#transformers prime inheritance au

[kandy-sticks-zaza-blogs]

Y/N becoming a Prime when the Matrix chose them like a magnet

Y/N:WHAT DID YOU DO TO ME?!!

Optimus Prime:WHAT DID YOU MEAN WHAT I DO TO YOU?!

Y/N:I DIDN'T KNOW BEING A PRIME WAS CONTAGIOUS!!!

Hot Rod:OK!OK!OK! EVERYONE JUST CALM DOWN!! Do you wanna tell us how you did that?

Y/N: I didn't do anything,All I did was PICK up the Matrix and then WHOOSH, I'm in a TIARA!

[startheskelaton]

So what’s the whole deal with Nightflyer and the Predaking?

It an interesting idea- but it’s got me confused

How would Nightflyer possibly have been a Predicon?

Is it by chance or genetics?

So I need to make a proper diagram but this is how basically.

In the lore of my AU, all transformers are born from the ground of Cybertron aka Primus. This also means that unborn sparks are just kinda floating around in the core of Cybertron. These sparks will eventually push their way through the ground, smelting a body around themselves as they become a protoform, then pop out of the ground like carrots.

So a long ass time ago, all transformers were born on Cybertron, didn’t matter what they were, beast modes, vehicles, whatever. Each one was taken in by a different Prime and grew into a transformer reflecting that prime. However when there were too many bots, some primes headed off world to create colony planets, such planets having Energon (aka part of Primus) and allowing for new transformers to be born.

The bot’s on the colony planets would mostly take on a form similar to the Prime that started it, explaining why Some have mostly female bots and one has all beast modes.

So before the colonies happened, Predicons were some of the strongest guys around, no body messed with them. Mostly because they were the first bots to be able to fly. They all were fallowers of Oynx Prime, beast prime if you don’t remember. And his presence at his assigned sparkling well made it so those sparklings were born beasts.

The first sparkling that raised from the ground under Onyx’s influence would grow up to be Predaking, one of the most notorious creatures of early Cybertron. And Onyx loved him with all his spark, however tragedy would strike. Fights would beak out between the Prime’s fallowers, mostly over resources and land, and with all the casualties of the fighting, Predaking would be one of them.

Oynx prime decided to bury his first son in the same place of his birth, the beast sparkling well. It was in hope that the predicons would be remembered even as they left their first home.

Now we get to Nightflyer. Well Sparks have a distinct destiny of what they will be, a flyer, a ground vehicle, a beast, it’s the one thing that Primus choses for them, everything else is for them to decide. Nightflyer’s Spark was meant to be a flying beast like the other Predicons at the time, however before he could start his smelting, Oynx prime and the other beasts left. He would have been born into a world without his own kind. So Primus kept his Spark there…. For a VARY long time.

However after the Great War, Prima allowed for Sparklings to grow from the planet once more, now that they wouldn’t be in such danger. The Sparkling well that used to create Predicons had changed to create seakers, bots that dominated the skies. Knowing that change would come, Primus decided that something from long ago, should have the chance to see the world. And let Nightflyer spark free to form a protoform around itself, making Nightflyer one of the first Transformers in decades to be born again from Cybertron.

He was strong, powerful, intelligent and beautiful, all things he inherited from his Predicon origins… however he was a Jet. And he knew deep down that something wasn’t right, the feeling only became more real when he started to see the ghost of Predaking, the only other bot still alive that was a beast born on Cybertron.

[nazrigar]

Transformers All-Sparks: Orion to Optimus, Aerial to Elita and Megatron after being Reformatted.

A fun compilation of before-and-afters of the main cast of my AU.

Orion Pax becoming Optimus Prime after inheriting the Matrix of Leadership.

Aerial becomes Elita-1 after inheriting a T-cog of a Knight of Cybertron from her mentor, Leader-1.

And finally, Megatron after reformatting himself via rising from the smelting pools of Darkmount, Polyhex. The dead are a permanent part of him now.

[aimlovesmusic]

Ben and Gwen anodite headcanons? Please!

Ooohoohohoh yes I do

Spent two days messing around with doodles.

LORE BEHIND EACH DOODLE! NOT THE FINISHED DESIGN. please send more asks or screenshots to edit anodite Ben to plz! I've already done a whole bunch last year!

PRIME------

Top left mini comic: when extremely exhausted and stressed from a long battle. He sustains an injury during battle from an energy cannon but feels none of it. Turns out energy blasts all this time not having too much of an effect on him was because the heratige.

The group doodle: (the four of them hang out often) not much lore behind this except after transforming really often within short amount of time, he gets extra glowy. His skin is trying it's best to contain him. Rook is fully aware of what's happening while Ester and Rayona are amazed and concerned (when is anyone not when it comes to the watch bearer)

Bottom left: how he wouldve looked in full anodite form pre explosion in "the new dawn" finale.

Left full body: him after omniverse's finale. The image of his arm being all starry after reverting stuck with me and boom there's one of my most important headcannons(lmk if y'all wanna hear me blab about that one)

Mini thing below the fullbody is the pose he pulled trying to shield himself from the anihlarg explosion.

GWEN 10 AU------

Right full body:more turquoise color when calmer or not brimming with energy. The large star shape on the chest indicates a young anodite hybrid who awakened rather aggressively. Blasting their very form to smitherines abruptly.

Right top corner: color potential palettes. High energy. Being a full anodite in this au he toys around with the normal limits of his humanoid anodite form. This freaks out ppl.

Him and Julie before he lost his skin during the highbreed finale in alien force.

All the anodites in their fulls.

- Verdona is magenta and has a hints of teal. She's the least humanoid in appearence. She's got spikey bits of mana protecting her around her shoulders and occasionally anywhere else she seems nice at that moment.

- Sunny is indigo and is little more humanoid sporting curved horns since she thinks they're cute and can add dangly jewelry.she has a wrap like skirt that blends into her not really there legs. She has floating solid shapes of mana circling around her neck.

- Gwen the most humanoid teal one. She has double layer of horns that appear like cat ears. She's the only one to have inherited the dual color from verdona. She can be spotted with a lion like tail at times.

- Ben the green one with short horns. He's somewhat humanoid like Gwen but leans more into things he thinks are cool. He plays with his form alot. Has a jellyfish like poncho and coils. Sometimes has ribbon like arms instead.

Verdona(and her sister for sunny)passed down mermaid/aquatic like traits(Gwen's ripples like water/Sunnys mermaid like legs/ Ben's jellyfish traits and all three having webbed hands.) plus a heart like facial markings,Though it's reversed on Sunny.

@ideas-of-immortality here's more 👍😁

[blueikeproductions]

Alright I’ve been thinking of it long enough: rough AU timeline for the evolution of the Terrans as a species and faction.

Eons ago, the ancient Prime, Quintus Prime, left Cybertron with the goal to seed life on barren planets with the hopes these new Transformer descendants would eventually forge peaceful relations with Cybertron. His first born, the Quintessons, put a wrinkle in this lofty goal, instead conquering or outright obliterating their cousins after developing daddy issues with Quintus Prime. Hunting down their creator, desiring the life giving Emberstone, the Quintessons would corner the Prime on Earth in its prehistory.

It was this conflict, which saw the rise of Terratronus and her crew, that also saw the extinction of the dinosaurs. While the Quintessons were driven off, Quintus’ last act on Earth was to use the Emberstone to restore life on the planet, and leaving Terratronus and Apelinq’s remaining early Terrans to safeguard the Stone and help life on Earth flourish.

The first to reclaim Earth were the reptilian humanoids of the Cobra-La race, but the Cobra-Laians were disgusted by their mechanical progenitors, preferring their “organic” technology, and attempted to exterminate the Terrans by abusing the Emberstone. An uneasy ceasefire was later agreed on with both factions sticking to their own territories, though the Terrans would take back control of the Emberstone, hiding it underground in Terratronus’ city mode. An ice age largely wiped out the majority of Cobra-Laians, with their descendants living in an arctic region undisturbed until 4 million years later when Megatron’s body was uncovered.

Sub-Atlantica was another faction of organic fish like humanoids that evolved by the power of the Emberstone, but they mostly kept to themselves, sticking to their underwater civilization and barely interacting with Cobra-La or Terratronus. In the modern era, they were besieged by the Decepticons, and were assisted by Autobot Seaspray, GHOST Agent Alanna, the Maltobot Terrans and Witwiccan Terrans.

Humans evolved, becoming the dominate species of Earth, with the early Terrans helping guide their development, though withholding using the Emberstone, for fear of repeating Cobra-La. Quintus’ spirit felt confident a group of chosen humans would one day inherit his power, though it came in a form he didn’t quite anticipate. After choosing the Malto children, and creating the first two modern Terrans in a millennia, Quintus was surprised to see a small group of dimensionally displaced children, Grahm and his friends from one of the Cyberverse universes. Cross referencing with his brother Vector Prime, Quintus felt confident Grahm’s group was also worthy, bestowing them with Cyber Sleeves and Terrans also.

Ethan Meridian was the final child of Earth to be blessed with Terrans and a Cyber Sleeve, and when questioned by Vector Prime, Mo and Thompson, Quintus felt confident in Ethan to not become like his father, Dr. Mandroid. Quintus was correct of course.

Sometime later, sympathetic to the disenfranchised GHOST Autobots, Hashtag sent a pulse wave into space using her internet powers to see if there truly are other Transformers out in space. First, Hashtag got a reply from Cathy the Catharsian, who later came to Earth aboard a Velgrox ship to visit her, but soon more Colony Transformers began responding to the pulse wave, followed up by Regulus Magnus’ Autobots and Megaplex’s Decepticons from Cybertron. The Quintessons also became aware of this pulse wave, recognizing it as Emberstone energy, and infuriated they were tricked off Earth, went back to claim what was rightfully theirs.

Grahm, Phoenix, Robbie and Nightshade would later discover Apelinq, looking into local legends of the Witwicky Bigfoot, where the Ancient Terran would reveal the secret of the origins of the Earthbound Terrans and how their new colony friends are their relatives. To make it easier, Nightshade offers to collectively call all their Emberstone descendants Terrans as a faction. It is Quintus’ hope the chosen Maltobots and Witwiccans can unite the “family” and put a stop to Megaplex and the Quintessons’ machinations. Lingering in the background however is a further corruption that wants to obliterate what Quintus Prime desires, the mysterious Transformer Dark Nova…

The Autobots, Maltobots and Witwiccans would find themselves clashing with Dr. Mandroid’s Arachnamechs, the rouge GHOST AI TORQ, Starscream’s Chaos Terrans, Turmoil’s ramshackle Earth Decepticons, and Megaplex’s Decepticons. It was the invasion of Dark Nova, a fallen Prime using the power of the Dead Universe to counter the power of Quintus’ Emberstone that saw true unification begin among the Terrans, Autobots and Decepticons.

At series end, with Dark Nova, the Quintessons and Decepticons defeated, Quintus’ dream is accomplished with Terratronus serving as the capital city of a thriving Unified Cybertron Alliance on Earth.

