#transformers writing

[michygranger23]

Story Idea Time :D!!

OK so recently I've been getting into ASMR videos (I still don't know how given I used to hate them and now we're here XD), but anyways. In some videos they eat these edible rocks/crystals to make sounds and stuff, the exterior is crunchy but the inside is like jelly.

(¬¬This guys over here¬¬)

So when I saw the blue ones, I was like "mmmm, they look a bit like energon.... wait a sec"

(YOU CAN'T TELL ME THIS DOESN'T LOOK LIKE ENERGON!! LIKE THE COLOR AND EVERYTHING IS TOO SIMILAR!!)

(HERE'S A PHOTO FROM THE SHOW FOR COMPARISON. LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME IT DOESN'T LOOK THE SAME XD)

So now I imagine the TFP kids making some DIY edible rocks/candy to simulate they're eating energon!

I think Miko would be the one that has the upper hand in this since one of the ingredients for the recipe comes from Japan (agar agar), so I HC she likes to prepare herself this rocks and brought with her some agar agar so she could make some during her time in America. So when she makes this connection with the energon, she immediately drags along Jack and Raf to make some!

They make some at Jack's home since June wouldn't question the intention of the rocks. And they decide not to tell the bots since they wanted to surprise them (foreshadowing lol!)

Once the rocks are ready (apparently you have to let them rest for almost a week), Jack brings them to the base to share with his friends.

And once they're gonna start indulging in it, the chaos starts lol!

Ratchet, seeing they're about to consume "energon", raw "energon" nonetheless, absolutely panics and almost pushes it out of their hands so they don't intoxicate gkkhhox

Bulkhead would try to make Miko spit it out since she would have acted like a chipmunk that puts the food in it's mouth when startled to run away quickly khchkchk

Arcee would immediately start shouting (in concern, but she's hiding it under anger) at Jack for trying to eat something they know is toxic for humans

Bee would start panicking and almost crashing out thinking Raf is gonna die (again)

I think Optimus would try to calm down everyone and ask the kids why they thought that was a good idea to do (and also panicking on the inside cause wdym his adopted-human-kids-but-can't-say-it were eating raw energon???)

And once the kids explain that no, it's not actual energon, never less raw one, it's a candy that looks like a rock and it's safe to eat, the bots would finally calm down after that sparkache

.... And then it starts again once Miko pulls out a bottle of blueberry water with edible glitter that makes it look like refined energon KGDYYKFHKHOCHO

(¬¬This type of thingy¬¬)

¦

¦

¦

Let me know what you think about this silly idea!! I'm probably gonna try and do a one-shot based on this concept so I can start writing TF fics and getting the hang of writing the characters (and writing in general lol)

[theladyheroine]

General Transformers Prompts ✨💫

❥ Hi everyone! 👋🏽 Considering it’s been awhile since I’ve written anything on here, I came up with these while on a break! They’re inspired by my other mini headcanons, but they don’t follow a set timeline. But I hope you like them, thank you & enjoy!

Long before the war, you were an apprentice of the 13 Primes. Destined to join them once you come of age. You’ve spent a majority of your time studying the history, arts, and culture of your planet. But what happens when you’re in the archives one day, and a mysterious Bot falls through the ceiling?

Before the war, you were a brand new Prime who was appointed to oversee the social system & well being of Cybertron’s citizens. However, when rumors of a war start to spread, you are placed under the protection of the prestigious High Guard.

You are a stray Autobot who got separated from your team after narrowly escaping some Decepticons. You find yourself in an abandoned city but make your way to a massive temple at the center. At first you believe you’re alone, until the temple’s doors open, and a colossal noise erupts from inside.

You are a famous racer from Iacon City, who is currently traveling the galaxy hoping to expand your career. Challenging the fastest speedsters in all of outer space! What happens when you land on Earth, hoping to beat the Autobots’ finest in a race?

You’re walking through Earth’s woodland, looking for something to do, until a massive sound shakes the ground. While definitely frightened, you follow a smoke trail that leads to a large crater. Out of the crater comes a group of strange beings: tall, strong, and covered in metal. For some reason they looked just like you. But before you could process anything, one of them looks in your direction. You’ve been spotted, by aliens no less. Now what?

Quick Author’s Note Here:

❥ The third prompt was super fun to write, so I extended it under the cut. Feel free to read if you want! Thank you! 🙏

Titan/Cityspeaker Prompt

You’re a stray Autobot who got separated from her team after narrowly escaping the Decepticons. When you find yourself in an abandoned city, you rush to find cover. What’s strange is the walls and doors of the city seem to move? As if trying to cover you, hiding you from any airborne threats.

When the Decepticons leave, you find yourself in an abandoned temple with a large glowing machine in the center. You take a step closer, and the chamber starts to quake as the machine glows brighter. Turns out it’s not a machine at all, but a spark chamber! You cover your eyes as the light nearly blinds you. When you open them, you’re floating??

You’re floating in what appears to be outer space, and the image of a fellow Cybertronian appears. Though he is much taller than you, even bigger than Optimus Prime! The Bot speaks in a deep, slow tone when he sees your frightened expression. He offers to explain himself to you: he is a Titan. A colossal being who used to protect a small society of Cybertronians until they had to flee from Decepticons.

The Titan devoted himself to protecting his friends’old home in case they ever came back. As well as helping anyone that came along. Since it’d be awhile before you got in contact with your team, you decided to spend your time getting to know your new friend. 🩷

[crypt2niite]

who wants to read about optimus prime dissasociating and hallucinating about megatron/d-16 and orion pax for 3.3k words!

---

there are expectations, of a prime. of duty- servitude. protection, guidance. he imagines it ought to be stifling- orion pax would have thought it so. optimus wonders if he should find it so as well.

strength is not only his duty, but his birthright. his purpose. war- conflict. protection. battle. he was born into it. he will die amongst it, he assumes.

---

like this, lowered to the ground, hydraulics weakened, gear-locks disengaged- he can almost imagine himself a body the memories of which are abstract and unfamiliar. smaller- sweeter, perhaps.

orion pax was not one to kneel, either.

still, this is as close as he can get to his once self.

there is a ghost, at the edge of his processor, two, if he allows them. three, if he wishes. His beginnings, his eternity, and his enevitible end.

---

red morphs into orange into gold. end into eternity into beginning. into memories that belong not to him- but memories he clings to nontheless

soft optics and a aggrieved smile. optimus is a mech who was born haunted. A ghost of something someone he once knew once knew.

a hand, open and gentle, servos almost brushing against his cheek.

just oh so slightly to the left. a slight tilt of the helm is all it would take to shatter the illusion in front of him.

he refrains. permits himself imagine the hollow sound of metal tapping against metal. instead of silence, air brushing by his finials

---

'you look like him, like this. You know.'

'like orion.' (lies)

If he could reply. bring himself to online his voice module, respond to this haunting of his own mind- of orions spark. what would he say?

orion is dead. you killed him

'It was orions fault, though.'

'he got in the way.'

yeah.

---

knelt low, servos curled to his thighs,fans halted and processes slowed.

Like this, optimus could almost be mistaken for a statue. not particularly serene, but -

there is a tension to him. he arose to war. forged for battle. it is inate.

---

If it had been orion in his place-

---

blue optics stare at up him, bright and sweet.

optimus wants to hate him, hate him almost as much as he pities him.

one half of his beginning.

a spark that lays within his own. intertwined- smothered, protected, maybe. he wonders how much of him is orion. how much of orion was him.

slowly coaxing closed. he will smother what is left, eventually. it is not a relief.

---

he loved you. He wants to say it, wants to online his optics and his vocals and see this non-existent spectre that has been passed onto him by orion pax.

wants to shout at it this truth that he was born into. wants to profess the love of a mech that died for his birth for a mech that died for the same over and over again.

as if that truth couldve changed anything, couldve saved d-16 and orion pax. couldve stopped the spark that resides in his chest from curling and twisting into that of a prime. into himself.

---

back into orange into red.

"I love you I love you I love you I love you"

It beats in his chest like a drum

not only had orion left him his ghosts, he had left his love, and as orion died and so rose optimus, so did d-16 die, and so rose megaton.

was it so strange, then? that the love that orion pax held so dearly to his spark, died as well, and so rose for optimus prime, love. as well?

