quibble-auk

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Heh, yeah, I’m a nerd. I made my goofy little OCs into mermaids… sirens? Merpeople?

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil had the idea and now it’s living rent free in my head and I can’t stop thinking about it.

Anyway. Enjoy some doodles out of context

I’m having a fun time…. There will definitely be more

[quibble-auk]

This isn’t what I usually post about, I apologize to any regulars heh. But it’s my blog I can do what I want. Fight me.

I love bugs and here are some of my summer highlights that I’ve found! I try to identify them all but if I get any wrong please let me know!

Milkweed Assassin Bug (Zelus longipes) with a fly it caught.

also known as the Long-Legged Assassin Bug

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Tragidion coques on an okra leaf.

I was unable to find a common name for this guy, if you know one please let me know!

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In a lot of these I am handling bugs.

I am not a professional!

Please don’t pick up anything if you can’t identify it or aren’t comfortable!

If you are handling bugs please remember be gentle and respectful! They can be delicate!

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Blue dasher (Pachydiplax longipennis) that I caught after a storm

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Giant Leaf-footed Bug (Acanthocephala declivis) that I found in the water while walking on the beach!

Don’t worry I put him further from the water so he didn’t get stuck again.

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Greater Angle-winged Katydid (Microcentrum rhombifolium) that I found in my garden!

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American Giant Millipede (Narceus americanus) that I found while camping!

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Arachnophobes! There are spiders!

Please proceed with caution <3

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Tigrosa Annexa wolf spider (Tigrosa annexa) with a little dew hat!

Wolf spiders are generally harder (for me at least) to get a specific species so if I get it wrong please correct me!

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Hacklemesh Weaver (Metaltella simoni) that I found in the garden.

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Spinybacked Orbweaver (Gasteracantha cancriformis) that I found on a walk.

[quibble-auk]

Woah boy. I am still thinking about my evil flying lady so she gets more lore. There is technically more context for this but… yeah I decided to just not go through everything Sunrazor has planned and just write what happens to Overstrike.

There is only one more part to this part of Sunrazor’s little plan… or at least the part that involved Overstrike.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Honestly… the writing in this is mid. I don’t love it but I’m not doing it again. Nope. I’m lazy sorry. Echo’s perspective is kinda weak but… whatever. And the ending isn’t great… so be warned?

—

The barracks were cold.

Not literally—climate regulation was still functional—but in the way that settled deep into your joints, into your spark. The lights hummed softly overhead, set to a dim, sterile glow that did little to chase away the gloom clinging to the corners of the reinforced room.

It had been hours—possibly more—since Echo had moved from the cot in the far corner. He sat hunched forward, helm in his hands, elbows braced on his knees, wings drooping low and listless behind him. A fine tremor occasionally ran through his frame, he would flick his wings, he would pick at his paint. Sometimes he would start drumming a melody onto the floor, maybe pace a little.

Whatever he could do to make the time pass a little faster.

Anything to keep his mind occupied.

The confrontation with Leoblast played on repeat in his processor. Every word, every silence between them. The sound of the door hissing shut behind his brother. "Just long enough to end this."

Leo was going to find her. He was going to make sure she never came back.

And Echo couldn’t do anything about it.

His hands dropped from his helm, plating creaking faintly as he sat back against the wall behind the cot. He stared at the ceiling, optics dim, watching the slow, cyclical pulse of the lights in the corner of the room. A silent metronome ticking away at a rhythm he couldn’t follow.

He was going to lose his mind here, alone, waiting for his best friend—his brother—to kill the mech he wanted as a conjunx. This small, grimy room that was meant for prisoners. It wasn’t a terrible cell all things considered. He had seen worse.

The Praxian’s wings twitched and the beat he was tapping into his wrist faltered. He had survived worse, managed to keep the boredom from killing him before—but there were other threats then. Echo hadn’t been concerned about getting bored, he was more focused on not getting killed by Sunrazor.

But he wasn’t with Sunrazor.

Echo was in the autobot base, not the Decepticon stronghold. He was in one piece, no missing plating or torn limbs. He wasn’t hungry or sick, rust hadn’t settled into what remained of his body and he was very aware. There was no drifting in and out of consciousness. His vocalizer was sore not with overuse—not from screaming—but because he hadn’t said anything in days.

He was safe.

Just like Leoblast wanted him.

Contained. Grounded. Removed.

The blue mech let his optics close for a long moment, trying to will away the sudden tightness in his throat. He didn’t want to resent Leo for that—didn’t want to start pulling threads that might unravel everything left between them—but Primus, it was hard not to. It was hard not to hear that word—safe—as another kind of prison. One built of good intentions and fear.