Ancient Earth Terrans:

Terratronus (MetroTitan, later a Quintesson like space cruiser Vehicle Mode)

Apelinq (Bigfoot Beast Mode)

Catilla (Saber Tooth Tiger Beast Mode)

Terrashock (Prehistoric bull Beast Mode)

Divebomb (Prehistoric bird Beast Mode, based on the TFP version)

Retrax (Prehistoric Insecticon Beast Mode)

Maltobots:

Twitch (Drone Vehicle Mode)

Thrash (Motorbike Vehicle Mode)

Jawbreaker (Dinosaur Beast Mode)

Hashtag (Surveillance Van Vehicle Mode)

Nightshade (Owl Beast Mode)

Cathy (Catharsian, Custom Space Car Vehicle Mode)

Browser (Cassette, Reptar like Robot Mode)

Bit & Byte (Cassette, CatDog like Robot Mode)

Shelldon (Cassette, Rise of the TMNT Donnie like Robot Mode)

Galvatron (Megatron evolved by inheriting the power of Quintus Prime)

Witwiccans:

Phoenix (Partnered to Grahm Witwicky, Humanoid bird Robot Mode, Firebird Vehicle Mode)

Landhammer (Partnered to Thompson Cabezon, Gorilla Robot Mode, Off-road SUV Vehicle Mode)

Nightscream (Partnered to Milo Meister, Giant Bat Beast Mode)

Abhorrous (Partnered to Maddie Witwicky, Monsterbot Scorpion Beast Mode)

Rebarbarous (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Name from Rebarbative. Monsterbot Dinosaur Beast Mode)

Camshaft (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Griffin Motors 1995 Windblazer Vehicle Mode, nicknamed Cam, after Ethan’s deceased brother Cameron. Seems to be something of a clone from Ethan’s memories, but with a Bravern slant)

Oppugnuos (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Name from Oppugnant, Monsterbot Arachnamech Beast Mode)

Triplex (Partnered to Ethan Meridian, Combiner, made up of Camshaft, Rebarbarous and Oppugnuos)

Chaos Terrans:

Aftermath (tow truck Vehicle Mode)

Spitfire (drone Vehicle Mode, recolor of Twitch)

Clickbait (surveillance van Vehicle Mode, recolor of Hashtag)

Horri-Bull (bull Beast Mode, retool of Jawbreaker)

Super Starscream (evolved by stealing the power of Quintus Prime when the Emberstone was up for grabs)

Named Refugee Terrans:

Rubble (Lithone)

Arbulus (Lithone)

Lickity-Split (Gorlam Prime)

Hi Score (Martian)

Swift (Paradron)

Sideswipe (Martian)

Gauge (Gorlam Prime)

Geomotus (Lithone)

Sandstorm (Paradron)

Lightbright (Arduria)

Skar (Dinosaur)

Slash (Dinosaur)

Regulus Magnus’ crew:

Regulon (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, Headmaster, combines with the headless Amazonus Prime to become Regulus Magnus. Space Amazon delivery van Vehicle Mode)

Springlock (Unidentified colony, space amphibian Beast Mode)

Oilpan: (Unidentified colony, space slug Beast Mode)

Quackshot (Ardurian Roc, humanoid duck like Robot Mode, space jet Vehicle Mode)

Gnaw (Sharkticon Robot Mode, truck Vehicle Mode)

Wheelie (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite. Child soldier as Bumblebee once was. Best friends with Gnaw. Space car Vehicle Mode. The son of Endo, a prominent Autobot scientist on Cybertron Termagax worked with before the Great War.)

Mentlar (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, space radar truck Vehicle Mode)

Chemico (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, Energon chemical truck Vehicle Mode)

Tanker (Evolved Autobot-Ammonite, space tank Vehicle Mode)

Emberstone created Colony Planets:

Catharsia (Cathy’s home planet)

Quintessa (Quintesson home planet)

Arduria (status unclear, though last record indicates severe climate change affecting the planet)

Gorlam Prime (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Gorlamus)

Dinosaur (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Cretaceous)

Mars (Surface rendered uninhabitable to Transformer life during a Quintesson attack, but survivors built a civilization underground, and does not require moms. It’s implied organic lifeforms exist alongside the Martian Transformers, and that the humanoid Martians also have Cyber Sleeves.)

Stentaria (The Autobots on Cybertron had to make a bargain with the built for war Ammonites in order to get a leg up with the out of control Decepticons on Cybertron. The Terradores are a bit annoyed the Autobots didn’t come to them for help, but understand why their Ammonite cousins were chosen instead…)

Lithone (destroyed by Quintessons, survivors aboard MetroTitan Acasta Gneiss)

Antilla (destroyed by Quintessons using invasive Rust Worm species)

Paradron (destroyed by Quintessons detonating Energon Core)

Aquatron (status unclear, conflicting information)

Neutronia

The Tenth Planet of the Sol System

[heydoaflip]

The Doctor and The Tracker | Helmut Zemo

Zombie Apocalypse AU!

Female Original Character ('Doc') x Helmut Zemo

Summary: When an unsettling discovery forces them to abandon their fragile refuge, Doc and her group face the grim reality of survival in a world that’s always closing in. As chaos erupts, one mistake pulls her away from her friends, leaving her to confront not just the undead but a haunting glimpse of something—or someone—that defies reason. Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, including gun use and combat with walkers. Themes of guilt, trauma, and survival in an apocalyptic setting. Intense suspense and danger, including close encounters with the undead. Brief mention of blood and injury (medical and combat-related). Word count: 11K

oo. the tracker

The fire station had seen better days. Faded red paint curled like brittle parchment, exposing the skeleton of weathered wood and rusted metal beneath. Inside, its transformation was equal parts ingenuity and desperation, the remnants of a structured world repurposed into a fragile refuge.

The main garage, once an echo chamber of sirens and hurried boots, now sat heavy with silence. Its emptiness was stark, a hollow reminder of what this place had been. The stretcher at its center, long past its prime, sagged under the weight of makeshift supplies: jars of scavenged ointments, antiseptic bottles clouded with age, and scissors dulled by overuse. Even the shelves around it seemed tired, their contents a precarious balance of necessity and neglect.

The air smelled of old smoke and mildew, with an undercurrent of something sharper—coppery, metallic. It clung to her skin, the way fear and exhaustion clung to their lives. Above, fractured sunlight trickled through a cracked skylight, streaking the dust-filled air with muted gold.

Doc perched on a battered crate, her back stiff with focus even as the weight of exhaustion tugged at her shoulders. Her fingers moved deftly over Bucky’s arm, her gloved hands carefully cleaning the wound’s edges. The jagged stump where his right arm had been was swollen but healing, though the angry redness still clinging to the skin told her the fight wasn’t over yet.

Her movements were steady, but her mind was far from calm. Every time she looked at the wound, she saw that day—his blood on her hands, her frantic breath as she tried to stop the bleeding, the way his voice, rough and broken, had told her to keep going. She had, of course. She had done what she could, and it hadn’t been enough.

"Keep it steady," she muttered, breaking the quiet but not the tension.

Bucky obeyed without complaint, his body still under her touch. His silence wasn’t unusual, but it carried a weight today that unsettled her. His blue eyes stared past her, distant and unseeing, as if retreating to a place she couldn’t reach.

The world outside had never felt so far away. The wind rattled the station’s loose window panes, a low, mournful sound that seeped into the cracks of her thoughts.

She hesitated, the cloth pausing mid-swipe as her gaze flicked to his face, "Still holding up?"

There was a pause, long enough for her words to feel like they were swallowed by the stillness of the room.

“Yeah,” he said finally, his tone clipped and unconvincing. He shifted slightly, the old chair groaning beneath him, before adding, “You don’t have to check it every day, Doc.”

The nickname made her grimace faintly, but she didn’t bother hiding it. They all called her that now, as if it was her real name. It wasn’t. It was just another thing she’d inherited from this broken world, like the ash-streaked sky and the hollow weight in her chest.

“You know exactly why I do,” she said, picking up the antiseptic with brisk, deliberate movements.

She dabbed at the wound, glancing at him as she worked. “You’re lucky to be alive, Bucky. You know that, right?”

The words hit harder than she’d meant them to, and for a moment, she regretted saying them at all.

The words hit harder than she’d intended, and for a moment, regret tugged at her. She wasn’t trying to chastise him.

He winced—not from the antiseptic, but from the weight of the truth she’d just dropped on him.

“You’ve got a hell of a bedside manner,” he muttered dryly.

A faint smile ghosted across her face, there and gone in an instant, “You want sugar-coating? Don’t avoid me when you’re in pain.”

Her eyes flicked to his face again, and she caught the tension in his jaw, the way his left hand flexed and unflexed against his knee. He was holding something back, but so was she.

“Fair,” he limited himself by saying, his expression forever stoic.

"I mean it, Bucky," she said, her voice softer now, the edges of irritation blunted by something gentler. She paused, searching for the right words but finding none, "What happened back there—"

"It wasn’t your fault," he cut in, sharp and sudden, the words slicing through her sentence.

Her hands stilled, the antiseptic-soaked cloth hovering above his skin. He still wasn’t looking at her, his gaze fixed somewhere far away, but there was something raw in his voice that made her chest tighten.

"You don’t know that," she murmured, her tone uncertain, almost fragile.

When he turned to her, his expression caught her off guard. His eyes were unflinching, filled with a heaviness that seemed to press against the walls of the room.

"I do," he said, his voice quieter now, weighted with conviction. "There’s nothing we could’ve done. And if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t change a damn thing."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, filled with everything they wouldn’t say. The sound of wind rattling the station’s loose windows barely registered as she looked back at him, her hands falling limply into her lap.

“That’s a really stupid thing to say,” she pointed out, breaking the silence. Her tone wasn’t sharp, but it carried a weight that made Bucky glance at her. “You lost an arm, Bucky. How... How are you going to do what you do?”

The question lingered in the air, and she hated how it sounded. Not accusatory, not exactly, but laced with the kind of helpless worry she tried to keep hidden.

The wind outside scraped against the building, rattling loose window panes like an uninvited guest. Dust motes danced lazily in the fractured sunlight spilling through the cracked skylight above, their slow, aimless drift a stark contrast to the unease gnawing at her thoughts.

Bucky tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as if weighing her words.

“What I do?” he echoed, his voice calm but edged with something unreadable.

She swallowed, her fingers brushing against the edge of the crate as though searching for stability.

“You know exactly what I mean,” she said, quieter now, “You’re the one who keeps us safe out there. You hunt. You cover us when things go south. You’ve always been the one we can count on, and now...”

Her voice trailed off, the words catching in her throat.

And now I’ve ruined that.

The thought scraped against her, raw and unrelenting. She wanted to say it out loud, to scream it, but the weight of everything held her silent.

Instead, she looked away, her gaze drifting to the jagged streaks of gold on the floor, cast by the fractured skylight above. The light flickered slightly as a breeze stirred the dust, and for a moment, it felt like the walls were closing in.

The fire station was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that left room for the wrong thoughts to creep in.

“And now you’re wondering how the hell I’m gonna manage without two hands,” Bucky said, breaking the silence. His voice was steady, almost resigned, as if he’d already resigned himself to this being his reality.

Her head snapped back toward him, her brows knitting together.

“No,” she said firmly, though not unkindly, “I’m wondering how the hell you’re going to manage when you refuse to take even five minutes to let yourself heal.”

To let me help you. It was the least she could do and, yet, he avoided her like the plague.

He leaned back in the chair, the old wood groaning faintly under his weight. The corners of his mouth quirked into a wry smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“That doesn’t bring me any comfort,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her eyes lingered on the jagged edges of his stump, the angry redness that still clung to the skin. She could still hear the sound of that day—flesh tearing, his gritted groans of pain, and her own frantic breath as she’d scrambled to stop the bleeding. The memory was vivid, each detail burned into her mind: the sickening warmth of his blood soaking her hands, the metallic tang in the air, the way her fingers had trembled as she worked.

She’d told herself it was just adrenaline, the urgency of the moment forcing her body to keep moving. But deep down, she knew the truth. She’d been terrified. Not just for him, but for all of them. Bucky had been their anchor—the one who kept them moving, kept them alive when the world outside tried to swallow them whole. Without him, what were they supposed to do?

Her chest tightened, her breath catching for a moment as her gaze drifted to the floor.

“You’re not invincible, Bucky,” she said, quieter now, her voice cracking just slightly. “I don’t know what I’d do if...”

The words hung in her throat, too heavy to say aloud. She shook her head as if the gesture could physically push the thought away, her hands brushing against the crate as though searching for something solid to hold on to.

“If what?” he asked, his voice softer now, though his stubbornness still lingered at the edges.

“If we lost you,” she finished, the words barely audible, fragile in the quiet of the room.

Her gaze flicked back to him, and for a moment, she hesitated. She wanted to leave it at that, but the truth pressed against her chest, demanding to be spoken. If I lost you.

Bucky had been one of her first friends in this fractured world, though “friend” hardly seemed strong enough for what he was to her. He’d been a constant, the steady presence she could lean on when everything else felt like it was crumbling. He was the one who didn’t flinch when things got bad, who carried the weight when the rest of them faltered.