---

blue shutters into life. He turns his attention elsewhere. He remains a coward. does not want to view the nothing that he knows is there.

---

[thegrinningghost]

I cannot explain clearly my absolute adoration and love for this fanfic you guys I SWEAR—

Press on the Gas Pedal and Accelerate, Baby + all its fanart and its author I SWEAR I constantly send y’all so much love, this was the best thing I ever stumbled across

[wortsandall]

Ratchet scans Drift's face, pausing to map out each feature he hadn't seen in so long. Proving that he's here, alive and safe and tangible. Not a dream or fantasy, not a nightmare made out of past mistakes, but another chance to have this. And Ratchet's finally allowed to be selfish. He's allowed to reach for it with both hands, damn everybody else. There's no war to fight, no patients to care for. Just the mech in front of him and the time they have now.

What was he thinking before, of course he knew this mech.

He's right here in front of him so close he could touch, his plating inches away from his servos if he were to reach out. He's so different from the mech he once knew, more confident, more sure, but so much like him too. Not just in looks-his white plating with red accents, his finials, those damned vibrant optics-but in his devotion, his humor. His gentleness despite the violence he knows so intimately, maybe even in spite of it.

Ratchet finally finds his words, resetting his vocalizer as he leans forward, closing the gap between them until mere centimeters separate their plating. “I didn’t tell you to stop.”

[mushmetre]

Thinking too hard about Transformers: Anatomy

The MTMTE/LL universe probably has my favourite canon take on Cybertronian anatomy, but the one thing that kind of bugs me is the existence of “nervecircuits.”

It seems to exist to make the characters feel the bodily pain they go through, but for transformers/robot characters in general, I don’t think it makes much sense for their species to have this, or is necessary.

Don’t get me wrong, the body horror in the series is phenomenal. But I think it all still works fine without the implication that Cybertronians have robo-nerves? Like the decapitated Ratchet scene was so effective because he woke up and couldn’t feel anything wrong with his body and the horror hits like a truck when it’s revealed what Pharma did to him.

(From MTMTE issue #18)

(From MTMTE issue #19)

Like I said before, I don’t really understand this when I think about it. The implications I read from these panels are:

1. They have “nervecircuitry” - this likely is circuitry that lines the bodies of Cybertronians that allow them to feel pain and other sensations

2. They have the ability to re-route nervecircuits somewhere else in their frame

3. From the decapitated Ratchet scene, there is some way to block all nervecircuitry. Or perhaps they cannot “feel” anything when they are offline/in stasis?

Why wouldn’t they constantly have their nervecircuits turned off when they’re war machines and constantly being torn apart and wrecked? And okay, I’ll turn to human anatomy for the answer: pain allows us to understand that something is wrong with our body and lets us know where and how to fix it. So it’s probably the same with Cybertronians. Maybe they turn their nervecircuits off for battle (though if I remember correctly, there are cases where characters are expressing pain during battle, and also why would Ambulon even have his on in this scene?) and then after battle when they are being treated by the medic, they are turned back on to diagnose what is wrong.

But… there are in-universe ways to diagnose what is wrong that work much better in my opinion? They are super robots. I’m sure they are advanced enough to get an error message flashed on their optics when a piston breaks or whatever (I think we’ve seen that in canon as well… I cannot think of an example rn though). And we constantly see bots hooked up to medical gizmos in medbays or scanned with doohickies by medics… we have also seen bots blown up and offline that medics are able to fix back up without them expressing their pain. If they had physical lines/circuitry throughout their frames dedicated to feeling, they would constantly be shredded to bits and impractical.

I do like the canon choice of Cybertronian’s sparks being able to feel touch. This to me makes more sense than them having pain receptors, and also scratches the itch of still allowing them to be physically intimate with each other that we all crave (I love the concept of spark-merging as a form of sex/intimateness/tender vulnerability).

(From MTMTE issue #19)

A lot of fics I’ve read use the idea that Cybertronians can feel touch, and I situate that within what I call “sticky universe anatomy.” The sticky universe encompasses any Transformers fan work that subscribes to elements from sticky sexual interfacing headcanons. Fanfics may not include any sexual content, but they might use anatomy headcanons that come from wanting Transformers to have sex. There isn’t anything wrong with that (I for one like to partake in this literature from time to time) but it relies on giving them human attributes and human bodily functions which for me personally, provides a disconnect that these are alien robots, and I lie awake at night overthinking Cybertronian anatomy (Ok but seriously, someone explain to me the conundrum of Cybertronian mouth anatomy). I have read a few fics that justify sticky sexual anatomy in great detail, but none that have justified the idea of nervecircuits.

I think physical contact is inherently something a lot of people crave in their romance and so it is inserted into their fics, which is sweet. But I also love to read unique headcanons or anatomy quirks people come up with that explore the innate mechanical-ness of Cybertronians.

I would love to hear someone else’s take on this; thoughts, feelings, the works. What do you prefer? I’m also a newer Transformers fan, so maybe J. R. has said something about this or acknowledged it, or there’s a headcanon/explanation adopted by the fandom that I’ve missed. Has there been any other examples of this in official Transformers media? I cannot remember 🤔

[nebula-award]

♆☸ Astrolabe: Chapter 1

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

After a Groundbridge incident during a recon mission on the Nemesis, Arcee, Bulkhead, and Smokescreen find themselves on an uncharted island. No comms, energon, a way off, or memory of how they got there. As the base searches for the squadron, trust provides a catalyst to the stranded Autobots as they move forward and backward in time.

AO3 Link | CH2

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Day One

The piercing ring never left his ears, nor did the sound of wires zapping rhythmically, as he came back online. What followed was a metallic shriek from shifting his legs. Scrap, that tox-en pain never left. Groaning, his optics fluttered open meeting bright rays that dodged the leafy overhang in order to blind his optics. 

Primus, his helm ached. Dragging a heavy hand to his head, Bulkhead grumbled deep enough to shake the dirt beneath him. Dirt…? At the thought, he shot himself up straight and opened his optics wide which sent a heavy weight of pain to his helm. He hissed, burying his head in his dirt covered servos. 

“Sccccrap.” He drew out. 

Slowly, he reopened his optics greeting the green world around him. Canopies of trees shield his vision for miles, and the ground below was dark as chocolate and soft in his digits. He glances up, minding the sun’s rays, to find a giant, Cybertronian-sized hole in the canopy. No, too big for just him… 

“Bulk…head? Oh, sc-c-crap.” 

Bulkhead jumps at the breaking voice behind him. He turns around with great worry as he realizes the source of the frying wires zapping in his audio processor. Paint job hidden by black dirt, Smokescreen lies on his side in a fetal position. His servos clutch his abdomen, doing a terrible job holding the leaking blue energon staining his white finish. Some of the cables on his right leg are disconnected and produce sparks. Despite his attempt to endure the wound, he’s moaning heavily at the sheer pain, vocal processor frying his vocals. 

The wrecker narrowed his optics and lurched over to the wounded. “Scrap, Kid! What happened?” 

The rookie eases himself to the best of his abilities. “Your g-guess is… as go-od as mine…” 

“You mean you remember nothing?”

Smokescreen shakes his head the best he can. He hisses as his leg cables spark. “’ink I’m startin’ to under-erstand what you and Ar-cee meant… by ‘long haul…’” 

Bulkhead chuckles despite the circumstance, searching in his chest cavity for any medical supplies. “You learned just as I did: Arcee is always right…”  

Bulkhead’s optics flashed at her name. An image of the blue two-wheeler in dark lighting-- face-plate illuminated by a red glow-- passes his memory files. 

“Arcee!” He shouts. 

“Ouch!” Smokescreen groans. “Ca-re-reful! My audio processor just… got fully on-line.” 

“Sorry, Kid.” Bulkhead grimaces as he finds a few medical supplies. (How he wished he listened to Ratchet’s advice to resupply…) He leans down, doing his best to patch up Smokescreen’s stomach, but servos meant for construction can only do so much. “I just remembered Arcee was with us before, well, all of this happened. She must be nearby.” 

“Nearby… grh, wh-ere exactly?” 

“I’m… not sure.” Bulkhead frowns. “But, I’m going to try and radio her. Stay still for now, Smoke.” 