Because Leo wasn’t just trying to protect him. He was trying to erase what Echo had chosen.

What they had built, in the dark, between fire missions and radio silence. What she had become to him.

Tempestrift was never simple. She was sharp where he was soft, calm where he was untamed. A Decepticon, sure. An enemy once. But now? She was something else. Something more. Something Leo had never tried to understand—not really. To him, she would always be a risk, a variable, a bomb waiting to go off.

But Echo had seen her bleed. Had seen her stay, when she didn’t have to. Had felt her spark pulsing against him, not as a tactic or a trap, but as a plea. A truth.

He knew what she meant to him and Leo couldn’t stop seeing it as a threat.

The quiet twisted in Echo’s chest. He raised his hand to pick at a streak of chipped paint from his forearm, then abandoned it.

The door hissed.

His spark gave a startled jolt in his chest as he sat bolt upright, wings snapping to attention before he could stop them. The door to the barracks slid open with a reluctant grind of metal on metal, and two silhouettes stepped through. One was a guard—bulky, tired, probably pulling overtime on a shift no one wanted. The other—

Tall. Rounded edges. Wings too wide for the narrow doorway. Paint scraped, armor scuffed from recent combat, plates shivering in distress. Her size alone was enough to indicate who she was. Overstrike. She ducked instinctively under the threshold, red eyes immediately locking onto Echo. There was almost something predatory in the way she looked at him, as if locking onto a target.

Echo stiffened.

Wherever there was one of Sunrazor’s minions, the golden mech was always sure to follow. Overstrike’s presence on the base threatened violence.

The door shut behind them with a loud clang, sealing the room with a finality that made Echo’s internal systems jolt. The faint pressure drop was noticeable—more psychological than physical.

Overstrike didn’t move at first. Her wings flicked, adjusting automatically to the claustrophobic confines, and her optics remained locked on Echo’s frame like she was scanning for weakness. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just... intent.

Echo didn’t speak. He couldn’t—not yet. Not when his processor was screaming with all the implications of her presence.

The towering Seeker’s optics dimmed for a moment, her gaze drifting down as if even she didn’t know what to say. The silence hung too long, long enough that it made the walls feel too close.

Then, finally, she moved. A slow, deliberate step closer to Echo, away from the cell door. Her boots clicked gently against the floor until she stood at the opposite wall from him. Her towering frame loomed over him, ruby eyes watching Echo like a bird of prey.

It was unsettling to say the least, but oddly familiar. There was a time that Tempestrift had looked at Echo just like that. Cold and calculating, but interested. Waiting for him to move or do something.

The Praxian’s doorwings twitched behind him. His fingers absently starting to pick at peeking paint across his left arm—his right forearm was already stripped of color besides an odd speckling. Echo broke the silence, voice sharper than he intended, “No cuffs?”

Overstrike tilted her head at the question, red optics blinking slow—almost too slow to be natural. Feigned surprise. "Should there be?"

Echo narrowed his optics.

She gave a soft, almost mocking sound of amusement, stepping away from the wall just enough to kneel down, one knee touching the floor with a metallic click. Her movements were smooth, disarming in their deliberate gentleness.

Even when kneeling the behemoth of a seeker loomed over Echo—the feeling wasn't foreign, Echo was very used to being towered over. As ironic as it was, he was pretty sure it was more comforting than terrifying for him. Sunrazor ruined that for him. Now he cowered just like everyone else when a giant came along.

Overstrike was no exemption. Echo pressed himself further into the wall, ignoring the way his doorwings fluttered in protest to being pinned. It would hurt later, yes, but he didn’t think he was supposed to be sharing a cell with a psychopath. He was in the barracks for whatever lame excuse Leo had come up with to get him contained.

He should not be with a decepticon who was known for blinding following every command of her deranged leader.

The large green seeker simply sighed and looked away after a moment, leaning on the wall behind her, shoulders sagging with some invisible weight. She looked to the side, away from Echo, and clicked once. Another tremor ran through her plating before she spoke, “You have no reason to be afraid, they have a collar on me… your doctor seems to know a lot about wiring behavioral compliance programs.”

Dropmix was oddly good at a lot of things. It was peculiar if anything, but it made sense with his age. The dark mech had been around for a long time, just about anyone could see that.

Echo’s optics flicked toward her neck, searching. Sure enough, the faint glint of a restraining collar sat flush against the base of her throat—blinking in steady, harmless pulses of blue. No active stun charges, not right now. Not unless she triggered it.