He’d believed in her, even when she doubted herself. When she’d stumbled through those early days of survival—making mistakes, hesitating when she couldn’t afford to—he hadn’t judged her. He’d just been there, steady and unyielding, like a pillar holding up the sky. She couldn’t bear the thought of him crumbling now.

The room felt heavier after that. The air seemed to press in around her, thick with unspoken fears and unacknowledged truths.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” Bucky said after a moment. His voice was firm, steady, but his eyes betrayed him. There were cracks in the armor, faint but undeniable.

She wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him. But the image of that day was seared into her mind, playing on a loop she couldn’t stop. If she’d been faster, better, maybe it wouldn’t have come to this. Maybe—

The sudden rattle of loose window panes snapped her out of her thoughts, the sound jolting her like a splash of cold water.

She blinked, her hand gripping the edge of the crate as if anchoring herself back to the present. The fire station felt oppressively quiet again, the faint rustle of wind outside only serving to highlight the stillness within. Her gaze flicked toward the windows, the cracked glass reflecting fragmented streaks of light onto the walls.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he said again, softer this time, as though he could sense her spiraling. “You need to let that go, Doc.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t respond right away. Letting go felt impossible. The weight of her own guilt was too familiar, too comfortable in a way she hated to admit.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Letting go wasn’t something she knew how to do. The weight of her guilt was a constant companion, settling into the corners of her mind like the ever-present scent of old smoke and mildew clinging to the station’s walls.

Her eyes flicked toward the windows. The wind rattled the loose panes, a mournful sound that filled the gaps in their silence. Outside, the world was as lifeless as the space they now called home, its stillness punctuated by the occasional creak of the old building settling under the weight of its history.

“It’s not that easy,” she murmured, her voice so low it barely carried across the room.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the floor, the tension in his shoulders softening just enough to betray the exhaustion he carried. He flexed his left hand again—a restless, automatic motion that seemed to anchor him to the moment.

The silence stretched, punctuated by the faint scrape of her gloves against the crate as she adjusted her grip. She felt her thoughts start to spiral again, looping back to the same unanswerable questions. What if she’d been faster? What if she’d done something differently that day? What if—

“You heard anything yet?” Bucky’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp but not unkind.

She blinked, the question catching her off guard. Her fingers tensed around the edge of the crate. “No,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon. Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope.

She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now. A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long.

The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness. Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, and he leaned forward slightly, the chair creaking beneath him, “They should’ve been back by now,” he said, the words heavy with unspoken concern.

“I know.”

The words came out sharper than she intended, and guilt immediately twisted in her chest. She exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand across her face.

“I know,” she repeated, softer this time.

Her gaze wandered back to the windows. The cracked glass caught the light, scattering fragmented streaks of gold onto the walls. She followed the patterns absently, trying to focus on them instead of the sinking feeling in her gut.

“They said it’d only be a day,” Bucky said, his voice taut.

“Maybe something slowed them down,” she replied, though the words felt hollow even as she spoke them. Her gaze didn’t leave the window. “It doesn’t mean—”

“You don’t believe that,” he interrupted, his eyes cutting to hers.

She turned to face him fully, her jaw tightening. He was right. She didn’t believe it—not really. The knot in her stomach had been twisting tighter since last night, and the longer they went without word, the harder it became to keep her worry in check.

“They’re smart,” she said finally, as if saying it aloud would make it true, “Steve wouldn’t let anything happen to them. You know that.”

The thought of them hadn’t left her since they’d disappeared into the gray haze of the horizon.

Steve had insisted it would be quick—one day there, one day back—but now every tick of the clock felt like it chipped away at her hope. She could still see the supplies they had packed: the last of their ointments, a crumpled map covered in faded marker, and the small stash of ammo they couldn’t afford to spare. It hadn’t been enough then, and it certainly wasn’t enough now.

A hollow ache settled in her chest as her mind played through worst-case scenarios: bartered goods gone wrong, the fragility of trust snapping like brittle glass, or worse, the things that prowled the world outside. They’d been gone too long. The shelves behind her seemed to loom, mocking her with their emptiness.

Supplies for one week, two at most, if they stretched them to breaking. And now, they were the only things keeping her from sinking entirely into panic.

“Steve’s smart, sure,” Bucky said, his voice hardening, “But those guys they were meeting—they’re not exactly known for playing fair.”

The traders weren’t strangers, but they weren’t friends either. Wanda’s voice echoed in her memory: calm, clinical, but sharp with unspoken warnings:

“They’ve got their own rules. Stick to the deal and walk away clean.”

Doc had wanted to ask more—who they were, what they wanted—but Vision’s grim expression had stopped her.

“We’ll be fine,” he’d said at the time, but she hadn’t missed the flicker of unease in his eyes.

Now, alone with her thoughts, she filled in the blanks they’d left open. Opportunists, Wanda had said once. People who traded in desperation. People who wouldn’t think twice about turning a deal sour if the odds tipped in their favor. The weight of their silence felt heavier now, like a storm cloud pressing against her lungs.

She didn’t know them, but she knew enough: they were exactly the kind of people who survived this world. That didn’t comfort her.

“They’ve been reliable so far,” she said, though even to her own ears, the words sounded weak.

“Reliable until they’re not,” Bucky muttered, his voice dark.

The wind rattled the panes again, louder this time. She glanced at the window, half expecting to see something lurking beyond the fractured glass. Instead, there was only the empty horizon, streaked with the dull gray light of an overcast sky.

“They’ll be fine,” she said, forcing the words out. Her voice wavered just slightly.

Bucky didn’t respond. His gaze was distant again, fixed on a spot on the floor.

“If they’re not back by tonight...” he began, his voice quieter now, “We go after them.”

Her stomach tightened. The words hung in the air, heavy with possibility.

“Bucky—”

Her gaze flicked to him. His left hand flexed unconsciously against his knee. It wasn’t that he couldn’t fight—she’d seen him take down more than she cared to remember—but there was a rawness to the way he moved now. Like a violinist playing with a broken bow, every strike carried the faintest hesitation, every block an unsteady rhythm.

The fight outside the station—the way he’d faltered for half a second—still lingered in her mind. Would Natasha or Sam even agree with such a reckless idea? They’d urge patience, wouldn’t they? But patience wasn’t something she could feel at that moment.

“I mean it, Doc,” he said, cutting her off. His tone was firm, but there was a vulnerability beneath it that caught her off guard. “We can’t just sit here and wait. Not when we don’t know what’s happening.”

Her chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him they needed to stay put and think things through, but the truth was, she felt the same. The thought of waiting much longer, of sitting here in the suffocating quiet while Steve, Wanda, and Vision were out there—somewhere—was unbearable.

She exhaled shakily, trying to steady the chaos in her mind. “Okay,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, “But I’m going with you.”

Bucky’s head snapped toward her, his expression hardening instantly. “No, you’re not.”

His tone was like a brick wall, but she barely registered it. Her chest burned with a heavy mix of determination and dread, a feeling that had been clawing at her since the moment Steve, Wanda, and Vision had left.

“Don’t start,” she said, her voice sharp, “I’m not sitting here while you go out there alone.”

“I won't go alone,” he countered, his brow furrowing deeply as he leaned toward her. “Sam and Natasha will go with me, they’ll agree with me and interject to join me. They can handle themselves, as I myself, you don’t need to get involved.”

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“You can handle yourself?” she snapped, gesturing toward his left arm, “You’re still getting used to—”

“That doesn’t matter,” he interrupted sharply, his voice loud enough to make her flinch. His expression softened slightly, but his tone didn’t lose its edge, “I’ve been through worse. You know that.”

She knew he was right.

Doc had seen him withstand pain most people wouldn’t survive. But all she could think of was the way his body had sagged against her that day, blood spilling over her hands as she fought to keep him alive. Her breaths were shallow now, her pulse loud in her ears.

The sound of the walkers grunting from afar that day still haunted her nights.

Her mind drifted back—unbidden—to the first moments after the attack. Wanda’s screams had echoed in her ears long after the chaos had settled, a haunting soundtrack to her own failures. She could still feel the sticky warmth of Bucky’s blood as they’d tried, futilely, to stop the bleeding.

Every memory sharpened into a vivid, unbearable ache. She’d told herself over and over it hadn’t been her fault, but she didn’t believe it.

She blinked rapidly, trying to refocus.

“I can’t just sit here, Bucky,” she said, her voice trembling with frustration, “Not again. I didn’t do enough last time, and look where that got us. If something happens to them now, while I’m hiding here, I—”

“You’re not hiding,” Bucky said, his voice cutting through her words like steel, “You’re our doctor around here, we need you in one piece. They need you alive, we all do. Who else would keep Sam from trying to play hero when he’s hurt, or patch Natasha up when she refuses to admit she’s bleeding?”

Her lips twitched despite herself, but the moment passed too quickly, leaving behind only the gnawing weight in her chest. Her gaze dropped to the floor, shame coiling in her stomach. Surviving felt like an excuse. It felt like cowardice.

“You don’t understand,” she murmured.

“I do,” Bucky said, his voice calm and measured, though a flicker of pain crossed his features, “You think I don’t know what you’re feeling? That guilt? That weight? I carry it every damn day. But it doesn’t mean you throw yourself into the fire just to make it stop.”

Her breath hitched as his words struck a nerve, unearthing emotions she’d buried too deep to face. The images she’d been trying to suppress came rushing back again: Vision’s desperate attempts to shield Wanda, the way the chaos had swallowed them whole. She’d frozen at the worst moment, and she’d felt the cost of that mistake every day since.

Her shoulders sagged, the fight momentarily draining out of her.

“You’re asking me to stay behind and do nothing,” she said softly, her voice barely audible, “But I can’t, Bucky. I can’t stand the thought of—”

“Of what?” he pressed, stepping closer, his voice softer but still firm. “Of losing them? Of losing more people? You think I don’t feel that, too?”

She looked up at him sharply, her jaw tightening.

“I know you do,” she said, though the words felt thin and insubstantial. “That’s why I hope you understand me and let me go with you.”

“You think this is about permission?” he countered, his tone softening as his gaze fixed on her, “This isn’t about what you want, Doc. It’s about what we need. And what we need is for you to stop punishing yourself for something that wasn’t your fault.”

Her heart felt heavier, his words pulling her in two directions at once. She wanted to believe him, to let the truth settle into her bones, but her guilt sat heavier. Her mind spun, latching onto his words and twisting them.

The silence between them thickened, stretching into a chasm. Doc stared at the floor, her fingers twitching against her sides as her thoughts spiraled again.

She could still hear Steve’s voice, low and steady as he’d assured her they’d be back by now. She could still see Wanda’s tentative smile, Vision’s quiet nod. If she stayed here and they didn’t come back, she wouldn’t just be failing them—she’d be failing herself.

“I have to do something,” she said, her voice trembling.

“And I have to stop you from getting yourself killed,” Bucky said, his voice softer now, but no less firm.

Her lips parted to respond, the fight still bubbling at the back of her throat, but before she could speak, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted them.

“Hey!” Sam’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and urgent.

They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his expression tight with unease.

“Something’s wrong,” he said, glancing between them, “You need to see this. Now.”

The chill outside hit harder than expected, the wind carrying with it the faint, sour scent of decay. The fire station loomed behind them, its once-vivid red paint peeling in ragged strips, exposing the weathered wood and rusting metal beneath. Around them, the forest stretched endlessly, its skeletal trees swaying against the gray horizon like brittle fingers reaching for the sky.

Sam moved ahead of them, his pace brisk but purposeful. His jacket flapped with each gust of wind, revealing a patched-up shoulder that spoke to a lifetime of survival in a world that didn’t allow for rest. His expression was sharp, his dark eyes flicking between the treetops and the undergrowth as if expecting danger to leap out at any moment.

Doc’s breath came quick and shallow, the cold air biting at her lungs. Her boots crunched against the frost-dusted ground, the sound far too loud in the eerie quiet. She struggled to suppress the rising dread, but her thoughts swirled with growing panic.