“D-don’t have… to-to tell me tw-ice.”

“Arcee?” 

… 

“Arcee?” 

… 

“Arcee, do you copy?” 

Frag… She groans as her comm link scratches in her ears. The voice matches the pounding in her head: persistent and loud. “Arcee? Arcee, please come in.” The voice pleads, and she pities whoever is on the line as much as she pities her headache. 

She refuses to open her optics, bringing her hand weakly to her comm link button. “Present…” 

“Oh, thank Primus, Cee.” 

Her eyebrows furrow at the nickname, quickly opening her optics. “Bulkhead?” Her thoughts fill with concern as she glances around her foreign surroundings: nothing but a fog of green. Her breath hitches, realizing he is nowhere in sight. “Primus, what happened?” She asks-- mostly to herself-- as her servos run against the dirt floor. 

“I’m… not entirely sure. That fall Smokescreen and I completely wiped our memory banks.” 

She sighs, raising herself up onto her pedes. “As long as you two are safe.” 

“...” 

“...Bulk?” 

“Not… Not necessarily.” 

She frowns, “Meaning?” 

“The kid’s bleeding energon badly and his leg is broken. Whatever happened to us certainly wasn’t a normal energon skirmish.” 

Her optics darted to the floor, shaking. She’s quiet for a moment before asking with quivering breath. “Is- is he stable?” 

“To the best of my abilities, but we’re stranded ducks out here, Cee. If we’re going to locate each other, you’re gonna have to come to us. We should be to the Northeast.”

Arcee grimaces as she begins stalking through the forest. She keeps low in the brush, light frame barely making a sound. She unsheathes her blades, cutting through branches and ivy in her path. “Helpful…” She tells him, but a smirk is clear on her face. She can hear his half-hidden chuckle.

“Hard to get a reading out in the middle of nowhere, Cee. We’re gonna look for shelter soon, but I’d advise heading that direction for now.” 

“Alright, stay safe, Bulk.” 

“... You too, Cee.” 

The line goes quiet, leaving Arcee to take in the thick sounds of the jungle. Brushes shook at every cut. Birds chattering high in the trees, hidden from her view. Arcee scowls. Despite the loneliness of her situation-- she cut through more vines-- a chill constantly ran through her spine… 

She steeps lower into the brushes, mindful of the anxious feeling invading her system. The more she traveled, the softer the birds sang… Softer and softer until their songs ceased into a dead stillness-- a waited breath, until a powerful roar of a drill echoed through the jungle. Arcee’s optics flash at the sound, and she stalks closer like a jaguar sneaking past a group of poachers: Decepticons. In the middle of the trees was a small clearing surrounded by drills and cargo loads emitting a bright blue glow. Arcee’s chest heaved watching the small team of vehicons drill into the earth. She ducked low as a troop surveyed the area… 

“Scrap…”

[mo-the-gremlin-dandelion]

Transformers Tags

Transformers

Transformers Fanart

Transformers Writing

Transformers Animation

Transformers Prime

Transformers One

Transformers Bayverse

Transformers IDW

Transformers Armada

Transformers Earthspark

Shattered Glass

Ships: (Not in any particular order.)

I don't have an otp in anything, I follow ships based on two things:

How much comedic potential it has.

How tragic it can be.

I'm also a sucker for found family.

Optimus Prime:

Megop

Ratchop

Starscream:

Starop

Megastar

Misc:

BDKO

Soundwave:

Megasound

Wavewave

Characters:

Optimus Prime

Megatron

Ratchet

Bumblebee

Starscream

Soundwave

Laserbeak

Ravage

Knockout

Breakdown

Shockwave

Elita One

[billblock2013]

A spot of light inched across the remains of the dark workshop. Shattered glass and overturned tables littered the floor. Gadgets and gizmos with odd names were scattered amongst the mess. It was incredibly quiet; Skids could hear the energon flowing through his frame. He took slow and careful steps through the workshop scanning the damage with his flashlight. Brainstorm was nowhere to be found.

“Where is he?” Skids muttered to himself.

The silence was suddenly broken by a loud clattering noise. Skids darted his light to the source. A golden face mask laid on the floor, shimmering in the glow of the light. A large scratch mark covered its surface. Skids stared in confusion. His confusion turned to realization as he heard a low guttural noise from directly above him.

It was like something out of those horror films Swerve showed at the movie nights in his bar. Skids knew that he’d look up, see some terrifying monster, and be brutally torn apart (probably offscreen, either for budgetary or creative reasons). However, despite the obvious reasons not to look up, he did. Skids moved his light to reveal the source of the noise.

It was Brainstorm. Well, something that used to be Brainstorm. Skids knew that the genius inventor had taken a liking to the harness that he used to hang from the ceiling. But now it seemed he didn’t need it anymore. His pedes had changed into claws, gripped onto a pipe within the ceiling. His wings had grown into webbed membranes that were wrapped around his body. Skids looked at the mutated autobot-turned-decepticon-spy-turned-autobot-again-turned-bat in horror.

The creature (previously known as Brainstorm) blinked its eyes in the glow of the flashlight. Yellow dots of light peered down at the terrified theoretician. A low growl turned into a loud snarl as the creature revealed its sharp teeth. Its wings unwrapped themselves and the mutated Brainstorm fell into flight in pursuit of the intruder, who was already halfway out the door.

---

Something I wrote based on a weird dream I had where Brainstorm and Nautica mutate into animal-like creatures. Hope you enjoyed :)

[thebrokenmechanicalpencil]

Cold hands.

( @quibble-auk This happens way way after the Dropmix trials, when the two problem gladiators have sorted themselves out. I wrote most of this in one sitting, it just kept getting longer. Maybe everybody is in character, I tried to proofread it but my brain is actually so done. So..Yeah-)

Tw. Gore, violence, pain, war, over all lots of badness.

-

Technically they were not supposed to be having problems with rogue Decepticons trying to encroach on the outpost. 

Their coms said the enemy was contained.

 Yet Dropmix had to send Comet out to keep the threats neutralized. 

The young pretender was there on technical business, on his way back to his home base after a long mission. The young mimic  had stopped to check on them when he saw they were having trouble.

Dropmix had to admit, he was grateful.

Another wave of gunfire rang through the air past the horizon. It sparked and lit up the sky. When Dropmix looked up from his newest casualty, he felt his optic narrow. He and his team were never supposed to be this close to the front. Ever. 

Their usual protection of armed bots were called up to head off the movements at the pass, the others dead. It meant they were sitting ducks drowning in casualties.

Jeopardy and the large mech worked in sync, the surgeries were not as clean as they should be, but they had no time to smooth  the edges of their welds. The front was moving in fast. Dropmix couldn’t give the orders for them to move until the mechs under his hands were stable, some part of him hoped that the autobot forces could push the Decepticons back and give him time. But the world never seemed to give that out freely. 

He huffed deeply glancing up to survey the medbay, nurses and aids rushing to keep up with the influx. During the chaos the operating room now housed more than one patient at a time, Jeopardy working on his own on the other, a nurse assisting.

He trusted Jeopardy completely as the medic worked, closing up mechs with a clench to his jaw. A complete natural, not a tremble in his hands. Pride worked its way through Dropmix, Jeopardy had improved at working under pressure by miles.

“This one is stable Dropmix,” the younger mech quickly allowed the aids to rush in and take the bot to the recovery room. “ Arrow, get the next mech in here!” Dropmix added the mech to the countless frames already housed there, they couldn’t take much more. Eventually it would be impossible to actually care for all the casualties if they didn’t have room.

“Sonar! Start putting the low risk wounded in the private rooms, keep them marked and leave the doors open!” Music still hummed in the back of his mind, keeping any sort of anger at the situation at bay. Whoever had planned this attack must have lost their minds.

“There's only a couple left in triage! No more transports either Doc!” Arrow panted, his red plating flared with stress, the Aid covered in energon from carting the wounded.

“A couple isn’t a number Arrow.” Jeopardy bit out as another mech was set in front of him. While he worked on quickly sterilizing his hands Dropmix closed up his own patient.

“How many?” All because transports stopped landing didn’t mean the wounded had stopped trying to come in. Dropmix knew the seekers were never above shooting down an Autobot flyer, armed or not. They couldn’t afford to relax on this. Not yet.