The Praxian grimaced and shook his head, visor flashing briefly. “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Overstrike said softly. Her fingers gently touched the foreign metal before settling on her own chest, over her spark. She gently pressed, flattening the panels that quivered and flared up, “It’s supposed to make you feel safe.”

Echo’s optics stayed on her a moment too long, searching. He wasn’t sure what for though, and whatever it was he didn’t find it. The blue mech looked away.

“I don’t,” he muttered coolly, fingers still picking at paint. His wings tried to flick once though they were quickly caught by the wall.

Overstrike nodded, like she expected that. She stayed quiet for a bit, head slightly bowed, wings trembling like they wanted to spread but didn’t dare. It was… uncharacteristic. The Overstrike Echo remembered was firm, proud, always at Sunrazor’s side like a sentinel. This version—kneeling, speaking softly, posture drawn in—it didn’t fit.

“I know you don’t trust me,” she said at last, not looking at him. She paused, wings flinching and breath hitched for a moment. Her hand pressed against her chest again, firmer this time. “You probably shouldn’t.”

Well, that was honest.

Echo didn’t respond. His hands clenched. He hated how small his voice had sounded. How unsure. How caged. He hated that he was stuck in here with a mech that followed Sunrazor like a lost dog. He hated waiting for the terrible news to come that Tempestrift was dead.

The Praxian hated many things.

But Overstrike was not one of them.

She sighed, still looking away, her hand absently rubbing her plates as she continued, “But I… I did not come here because Sunrazor asked.”

Echo stilled.

That caught him off guard.

Not because he believed her—but because she didn’t sound like she was lying.

She wasn’t trying to sell him on anything. Wasn’t leaning into dramatics or righteousness like most Decepticons did when they tried to justify themselves. She just... said it. Quiet. Flat. Like it was the truth and she didn’t expect him to care. More surprisingly she didn’t say Sunrazor’s name recently, like she always did.

Dare he admit it, she sounded disgusted when the name fell from her lips.

Echo turned his head just slightly, visor angled in her direction. Watching. Not trusting. But listening.

Overstrike's fingers curled against her chassis, a whine emitting from her, low and weak. She looked at the small blue mech, red eyes dim, “She tried to kill me… and… and I ran.”

Echo stared. The words clanged in his processor, loud and out of place. “She tried to kill me,” Overstrike had said.

But she hadn’t meant Tempestrift.

The realization hit like a blunt strike to the helm—too late, too loud. He looked at her, really looked, and saw it: the way Overstrike was almost folding in on herself, voice too fragile, optics flickering like static through a fog. He had never seen the proud mech look like this. But that was because she no longer had anything to be proud about.

Echo’s voice came out rough. “You meant Sunrazor.”

A pause.

A hitch in her vent.

Then: a single, small nod.

“She didn't hesitate,” Overstrike whispered, her voice suddenly flat and distant. The seeker stared at the wall. She flinched again, a clicking whine escaping her as she pressed against her chest again. “No hesitation. No speech. Just fire.”

That image struck hard. Echo could imagine it. Sunrazor—gleaming, golden, fury forged into form—raising a hand and trying to end someone who had never stopped loving her.

Echo’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

What did you even say to that? To someone who had followed a monster into hell and only realized it when she was the one left burning?

Overstrike’s frame shuddered once—small, barely noticeable if Echo hadn’t been watching so closely. Her optics dimmed further, the red softening to something tired and old. She shook her head, “You are lucky, Echo. What you and Tempest have… I… I dreamed of for ages.”

Overstrike’s voice cracked at the edges—too raw, too thin. Her fingers curled tighter over her chest, a scraping sound breaking through the silence as her talons dragged faint grooves into her own plating.

Echo blinked, wings flicking up and fingers stilling. Slowly. The tremor in her hand wasn’t fear.

It was pain.

Her chest heaved in uneven intervals, vents hitching and stalling like something inside her was misaligned—like something was failing.

The Praxian stilled as he examined the other’s chest from afar, closer than he had previously. He could see the black spiderweb of char that spread over it. Deep cracks and groves that covered the smooth surface. Emerged in cakes the edges of her plating, some of it had dried but in a few spots it still leaked.

“Overstrike…” the blue mech began, throat tightening as he looked at the wound. She had been shot just to the side of her spark chamber.

“I’ve had worse,” she muttered. But her voice warbled, staticky and thin. She wasn’t convincing anyone. Least of all herself.

“No, you haven’t.” Echo crouched in front of her, one hand braced on his knee, the other hovering uncertainly near the seared mess of her chest. “That’s a clean hit. Close range. Heavy caliber.” He swallowed. “That’s meant to kill.”