What was wrong?

Her stomach churned as memories of past close calls clawed their way to the surface—hands grasping at her ankles, lifeless eyes staring through her as she fought tooth and nail to escape. When the problem wasn’t walkers, it was about other survivors.

The last time they had to deal with survivors who weren’t at all good still didn’t bring her any good memories.

The forest around her suddenly felt too close, the looming trees pressing in, cutting off the faint light of the overcast sky.

Ahead of them, Natasha stood on a rocky outcrop that overlooked the clearing, her figure stark against the muted greens and browns of the forest. Her hair was tied back tightly, stray strands clinging to her face from the wind.

She didn’t glance back as they approached, her sharp eyes narrowing at the horizon. Her rifle was slung over her shoulder, but her hand rested on her sidearm, fingers twitching in restless anticipation.

Sam reached her first. “Tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” he said, his voice tight.

Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes locked on the horizon.

“They’re closer,” she said flatly. Her voice carried an edge of worry that Doc wasn’t used to hearing. “A lot closer.”

The words hit like a stone sinking in her chest. Doc stopped a few paces behind them, her hands instinctively gripping the straps of her satchel.

“Closer?” she echoed, her voice barely above a whisper, “How close?”

Bucky stepped up beside Sam, his expression darkening as he scanned the treeline. “How close are we talking?” he asked, his voice low, measured.

Natasha exhaled slowly, the sound merging with the mournful rustling of the wind. “Close enough that we don’t have time to argue about it.”

Doc swallowed hard and turned her gaze to the treeline. At first, all she saw was the dense sprawl of trees swaying gently in the breeze. Then, movement.

Faint at first, almost imperceptible, but unmistakably unnatural. Figures staggered into view, their jerky, uneven steps disrupting the stillness. From this distance, they looked more like shadows than bodies, but the sound came next—low, guttural groans that seemed to rise from the earth itself.

Her breath caught in her throat. The walkers moved as if guided by some unseen force, their twisted forms weaving between the trees in eerie, disjointed patterns. They weren’t supposed to be here. They weren’t supposed to move like this.

“They were miles away,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “How are they already here?”

“They shouldn’t be,” Natasha replied tightly. “Two days ago, they were far enough out that we should’ve had at least a month.”

Doc’s heart raced as her thoughts spiraled. She’d studied the walkers enough to know their patterns, their sluggish movements and aimless wandering. These weren’t the same. Their pace was faster, their movements less random, almost purposeful. The idea sent a cold shiver down her spine.

“Unless they’re tracking us,” Bucky muttered grimly.

The thought hit Doc like a punch to the gut. “Tracking us? How?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam interjected, crossing his arms. His jaw tightened as he glanced at Natasha. “How long do we have?”

Natasha tore her gaze from the horizon to face them, her expression unreadable. “An hour,” she said, her voice clipped. “Maybe less.”

The wind picked up, howling through the rocky outcrop, carrying the walkers’ groans closer. Doc’s gaze drifted back to the treeline. She could see more of them now, their shapes growing clearer as they emerged from the forest’s shadows. Their bodies were twisted and broken, patches of skin hanging loosely from exposed muscle and bone. Some dragged limbs behind them, while others moved with an unnatural speed that made her stomach churn.

She forced herself to look away, but the sound lingered—wet, uneven footsteps against frost-covered earth, the grotesque symphony of broken jaws gnashing and guttural groans filling the air. They were closing in, a relentless tide of death that wouldn’t stop until it consumed everything in its path.

Her thoughts raced. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Walkers didn’t move like this. They didn’t track people, didn’t organize. It didn’t make sense, and yet here they were, defying every rule she thought she understood.

“They’re moving like they know where we are,” she thought, a sickening realization clawing at the edges of her mind, “How do you fight something that learns?”

Bucky’s voice cut through the rising panic.

“Grab what you can carry,” he said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. “We’re moving. Now.”

The fire station was alive with chaos as they scrambled to gather their supplies. The sound of boots thudding against the worn wooden floors mixed with the muffled groans of walkers approaching outside. Each noise felt magnified, echoing in her ears as though the world itself was narrowing to this single point. Doc’s hands moved quickly, shoving rolls of bandages and jars of antiseptic into her satchel.

The sharp tang of alcohol mingled with the musty scent of old wood and mildew, clinging to her as much as the panic settling deep in her chest. Every item she touched seemed heavier than the last, her mind warring between what to take and what to leave behind.

Her thoughts spiraled, racing between what she needed and what she could afford to leave behind. But with every passing second, the groans outside grew louder, closer. Every creak of the building, every gust of wind that rattled the windows, made her nerves tighten further, the pressure of the outside world pushing in.

“You don’t have time for all that!” Sam’s voice barked from the garage entrance, his figure a stark silhouette against the dim gray light filtering through the open door. Beyond him, the treeline loomed, dark and unyielding, like the open mouth of a beast waiting to swallow them whole, “Just grab what you can carry!”

“I am!” Doc snapped, though her hands lingered on a box of sutures, the decision to leave it behind weighing on her like a physical blow. Her eyes darted to the shelves around her, taking in the jars, gauze rolls, and scalpels she couldn’t carry. Every piece felt vital, irreplaceable.

She tried to convince herself it would be fine—they’d find more. They had to. But the knot in her stomach told her otherwise.

Bucky stormed in, his boots striking the floor with a force that matched the tension radiating from his frame.

“Doc, we’ve got to move. Now.” His voice was low, commanding, each word clipped with urgency. His left hand flexed and unflexed unconsciously, his rifle slung tightly across his back. The sharpness in his blue eyes cut through the chaos, locking onto hers, “We don’t have time for second-guessing.”

She hesitated, her gaze flicking to a jar of precious antibiotics on the shelf. The sight of it was like a knife twisting in her gut.

“I can’t just leave this,” she murmured, her hand already reaching for it.

“You have to,” Bucky growled, grabbing her arm before she could touch it. His grip was firm, his tone leaving no room for argument, “We can’t carry everything, and you need your rifle free.”

The air outside felt even colder than it had moments ago, as if the very atmosphere was shifting with the encroaching danger. The frost-covered ground crunched beneath their boots as they bolted toward the path leading to the observatory, the sound of each footstep echoing in her ears. The wind whipped through the trees, its mournful howl filling the silence between them, as though the forest itself was mourning the loss of whatever had once lived there.

Every gust of wind seemed to tear at her skin, biting through her clothes, and mingled with the groans of walkers closing in from behind.

The scent of decay was thick in the air, a sharp metallic tang that clung to the back of her throat, heavy with the promise of what was to come. Her pulse quickened with each passing step, her eyes scanning the darkness of the forest ahead.

Doc kept her rifle close, her fingers tight around the stock, as though its familiarity was the only thing holding her steady. Her satchel bounced against her side with every hurried step, the weight of it a constant reminder of the things she had left behind—things she hadn’t had the time or space to carry. It was like a physical ache, that bag slapping against her side as if mocking her failure to prepare.

The forest around them felt alive with unseen menace. The skeletal branches above creaked and groaned in the wind, their long limbs swaying ominously, casting shifting shadows that seemed to stretch and warp like living things. The sound of leaves rustling in the breeze was sharper than it should have been, the snap of a branch too loud, too distinct, almost like a warning.

Every crack of frost beneath their boots made her flinch, every movement of the trees felt as if it might be something lurking just out of sight. Her senses were heightened, but it wasn’t enough—her heart hammered in her chest, her mind a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts.

We’re not safe. We’re not safe enough.

Then it hit her—a sudden, wrenching realization that cut through the haze of panic swirling in her mind. Her hand flew to her neck, her fingers grazing empty skin. But it wasn’t the locket. It was the antibiotics. The vial.

The thought slammed into her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. She’d left it behind—the very vials she’d been using for Bucky’s wound, the only thing keeping his infection from spreading.

The weight of that hit her harder than anything else. Panic surged through her veins, cold and unrelenting, and in that moment, her legs refused to move. How could I have forgotten it?

Her thoughts spiraled as the image of the fire station came rushing back, vivid and cruel. The counter, the medical kit, the vial of antibiotics—she could picture it exactly as she’d left it. Set aside for Bucky’s wound, ready for the next treatment. And now, still there. Waiting.

She stopped mid-step, the forest around her stretching endlessly, a blur of skeletal branches and frost-covered ground. The others pressed forward, their movements purposeful, but her feet wouldn’t obey. Something inside her refused to let go of that single image: the vial, sitting untouched, just where she had left it.

Why didn’t she pack it?

The question flickered through her mind, unspoken but persistent. There had been no reason not to. She’d been careful, deliberate with every other piece of their supplies. Yet somehow, the most important one had slipped through. A faint pang twisted her gut, unwelcome but unavoidable. Her hands clenched, as if the motion could undo the moment entirely.

She glanced up at the others, their figures moving steadily ahead. They didn’t know. They couldn’t. Their focus was forward—on the path, on safety, on what came next. But her focus wouldn’t move. It remained tethered to the fire station, the counter, the vial.

Her gaze dropped back to the frozen ground. It wasn’t far. That thought lodged itself in her mind, stubborn and insistent. If she turned now—if she ran—she could make it. She knew the risks, felt them in every hollow groan carried on the wind, but even those seemed muted next to the quiet insistence pulling her back.

The wind stung her cheeks, a sharp reminder of the urgency around her, but it wasn’t enough to snap her forward. Her legs shifted almost unconsciously, her body responding to a decision her mind hadn’t yet admitted.

“Doc!” Bucky’s voice broke through the fog of her thoughts, sharp and tight. She flinched, looking up. He’d stopped further up the path, his frame outlined against the pale sky, “We have to move!”

Her pulse quickened. Her fingers twitched at her sides.

The right thing—the safe thing—was to keep going, to trust they had done all they could, that there would be another way. But safety wasn’t what came to her now. Instead, it was the memory of Bucky sitting still as she worked on his wound, the faint tension in his jaw as he’d pretended not to feel the pain. The antiseptic had burned, but he hadn’t flinched.

The vial. The infection.

“I forgot your antibiotics, I’ll catch up with you,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. She didn’t look at them as she spoke, and didn't need to see the disbelief in their eyes, “Go to the watchtower, we are in four, it will be safe for us there as the horde passes through the forest.”

“Doc, no!” Sam called, his voice urgent but tinged with frustration, “You’ll get yourself killed!”

“I’ll be fine,” she muttered, barely hearing them anymore. Her feet were already turning, moving instinctively toward the fire station, “I’ll catch up. I promise.”

“You’re not going back there!” Bucky shouted, his voice breaking with the strain. He took a step forward, as though he might physically stop her, but Doc shook her head, her pace quickening.

She didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not now.

Doc ignored the voices calling her name as she turned back, her feet pounding against the frozen ground. The urgency in her chest pressed down with each step. She couldn’t afford to waste any more time. The wind bit at her face as the forest around her seemed to close in, but she pushed on, determination fueling her every move.

The fire station came into view, its weathered walls grim against the cold, the door hanging open. The sight made her heart race. She could already hear the sounds of groans and shuffling feet—too many walkers closing in. She had to get in, grab the antibiotics, and get out.

No more hesitation.

As she stepped through the door, a sickly warmth met her, the stench of decay heavy in the air. Her eyes scanned the room quickly. It wasn’t overrun yet, but it was far from empty. A couple of walkers had already made their way inside—slow-moving, disoriented, gnawing at the remnants of their last victim. Their blank, dead eyes fixed on the dark corners, not yet aware of her presence.

Doc’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife, the cold steel offering her a brief sense of comfort. She moved quickly but cautiously, trying to avoid drawing attention to herself. The counter where she had left the antibiotics was just ahead, a faint light shining from the open window above. The sight of it—small, but so important—sent a fleeting wave of relief through her chest.

But the sound of groaning grew louder, sharper, filling the air with a sense of urgency that clawed at her throat. She could hear more of them now—shuffling closer, entering the station. The door she had come through wasn’t far behind her, and the sickening realization hit her: they were pouring in. Not a flood yet, but enough. Too many to fight if it came down to it.