“Two, the injuries aren't high risk. The nurses can work on them-”

Jeopardy’s plating flared from across the room as his nurse explained the injuries of the mech on his table. Dropmix didn’t have time to ask about them however, as the mech under his knife began to twitch.

“Of course-”

-

Outside amongst the shell fire and debris Cometeater kept watch.

He had taken down two mechs that had slipped past the front’s enforcements, which he could feel was closer than it ever should be. In quick steps he began another lap around the perimeter of the base, allowing himself to go on all fours to cover the ground quickly. He hoped he wasn't the only mech on the ground trying to guard the outpost, but it sure felt like it.

He had found two of the soldiers left  that usually kept watch on the base dead on the east side. They had managed to kill the con, but bled out due to the utterly overwhelmed medical facility.

Comet elected to not mention it to Jeopardy when this was over. He knew the guilt would eat his friend alive.

The air was thick with the smell of death now, chips of bots crunching underfoot as he went. He almost missed the seeker as it came crashing out of the sky. He stopped and watched as the red and green thing exploded far out in the horizon. In cascading flames and a resounding boom that rippled through the pretender’s skin. He shook his helm quickly moving again, intentionally  breathing in the smells of the war.

Any smells that didn’t belong got dissected, and trailed.

He went around the base again, padding softly and without a sound. Then the smell hit him. Wild and burning it scorched his nose.

Comet felt his whole body scream in distrust, and then in fear. Mingled with the horrible smell was fresh energon. In a flash he was running hard after the scent, hoping he could cut the source off before it broke into the base. 

His legs burned as he tore down to the south side after the smell, how the hell had this thing gotten past him? When he had stopped to look at the seeker? Guilt and rage billowed through him. If those mechs  died because he was sightseeing he could never forgive himself.

The door was wide open, the emergency locks undone to probably help with the influx of wounded, the smell heavy and making tears burn in Comet’s eyes. He didn’t stop though, darting past the door. No, he had no time. Surrounding the now open door, were the bodies of medical Aids, probably trying to lock down the barrier after bringing in mechs. 

They didn't make it.

Comet threw himself into a dead sprint down the halls, claws scraping as he desperately followed the stench of danger, he didn’t even stop when he saw the damn thing. 

-

In the medical wing Dropmix did another round on the living patients, checking and taking notes. The flood of wounded had stopped, for now. Leaving the staff to rush and ready themselves for another wave. Dropmix had the whole staff on their feet, moving mechs and reporting their injuries where Dropmix and Jeopardy could access them. The mech stretched his back as he glanced down at the reports. It looked as if two may have had complications in their surgeries. One’s breathing was ragged, but that could have been the stress from surgery. Or the amount of rust the mech had inhaled. Dropmix quickly told one of the nurses to begin a deep clean of the mech’s vents, a cursory one hadn’t been enough.

Jeopardy was working with the other, who’s internal temperature had climbed far too high during surgery. The young mech was checking the fuel line, and double checking the mixtures of needed medical grade fluids. 

Dropmix however could not relax, an itching in the back of his processor. He hadn’t heard an update from Cometeater. The organic he knew didn't have an internal com link, so accessing it took a little longer for him. But silence and delay were different, he hadn’t said a word since he reported the dead mech’s outside.

Dropmix wasn’t worried for the young male, he  didn't allow the thought to even sit and make its case. Cometeater was supposed to com him, and he hasn’t. 

Till his internals blipped with a new message.

: Lock the outer west door of the A-12 hall:

Then he heard the screams. 

-

Comet was bleeding heavily, his side busted. But he couldn’t let this thing get any closer to the medical bay.

It was hardly a mech now, the Decepticons had done something to it. The horrible smell was the thing’s half rusted frame, thick lines of some chemical lodged inside its internals. Poking out of its spinal strut like a deranged fan of quills. 

It didn’t seem to feel pain, roaring in a thrash of crushing gears and gnarled engine noises. 

They had done something to it.

Comet jumped again, digging his claws deep into the armor and letting out another warning screech, internally begging the noise to reach Dropmix and he’d know what it meant. Comet had no time to check if his message went through, hoping the medic got his warning.

The thing screamed and reared trying to get the smaller creature off its back, it twisted and tore at its own plating trying to reach him. Comet held on, his limbs shaking from the effort as the ugly misshapen bot bucked. Comet tried once more to get the damn thing’s neck, he had pried the armour off in his last attempt. Which had led to him almost getting crushed against the walls while hanging onto the creature’s back, then lobbed down the hall.

Comet’s teeth clamped on nothing as one of those clawed hands narrowly missed him,  Cometeater rearing up and away scrambling for purchase on the sunken in armor. Then the mech took advantage of his change in position, and slammed his sharp helm back onto Comet’s face. 

Comet cried out as the edges sliced him, blood pouring down his front as he struggled to just hold on. He couldn’t let go.

The thing did it again, wrenching sideways and getting Comets eye.

Comet screamed.

Agony bloomed past his exhaustion as his eye went dark with his own blood.  Under him the mutated mech moved his helm back to try again. The ex gladiator grit his teeth and forced himself to take his chance. Comet unlocked his jaw and blindly went for the beast’s neck cables.

He locked his jaw and with what remaining strength he had, he ripped. 

Burning.

His cells sizzled loudly in his ears.

It hurt everywhere.

Comet let out an agonized wail as the mech’s energon sprayed him. But it didn't do what it usually did, it didn't just numb his mouth and coat his face. It scorched him. 

He couldn’t hold onto the horrible creature as the acidic energon worked its way into his eye, eating into his open wounds.

A horrible noise echoed around him as he hit the ground, the creature screaming as its throat only bled harder from the pure amount of fluid jetting from the wound. 

Comet realized with a jolt however it wasn’t just the dying mech who was screaming.

Cometeater’s mouth was open wide with pain filled screeches, as the pain only grew worse as it burned through him. He shook his head violently trying to get the blood off. His own claws scraped his face as the agony only worsened, shorting out any pretense to sentience.

Something was eating him.

Burning and eating him from inside.

He needed it out.

The loud crash of the mech hitting the ground shocked him back from the pained fog, Comet on all fours panted hard trying to think. To form thoughts as the acid ate away at him.

He could not panic.

He needed a medic. Now.

The moment the thought hit him he was fighting for his control again, almost drowning when the acid ate through his armor on his chest, and began to melt his flesh.

Breathe Comet.

Comet focused on the footsteps, trying to breathe. Trying to not let panic swallow him. If he lost it he wouldn’t survive this.

Jeopardy crouched beside him trying to look at his face past the blood and gore. Comet could smell he was afraid. 

The smell hit a switch and suddenly any control he had began to slip through his fingers. His whole body convulsed in utter misery.

“NO- No no Jep get,” He was interrupted as another wave of burning cinched his eye. 

The blood was eating him.

“DROPMIX!!” The scream tore from him before he could choke it down, his breathing hard and fast as that panic came back and bit down. He didn’t realise how badly he was writhing, before a large blissfully cool servo shoved him down.

“Cometeater stop.”

The deep baritone cut past the panic like a knife, Comet stole a breath while he could. He couldn't see anything on his left side as Dropmix pressed him down. Instead of panicking, Comet almost wept. Dropmix could fix this.

“Jeopardy get the bases out of the lab. Now.” The mech watched him with a smooth calm expression, optics critical. Comet couldn’t hold in the pained groan as the acid bit him, “I know, easy Comet.”

Cometeater forced himself to focus on Dromix’s cold icy scent, almost numbing in juxtaposition with the absolute heat burning him all over.

“This is going to hurt like hell, focus Cometeater.”

Cometeater did as he was told, zeroing in on the cool thumb that was rubbing circles on his unhurt shoulder.

Then his face prickled with an excruciating pain akin to being burnt alive.

Comet hadn’t realised he was gripping Dropmix’s arm. He focused on the hard edges and the circles that hadn’t stopped, stuffing every other instinct into the furnace that was his upper left body.

“I know Comet I know, Jeopardy get his chest, hurry he won't be able to make it if he loses anymore down there.”

Inside is body every muscle clenched from stress, cramping and twitching as another hard wave of the pain crashed into him.

Focus, keep breathing. Dropmix hadn’t let the organic go once.