Overstrike’s optics closed for a moment. “I know.”

[quibble-auk]

Oh boy, I’m on a roll right now.

I’m caving and skipping ahead to do some Overstrike lore. Yippee! My scary lady gets her time to shine. She gets a blurb!

The pacing may be a little off and generally I’m not sure if I love it, but yeah. This scene now exists and I can be free of it haunting my brain. Enjoy this crappy doodle I made

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil it’s the scary lady!

—

They had been stuck in this sector for cycles now. The front was moving, Sunrazor temporarily abandoned their assigned base, and they were slowly creeping up on the Autobots. Sunrazor had a plan, a genius and well crafted one, Overstrike was sure of it. There had to be a purpose behind their slow approach, the quiet before a storm. The way Sunrazor’s eyes danced with a new purpose.

Perhaps this time Overstrike would get her chance to take care of the pest, Valkyrie. And she would finally have all of Sunrazor.

Maybe she won’t mess up this time and earn the wrath of her beloved.

The last skirmish left more than just damage in its wake—it left a kind of hollowness, a pause before the inevitable violence began again. Camp was too quiet. Morale, lower than ever. But Overstrike didn’t care.

None of it mattered, as long as she was near her.

Sunrazor sat alone near the edge of camp, silhouetted against a ruined skyline, the dying flicker of fires below casting her frame in sharp, beautiful angles. Her golden armor truly did seem to glow like her namesake like this, catching the yellow light and flaring in a stunning display. Overstrike kept her distance—just a few paces away. Not close enough to be intrusive. Not far enough to be forgotten. Just... near.

Always near.

She hadn’t left Sunrazor’s side in days. Not unless ordered to. And even then, she carried the echo of her voice, her presence, like a live current in her processor.

The moon above burned weak and sickly, like it was giving up. Rain would fall soon, probably acidic again. Didn’t matter. If Sunrazor wanted to sit here and rust into the dirt, Overstrike would kneel beside her and corrode in silence. Gladly.

Sunrazor didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Perfect.

Overstrike sat on a storage unit and watched the golden mech, drinking her in with quiet reverence. The sharp lines of her jaw, the battle-scorched plating, the way her optics shimmered like they saw further than anyone else ever could. They flicked and danced between colors, red and blue clashing until it settled on a stark, piercing white. She would readjust, chuckle a bit, flare her plating, perhaps even murmur to herself and then the game would continue, an endless loop of wandering thoughts.

Even at moments like this, when Sunrazor was lost in her own mind and couldn't care less about what Overstrike was doing, there was something divine about her. Dignified. Untouchable. But Overstrike didn’t need to touch—just being allowed to orbit her, to serve her, was enough.

It was closer than anyone was able to get. Overstrike got to orbit closer than any other mech had the chance to. Of course, that was until Valkyrie entered the stage. Until the pastel mech decided to take all that Overstrike had. She stole Sunrazor’s attention, ruined everything.

Overstrike would make sure the pesky mech understood that she was the one to stand by Sunrazor’s side now. Valkyrie had been nothing.

The silence stretched too long.

Then, as if Overstrike’s longing had summoned it, Sunrazor spoke.

“Say something.” Her voice. A low rasp. Rough as twisted metal and just as beautiful. Sunrazor didn’t bother to turn and face the seeker, her searing red gaze remained on the horizon.

Overstrike startled, optics flaring, her wings twitched up at the request. A ghost of a smile tugged at her lips, “Like what?”

“I don’t know. You’re the one who never shuts up.” Not kind. Not cruel. Just... tired. Sunrazor's tired voice was still music to her. The golden mech’s eyes flicked to blue for a moment, then back to red as her gaze settled on the Seeker.

Overstrike stood from her spot on the storage crate and took a careful step closer, wings flicking tentatively. She kept her voice quiet and reserved, respectful and reverent . “I thought maybe… you wanted space.”

Sunrazor eyes flared white and she snorted, looking to the skyline again, a twisted smile creeping across her lips. “If I wanted space, you’d be scrap on the side of the road.”

The words cut—but Overstrike didn’t flinch. She knew her. Knew she didn’t mean it. Not really. That was just how Sunrazor talked. Sharp edges were part of her charm. She was a weapon. Beautiful. Brutal. Distant.

And Overstrike would bleed herself dry for the illusion of closeness.

The quiet returned. This time heavier. Until—

“I’ve been thinking,” Sunrazor said. Measured. Cold. Her optics locked on the distant wreckage. They had settled on white again, dangerous and unknown. “About us.”

Overstrike’s spark nearly seized.