She had to be quick.

Her heart thudded in her ears as she reached the counter. Her fingers grazed the familiar bottle of antibiotics, its cool surface a reminder of everything riding on this moment. She grabbed it, slamming it into her bag with shaking hands. The small moment of victory was short-lived.

The first walker noticed her then, its head jerking toward her, eyes blank and hungry.

Doc didn’t hesitate. She spun, slashing her knife across its throat. The body crumpled without a sound, the stench of blood and rot hanging in the air. She didn’t stop to think, just pushed forward, moving toward the door, but as she passed through, she saw more of them stumbling inside.

The sound of their dragging feet filled the space, their moans growing louder as they converged from all directions.

The door she had come through was barely closed when the groaning reached a new intensity. She turned sharply, her pulse spiking as she saw more walkers entering through the open door, and in that moment, a flash of movement caught her eye.

At first, it seemed like just another walker. But the way it moved—so much more fluid, less disjointed—was unsettling. Its skin was torn, flesh barely clinging to the bones, but it had the posture of something alive. Something human. A fresh, human shape, now hidden beneath the decaying skin of a walker. Its eyes locked onto hers for a fraction of a second, and something in her froze.

Was it possible?

“Hey,” she tried not to shout, “Who the fuck are you? Get out of here!”

But the sound of her own voice—loud, desperate—only drew more attention. The walkers around her snapped toward the noise, their vacant stares now focused entirely on her. 

Her breathing quickened, the sound of her own heartbeat drowning out everything else. The walkers were converging now, their soulless groans blending into a grotesque harmony of hunger. The figure—the one that didn’t quite move like the others—had slipped from view, swallowed by the chaos. But its presence lingered in her mind, a sinister anomaly in a world that thrived on the bizarre.

Perhaps, she had imagined. She had imagined something that wasn’t there and would have to run faster because of such stupidity.

Doc’s grip tightened around her knife as she sidestepped a walker dragging its feet toward her. She didn’t pause. She couldn’t. Her fingers brushed the counter as she lunged forward, closing the distance to the vial. The cool glass met her palm, and she snatched it up, shoving it into her satchel. Her hands trembled as she secured the strap tightly across her chest.

There was no time to think. She turned, her boots scraping against the cracked floor, just as a walker lunged from her left. She ducked instinctively, its decayed fingers swiping through the air above her head. With a sharp jab, her blade found its mark, sinking deep into the side of its skull.

The body crumpled, but the noise of its fall only drew more attention.

She bolted for the door. More walkers were pouring in, the weight of their bodies pressing against the doorframe. Their groans echoed in the confined space, blending into a suffocating roar. One stumbled directly into her path, its teeth snapping at the air. Without slowing, she pivoted and slammed the heel of her boot into its knee, sending it toppling to the ground.

The cold wind hit her like a slap as she burst through the fire station door, the pale light of the outside world blinding her for a brief moment. She stumbled forward, her boots skidding on the frost-dusted ground, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. The moans behind her were growing louder, spilling into the open air with a guttural resonance that sent ice through her veins.

The treeline loomed ahead, a skeletal wall of gray and brown that swayed with the biting wind. It wasn’t safety—not really—but it was the only cover she had. Her legs burned with each step, the satchel bouncing heavily against her hip as she sprinted. The straps dug into her shoulder, the weight of the supplies inside a painful reminder of everything she’d risked to retrieve them.

Her breath tore through her lungs, harsh and ragged, pluming in short bursts against the icy air. Behind her, the cacophony of groans and dragging footsteps surged, echoing across the barren landscape. The sound clawed at her resolve, each guttural cry a reminder of how close they were. How close they always were.

She glanced back once—just once—and immediately regretted it. The walkers were pouring out of the station now, their twisted forms staggering into the open. Their flesh hung in tattered strips, their jaws slack but snapping hungrily at the air. Some crawled, their broken bodies dragging through the dirt, while others moved with a terrifying, jerky speed. Her stomach twisted at the sight, but she forced herself to look away.

Keep running. Don’t think. Just move.

The forest swallowed her whole as she plunged into the shadows of the trees, their brittle branches clawing at her jacket. The ground beneath her boots was uneven, littered with fallen twigs and patches of frost-slicked leaves that threatened to trip her with every hurried step. Her pulse thundered in her ears, louder even than the groans behind her, as though her body was trying to drown out the noise.

She pushed deeper into the forest, weaving through the skeletal trees with a frantic, unsteady rhythm. Every snap of a branch beneath her boots sounded deafening in the oppressive silence, and every rustle of leaves made her flinch, her mind conjuring images of walkers lurking just out of sight. The light filtering through the canopy was thin and pale, casting shifting shadows that danced and twisted in her peripheral vision like specters.

She stumbled, her boot catching on an exposed root, and barely managed to catch herself before hitting the ground. Her knee grazed the dirt, and a sharp pain shot up her leg, but she forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of stopping—not here, not now.

The terrain sloped upward as she neared the observatory, the incline forcing her legs to work harder with every step. Her breath came in shorter gasps, her muscles screaming in protest, but the sight of the tower ahead pushed her forward. It rose above the treetops like a crumbling monument to a world long gone, its once-pristine walls weathered and gray, the dome at its peak fractured but still intact.Her thoughts spiraled as she ran, the events of the day replaying in an endless loop. The fire station. The supplies. Her friends. She could still hear Steve’s voice, steady and reassuring as he’d promised they’d regroup at the observatory. "It’s high ground. Safe."

Safe. The word felt hollow now, meaningless against the reality of what she’d seen. If it was so safe, why weren’t they there? Where was Sam, Bucky and Natasha?

Looking around, Doc was sure: no one of them was there yet.

She reached the base of the tower, her chest heaving as she gripped the rusted railing of the staircase. The old metal groaned beneath her touch, the sound echoing in the stillness. For a moment, she hesitated, her gaze flicking back toward the forest. The faint sound of groans was still there, a low, distant hum that sent a shiver down her spine.

They were coming. Slowly but surely, they were coming.

Her boots clanged against the metal steps as she began to climb, each step a battle against the exhaustion threatening to drag her down. The staircase spiraled upward, the air growing colder and thinner with each turn. Dust swirled in the shafts of pale light filtering through the gaps in the tower’s walls, catching in her throat and making her cough. She gritted her teeth, forcing her legs to keep moving.

The top of the tower was just as she remembered it—wide, open, and eerily quiet. The observatory dome loomed above, its glass panels shattered and jagged, allowing the wind to whistle through unchecked. The room was empty, save for the remnants of equipment long abandoned: a rusting telescope lying on its side, a desk with drawers hanging open, and a scattering of papers so faded they were little more than fragments.

Doc’s eyes darted to every corner, every shadow, searching for any sign of her friends. But the room was still. Lifeless. She dropped the satchel onto the floor, her legs threatening to give out beneath her as the weight fell away.

She waited, standing in the center of the room as the silence pressed in. Her chest rose and fell with labored breaths, her mind racing with questions.

Why weren’t they here? Had something gone wrong? Had they even made it this far?

The questions circled in her mind, relentless and unanswerable. Her pulse hammered in her ears, and for a moment, she couldn’t tell if the sound was her heartbeat or the faint groans of the horde below. Her friends had been right there—right there—just minutes ago. She’d barely been apart from them long enough for anything to happen. They were ahead of her when she veered back toward the fire station. They had to be here. They had to.

She paced the room, her boots scuffing against the dusty floorboards. Every creak of the wood beneath her feet made her flinch, her nerves stretched thin. Her breath came in shallow bursts as she glanced toward the stairwell, half expecting to hear the echo of hurried footsteps or a voice calling her name. But there was nothing. Only the wind and the hollow groan of the old building settling under its own weight.

Minutes passed, though they felt more like hours. The emptiness of the observatory pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, the quiet amplifying the chaotic churn of her thoughts. She moved toward the cracked window, her fingers brushing against the jagged frame as she peered outside.

Where were they? Had they been delayed by walkers? Overrun? Her mind spiraled, conjuring images she didn’t want to see: Sam cornered, Natasha until her last breath, Bucky shouting commands as he went down swinging... The scenarios played out like a cruel slideshow, each one worse than the last.

Her fingers clenched against the window frame, splinters digging into her palms. Her throat tightened, the raw ache of helplessness clawing its way up. She forced her gaze down to the clearing below, desperate for anything—a sign of movement, a clue, something.

She should’ve stayed with them. She shouldn’t have gone back for the supplies. She should’ve—

Something moved.

Her breath hitched as her gaze locked onto the clearing. At first, she thought it might have been the wind shifting the frost-covered grass, but then she saw it again—subtle, deliberate. A figure.

The person came into focus slowly, as though emerging from the haze of her scattered thoughts. They moved unevenly, their gait uneven but not aimless. One hand clutched at their side, where dark streaks of red stained their coat.

Blood.

Doc’s pulse quickened as her eyes followed their movements, taking in the bag slung over their shoulder, the way they adjusted its weight with a practiced efficiency.

Her grip on the window frame tightened. This wasn’t one of her friends, that was for sure.

She would have recognized their silhouette, their stride. But this person—whoever they were—didn’t stumble like a walker, nor did they panic like a survivor running for their life. There was something else in the way they moved. It wasn’t desperation.

It was...Calculation. Probably, he was a tracker of some kind.

She swallowed hard, her mind latching onto the details she could make out from this distance:

The bag. The blood. The deliberate, almost methodical way they navigated the clearing.

A flicker of unease sparked in her chest, followed quickly by something sharper. Anger, there was something wrong.

Her gaze dropped to the bag they carried. The stitching along its edges. The way it sagged, its contents shifting with each step. Her breath caught as realization dawned, slow and painful.

That’s ours.

Her mind snapped back to the fire station—the empty shelves, the supplies she’d fought to protect. The chaos of the walkers flooding the area. The pieces fell into place with a sharp finality that left her reeling. The strange figure she had a glimpse…

Her knees threatened to buckle, but she locked them in place, her hands shaking as they hovered near the rifle slung across her back.

This wasn’t some coincidence. This person—this stranger—had taken from her. From them. And now, they were walking away with what might have been theirs.

Her heart hammered in her chest, anger bubbling up beneath the exhaustion. She pulled the rifle from her back with trembling hands, her fingers curling around the cold metal as she raised it. Her breaths came quick and shallow, the weight of her own voice cutting through the stillness as she shouted.

“Hey!” The word ripped from her throat, raw and trembling, “Stop right there! I won’t hesitate to shoot you.”

The figure halted, their body eerily still despite the tension in her voice. Slowly, almost deliberately, they turned to face her. The movement was unnerving in its precision—not the panicked flinch of someone caught off guard, but the calm shift of someone who knew they held the upper hand.

The wind carried the faint, sickly scent of decay as the figure’s full form came into view. He wore a long coat, dark and heavy, its edges caked in mud and streaked with the dried, rust-colored smears of walker blood. The coat’s fabric hung unevenly over his lean frame, torn in places where crude patches of cloth and leather attempted to hold it together. His hands were bare, the knuckles split and red, as though they had seen far too much use against both the living and the dead.

But it was his face that gave Doc pause.

The sharp lines of his features were partially obscured by streaks of dirt and dried blood. A faint layer of stubble darkened his jawline, blending with the grime on his skin. His brown eyes were cold, unsettlingly sharp, and locked onto her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. A smear of blood—fresh—traced the edge of his brow, disappearing into his short, neatly cut brown hair, which somehow remained untouched by the chaos that covered the rest of him.

More disturbing was the way his coat and boots glistened in places, patches of gore clinging to them as if he had waded through the carnage of walkers, not just avoided them. Thin strands of flesh—barely noticeable but sickening once seen—clung to the seams of his coat. He had blended with the dead, hiding among them, a grotesque trick that made Doc’s stomach turn.

So, he was indeed who she had spotted back there.

Even from this distance, there was an air of control about him, a calm that didn’t belong in a world where survival demanded chaos and fear. It set her on edge.