The pain finally dulled. Slowly the burning faded, his body relaxing in twitches and sharp jumps.

Exhaustion.

Comet felt so heavy.

He could feel his head start to roll.

“ Comet you need to stay awake.”

[michygranger23]

Colleague is still keeping me busy but I'm still working on the next part of the Model Orion Pax AU (alongside some DTIYs I want to participate and other TF AU fanarts/my own TF ideas I've planned hehe)

BUT!!!! I remember this past few days a fic I read like two months ago (can't remember the name for the life of me, I just remember it had 8 chapters and was tagged with MegOp in the TFA general tag, so if you know about it let me know so I can credit them!!)

EDIT: I've been informed it's called "…They were cellmates" by Naiad_DreamerWay!

Which basically had the premise of what if Optimus fell down with Megatron during the crash land on Eartg of the spaceship in the first episode of the series?? Making him and Megatron subjects to Sumdac's experimentation for his technology??? And Optimus lost his memory???

It's basically an Orion Pax Arc with TFA! Optimus!!!!!!! HOW COOL IS THAT??!!! I want to make my own version/twist of this idea (maybe having MegOp in it, or even having Blackarachnia tacking advantage of this situation 👀??) but I need ideas and suggestions for it!! So please let me know about them in the comments, it would help me out so much!!

And maybe it can become a full one-shot or another comic!!

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

I finally did it. All of the boys get to be together again. Isn’t that wonderful? Aren’t we so happy about that?

Don’t you just love killing off characters so you can feel some semblance of closure for the story. Like yes, it’s finally done. But it’s not, I’ve still not written or explained half of it.

But I know how it ends. :D

Yeah, I didn’t proofread it, sorry for any errors. And I’m praying that the pacing is alright and everything makes sense.

—

Warnings!!!

Real shocker there’s death.

—

The small office Jeopardy sat in was dark. Any light the moon might have offered through the narrow window was shunned by the closed blinds, casting the room in a heavy gloom. The only illumination came from a dim desk lamp and the sterile glow of a bright monitor. Music lulled in through transported speakers, faint and delicate.

It wasn’t Jeopardy's usual workspace. He had been relocated to the north wing of the hospital when the mysterious plague first broke out—a wing hastily converted into a quarantine zone, where the sick and the dying were kept away from the rest of the population like forgotten ghosts.

Jeopardy was among the first medical officers exposed to the new virus, something that at first seemed like a minor anomaly—some strange mechanical hiccup, degenerating and corroding plating and accompanied by faulty joints. He had been mid-operation, performing a complex joint transplant on what became Patient Zero, when the mech had suddenly offlined. No warning, no instability in the vitals—just silence and a blinking red error across the interface.

At the time, he and his colleagues had chalked it up to a hardware failure due to negligence. But within hours, more patients began to fail in similar ways. Not just malfunctions—systems were shutting down without traceable causes. There was no identifiable strain, not one that they could recognize anyway. They weren’t equipped to identify viruses like this, plagues had been eradicated long before the war began.

But entire wards had been locked down within days.

Now reassigned to the infected wing, Jeopardy found himself behind containment barriers, technically quarantined though not incapacitated. They had no choice—he had already been exposed, and though mostly asymptomatic, no one could say for certain what that meant anymore. The virus wasn’t behaving predictably. It didn’t spread like a pathogen or function like a software bug. It was something in between, and that made it all the more terrifying.

Though Jeopardy’s field had nothing to do with virology or infectious disease—he was a reconstructive mech-surgeon by training—they couldn’t risk transferring him back to his old post. It wasn’t just about protecting others. It was also because, deep down, the hospital administration understood they needed every capable mind available in the isolation zone.

And it wasn’t like Jeopardy was unfamiliar with this kind of medical work, the old mech had been around long enough that he knew how to work in other fields. He had dabbled in all kinds of medical work during the war, and even after it. Not to mention he had treated plenty of diseases and viruses for his organic companions, the descendants of his old friend Cometeater, a Pretender. This knowledge of infectious diseases did give him an advantage over his colleagues.

Jeopardy supposed that was why he was spending so many sleepless nights pouring himself into his work. His time was running short, the plating on his chest already starting to discolor—it meant he was entering into the third stage of infection—he needed to find a cure.

He hadn’t told anyone about the discoloration.

Not yet.

The pallid corrosion spreading across his chestplate was easy enough to cover up with some paint and the occasional joint stiffness he passed off as old age. It wasn't a total lie—Jeopardy was old. His frame was an outdated model, patched and upgraded over the decades, more scrap and memory than anything off a modern assembly line. But the creeping disintegration along his core systems wasn’t age. It was the virus, carving through him like rust with purpose.

Jeopardy watched the simulation run a few more times, let the computer analyze and run tests on the samples he had collected. He clicked the reanalyze button and leaned back, absently tapping along to the beat of the song that played faintly in the room. He sucked in a breath, holding it as the results slowly loaded onto the screen in front of him. He would need to do more personal verification but he had run the machine and gotten a green “cured” result three times now.

He stared at the blinking green word—CURED—his optics narrowing as if willing it to stay true. Three times now. Three separate samples. Three different infection stages.

But he didn’t let himself hope. Not yet.

Jeopardy leaned back in his chair, the joints in his shoulders groaning with the motion. He’d run enough simulations during the war to know how easily false positives could slip through. Especially when the virus in question didn’t behave like anything catalogued before. Still, the samples were stabilizing. Corrosion halted. Regeneration markers returning to baseline. It wasn’t just a patch—it was reversal.

A cure.

He let the breath out slowly, his chassis vibrating faintly with the motion. His plating quivered despite himself. It was a fragile victory, not yet real. Not until he could reproduce it in a physical subject.

The medic let himself smile regardless, it was still progress and the closest thing they had. He plugged in a data chip, quickly downloading the data before continuing with his tests—Jeopardy has had his data accidentally wiped due to a crash too many times to let something like this go unsaved on a personal file. He hummed along to the music as he began to write more diagnostics. He scooted his chair across the long desk and fiddled with some machinery as he prepared for more in depth tests.

A flicker of movement in the reflection of a dim screen caught his eye.

Almost instinctively his medical scanners flared to life. While it wasn’t their technical purpose, Dropmix had taught him ages ago that he could use his integrated scanners for identifying other mechs—similar to how a guardian frame’s scanners worked—and it had become a habit. He reached out, searching for spark signatures around the room absently. It was late, but possible for a nurse to have slipped in to check on his progress or converse.

There was no spark signal, however, nor heat signature.

Jeopardy went back to his work, imputing some data before letting the machine whir to life. It hummed as it began running scanning for more detailed results. The medic continued his quiet humming as he pushed himself back to his monitor, pulling up a blank report to start filling out with his findings.

The cursor blinked on the blank report, waiting for his input, but Jeopardy didn’t start typing. Not right away. He had heard a small tapping noise, slightly off beat from the music, he looked down at his still fingers. He wasn’t attempting to tap along with the rhythm, someone else had to be—but the noise was padded, it didn’t belong to a metal hand of a mech.

He let his heat sensors surge out again, seeking the darkness for any sign of organic life while he kept his attention on the screen before him. There were no hot spots that would indicate another presence in the room—not of a traditional organic anyway. Jeopardy pulled his plating tight against himself for a moment, sucking in a breath as he narrowed his eyes.

In a single fluent motion he spun the chair around slowly, optics moving over the dark room in search of anything out of place. The shadows in the room didn’t move, didn’t shift. Jeopardy frowned, hand moving slowly to pull the data chip out of the computer's port and stash it in the small toolbox of his wrist.

He stood.

Jeopardy’s hand rested on his side, over where his pistol sat—Dropmix’s pistol, one that he had found stashed away that was disguised as a medical tool. It was a bit large but it got the job done. He looked around the room again, scanners seeking for something.

The medic knew that tension was high between Cybertronians and other species in the galactic council, they always had been, but recently there had been news of a potential threat. Jeopardy along with a few of his colleagues had begun to suspect that the current virus they were dealing with could have been synthesized by this other race. If Jeopardy was getting close to a cure there was reason to believe that he could be targeted.

The other race was reptilian by nature, cold blooded. They wouldn’t show up as hot spots on heat sensors, they wouldn’t show up at all, their body temperature would match their surroundings. They would be undetectable to all of his medical scanners.