Her wings twitched, frame straightening as a jolt of electricity shot through her. “You have?” she breathed, optics wide and glowing. There was awe in her voice, like she was witnessing a revelation. A confession. A promise.

Of course there was something between them. Of course Sunrazor had been thinking. How could she not feel it? The bond. The connection.

Sunrazor finally turned to her, slow and deliberate, the twist of her frame fluid like oil over molten metal. Her optics still glowed white, unreadable and sharp. Her plates flared, vents hissing with heat, engine ticking and idling low. She hummed, looking over the large seeker with keen interest.

Overstrike’s ventilations caught in her throat. It felt like standing before a god about to pass judgment.

“I’ve been thinking,” Sunrazor repeated, her voice soft now, laced with something almost gentle—almost tender. Her eyes flicked to blue, endless and deep, a smile still spread across her face. She stepped closer, claws flexing at her sides. “About how devoted you are, how you are always there.”

Sunrazor closed the space between them, slow, calculated steps. Her frame loomed larger now, the heat radiating from her vents seeping into Overstrike’s armor. That smile never faltered—sharp, knowing. Predatory.

Overstrike didn’t dare move. Didn’t breathe. If Sunrazor touched her now—if she even brushed a servo against her arm—it would undo her entirely.

“You’ve been loyal,” Sunrazor murmured, voice like polished steel sliding across glass. “Even when I didn’t ask for it. Even when I didn’t deserve it.” Her claws reached up, hovering a hair’s width from Overstrike’s faceplate. “That kind of loyalty… deserves acknowledgment, don’t you think?”

Overstrike’s optics widened. Her frame trembled, wings fluttering with barely-contained anticipation. “I’d do anything for you,” she whispered, spark fluttering erratically beneath her plating. “Anything you ask. You know that.”

Sunrazor’s optics shimmered with a glint of amusement, dancing between white and blue. She finally touched her—fingers trailing down the curve of Overstrike’s jaw, light and lingering. The seeker nearly shorted from the contact.

“I know,” Sunrazor said, quiet. “That’s what makes you so useful.”

The words stung. Useful. Not cherished. Not wanted. But Overstrike latched onto the tone, not the meaning. She twisted the word in her mind until it sounded like affection. Anything, she thought. She’d be anything for her.

Sunrazor leaned closer, close enough that Overstrike could feel her breath against her plating, that the smell of burning metal was intoxicating, overwhelming. The heat of Sunrazor’s frame seeped into her plating, searing through armor like it was meant to brand her. Her venting hitched. Her spark buzzed erratically behind its casing, trying to make sense of the closeness—of this.

“You’re trembling,” Sunrazor murmured, lips just barely grazing Overstrike’s cheek as she spoke. “Didn’t realize I scared you that much.”

“I’m not scared,” Overstrike breathed quietly, afraid that a single movement would take all this away, if she stepped out of line Sunrazor would retreat like she so often did. It had been ages since Sunrazor had touched her this gently.

Sunrazor’s mouth curled into the faintest grin. Not warm. Not cruel either. Just knowing.

“No?” she asked, and her hand slid lower—over her collar, brushing the exposed lines beneath her armor. Gentle. Teasing. Possessive.

Overstrike's frame reacted before she could stop it. Her shoulders relaxed just slightly, wings twitching with quiet need, mouth parting on an unsteady ex-vent. Her processor struggled to keep up, too full of static and fire.

“I just didn’t expect—” Her voice wavered. She tried again. “You’re never like this… not anymore… not since-”

Overstrike didn’t bother to finish that thought. Sunrazor was rarely physical with her, she rarely initiated it, but any and all touch had disappeared the moment Valkyrie had shown up, when they arrived at this cursed sector… when Sunrazor’s eyes weren’t the steady, rich red anymore, when they had started dancing between colors. Things had changed since then.

But this was nice.

Sunrazor tilted her head, optics scanning her face like she was mapping the most effective place to press. Her eyes flicked between blue and red, a mesmerizing dance between colors. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“No,” Overstrike said quickly, too quickly. “No, it’s not. It’s just…”

She trailed off, not sure how to finish that thought.

Sunrazor took another half-step closer, pressing Overstrike to sit on the storage unit again and slotting her knee between the seeker’s, crowding into her space like she belonged there. Her hand lifted, brushing lightly against the side of Overstrike’s jaw. Her other hand moved lower, tracing worm transformation seams down over the larger mech’s chest.

Sunrazor’s touch was light—purposefully so. Each glide of her claw a calculated gesture, slow and drawn-out, deliberate in its implication. She wasn’t reaching for connection. She was testing. Prodding. Watching how easily Overstrike would unravel for her again.