“I said stop!” she barked again, her voice trembling with anger, but her finger steadied on the trigger.

The figure tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of curiosity flickering across his otherwise impassive face. His gaze dropped briefly to the rifle aimed at his chest before returning to her, his posture shifting as though weighing his options.

He didn’t answer her.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above, the distant groans of walkers carried with it, growing closer. Doc’s chest heaved with shallow breaths as the silence stretched between them.

Her eyes darted to the bag slung over his shoulder.

“What’s in the bag?” she demanded, her voice rising to fill the silence, “And who the hell are you?”

The man’s lips twitched faintly, not quite a smile but the ghost of something that made her skin crawl. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder, his movements slow and deliberate, as though to show he wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

“Supplies,” he said at last, his tone low and measured. His accent—a faint trace of something Eastern European—added a layer of dissonance to the single word.

Doc’s jaw tightened.

“My supplies,” she shot back, her anger bubbling to the surface, “You stole them. You brought the horde down on us.”

The man’s pout deepened the unease curling in her chest. His shrug was almost dismissive, but it was cut short by a sharp flinch, his hand twitching toward the bloodied side of his coat. Doc’s gaze flicked to the dark stain spreading there, her mind registering more of the injury even as her anger refused to abate.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” he said evenly, his tone bordering on indifference.

Her grip on the rifle tightened, the cold metal grounding her in the face of his maddening calm.

“Don’t lie to me,” she snapped, her voice rising, “That bag—you got it from the fire station. It’s ours. You tore through our shelter and left us for dead.”

The slightest hint of amusement played across his face, though it was hard to tell if it was real or just part of the mask he seemed to wear so effortlessly.

“I did what was necessary,” he said, tilting his head slightly as he met her gaze. His tone was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried an undercurrent of steel, “You understand that, no? Survival demands... Adaptability.”

Adaptability my ass, Doc’s breath hitched as his words sank in. Stripping them of their supplies and drawing the horde straight to their door? That was adaptability?

In her world, that was called stealing.

“You put my friends in danger,” she spat, her voice trembling with barely restrained fury, “If they’re dead—”

“Then it is not because of me,” he interrupted, his voice cutting through hers like a blade.

The calm precision of his words made her falter. He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t plead or defend himself. He simply stated it, as though it were fact.

Doc’s hands shook, the rifle trembling in her grip. Her mind raced, torn between the instinct to pull the trigger and the gnawing doubt creeping in at the edges of her anger. He wasn’t wrong. The walkers were coming, and they had been closing in even before she’d reached the fire station. But that didn’t absolve him. Not when her friends were still missing.

“And why shouldn’t I shoot you right now, you fucker?”

The man’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression sobering. He shifted slightly, his hand brushing against his wounded side as he straightened.

“Because,” he said, his tone measured, “we are both still standing here. If you shoot, it will only bring the horde's attention to us.”

Doc’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding as the weight of his words pressed against her better judgment. He wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t begging for his life. He was stating facts, and that infuriated her even more.

Her finger hovered over the trigger, the weight of the rifle almost comforting in her hands. The logical part of her mind screamed at her to pull it—to end this before he had the chance to turn on her. But the sound of the groans in the distance, carried on the sharp winter wind, kept her grounded. He wasn’t wrong. One shot, and the horde would come straight for the tower. And with the way they were closing in, there wouldn’t be time to outrun them.

He tilted his head again, watching her with an infuriating calm, as though he could sense her internal struggle. His piercing blue-gray eyes were unflinching, almost clinical, like he was dissecting her every move.

“You are angry,” he said, his tone devoid of apology but filled with a maddening level of understanding, “That is fair. I would be too. But anger will not help you find your friends. It will not help you survive.”Doc let out a sharp, bitter laugh, the sound cracking against the tension like shattering glass.

“Don’t act like you’re doing me a favor,” she snapped, her voice trembling with the force of her frustration. “You stole from us. You put us in this position.”

“Perhaps,” he conceded with a faint nod, his voice still maddeningly even. “But I am not the reason your friends are not here. The world is cruel enough without your help in laying blame.”

Son of a bitch.

Her knuckles whitened around the rifle, her chest heaving as she fought to keep her emotions in check. The rational part of her mind screamed that every second spent talking to him was a second wasted. But the truth—raw and unforgiving—dug into her like a blade: how would she find Sam, Natasha and Bucky? She had no idea where they could have gone.

He must have noticed the slight falter in her stance because his voice softened, the sharp edge of his tone giving way to something almost persuasive.

“Think about it,” he continued, gesturing faintly to the dark stain spreading across his side. “You want to find your friends, right? I need help treating this, because I’m not a doctor myself.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, “But I saw you back there taking those vials, you seem to know something or two about it. We can help each other. Or we can die here, arguing over what cannot be undone.”

Doc’s stomach churned, the truth of his words twisting like a knife in her gut.

She didn’t trust him. She couldn’t. But he was right.

Her friends could be anywhere, and the supplies she had weren’t enough to see her through on her own. Despite not trusting him, she wasn’t a tracker either, she had no clue how to find them.

Her voice was quieter when she spoke again, though it still carried the edge of her anger, “How do I know you won’t turn on me the second I patch you up?”

The flicker of a smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I could have killed you already if that were my intention,” he said simply. “But I didn’t. That should count for something, no?”

He was referring back to the fire station, when she had found him. You didn’t because it would bring the attention of the walkers to you, she dared say it out loud.

However, she got a glimpse of a dagger clinged in him. He could have easily sneaked up on her and killed her right there.

Damn.

She didn’t respond, her glare burning into him as she weighed her options. He shifted slightly, wincing as the movement pulled at his injury. Despite his calm exterior, she could see the subtle signs of pain etched into his features—the tension in his jaw, the faint sheen of sweat on his brow.

“If you kill me,” he added, his voice dropping lower, “You lose your only ally in finding them. And if I die, well, that would be my problem, I guess.”

Doc’s lips parted, a retort on the tip of her tongue, but the sound of the horde cut through her thoughts like a warning. The groans were closer now, their low, guttural chorus blending with the distant rustle of movement through the trees.

Time was slipping through her fingers, and she knew it.

She let out a sharp breath, lowering the rifle slightly but keeping it trained on him.

“Fine,” she bit out, the word heavy with reluctant resolve, “But if you even think about double-crossing me—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted, his tone clipped but sincere, “I am a man of my word.”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or scream at the audacity of his claim. A man of his word? He’d just admitted to stealing from her, to taking supplies that didn’t belong to him. But the alternative was clear. She could kill him, call the walkers down on herself, and hope to find her friends alone—or she could take the gamble.

Her hands shook as she pulled the satchel off her shoulder, the supplies inside rattling faintly.

“Climb,” she ordered, nodding toward the nearest flat surface—a weathered bench that looked as though it might collapse under his weight, “Quick, don’t worry about the wound, I will take care of it once you are up here.”

He complied without argument, though the effort was clearly taxing on him. His eyes narrowed briefly in pain as he shifted, but he moved with the grace of someone used to enduring hardship. As he climbed, his movements were slow, deliberate, clearly trying not to strain his injury further. The bench creaked under his weight, but it held, albeit barely.

“This doesn’t mean I trust you,” she muttered loudly enough for him to hear, her eyes still fixed on him.

“I would be disappointed if you did,” he replied instantly, the smirk never leaving his face. He was far too calm, too confident—something about that smugness made her blood run cold, but she couldn’t afford to focus on that now.

The wind howled through the shattered panes above them, the moans of the walkers growing louder with every passing second. The sound was unnerving, distant but unmistakably close. Her stomach churned as she tried to ignore the gnawing sense of urgency that gnawed at her from every direction.

This was a risk—a dangerous one—but it was a risk she had to take. For her friends. For herself.

She needed to find them. She needed to find Bucky. He and that injury... she couldn’t say for how long he would be okay without the antibiotics. And he couldn’t afford to wait much longer. His arm—his right arm—had been torn off, the injury severe. And without the proper care, it would only get worse.

Worse, she still had no idea where Steve, Wanda, and Vision were.

And as she wondered about all of that, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of his gaze on her, cold and calculating, as though he were already thinking five steps ahead.

Good for him, Doc thought with herself, because I always think ten steps ahead.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I hope it’s not too late to request something for the Directors Commentary thing

If not can I request director’s commentary for the Vampire Au?

It is never too late to ask me to comment on my work :D (I still have your vampire au request by the way. I am just stewing on it.)

Vampire AU

Not entirely sure where this AU stemmed from. Its been long enough that I've largely forgotten. I think though that I saw some art, as per usual. The AU itself could have gone hundreds of ways, and quite frankly I want to at some point dig into how the change in origin affects Cybertronians and their culture on a deeper level. However it has always been fun messing with it and how the kids being transformed could go.

Overall I have some details I just never got the chance to chuck in the AU itself. One of those details? No young that are folded turn out looking like their parents, not exactly. That's not how the process works. Rather it is a genetic lottery going back through the ages. A bloodline contains millions of others who lived and died as part of it. Their genetic code carries over, scrambles, and produces a unique sparkling. Of course a sparkling will take on some traits of their Sire, mainly the most notable traits though.

Optimus, being a Prime, donated plenty of his energon over the millennia to aid in folding for Autobot and Decepticon alike. While not too terribly obvious, his bloodline can be seen across the stars in the wide and unique optics of those who accepted his energon donations. Not to mention the plethora of mecha who inherited his particular brand on slim waist. There is not a spark who wants to admit it, but at this point with their numbers being so thin, every other mech who was folded during the war is related to Optimus in bloodline, if only distantly.

There have been a few who got some of Ratchet's energon alongside Optimus's and because of that, there is a running joke that Optimus and Ratchet are trying to build an army of children together.

They claim its coincidence.

Arcee has only donated energon once, but it is PAINFULLY obvious who her descendant is. Flamewar is simply too much like her energon donor for mecha to not see the similarities.

[1w1wbigher06fan]

MegaOP Ficlet “ Memory”

Little fan fiction I originally worked for MegaOp week but completely forgot the other days. Fits into my Transformers Sam Witwicky/Rodimus Prime AU for Transformers Prime Enjoy! Fan Fiction under the cut.

Optimus rubbed the bridge of his nose as he decided it was time to take a break from signing paperwork. A small noise from the corner of his office made him look down as in the play pen his son was crawling around clearly bored of the mostly utilitarian office space. “ Rodimus” Optimus’s soothing voice quickly caught the red and orange sparkling attention as the little one let out a warble, tilting his helm as his finals flopped over to the right a little more. Holding a toy rattle in his hand the sparkling let out an excited squeak as the doors to the Primes office opened and said rattle in the sparklings hand went flying towards the poor unfortunate  bot who had poked his head in to ask a question. “ Prime do you have the paperwork for—- oh scrap” at the last minute Prowls’s sensors picked up in the flying projectile before it smacked him squared in the face. 

The sparkling was silent for a minute before a peel of laughter and he rolled onto his back his stubby arms trying to grab his feet as he wiggled and rolled around on the floor. Clearly pleased with himself. “ He’s his sire’s son alright,” Prowl rubbed the spot where he got hit as loud and booming foot falls sounded behind him. “ He inherited my precision aim it seems,” Megatron grinned as he patted Prowl on the back apologetically the tactician as he moved to scoop his rather rambunctious son up into his arms.

“ Roddy careful with those claws-ouch” Megatron winced a little as the tiny bot’s razor thin claws dug harmlessly into his sires armor, climbing up the grey and purple mech’s arm before gracelessly situating himself between his sires neck and shoulder pauldron. His favorite spot to observe the world from. Chirping victoriously the sparkling settled in as his finals flicked back and forth in excitement.

Prowl smirked a bit at the little one’s antics. Megatron only pretended to be hurt to build Roddy’s confidence in himself. During Optimus’s pregnancy the two of them had been watching a documentary on Earth’s wildlife when a segment showed how Lion fathers would pretend to be in pain when there cubs play bite and pounce to encourage them to build their survival skills.

