Good luck and all that.”

Reminded of why they were out, wandering in the forest, sobered Elita.  She tried not to let it show.

“It’s really beautiful, Flyby.  I wish you luck tonight.”

He smiled and took her servos briefly.

“Luck to you too, Elita-1.”

They parted, Optimus and Elita taking one of the many smaller paths while Flyby and Rocket continued on the main path.

Elita knew she couldn’t compare herself to others.  Orion had wanted her.  He’d asked her to bond just as she was, grumpy, weapons obsessed, gun grease on the front carpet and all.

Flyby was much younger than her.  Instead of spending his youth pouring over university applications and military propaganda, he’d taken a gap vorn and met Rocket.  They’d traversed the planet and done charity work, living cheaply and fulfilling every romantic notion of travel.  They had a picture album full of pictures of them, fresh from school, sitting in jungle towns or on the banks of distant oceans.

They had a million stories about being stranded without enough credits to buy energon and having to use their wits and charm to get out of trouble.

Flyby had done everything old bots said you were supposed to do with your life – love recklessly, make mistakes, embrace change.

Flyby had a romantic spark.  He binged love stories and talked about the poetry of love when you got him overcharged.  He was a brilliant speech writer and a loyal friend.

Elita-1 knew she wasn’t a romantic.   Orion had been the one to propose finally, as she’d been stumbling around it for a vorn.  They didn’t even have a particularly romantic first meeting story.

She’d seen him from a window, walking around with an advertisement for some start-up or another painted across his back.

There had been a small group of minibots crossing the street on pede and he’d stopped to use his larger frame to halt the traffic.  He spoke happily to them and waved as they’d parted.

Elita-1 had tracked down the company and then his name and shown up at the Archives to pretend to research naval combat.

It had rather backfired at first since there wasn’t a lot of information about naval warfare on a planet without a single navy.  Or many boats.

Orion Pax had taken it as a personal challenge and had spent hours with her trying to get his contacts across the galaxy to provide her with translated resources.

She’d asked him out after he’d handed her a full datapad with the entire history of an aquatic species on a distant planet that he’d smuggled in on a transport ship.

They spent the next fifty vorns working, dating, and trying to save up enough money for a habsuite.  Not exactly something you could put into a photo album.

0-0-0

After they left Flyby and Rocket, the woods grew darker.  The trees near the center still clung to their leaves, and the delicate lines of the branches grew thicker and fuller, with jagged edges of subtle movements.  The ground was clearer and their pedesteps echoed and clacked as they walked, bouncing off the trees around them.

Elita-1 looked down at the symbol she’d traced into her palm in the washracks.

Unity.

It was a word that described her life – her time in the army, her friends, her large family, her –

Optimus.

Or Orion?

She still wasn’t such which was which.  Sometimes they blended together, sometimes it was like a beloved stranger was looking out from his optics.

“They seem happy,” Optimus said, breaking the silence that was steadily moving from intimate to oppressive.  She couldn’t read his voice.

“They are,” she said.  She lowered her servo and tried to thread her digits between his, but he just shook her loose.  “Flyby is a romantic.”  She returned her servo his his elbow, but even that seemed like an imposition now.

“Yes.”

They walked.  Elita kept her optics downward, watching the previously even path start to deteriorate.  Roots had poked up, creating bumps and divets.  Branches had fallen and started to decay across the path.

Without the leaves to cushion and hid the imperfections, her optics caught on every one.

They came upon a thick, half rotted trunk across the path.  She waited for Optimus to lift her up.  As they drew nearer, she looked up, trying to catch his optic, but he was staring straight ahead, looking at something that wasn’t the path or the forest.

Or her.

She released his arm and had to dig her pedes into the soft sides of the trunk to climb up and over it.  Optimus just stepped over, his stride lengthening.  He didn’t slow down.  He didn’t pull their tray out from subspace.

Now they walked separate – she couldn’t keep her balance holding onto Optimus if he wasn’t going to walk with her.

The path got worse and the trees got closer, branches heavier with leaves. The sparse starlight was fading quickly and it was only the faint glow of her own optics that lit her path with visible light.  She could see Optimus ahead, helm bent down now, brilliant blue optics illuminating the uneven ground and casting unsettling shadows.

Her pede caught the edge of a root and she stumbled.  She had to jump over a thick groove – a tiny dry stream – and slipped as she landed, but Optimus was too far ahead to hear her.