And unravel she did.

Overstrike leaned in, just a fraction, her optics wide and almost pleading. Her spark was roaring now, pressing against its chamber like it wanted to break through and spill into Sunrazor’s hands, like it already belonged there. She didn’t even notice the way her knees parted to accommodate Sunrazor’s leg, didn’t process how small she’d allowed herself to become—how compliant.

“You want this,” Sunrazor said, not a question. A statement. A claim. One hand remained on the seeker’s chest, the other moved to dance across Overstrike’s sensitive wings.

The large seeker nodded, lips parted, voice caught in the mess of her ventilation systems. “Yes,” she whispered, optics fluttering. “I want you. I always—”

Sunrazor cut her off—not with words, but with a shift of weight, the press of her body fully against Overstrike’s, hand now splayed over the plating of her chest, right over her spark. She hummed and smiled, eyes flicking and settling on the ghostly white—and then she kissed her.

It wasn’t forceful. It wasn’t desperate. It was slow and deliberate, just like every other move Sunrazor made. But it devoured her all the same.

Overstrike melted into the kiss, her optics widening in shock and delight as Sunrazor’s lips pressed to hers. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t reverent. It wasn't about love. It was a claim. Her chassis trembled under the weight of it—she barely held on, fingers clenching Sunrazor’s sides like lifelines.

When the kiss broke, she exhaled an unsteady stream of vents. Her spark thundered behind its casing, as if it had just been ripped open. Her playing buzzed, shivering, vents hot and loud as the seeker struggled to compensate with the rising heat in her frame.

Sunrazor didn’t move back. Didn’t give her space. Her thumb stayed against Overstrike’s wing, idly stroking the seam there with a gentleness that felt like a contradiction. Like a lie wrapped in silk.

“That spark of yours,” she said softly after a moment, chuckling to herself, “it’s loud.”

Overstrike blinked, still breathless, fans whirring frantically. “Loud?”

“Always flaring when I’m near.” Sunrazor’s optics narrowed slightly, her hand moved slowly across the other’s chest, claws trailing dangerously on seams and gaps. “Like it’s calling mine.”

That made Overstrike’s internals seize. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t get the words out. Not right away.

“Do you… hear it?” she finally asked, voice raw.

A low hum rumbled in Sunrazor’s throat. “Sometimes. When I’m quiet enough to listen.” Her hand drifted up again, touching just over the place where Overstrike’s spark pulsed behind its casing. “It’s not subtle, Striker.”

The nickname landed like a pulse through Overstrike’s frame. She couldn’t stop the way her fingers clutched at Sunrazor’s plating, couldn’t stop the way her spark clawed forward like it wanted to bridge the space between them entirely.

“Then—then you know how I feel,” Overstrike said, spark stuttering behind its armor.

Sunrazor didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, she leaned in again, mouth brushing Overstrike’s like a secret, a test, a tether. Her hand stayed over Overstrike’s spark casing, and now her fingers moved—tracing the seams that shielded the core, mapping every line of pressure, every point that made her tremble.

Overstrike gasped, just barely.

Sunrazor pulled back a fraction, lips still close, blazing white optics locked onto hers like she was hunting the seeker. “Open it.”

The green mech froze.

“…What?”

“You heard me.” Her voice was low, quiet, deadly steady. “Prove you’d do anything for me.”

Overstrike’s spark skipped a pulse. Her optics searched Sunrazor’s, desperate for something—permission, kindness, understanding. But there was none of that. Just the cold, unwavering gleam of white light, and that smile—razor-thin and unreadable.

“Open it,” Sunrazor repeated, softer now, but no less sharp. A whisper made of daggers. Her thumb pressed lightly over the central seam of Overstrike’s chest. “Or was that just talk?”

The storage crate creaked beneath Overstrike’s weight as her wings stiffened and trembled. Her spark—already so close to the surface—flared at the request. A command. A test.

The seeker obeyed, plating shifting to open and reveal her spark. Her optics never left Sunrazor’s, even as metal shifted and split, exposing the pulsing core beneath. Her spark flared the moment it tasted open air—vibrant, eager, vulnerable.

It shone like a live flame. Wild. Loyal. Burning for only one.

“I trust you,” Overstrike whispered, voice hoarse, almost reverent. She could barely speak past the trembling in her frame.

Sunrazor didn’t smile. Not this time. Her expression was unreadable. Focused. Clinical. Her eyes glowed an eerie white, cold and calculating, dangerous and unsteady.

Despite herself, Overstrike flinched, plates longing to slide back into place, to seal her spark away from that hungry gaze.