Megatron took that tidbit of knowledge to heart and surprised his mate with how well it actually worked. Then again Bumblebee was a very different sparkling then Roddy. The former warlords optics softened briefly pride swelling in his spark, nuzzling his son as the little one trilled happily.

——- 

Rodimus closed the holo vid as his spark instinctively reached out for his carriers as he sent pulses of love to them, which was received equal and yet more powerful pulses from opposite ends of the bond. :: We love you our little miracle, we’ll be home soon.;; Optimus’s warmth filled the red mech’s frame as he finally was able to drift off into a peaceful recharge in the first time for a long time. 

[splendidbadger]

GodDAMMIT i just thought up ANOTHER transformers continuity in my head. Is Hot Rod the mc again? Yes!!!! I love HIM!!!

I don’t have much yet but basically

The wars been over for like 50 years now and Cybertronians are stuck on Earth, for one reason or another the All Spark was destroyed after being yeeted through a space bridge, and Cybertron was thought to be lost. However they end up picking up signals across space that could possibly be the fragments of the All Spark. Optimus and the others in charge decide to send a group to look for the missing fragments.

Ik for SURE Hot Rod is sent and given the matrix (that wont currently open for him) by Optimus because he explains while he could be a Prime during war, he’s not meant to be a Prime during peace and wants Hot Rod to inherit the position as he believes with his charisma he can unify everyone. They have a very father son relationship in this I feel.

Additionally Ultra Magnus HAS to go bc your boy is OBSESSED with Ultrarod so hard. Also literally no one trusts Hot Rod not to fuck this up horribly.

As they travel the stars they’re meant to pick up other Cybertronians, collect the All Spark fragments, and I’m thinking they come across old artifacts of different Primes that result in Hot Rod going through trials with his team to both prove and show him he’s worthy of being a Prime.

If anyone has suggestions for the main cast I’m all ears- I’m heavily considering making a Knockout for this AU as the medic who pulled the smallest straw

[catcake24]

So I have this transformers au. I’ve been working on it for awhile but not really planning on doing much with it lol. So here it is. I like to call it my “Oops all Ocs au”, or “Quintesson Occupation AU”

So here’s the basics: This universe takes place wayyyyy back during the time quintessons took over Cybertron and was using it as a factory. The Cybertronians themselves don’t even realize they can think and feel, because the quintessons basically install their own viruses which suppress emotional and critical thought.

However, these viruses don’t work super well anyways. It’s hard to keep a living being from seeing its own living nature, so instead they also have manufactured a narrative that “you are all unthinking machines”. So many Cybertronians who manage to break out of the virus think they are defective machines, and are scared of stepping out of line and being scrapped.

This is where our main character comes in - M-572-456. Or M for short. He’s a warframe, and slowly regains his consciousness alongside his brother F-572-456 (or F for short). At first, they both think they are the only ones - defective machines who have gained free thought. M is smart though, and slowly realizes that he and his brother aren’t alone in their consciousness. There are defectives everywhere, in every level of manufacturing and products. Eventually, he and F join a small group of defectives who meet when the Quintessons are asleep.

Things are good enough for awhile, with this group gaining more members slowly and they start an escape plan. When they do manage to escape however, it quickly becomes clear how much bigger this is than just their small group when they meet a nice bot named A-3.

A-3 is an archivist, data management for the “factory”, and has uncovered something drastic. He found out on his own after gaining his own consciousness that the Quintessons aren’t their masters or creators, they’re invaders. This planet existed before them and it’s likely bots like them did as well, but Quintessons took over the planet and destroyed almost all of their history and only saved the old blueprints medics made of their bodies. M doesn’t quite believe it, but the evidence that A-3 has is staggering, and believes that at least the quintessons are aware that they have a habit of developing free thought and have been violently trying to suppress it.

M eventually decides this can’t stand anymore, thinking of all his friends and brothers in the facility he just fled from. How they all deserve freedom like he now has. So, he rallies all the bots he can into a group to fight for all their freedoms (something A-3 was struggling to do) and chooses a name for himself. Megatronus, the freedom fighter.

Now, taking a step back, I’m gonna explain the larger timeline quickly:

- Megatronus isn’t a prime in this AU, but a well known historical figure. He’s the one who helped unite their people together, which is why Megatron named himself after this figure.

- The primes themselves are a title rather than a demigod like in some continuities, and Optimus is the 13th prime so far. The order these primes are: Prima, Primos, Prime Nova, Solus Prime, Nexus Prime, Guardian Prime, Megatronic Prime, Alchemist Prime, Onyx Prime, Micronus Prime, Zeta Prime, Sentinel Prime, Optimus Prime. Each one inherited the matrix at some point, and after Optimus would be Rodimus.

- Megatronic takes the place of the “fallen” prime instead of Megatronus, and is known as the fallen because he betrayed the Autobots for the Decepticons leading to a military dictatorship which Alchemist Prime was apart of and eventually was the one to end it.

- the whole theme of this AU is that the Cybertronian race has been in a cycle of war and peace since the quintessons were expelled from their planet, that every time they find peace again it becomes corrupt and the other side rises up again. The Decepticons and Autobots have been at war ever since they first expelled the quintessons, but it stops and starts again over and over.

- the Most recent war, the one we all know of between Megatron and Optimus Prime, has only been going on for a thousand years. But for millions of years before that, their race has been divided.

- A-3 mentioned above is obviously young Alpha Trion, and he’s old as dirt in this au. No one else matches his age, and he’s only been around for so long due to tenacity, medical assistance, and divine intervention. He’s the one to find the Matrix of Leadership after Megatronus’ death, and becomes the guardian of it with a special connection to Primus.

- Primus in this AU isn’t literally a god, but more like an elder being which is close to a god. His body was found while he was dead/sleeping, and the Quintessons used it to create their factory after eliminating all the beings living on it. This made Primus mad, but he couldn’t do much about it after he woke up. He created several artifacts in his core, where the Auintessons couldn’t get them: among them was Vector Sigma. This supercomputer is important because it can program life and consciousness, something no other computer can do. So Primus sent pulses out from Vector Sigma for centuries, which is how so many Cybertronians were able to gain consciousness despite the Quintessons best efforts.

Back to the story, Megatronus founds his group the Warcons who lead the resistance with all those who can fight. A-3 handles more covert missions, which the Domestibots handle. These two groups were always apart of the Cybertronian resistance, but would eventually become the Autobots and Decepticons.

They would find ways around the virus the Quintessons used, and fight for their planet over a gruelling three thousand years. However, Megatronus never gave up hope that they could be free and his hope was infectious. After his death, the resistance continued with his closest friends leading the charge. A-3 would travel down into the planet, looking for secret tunnels they could use, but would return with the matrix.

One of Megatronus’ friends was an ambitious but also kinda crazy guy, a former gladiator for the entertainment of the Quintessons. A-3 would approach him with the Matrix, and told him that it was an artifact which would give them great power but also be a great burden. It would keep his memories and part of his being alive forever, and pass on whatever wisdom he had to the next bearer. This way, they might be able to win against the Quintessons.

He took it without a second thought, and became the first Prime - Prima.

From here, the story gets more blurry in my mind. Basically the matrix gives Prima a direct line of contact to Primus, which he tells everyone who will listen and is how the matrix becomes the basis for religion on Cybertron. A-3, now Alpha Trion, makes more excursions down and brings back more artifacts as well - among them the Sword of the Protector.

After Prima’s death, Primos would choose a Warcon to lead their resistance alongside his Domestibots, as the divide between them as been growing bigger and bigger over time. He became the first Lord High Protector of Cybertron, and finally these two would finally expel the Quintessons from their planet.

After this, they make sure to have Alpha Trion write all the history of this war down for future generations. The pair spend the rest of their lives trying to bring the newly named Destrons and Protectobots back together as a people, and would somewhat succeed, but all would unravel after their deaths.

Megatronus never knew, that when he and A-3 would divide their forces it would become a chasm which would rip their people apart for millions of years.

This was a lot of the bigger ideas and plot I had for this AU, but I might make more posts about things like the primes, the lord high protectors, and more miscellaneous stuff. This is a BIG au, but I don’t have much to use it for aside from planning fanfics lol.

[kandy-sticks-zaza-blogs]

If you're wondering who is Y/N team up with during war while getting split up for strategy well... it's Sentinel Prime yep... anyway....

Sentinel

A prime with a big ego and pride.

Look at our captain dawg we're gonna die.😭

Have a bad luck encountering alot of Decepticons.

Jettwins {Jetstorm & Jetfire}

Will yapping you to death since they both talked alot and gossip about the drama.

Both are inseparable since they are both twins brother and matching eachother colours but they are both troublemaker.

They are Sentinel Prime best bodyguard since they are acrobatic.

Dion

Wasn't supposed to be here bro just wants to be with his besties.

Is tired of everyone bullcrap let the mech rest.

Will give you advice, have to handle everything and teach you to fight.

Perceptor

The smartest in the group full of dumbasses and one killer.

A yapper who will explained you about science and make everyone bored.

Is good at shooting with a sniper that's the reason why he is forced joined in Sentinel group.

Pharma

Unhinged Psycho Medic.

Probably a sadistic psycho that loves to freak everyone out.

Don't worry he have a shock collar to be tamed so he wouldn't attack everyone with a chainsaw also his wings are disabled since they put restraints on him.

Cliffjumper

The most chaotic mf on the team.

Just wanted to be with his brother and get mistaken as Bumblebee.

He brought out the big guns (like a large one.)

[leaofthewolves]

Splathammer (Warhammer 30k x Splattoon) Part 1:

Honestly, I have had this AU on my mind for a while...

The Emperor of Mankind failed. He was unable to prevent humanity from destroying itself, despite the massive powers that he possessed.. not even he could prevent the rising of the ocean tides, nor the driving of humans underground.

He had revealed himself too late, albeit despite the humans despairing for a miracle. He watched as the last few humans died off. He had some idea of how and where his perpetuals were, but as far he had concern, as much as he hated it.. he had to move on.

He remained in the shadows, watching as the new species grow and change. The new species, although humanoid in appearance only two had the ability to transform into what was known as squids and octpi within his time of the earth.

In order to blend in, he used his biomancy to assume the prime form of their species, yet keeping somewhat of his more human features. However, despite the new races' inherited a shattered earth, they adapted it, and made it their own.

It surprised him, that they had created little miracles of their own... a large catfish to be able to produce enough electricity to power tons of cities, ink based weapons that were based on human tools that were long gone.

He witnessed the Great Turf War, where the octopus based amog them were driven underground, like the humans before them. In his heart, He thought that they should have won given their numbers and the odd way that they can reproduce.

To make sure that his plans went through, he went underground, but within the places that he knew that Octopus species would not touch. Although, his resources were limited, he had heard about the power of the Golden Eggs. So, he went on his own hunt, it was a ripe opportunity to get used to this form, and gain some of that precious resource.

He used it wisely, and crafted 20 beings like him... although it took almost a ton of his great power, and unfortunately... two of them didn't survive... He had to rest and he let the Golden Eggs power his creations.

Lion El Johnson

Species: Octarian

Alias: The Great Salmonid Hunter

Weapon Choice: Grizzco Splatana

Special of Choice: Ink Armor/ Reef Slider

He was one of the first to awaken after time gestating within his test tube. The lab in which he was "born" was rather dark and gloomy. Still, he was. he left the lab, and somehow used his senses to make his way above ground. Unfortnately, during that time... a Great Salmonid Migration was in process...

Millions of them, were rushing throughout the roads... each biting and chewing on anything they could get their fins on. Lion even noticed with great shock the some had consumed their fellows.

Despite this, he noted a worker fall, their clothing dissipated as they cried out in pain. His shock turned to rage as he grabbed the worker's fallen weapon and turned his rage upon the Salmoniods...

Eventually through many hours of hacking.. many corpses lay beside them. Including some Smallfry, which he took the time to crush underfoot. However, when he had turned to see the new species that came to embrace him after what he did... every thing just felt wrong.... And so... he left them.

Currently, Lion is trying to hunt down the hideouts of the Salmonoids, while using their precious golden eggs as bait.