Slag him!  She was tired and worried and – and – and sad in a way she didn’t want to think about.  Now she was sore and if the roaring of the wind above them was anything to go by, she’d be wet as well in a minute.

She looked down at her servos, clenching and unclenching them as her temper flared.

Unity.

It was still there, lines thick and shining.

This was her bonded, her sparkmate.

Ahead of her, he was still walking.  He was not going to leave her behind.

With a flick of her ankle, she deployed her all-terrain spikes.  Another flick and the spines slide from the tips of her digits.  She vented quickly, pulling cold air through her systems and took off running, using her digits to grip the trunks when she stumbled as her pedes gouged into the ground.

So what if it messed up her paint and her polish?  Optimus was leaving her.  She was a military bot, through and through.  Her first solution would always be action over inaction.

She caught him just as the path opened up into a clearing.

He’d stopped as well, standing there in the starlight, like an ancient statue.

She stepped into the clearing and shook the muck from her digits, disengaging the spines, and wiping them on her thighs.  Her polish was scraped and dirty now, the silver paint smudged and covered in grime.

Optimus was shining faintly, the dim starlight glinting off his shoulders and somehow growing brighter.  He kept his helm down and his servos fisted at his sides.

She stood and waited.

“Do you – do you love me?” he asked, at last, not looking up.

There wasn’t a trace of Orion in his voice.  It was only Optimus Prime.

“I – of course!”  She took two automatic, stumbling steps closer and then stopped.  “Of course, I do.”

His frame only tensed, fists flexing tighter.  His voice was strained, struggling to hold up some weight that she couldn’t see.

“I am not…as I was.  I am not Orion Pax anymore.  You loved him.  Then I…took him away.”

It was the first time she’d heard him talk about not being Orion.  They had been gently circling and effacing the subject with careful sentences and unspoken thoughts.  Except for those first few hours, when she’d held his helm in her lap, his new frame twitching and burning with new sensors, he’d never spoken of being Optimus Prime either.

“I did,” she said.  “I still do.  I love Orion Pax.  I love Optimus Prime.  I love you when you are both.  I – I love you.  I would fight a war for you.  I’m trying to prevent a war for you”

She stepped in front of him and laid a servo on his chestplates.  She felt him collapse forwards, curling around her, as if she was holding him up.

“Have you been worrying all this time?  I…didn’t realize.”

He turned his face away and his voice, when he spoke, was thin and rough. It wasn’t Orion Pax’s gentleness nor was it Optimus Prime’s strength.   It was new.  It hurt.

“You’ve been living with a stranger in the home you bought with your sparkmate,” he said.  “I came and he left.”

“He didn’t leave, he just changed,” she argued, leaning down to try and catch his gaze.  “I see Orion, just as I see the Prime.  I see you, Optimus.”  He wouldn’t look at her.  Idiot mech.  She squared her shoulders and spread her pedes as if a better stance would also steady her words.

“Optimus…I’ve seen mechs change.  They go away to fight and come back with great gaping places in their spark.  They watch terrible things happen and carve out pieces of their memory so they don’t have to see those things in their processor every time they recharge.  They lose parts of themselves and come back different people.”

She cupped her free servo under his chin and brought their lips together once, lightly.  Anything more would break him.

She was an expert sniper.  She directed nearly a third of the planetary army.  Her servos had aimed weapons powerful enough to obliterate attacking armadas.  Here and now, she was holding the power of the entire planet in her servos and he was fragile and frightened and sparkbroken.  It was terrifying.

“The Matrix only added to the mech I love.  You are more than you were.  I can see Orion Pax and I can see Optimus Prime.  I love you and all of you.  Look at me please,” she begged.

     Don’t leave me.  

Slowly he lifted his helm and met her optics.

“I see you Optimus,” she whispered.  “I know you and I’m still getting to know you.  I am so happy to have you as a sparkmate – archivist or Prime or just you.  It doesn’t have to be perfect.”  It didn’t have to be what everyone else had.  It didn’t have to be romantic to be a love story. “I love you.”

She needed to say it and scream it so that it would shake the ground.  She wanted to carve it into the metal beneath them and scribble it in the stars.

His expression was impenetrable.  She wondered what he was thinking.  Was she shaking?

Slowly, he reached up and laid his servo over hers, pressed them both against his cheek.

“Two hundred vorns in love, ten spark to spark, the wisdom of the Matrix and you still astound me.”