“I know you do,” she murmured—and then she reached into her own subspace compartment.

Overstrike didn’t have time to pull away—maybe she didn’t want to—or seal her spark. Sunrazor reached in and something cold clicked into place. It latched onto the inside of Overstrike’s spark casing, gripped her spark itself. It sunk its cold claws into her very core.

The seeker screamed.

[quibble-auk]

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil yk, at this point I was still planning on killing Jeopardy and having that whole bit with Dropmix and it makes this whole spoof animation ten times funnier to me.

Yep. This is how the original plot was supposed to happen…

Now it’s just in the Sunburned AU.

Oh no. I drew Dropmix and the assistant that is definitely not his adopted son.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil here is the boy… and his boy…

He may have done some things but he’s moved on since then alright? He’s got a not son now.

This is what’s going on in the medical bay half the time.

[quibble-auk]

Uhhhh anyway. I’ve not been watChing this movie on repeat… nope, that’s crazy hah. (I have and it’s bad)

Anyway I feel like Jeopardy would be a fan. He would be bawling during that one scene with Rumi and Celine. He’s fine though. Really normal about it. He’s going to make his not dad watch it seventeen times.

Jeopardy can do the choreography at this point.

[quibble-auk]

Heh, some unprompted Jeopardy lore. Nothing out of the ordinary, just my boy having a not so great time. The usual.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Anyway, kinda a shame that this is the last time he sees Triton right? I mean yay the bastard is gone but… bro could have been nicer.

—

The skies were on fire.

Explosions bloomed like poisonous flowers across the shattered skyline. The terrain was nothing but broken steel and scorched earth—an open grave for machines. Firelight danced on shattered plating, and distant shellfire cracked the air like thunder.

Jeopardy ran.

Or tried to.

He wasn’t built for this kind of terrain—uneven rubble, collapsed structures, pockets of unstable energy fields. Broken mechs scattered the ruined ground, twisted limbs forming grotesque piles. Each step hurt, every jarring slip and falter rattled Jeopardy’s plating. Ahead, Triton’s hulking form carved through the smoke, fast, fluid, unrelenting.

“Fall back to the ridge,” Triton growled over comms. “Rendezvous with any remaining squads. Help those you can but otherwise don’t stop.”

Jeopardy swallowed hard, casting a glance behind him where a bleeding mech lay. “I’ve got injured trailing—there’s a—”

“Then leave them,” Triton snapped, growling. He didn’t bother to look back at Jeopardy—he never did. “If they can’t run, they’re already dead. Those fires are incoming and I’ve heard there could be gas, we don’t have time to drag corpses around.”

Jeopardy big back any response he may have had. They have had this discussion before, Jeopardy had learned his lesson. It was one thing for soldiers to die, another for a medic. They needed to value their own life if they wanted to save more.they could not throw it away for every half dead mech.

It was always like this with Triton. Harsh, cold—but right. He was always right. He was in command. Jeopardy was supposed to listen and obey, that was his job. Not to correct or question the commands the more experienced mech gave. That would be stepping out of line, that would mean punishment.

It never made it easier though, each time Jeopardy saw a fallen mech he couldn’t help but hesitate, his spark twisting painfully in his chest. But he had to keep going. He had to pick and choose his battles, the mechs who were most likely to survive.

Jeopardy hesitated again.

A soldier lay to his right—half-buried beneath collapsed girders, their optics flickering. Their hand twitched, reaching weakly toward him.

“T-Triage…” they rasped through a damaged vocalizer, static crackling with every word. Their plating trembled, energon leaking from various wounds “Please…”

Jeopardy faltered. Just for a second.

Triton didn’t.

The medic vaulted a broken wall, never looking back. “That’s on you, Jeopardy,” Triton hissed. “We move now or we die.”

Jeopardy stared down at the soldier, guilt tearing at him like jagged shrapnel. He stumbled to a halt, sucking in a sharp breath. He glanced at Triton for a moment before looking back at the injured mech. The soldier’s optics flickered—dim, but not fading. Not yet.

“Please,” they whispered again, something desperate creeping in their voice. “Don’t leave me.”

Jeopardy’s processor screamed at him to move, to run, to follow orders. Triton’s voice still echoed in his audials like a blade pressed to the back of his neck. “If they can’t run, they’re already dead.” But the mech wasn’t dead. Not yet. He didn’t have to be left behind.

Jeopardy dropped to one knee beside them, already pulling his medkit open with one hand, the other checking vitals. “Okay, okay, I’ve got you,” he said breathlessly, optics darting. “Shrapnel in your torso… left energon line’s severed—easy fix, just hold still.”