Jeopardy pulled his pistol out, keeping the disguised weapon held downwards in case someone walked in—his scanners informed him there was currently no one close to the office. There was no one to interrupt. Jeopardy took a hesitant step forward, plating flaring defensively as he looked around the room again. Organics were typically small and easy to look over and there were plenty of places to hide in the office.

He scanned the room one more time, this time not with tech, but with instinct. He had learned over the years that no amount of calibration or sensor strength could replace the simple feeling of being watched. And right now, that feeling crept over his frame like nanomites.

The weapon in his hand warmed slightly, ready to power up at a moment's notice. The desk, the cabinets, even the ventilation shaft above the sealed maintenance closet—all places someone could hide, especially if they were trained. Or worse, if they were patient. The medic flinched as the equipment next to him dinged softly, the results were done.

Jeopardy should know better than to turn his back on a device that would give a small organic cover. He blinked, plates pressing tightly against him and cold dread washed over him, he lifted the pistol up, clicking the safety off with a practiced ease. His spark thrummed in his chest and his finger absently tapped out an old lullaby on the side of his gun. He didn’t have time to panic or let his anxiety get the best of him.

It was too soon for the results to be done.

Someone had stopped it from scanning.

The medic twisted around, raising his pistol to the level of the device and firing at the dark figure that stood next to it on the desk. The loud ring of gunfire echoed in the room, rattling his plates and making a small tremor run through his hands. He flinched, Jeopardy had never liked to fight, he never wanted to hurt others. But he needed to protect what he had discovered or more mechs would die.

The dark figure crumbled, the scent of burning flesh sat thickly in the back of Jeopardy’s throat and he fought the urge to gag. He let out a shaken breath, tapping the lullaby and humming to himself as he tried to calm himself. His hands shook as he stared at the small organic now laying still on the desk.

His vents hitched as his plates shivered. Jeopardy swallowed thickly, forcing himself to take a step towards the broken body. Guilt was already eating away at his spark, a strained whine escaping his throat as he looked at the still form.

He had killed them.

Jeopardy felt sick, his chest aching as his fingers numbed. The medic lowered his pistol, flicking the safety back on and let his frame shake with stressed, silent cries. He had killed before but it never became easier. He still hated it. His medical programs surged to life, already infringing him of the damage he had caused.

He didn’t have time to mourn the loss any further.

A whisper of air moved behind him.

Too soft for servos. Too measured for machinery. It came not from the vents or his overworked systems but from the subtle shift of weight on metal flooring—bare flesh against steel.

Jeopardy’s optics widened. He turned—

—but not fast enough.

A sharp crack! rang out, impossibly loud in the cramped, silent room.

The old mech yelped as pain lanced through his side, right under his auxiliary plating. The weapon was small, silent, and surgical in its intention. Not designed to destroy—designed to incapacitate. Disable.

Electricity surged through his systems, his plates flared out as his vents hitch painfully. Heat and discomfort raced over his lines and he staggered, gasping out and reaching to brace his faltering body on the desk. He tried to flick the safety of his gun off again, but his fingers weren’t responding correctly, they shook and kept locking up. Panic sprang through him, making his spark skip and thrum even louder in his constricting chest. The medic grit his teeth and looked at the source of the weapon.

The hooded figure fired another round, this time it landed on Jeopardy’s chest, right next to where a red “x” had been painted on to show that he had been exposed. Jeopardy cried out again, pain rippling through his systems. His joints locked mid-motion as the round burrowed deep, its contents flooding through his internal systems like acid through old pipes.

Jeopardy staggered forward, his hand loosening on the pistol as his knees hit the ground with a brutal clang. His optics flickered violently, vision narrowing to a red-tinged tunnel. His systems screamed at him—an internal alarm louder than the gunshot itself—but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Warnings flared across his hud, his vents wheezing with stress.

He crumpled to the ground, hissing in pain as he looked around for his aggressor. His spark was impossibly loud, his plates quivering violently as panic settled within his chest.

Another splintering crack rang out and this time Jeopardy’s computer was the target. Any information on it was lost as it burst into an electrical flame, systems overheating and failing. It sparked as metal and plastic alloys warped to the heat.

There was only one copy of the cure left.

Jeopardy’s optics tried to focus through the error haze, HUD alerts crowding his vision with red and white symbols. Critical system failure imminent. Neuro-signal degradation at 37%. He ignored them, forcing his servos to twitch. He still had the failsafe under the desk. The gunshots must have been heard elsewhere in the hospital. He could still—

The assassin crouched beside him.

They didn’t say anything, their slitted eyes quickly examined Jeopardy’s seizing frame. He groaned weakly, attempting to pull away from the attacker but his limbs remained useless and unresponsive. The medic could feel his energon hit and slick below him, painting his chest and the ground a sickly magenta.

The organic reached out, two fingers delicately brushing against the slot on Jeopardy’s wrist. It knew where the data chip was—a total wave of fear washed over Jeopardy as he struggled to pull his wrist away. His movement was too slow, too sluggish and weak to get it out of the other’s grasp. He whined, vocalizer clicking and chirping uselessly as he failed to form words.

The assassin's fingers slid over the edge of Jeopardy's wrist compartment with a precision that made his plating crawl. A soft click. A hiss of depressurization. The compartment opened—too easily.

The chip was exposed.

No—no, no, no.

Jeopardy’s entire body screamed with effort as he forced his good arm to twist, to clamp down over the slot, protect it—anything. But his servos only jittered uselessly. His fingers twitched like dying organics.

The organic was going to take it—Jeopardy was going to lose his one chance to save people.

The assassin didn’t hesitate.

Their hand darted in, prying the chip loose from Jeopardy’s wrist with an efficiency born of practice. They held it up to the low lamplight, narrow eyes glinting as they turned it between their fingers. The soft hum of the hospital’s power grid and the faint music still bleeding through the speakers were the only sounds filling the silence.

Jeopardy gurgled, trying to rise. His frame jerked once—twice—then failed, sagging with a heavy creak as sparks danced along his spine. His processor lagged, struggling to maintain control over basic systems. More clicks escaped him, another pained whine joined the abstract noises. He had lost, they had the cure.

More mechs would die—his mechs, the ones he had trained and cared for, his colleagues and peers, possibly even the Pretenders he had spent his lifetime watching over.

He couldn’t let them destroy that chip.

Not while he still had a functioning spark.

With a final desperate act, Jeopardy accessed the hardwired emergency override in his core—an ancient, wartime backup system buried beneath years of upgrades and adjustments. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t fast. But it was brutal.

A harsh grinding whir erupted deep inside his chest as a jolt of raw energy surged through his failing frame, overriding safeties, bypassing locked systems. His HUD flickered violently, momentarily blanking to black. When it returned, the alerts were still there—but dimmer, distant. He had seconds, maybe less.

With a rasping groan, Jeopardy's arm moved—not much, but enough. He twisted his arm, plates spasming as he moved, the assassin didn’t expect him to move. They didn’t react fast enough. They yelped as his hand crashed into their side, pressing them into the ground brutally. A pained scream escaped their scaly lips as Jeopardy forced himself to move, shifting his weight to his arm, to the hand that was pressed flat against the smaller creature’s chest.

The mech cut off his optics, reworking the power to his movement. He could hear something pop and crack beneath his hand, the organics pained wheezing breaths as its chest was compressed under the weight of his hand. Jeopardy tried not to think about it as another scream split the air. The medic choked on nothing, his spark skipping at the sound. Grief seized his chest and guilt swamped his panicking mind.

He ignored it.

Just a little more.

The assassin clawed at his wrist, trying to twist away, but Jeopardy's arm locked like a vice. His own pain was blinding—his circuits burning, his memory caches fragmenting—but he didn’t let go. Couldn’t. He was running on pure instinct now, muscle memory from a war long past and a promise he had once made to never stand by while others suffered.

The data chip was still in the assassin’s hand.

Jeopardy’s optics flickered open again, staticky and dim. His HUD was barely functioning now, warning banners sluggishly sliding across his vision. The world was a blur of dim lamplight and the ugly, rapid pulse of the intruder’s heartbeat. He could see it in the soft flesh of their throat. Could hear it. Could feel it.