0-0-0

The trees this far in were taller and the leaves were bigger.  They crunched under their pedes and shattered into tiny aluminum shards, ready to melt back into the metal of the ground.

They stumbled along the path, servo in servo, worn thin by their conversation.   Elita felt like she’d won a race and fallen halfway down a cliff.  Again.

Beside her, Optimus was venting heavier and he kept squeezing her servo to make sure she was still there.

It was good – she felt like they’d fixed a gear that had been moving steadily out of alignment for a vorn – but she was exhausted and they hadn’t even found –

The starlight glinted strangely and she tugged Optimus to a stop.  He looked down at her with tired confusion.

“Elita?”

Was that…

It glinted again and then it twitched.

“Optimus,” Elita-1 whispered, too afraid to vent.  “Look.”

There, beneath the shrub, was a tiny, perfect, servo, just poking out.

Optimus’s frame locked up tighter than a torque wrench.  He was squeezing the life out of her servo.

She turned on her heat scanner.  Attached to the tiny servo was a curled up bundle of heat that could only be one thing.

“Do you want –“ he whispered, but she was shaking her helm already.  No – she couldn’t.

“No, you – you do it,” she whispered back.  She took the tray from his servos and offered it up to him.

He studied the treats and selected a perfectly formed crème.  It looked tiny, held between his two digits.

Elita watched as he approached the bush and rubbed hard at the unity glyph in her palm.  She wanted more unity.  She wanted this so badly.   Optimus knelt and the tiny servo disappeared into the leaf litter, but the ball of heat didn’t move away.

Pleasepleaseplease.  Guardians be with me.  Help me.

Optimus reached out slowly, holding out the fluffy mallow crème to the shadows between his thumb and pinky digit.

“Steady,” Elita said, mouth barely moving, frozen.

She wasn’t a superstitious bot, but something in her would break if they didn’t get it right the first time.

The round top of a helm came into view.

“Hello,” Optimus said, quietly.  The tiny helm poked out farther.  “Yes,” he said gently, “it’s for you.”

For a moment, no one moved.  Optimus became a statue of platinum.  Elita clenched her servos so hard she knew there would be dents.

Please.

In a flash the sparkling lunged for the treat.  Optimus simultaneously released the goodie and neatly caught the sparkling’s thin leg between his middle and index fingers.  It tumbled back, prize clutched tightly in servos the size of Elita’s thumb.

The sparkling tried to growl, but it was also trying to shove the soft, sticky energon goodie into its mouth.  So instead it let out a gwop gwop sound and scowled.

Optimus kept a firm hold on its leg and gently tugged it closer.

“You are okay,” Optimus said and slid the other servo underneath its back to lift it.

 Chirp.  Grlp.

“Shhh.”

Then he held a sparkling –their sparkling – up against his spark.  It put its servos on his chest and smeared the remains of the goodie over his plating.

It scowled at him and growled again.

“Elita –“

She stepped forwards and held out one of the pink spheres.

Grabby servos snatched it from her and with a loud crunch, bit through the shell.  Gooey energon trickled down the thin wrists and onto the red and yellow plating of its abdomen.

She couldn’t stop looking at it – large, bright optics, tiny digits twitching around its treat, miniature fangs.  It was perfect.

“Messy little thing,” she whispered, daring a single stroke over its shoulder.  It turned its glare on her now and she would swear her spark was about to expand right out of her chestplates.

“Its first taste of energon, I’d imagine it’s an exciting experience.”  Optimus used one thumb – which was half a big as the sparkling’s entire helm – to gently brush away some of the gooey treat from its mouth.  It snapped at the thumb and turned back to the remains of the sphere – just crunchy shell now.

She held out another treat – another mallow crème – with shaking digits and felt the tips of its claws graze her servo.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.  “It’s the most – isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

“Yes,” Optimus agreed.  “Can you put the tray down?”

“Yeah, of course,” she set it down on the ground “what do you need me to –“

Optimus leaned in and said, “Your turn, beloved.”

Then, he placed the sparkling in her arms.

It was warm and heavy and real.  Very real.  It moved – squirming and kicking its pedes to get comfortable – and then those big bright optics looked up at her.

She completely lost it.

“Oh, Primus I’m a fragging cliché!” she sobbed, helm bent over the sparkling, optics screwed shut to try and stop the tears.  “Hard-aft general turns to mush when someone puts sp-sp-sparkling in her arms.”

“Love –“

“Primus!”

She gasped in another vent and then another, feeling her processor cool.  She opened her optics.