Fulgrim

Alias: None

Weapon of Choice: Dapple Dualies, Dynamo Roller (if hes in a mood), InkBrush

Species: Inkling

Special of Choice: Ultra Stamp

Fulgrim was the second to emerge from his tube, but took a different path from his brothers. He made his way throughout the underground but arrived in Inkopolis.

Although he was a foreigner and had little memory in the city, he adapted to its culture well, and enjoyed his time after fighting in Turf Wars. In that, he realized that he was scarily good with that, it even got worse for his foes when he had picked up and settled on his main weapon of choice.

Currently, he is X ranked in almost every mode, despite using some of the worse weapons and kits within. In fact, many a team if their of whispers that he would be playing often forfiet out of fear.

When out of Turf Wars, he is a great artist, often using a modified Inkbrush and his own ink to create masterpieces. They are often abstract in nature.

Despite the fame of being so great...the X ranked matched sometimes get boring... and often he switches to his other weapon, the Dynamo. He purposely picked this weapon, as he had heard an off color comment about a player's intelligence if they used this weapon.

Perturabo

Alias: The Shelled Builder

Weapon Choice: None

Special Choice: Modifed Ink Armor

Species: Horsecrab/Octarian Hybrid

Perturabo was alive. He felt some level of higher awareness due to kind. He burst out of his tank and walked out of the underground. He noted that at least two of the other tanks were broken... there were others like him... but they were gone. He turned to the others still gestating.

He made a perfect mental note of their faces... he would come back.. yet they were not ready. Still... he had to escape.

He wandered the Underground endlessly, until he picked up a tune. A simple 5 tune jingle. Somehow he knew in his heart that it meant something. He followed the tune and arrived at a patrol.

They uttered something and he tried to recite the tune back to him, but all it uttered was confused. Still, the patrol went and brought him into the Octarian underground domes where they lived.

There he grew, and learned... He learned much about weapon design and armor and specials... He was promoted quickly. He had studied all that he had known about inklings and their weapons based on the data.

However all that changed when, he got news that he could be promoted no further... and for what... His heart was full of wrath and bitterness... Why couldn't he be apart of the elite...At that

Still he continued... the only times where he felt some level of joy was when his "leader" got captured by the Inklings...

Currently, he is still in the underground making wholely unspeakable weapons for the renewed war effort, and slowly making plans to overthrow and rule Octarian society.

[pastelpaperplanes]

He was supposed to just be a headshot I swear 😭😭

Anyways meet Sentinel’s Sire Virtus

In his younger days he was an aspiring cadet, top of his class and most swordsmanship marks and absolutely one of the Academy’s most sought after heartthrobs.

In a way, he always dresses to impress having a near blinding polish everywhere he goes, as well as having a fighting style based more on grace and agility rather than brutish strength.

Vitus is extremely driven having jumped the gun on the competition for becoming the next Magnus and instead shooting for a position on the war council. While he is extremely sensitive about being admired and adored, he knew that a councilman position would likely give him an upper hand in executing the less ‘morally appropriate’—but ‘necessary’ missions without the duty of having his face plastered on every tough call. A handsome face and charming personality proved to be a fantastic mask for the corruption that lied beneath.

His sheer ambition is something to be admired—but at times it has been enough to lead him to do very terrible things. Virtus can easily put on the ruse of a calm, nice and polite bot at times, he quickly reveals himself to be a bloodthirsty monster when questioned or provoked.

Virtus met his conjunx Merit while in the middle of his political campaign. The young mech was on a few classes behind Virtus during his academy days and proved himself to be a commendable Prime and dashing sparkmate to have at his side during his running. How those two made it work, no one quite knows—but it was sure that Virtus was attached to this mech and was not afraid to flaunt it on the cameras or interviews.

Their romance resulted in an abrupt halt to Virtus’ running when the two announced that Merit was carrying—and that all of Virtus’ time and focus was now owed to the Carrier of his sparkling. However—this poster-perfect story came to a tragic end when the sweet Carrier died due to complications during their son’s emergence. Something about there being stress-induced premature emergence.

Merit’s death shattered the last bit of innocence that Virtus may have had. With confused protocols on the frenzy on top of dealing with a torn bond, Vitus felt practically no love or interest in his newspark son—blaming Sentinel for taking his Merit away so cruelly.

Sentinel grew up with a vacant and cold Sire, and no Carrier to call his own. Despite the confusion of the public, Virtus immediately announced his campaign yet again not long after his loss, leaving his Newspark stunted of a completed Sire’s bond—and later practically having little to no relationship with his son in the years to come.

Despite knowing deep down that there was nothing that he could do or say to win the approval—let alone affection of his Sire, Sentinel never did stop trying to make an effort even if he was silenced or cast cold glares with every attempt. Sentinel could safely say that being shipped off to an early academy was the best moment of his life after he finally could breathe without the judgement of his Sire.

However, being so starved for attention, Sentinel built quiet the reputation for himself in those academy days being dubbed the School House Bully—he didn’t care about the label, he finally had the spotlight he’d desperately craved with more than a handful of nasty characteristics, comments, and mentalities at his disposal that he so attentively picked up from his Sire.

Needless to say with hardly even trying, Virtus had warped his son into a miniature monster—well on his way to becoming just like him.

[blueikeproductions]

I’ve been seeing debates on whether Hasbro should do a remake/continuation of G1’s cartoon. While most have said no for one reason or another, citing the poor reception to MOTU: R and the mixed reception to X-Men in particular, I’m more curious on the matter. While I agree we don’t need it, part of me really wants Hasbro to do it just to see what they’d do with it.

I’ve seen some point out there wouldn’t be toys to sell for it, but my rebuttal is that’s what Legacy/Prime Generations is for. Basically just have this hypothetical show be the WFC/PW equivalent. One MAJOR stipulation: it must be tonally in line with the original cartoon and Transformers Devastation. Make this an all ages, but especially kid friendly show. None of that nonsense PW/WFC did. In fact keep those writers away from it, bring in Simon Furman, Flint Dille & Bob Budiansky to throw in some sexy adjectives and be script supervisors/editors to the new staff.

As for the plot, it depends on what they’d do: full remake-AU or continuation. The later would be simpler I think, just following up on what Galvatron and Zarak have been up to and the Autobots’/humanity’s reaction to it.

No matter what they’d do I feel like Hasbro would insist on lite retcons that include the 13 Primes and their Relics, which in turn fuel Galvatron and Zarak’s ambitions, while Optimus and Hot Rod have shared premonitions about the history of the Prime lineage, revealing in the cartoon universe, the thirteen primes were the prototypes the Quintessons developed after the Trans-Organics, with the Prime relics being Quintesson tools the Primes inherited after the Quints were driven off Cybertron. The Quints aren’t particularly happy their own tools are being uncovered, let alone seeing Galvatron using the Forge to upgrade his troops into Micromasters, Action Masters, & Pretenders. It becomes a race to see who collects the relics, with the Autobots determined to stop the Quintessons and Decepticons from abusing this ancient power. All the while, Solus Prime, Alchemist Prime and Quintus Prime are watching from the sidelines, the last survivors of the ancient Primes. And because Furman, there’d be a bit in here about Grimlock being a vessel for Onyx Prime temporarily, lol.

A clean slate AU could be done any number of ways, though my stipulation would absolutely no Allspark plot, but instead maybe combine elements of Dark of the Moon and Devastation where the factions are looking for the Ferotaxxis, which possess the data necessary to restore Cybertron by producing Synthetic Energon to whoever finds it first. The Ferotaxxis is unearthed by humans meanwhile, who study it and the unearthed Nova Prime, seeing a technological boom as far as the 80’s/90’s are concerned (similar to the Bay films and Sumac Systems in Animated). Nova isn’t particularly pleased at being poked and prodded by what he deems a lazy inferior species, and like Bay Sentinel concocts a scheme to screw over humanity, Optimus’ Autobots and secure the Ferotaxxis to gift Cybertron Earth’s energy. Because Cybertron is all that matters, the devil with anything that gets in the way of it.

The Autobots human friends would be Spike, Carly and Chip, the children of scientists and engineers working on Project O-Part; the O-Part, the Ferotaxxis, reacting to the Autobots and Decepticons presence on Earth.

The plot would then extend to the lineage of the 13 Primes and their relics, as they were things Nova and the Ferotaxxis were privy to, leading to the Autobots and the kids from stopping the Decepticons from getting their hands on the relics, with another wrinkle being added that some countries already found some like Carbomya, and won’t surrender them easily…

Like I said this concept can go any direction, but for a pivoted AU, this is just how I’d do it, going by what I assume Hasbro would still want with the 13 Primes being a component. Elements of Skybound would probably be here too, like Spike and Carly being those designs in particular.

But I think continuing where The Rebirth left off would be the better option, being the easiest to work with and with the already admittedly shoddy continuity of the G1 cartoon, you could pretty effortlessly add aspects of Skybound, IDW (and by that I mean characters like Nova, Rung, Rubble, Termagax, Three Fold Spark, etc) and the modern 13 lore.

Will do they do it? If they’re desperate enough, absolutely, but I don’t know if we’re entirely there yet. It’s getting closer and closer though.

[honestlyvan]

Re: The post-script to the grand Primus-Unicron Conspiracy

I also don’t think Optimus was ever intended to become a Prime byway of the Matrix. It is uncomfortable, knowing that the great experiment was a failure and they needed an immortal to try to bail them out, which explains why all the Matrix does is give him a really bad case of existential depression.

And Megatron, the rising mortal? Could have easily been the first “new” Prime, but the wedge that was driven between him and Optimus ensured that by the time he could have bonded with the Matrix and have it accept him, he was already corrupted by Unicron, and would have just gotten hit with the same kind of existential funk Optimus had to struggle with until the end of his Primacy. He would have been just as much just another immortal who needs to come fix things because the mortals with their free will can’t stop fucking up.

Either way, the tragedy of their lives couldn’t be solved by either of them, and the Matrix is still waiting for a worthy carrier.

[wanlingnic]

As it turns out, I'm still excited about Transformers Beast Wars art, especially with Kingdom coming out soon!

@artsy-hobbitses has a Humanformers AU and we got to talking about what the Beast Wars might have been like in it.

More info under the cut.

When the Quintessons played about on planet earth, they left behind a swathe of land off the coast of Northern Canada terraformed to an immense degree. The island is divided into no less than 5 distinctive biomes, and it's literally possible to step out of a desert and into a blizzard.

The entire setup is held in a tenuous balance by a massive vein of energon that runs underground.

...And the Predacons want it.

The island, dubbed 'No-Man's Land', is barely inhabitable. It's only residents are local wildlife, and the beast-men who are hardy (and expendable) enough to be posted there to study it.

Axolon Base hasn't had active personnel there in a while. With the growing Predacon threat, other questionable experiments, and all outside communication cut off, the Maximals posted to defend No-Man's Land will have their hands full.

Chase Dutoit (aka Cheetor) is a young recruit - the army identified him as a beast shifter when he enlisted. He was offered the chance to enhance his shifting abilities and primed for combat... only to be shuttled off to No-Man's Land, a quiet posting far, far away from active conflict zones. He's a potent mixture of teenage rebellion and immaturity, but with the right guidance, this kid could be somebody.

"Mickey" Mikoshiba (aka, Rattrap) really thought he was going to catch a break in No-Man's Land. Having lived through multiple deadly skirmishes, he has enough conflict to last a lifetime. He's got more self-preservation than charm, but he's also a world-class sharpshooter and tactician. He's prickly, but his heart's in the right place.

Mickey is the only beast-man in a human family (inheriting the mutation from a great aunt, allegedly). He's had a rough time growing up, and isn't keen on going back to Brooklyn anytime soon.

Dean Branagh (aka Dinobot) has funky dinosaur hands, plenty of byronism, and a degree from the Juilliard performing arts programme. Due to beast-man discrimination, he struggled to find his footing in L.A. and the West End. Later, he'd wind up joining a branch of the Decepticons on a wild and very dangerous mission. He intends to fight for a future he wants, or die trying.