With the last of Jeopardy’s strength he grunted and pressed down even more. The organic screamed again—louder this time—as a sick crunching noise rattled through Jeopardy’s frame. The mech whimpered at the noise, eyes closed tightly as he let himself fall limp. Guilt ate at his core, he could feel the organic’s blood stick to his plating, thick and foul smelling. Jeopardy shuddered, a pained cry escaping him.

The assassin didn’t move again.

The room fell into silence, save for the fading echo of the scream, the soft, rattling vents of the medic’s own failing systems, and the gentle lulling of music, deceptively calm.

Jeopardy stayed like that, slumped over the still form, the crackling hiss of damaged circuitry rising from his joints. His body trembled from the strain, from the residual current still arcing through his limbs. The override had bought him a few seconds—nothing more—and now the backlash was arriving in waves. His chest plating was blistering from the heat, inner coolant lines ruptured and leaking. Smoke curled from one of his side vents.

But the chip was still in the room.

When a nurse came in to check on him they would find it, the cure was still theirs. There was still hope.

Jeopardy hadn’t failed.

His vision dimmed further, and though his limbs were dead weight, his spark—weak and sputtering—still pulsed steady. Faint, but not extinguished. The data chip, slick with organic blood and smudged with soot, had slipped from the assassin’s hand in their final moments. It now rested just beneath Jeopardy’s outstretched arm, the glint of its casing catching the flickering desk lamp like a beacon.

He should have been afraid of the ever creeping darkness in the back of his mind, he had been for so long—the idea of dying had terrified him, there was still too much to do. But he was older now, more tired, dare he admit it, Jeopardy was ready. He hadn’t failed, he had earned his rest. Just like Dropmix had, and Coo and Cometeater, the twins, like all of the mech’s old friends had.

Jeopardy weakly smiled to himself, his vision finally fizzling out into darkness as his optics failed. The music was nice and slow, gently whispering to him, keeping him company. He didn’t have the energy to hum along, or tap. For a moment he could have sworn he could hear a different melody being tapped into his plates—which had gone strangely numb—an old lullaby Jeopardy knew too well.

He could hear Dropmix humming softly, feel his heavy hand on his shoulder, fingers tapping gently on his plating. Just like he had done countless times before, slowly lulling Jeopardy off to sleep.

And so, Jeopardy slept.

[godzillatalks]

The door opens with a hiss, but Rodimus doesn't even have to look up to see who it was— militaristically quiet and carefully measured pedesteps from a mech far lighter than him already giving away exactly who entered the room.

"Fancy seeing you again, scout." Rodimus snorts, finally dragging his optics away from the actually unimportant data pad to watch Bumblebee stride over to the desk in the middle of the room. The yellow bot doesn't turn to look at Rodimus, grumbling quietly as he sets down the reports he'd brought in onto Optimus' desk.

"Why're you here, fire hazard? I thought you were supposed to be causing troubles elsewhere. As in, not on Cybertron. At all." Bumblebee glares at Rodimus out of the corners of sharply narrowed optics. The Prime just grins at him, sharp teeth shimmering in the synthetic light.

"Oh, maybe it's 'cause my dad kept me around for a reason," Rodimus drawls, voice cutting through the air like an arrow aimed straight at Bumblebee's composure; something he struggled to keep together in the first place. He grits his dentae together, swiveling on the heel of his pede to respond to the fiery colored bot, but Rodimus continues before Bee can get the words out.

"Y'know, cause he actually needs me?" Rodimus' head tilts oh so slightly, tone lilted and taunting as he tapped right at the center of his chest, where his half of the Matrix resided, with a sharp digit.

Bumblebee doesn't let himself think before he lunges with a right hook.

It connects harshly with Rodimus' chin and he drops the data pad he had been holding, the fragile thing crashing to the floor, screen shattering into chunky shards that skittered across the floor alongside Rodimus, sent skidding backward from the sheer force behind Bumblebee's punch.

His inner temperature rises, heat raging from the core of his spark and outward through every line of energon in his frame. Fire flashes from the chrome piping winding around his arms and legs, cerulean optics shifting to a dark and angry, storming blue.

"Oh, because he needs you?" The scout sneers, his own optics flaring near white with anger. "The kid who wasn't even around during the war, who let his own father die—"

Bumblebee is cut off when Rodimus charges at him with a roar of rage, sharp digits extended and ready to tear, flames pouring from the pipes on his arms as if he could drown the other bot in flames, even if now they were just for show.

He could, in a sense.

Bumblebee barely rolls out of the way, feeling the heat of the flames score nasty (but superficial) burns into his paint job as he ducked under the anger-fueled lunge. He aims a fist as he moves, sending it hard into Rodimus' side.

Rodimus' plating burns. Bumblebee recoils in pain at the same time Rodimus does from the punch. He shouldn't have been surprised.

Rodimus, of course, immediately takes advantage of the slight hesitation, wrapping clawed servos around Bumblebee's throat and slamming him into the floor. Plating sizzles on contact between them, the sheer temperature of Rodimus' frame enough to make paint bubble. His servos burn indents into Bumblebee's throat cabling.

Bumblebee doesn't even scream. He can't. Primus damn, it hurts. But he'll keep fighting.

His servos twist around Rodimus' forearm, pushing through the pain to toss the larger bot off of himself with a well anchored and executed jerk of his arms to the side.

Rodimus is sent rolling, sliding to a stop with his claws dug into the floor. Bumblebee heaves himself onto his front, one servo tentatively pressing at his now fried throat. (Voicebox fine. Just hurts.)

They're just about to jump at each other again, optics shimmering with a long burning fire of jealousy and hatred for the other, when the door slides open.

Optimus squints at the two mechs on the floor of his office.

"What in Primus' name..?" He mumbles, glancing to Rodimus and then to Bumblebee.

Immediately, they point at each other.

"It was his fault." In unison, they speak, Bumblebee's voice laced with pained static and Rodimus' dripping with layers of venom.

Optimus pinches his nasal ridge and sighs.

[thegrinningghost]

“Maybe There Is A Beast . . . Maybe It’s Just Us”

— •

What If:

the sow hunted in William Golding’s Lord of the Flies wasn’t biological? the boys didn’t crash on an ordinary island? there was an aerial fight that caught the plane in the crossfire? the war going on was beyond the fleshy inhabitants? the Lord of the Flies was real? there was a beast, and it wasn’t them?

what if?

— •

LotF x TF

Caught during an aerial showdown between Autobots and Decepticons, the school of boys crashed on an island full of excitement and adventure. But something is severely off. The natural inhabitants here aren’t human. That is to say, they carry no flesh at all. In a hunting mishap gone wrong, rumors spark of a Beast. A giant, mechanical creature, prowling the ground and running through the trees. Adding more fuel to the fire, two competing personalities fight for control while one boy discovers what could be the solution to the mystery haunting their isle. But old things stir, and the solution of one problem will cost them more than just a life. Can the boys manage to survive, or will the outside war finally catch up to them?

— •

Thanks to @just-an-artist-that-exists for staying up texting with me and pitching this idea!

[madziillla]

Meet Mercy

hiiiii first real post !! long story short i got back into writing recently and i've been super into transformers so i created an oc, mercy, to write about in that universe to combine my interests :) below is a short story about her life before the war and to mainly introduce what kind of person she is bc i will be posting her and the pieces i write about her a lot on this blog lol, enjoy!

also please be kind i'm so new to posting any of my work online this is so scary

“Again, how did you find me?”

  “What? Oh, Bladewing referred you to me.” The bot stared down with drooping eyes at the shorter one arranging tools on a stainless metal tray, adjusting them to a precision rarely seen in general clinics and hospitals within the city. “He said you were the best, just hard to find. I can see why he would say that, I mean you’re operating out of the back of a scrap shop, granted the cleanest one I’ve ever seen, that’s down an alley and around a corner and through the street-”

  “Shush.” The shorter of the two said with steel on her tongue. “I know I’m hard to find, that’s for a reason. And I don’t need directions to my own place.” She picked up one of the meticulously arranged wrenches and placed it on a small hip holster held loosely in place by wiring, ensuring it wasn’t hitting the glass panels on her legs. The taller of the two squirmed in place, watching her with a newfound air of uncertainty.