The sparkling was glaring up at her, shoving the remains of the creme in its mouth.  It was the most amazing thing she’d ever seen.

Optimus cupped her face and smiled.

“New guardian,” he corrected gently, “turns to mush when she holds her new creation.”

0-0-0

They walked back through the trees, the wind a touch colder, stirring the leaves at their pedes.  They took turns carrying the sparkling and feeding it treats.

By the time they were leaving the forest, the little spark was asleep.

“I think,” Optimus finally said, as they stepped through the gap in the wall and onto the proper road, “that it was my energon treats that brought us luck.”  He smiled mischievously, the expression lightening the blue of his optics and softening the lines of his jaw.

It startled a laugh out of her.

“Clearly, it was my stencil work,” she argued.

The wind sent the leaves skittering down the street as they walked.  The light made their shadows stretch and bend as they walked.  No one knew her world had irrevocably shifted.

Her sparkmate – witty, kind, intelligent, capable of holding their most precious and holy relic in his chest and keeping it secret.  She looked at him, his frame thick with hidden weapons and danger, processor connected to ancient wisdom, cradling their new, sticky sparkling and cooing.  Her sparkmate – clever and strong and hers.

Epilogue

“Does it – do you think it looks alright?”  Elita-1 readjusted the medal on her chest.  The rank decals were smooth, weren’t they?  She’d made Optimus and his steady servos do them for her.

“Yes, Sir,” he answered promptly, smoothing her servos away and polishing away the smudges.

She caught his servos and brought them to her lips.

“You know…we have time before the ceremony…it’s quiet upstairs…”  She grinned as she felt the rumble of an engine against her.  He leaned forwards -

The wail of a sparkling broke them apart.

 “I didn’t do it!”

“Scrap.”  She let her helm thunk down against his chest and then turned.

Hot Rod was stumbling down the stairs, new sparklet sister held out in front of him like a bomb.

“Careful!” Optimus fell to his knees and scooped both sparklings up.  The femmeling – unnamed – immediately latched onto Optimus and began complaining at him.  Beside her, Hot Rod was trying to guiltily wipe the goodie evidence off her face without his guardians noticing.

“I’ll get a towel,” she said and walked to the kitchen.

She pulled open a drawer and got one of their old rags out, wetting it with solvent in the sink.

As she turned, the beautiful square of pearlized metal caught her attention yet again.  It was carefully magnetized to the energon cube storage.

She lifted her servo to the engraved invitation:

     Admiral Elita-1 & Archivist Orion Pax.  

She traced their names.  Sometimes she was struck by how miraculous her reality was – her promotion to the highest military rank possible, a stillborn war, and a hidden prophet for her sparkmate.

Hot Rod burst into the room, arms out.

“I wanna come with you!”

Elita-1 laughed and swung her first-found sparkling up into her arms.

Miraculous.

[snowfirepax]

Closing Time-The Adventures in Praxus of a mech named Jazz

He couldn’t believe that his work just dragged on and on. It should have been a simple thing but it somehow turned into something so complex and complicated. It’s dark cycle by the time he heads home and his tanks grumble for Energon. He hadn’t had a break during his shift. The path home passes many stores, he’ll just stop in one. When he gets to the first one, a frown comes to his faceplates. It closed two joor ago.

The next one closed three joor ago. The fourth a joor ago and so on. The last one before his turn off still has lights on, he rushes to the door, it opens. He sighs and glances around to see the store completely empty of mechs. Where were everyone? If you went to a store this late in Polyhex half the city state is there. Stores were always open. He really hopes there’s a cashier. He still hasn’t mastered the use of the kiosks Praxus seems to favor.

Grabbing his supplies, he reaches the registers to see a mech sitting at one. The mechs gold visor turns to him, his frown is slight at the Enforcer sitting behind the counter.

“Pleasant dark cycle,” the Enforcer says smiling to him and standing from the stool. “Will this be all for you?”

“Uh. . . yeah, is always so quiet at this time?” he asks, he was never a fan of Enforcers. Polyhex was known for slightly corrupt cops.

“Everything is closed for five joor during the dark cycle,” the Enforcer says. “Only the international stores like this one are opened all joor for outsiders such as yourself. They are all staffed with volunteer Enforcers. We soon found that when the border opened mechs we’re panicking at our customs.”

“It’s nice to know that mechs are thoughtful,” he smiles. Perhaps the Enforcers here aren’t so bad.