  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “Of course I know what I’m doing. I didn’t spend eons studying and practicing mechanics and medics for nothing.” The shorter scoffed, shaking her head at the taller one. “You’ve spent so much time asking questions over mine that I’ve barely had a chance to speak. Now, I need your name.”

  “Hailraiser.” The taller choked out.

  “Lovely. I’m Mercy.” The shorter replied, adding more tools to the holster that clanged against her with every movement. “Now what do you need? If you were referred to me by one of the clients I see most often, clearly something is wrong with you.”

  “I think it’s a torn or damaged rotor in my left wing. I tried getting an appointment at the general clinic but they said I didn’t have enough Energon to cover the exam, not even the repair. I didn’t know what to do and Bladewing said you gave him a new vigor with your repair of his coolant system for less than half of what the general clinic wanted, so I wanted to see if you could help me.” Hailraisers voice shook the more he spoke, brow furrowing in distress and hands rubbing nervously together. His eyes darted around the small back room he was seated in anxiously. The walls were covered in pegboards with repair tools hung in multiple differing organizational standards. Smallest to largest, heaviest to lightest, wrenches were hung based on what bolts they would fit and screwdrivers by tip type in perfectly straight fashions. Cracked concrete made up the floor, oil and other various stains covering it entirely, but mostly under the table where Hailraiser sat. There was one small window on the far wall, cracked for ventilation, and one door leading to the scrap shop in front. His eyes fell to the wall behind his nurse for the hour and the large laser rifle hung just above the workbench. “Ever need to use that?” He gestured to it with a shaky hand.

  Mercy turned to where he was pointing and smirked. “That old thing? Once. One of my first clients actually, didn’t want to take no for an answer after I denied an ‘emotional tuneup’ at the club down the way.” She glanced at Hailraiser, who looked more faint than before. “Don’t take that as a warning, just a story.” She followed up with a more gentle voice, seeming to have remembered bedside manner. She made a final adjustment to her belt, turning it so the tools hanging from it formed an almost skirt in the front, dusting off the shavings that had fallen onto it from the rickety ceiling above them. “Now, Hailraiser, I need you to lay down and flip onto your stomach so I can access that rotor in your wing.” The bot complied, slowly flipping himself over with weakening arms. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  Mercy began to debolt the panel on Hailraisers wing as gently as she could, feeling him shake under her hands. Her eyes widened more than they usually were as she pried the panel off and placed it softly onto the platform below the worktable. “Hailraiser, how long has this hurt you?”

  “I don’t know, two weeks? Maybe three?”

  “Next time just come directly to me. Don’t even bother with the bureaucracy and their joke of ‘medical care.’” Mercy muttered, exhaling heavily at the sight of a slipped rotor. “They would’ve charged you an arm and a leg for a repair like this.” She shifted her belt with her hips, instead reaching her slender hands into the bots chassis, slowly pulling the rotor into the right place and watching for any sign of pain or overt discomfort from Hailraiser. The glass panels on her thighs and upper arms began fogging up with the heat from her own circuits and inner workings and the only sound in the small clinic was the scraping of metal and heavy breathing from both parties. Finally, the part clicked into place as Hailraiser let a loud, relieved sigh out and Mercy allowed a small smile to curl her lips up. She meticulously bolted his panel back into place and helped him sit up with a hand on his arm. 

  “Now how’s that feeling?” Mercy asked in the same gentle tone she’d used to soothe him earlier, scanning him up and down with owl-wide eyes. 

  “So much better. I can see why Bladewing told me to see you, you’re a miracle worker! Can’t believe you’re holed up working out of here, why aren’t you at General? Or an even bigger mechanic building!” Hailraiser rolled his back and shoulders, feeling out his newly-repaired wing as he talked louder and louder. His voice then faltered. “So how much do I owe you? I brought 15 cubes, I assumed that would be enough.” He clicked a small panel on his arm open, revealing the small stash he’d brought.

  “Nothing.” Mercy removed her hand from his arm as he stretched, crossing her arms over her chest and stepping back from the examination table with a satisfied look on her face. “Take this first time as complementary. Keep your Energon.” She said almost snarkily, waving him off while removing the belt with her other hand, laying it out on the clinically cleaned tool bench. She could feel Hailraiser staring a hole in the back of her head in disbelief, and turned with a roll of her eyes. “You don’t need to stare too hard, I know I’m lovely to look at. You know where the exit is, just come back if you need anything.” She teased the bot with a small laugh. It was the first time she’d laughed that week. Hailraiser lowered his eyes quickly and put the cubes back in his arm holster, leaving 3 purposefully on the table as he swiftly walked to the exit door.

  “Someone as talented as you deserves more space.” He quipped as he pulled the door closed behind him.

  “I know.” She said to the silence that was left. Mercy let a long breath out before beginning to place her toolbelt implements in their respective spots on her wall, folding the belt itself tightly and placing it in a desk drawer. She mindlessly rubbed at the oil stain under her right eye that never really went away as she worked, her shiny black chassis components glowing under the single floodlight that illuminated her clinic space. Hailraisers story about the general clinic was ringing in her ears as she worked, she cursed whoever was running that sham now. How could her fellows not afford an exam appointment? Those are the most basic tier appointments offered at General and should barely cost 1, maybe 2 cubes. She continued to ruminate as she added the appointment to her ledger. She’d been getting a slow, but steady, increase in clientele from word-of-mouth recommendations from her longtime clients and her bulging appointment notebook reflected this. She only hoped word wouldn’t go so far she needed to relocate again, she liked this space. The housing unit above was a nice bonus for her as well, thankfully the landlord was so old he’d leased the entire building to her for a fraction of what typical payments were and all she had to do was manage his shop in front too. Easy.

  The indicator light she’d installed near her bench for the front door of the building went off. Mercy quickly finished her ledger, scooped up Hailraisers Energon “tip” into her own storage partition and exited the back room to face a very large bot at the front counter.

  “Can I help you?” She placed a hand on her hip as she scanned the individual in front of her, looking for any damage or discrepancy on their chassis that may show why they’re there. Nothing stood out, and that made her nervous.

  “I heard someone might show some mercy around here?” he said in a steely cold tone, matching the one she was using. While her body didn’t relax, her mind did when hearing the phrase, only her clients knew what asking that meant and would tell bots seeking help to ask that specifically.  “I see, I think I know what you’re looking for. Come.” She beckoned the newcomer to follow with the twitch of her hand, and they obliged. “Now, how did you find me?”

[disassemblyfactory]

He always told you the truth.

But he never cared. For those in the public of the Cause, it was hopeless. For they did not see what happened in the shadows. Why the Autobots hadn't taken care of the scragglers that remained in Kaon. For what Megatron left was being reshaped and sharpened into something deadlier. He was smart, calculated, but he was a brute for he tried no second chances until violence ensued. In his shadow, he left a femme self-assured and enraged. The betrayal dug deep into her spark and she made sure that her rage was used logically, as one of her closest allies reminded her. He may not have been apart of the Cause now, but they kept in contact.

Echomirror had returned to the city with an altered frame. Without her imposing wings, it would be hard to tell her apart from the other remaining Decepticons. But what did make her stand out were the brightly glowing etchings on her backstrut where the modifications had been. She kept the coloring of Optimus Prime, but her frame was sharper. Deadlier. Her digits ended in points that could have been mistaken as mnemosurgeon needles. Those purple optics set upon Kolkular before entering it. It was routine now where she was going.

Straight to where that blasted seeker was. Her pedes were heavy against the solid ground and Cons knew to keep out of her way. Her aura was dark. Disturbing. Relaxed. And that was what made her different from Megatron. She knew to keep her calm where he did not. She entered the seeker quarters and her optics locked onto the one she was looking for.

❝ Skywarp. ❞

Her trusted advisor. Her S-I-C. When Starscream left to rule Cybertron, it left a bad node in her processor. He was always reaching for higher places. Like her rightful spot on the throne. He hadn't bothered her since his defection and she wouldn't have it any other way with that traitor. His trinemate, however, was another story.

Skywarp was her's to command. To control. Just like her army. They will end the Autobots, even if it meant killing the person she believed loved her since she was a sparkling. Her carrier betrayed her. For that, she will always hold onto until her own death.