The soldier clutched weakly at his arm, trembling as their vocalizer clicked uselessly. “They left me. I thought everyone—”

“I’m not leaving.” Jeopardy pressed a dermal patch over the leak, then fumbled for a brace to lift the debris off their lower half. He worked quickly, not bothering to look up for his mentor. He knew what he would find, Triton did not plan on stopping, not even for him.

Regardless he forced a grim smile, humming reassuringly to the wounded mech, “You’re gonna be fine. You just need to hold on for another few minutes.”

Jeopardy’s hands shook, but he kept working, adrenaline dulling the pain of exhaustion and fear. The fires around them were growing closer now, the heat rising like a living thing. Distant explosions churned the air with ash and smoke.

The medic glanced back toward the ridge. The faint silhouette of Triton’s bulk was already melting into the smoky haze, a relentless shadow moving with deadly purpose. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to flee with the others. But the soldier’s fading spark was a stubborn anchor, pulling him down into the mire of responsibility.

“Come on, hold on,” Jeopardy urged, voice tight but steady. The injured mech’s optics fluttered weakly, a flicker of hope beneath layers of pain and despair.

The ridge loomed just ahead—safety, barely a hundred meters away.

So close.

But war had a way of punishing hesitation.

A shrieking whistle tore through the sky, and Jeopardy froze.

He looked up—too late.

The impact hit nearby, hard. A mortar shell slammed into the ruined street just meters away, the explosion lifting fire, metal, and force into the air like a wrathful storm.

Jeopardy didn’t even have time to scream.

The shockwave knocked him off his feet, the air torn from his vents. His world when white as he gasped uselessly. He crashed backward—hard—onto a jagged spine of rebar sticking up from a collapsed girder.

His back struck it directly.

There was a sickening crack, and the world twisted.

Something inside him gave out.

Pain—sharp, searing, electric—shot through him like a power surge and the young medic screamed. Static crackling in his voice and red warnings blinding him. He hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, body twitching. A pained cry escaped him as the dust settled. Jeopardy’s body felt like it was on fire, buzzing painfully, shaking with stressed tremors as he struggled to reorient himself.

He blinked a few times, an endless stream of clicks emitting from his throat. His HUD was alight with warning after warning, threatening a shutdown. Jeopardy dismissed them, trying to focus on where he was hurt the most—if he could patch it up he could still catch up with Triton. The young medic twitched and tried to push himself up.

It wasn’t pain that stopped him, not initially. It was the terrifying numbness.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

Couldn’t even feel the ground beneath him.

Jeopardy couldn’t feel anything below his waist. His systems were screaming, static crowding his audio feed as pain signals shorted out into blank, echoing silence. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

His fingers scraped at the rubble beneath him, trembling. He tried to push himself upright, but his body betrayed him. Only one arm moved the way it should—the other sparked at the elbow, non-responsive. His legs… they didn’t even twitch.

“No no no,” Jeopardy whispered, optics wide with horror. He struggled to suck in air, breath short and shallow. The young medic whined and tried to push himself up again. “Come on, move—move, slag it, move—”

He didn’t have time for this.

Jeopardy’s vents hitched, a high static whine building in his helm. The air around him was thick with smoke and heat, the world spinning too fast. He tried again—tried to roll, to drag himself by his elbows, to do anything—but his limbs weren’t responding the way they should. Nothing felt right.

His legs wouldn’t move. His back burned like it was still on fire, and his systems were beginning to lag beneath the rising flood of errors and alerts. Red warnings blinked across his optics.

::Spinal trauma detected. Neurolink failure. Lower limb systems unresponsive. Stabilizer offline::

Nothing that wasn’t fixable, he could be repaired. The injuries alone weren’t fatal or life altering. But the inflicted areas were too delicate to operate on in a battlefield. Jeopardy needed to get to a medics station.

But he couldn’t move.

His spark thundered. Louder than the seeker engines. Louder than the screaming wind. Louder than the soldier calling for help, calling for him.

“I—I can’t—” Jeopardy gasped, his voice cracking and small. He felt dizzy. His helm buzzed with rising static, the corners of his vision closing in like shutter doors and his plating trembled, pressing into himself. His hand fumbled, scraped blindly at the debris beside him. His body wasn’t working, and his mind was falling apart trying to process it.

He was going to die here.

“Triton—!” The name ripped from his throat, high and panicked, shrill enough to distort his vocalizer. He didn’t even think before calling out for his mentor. “Triton, I— I’m hit! I need help! I need—”

No answer.

“Triton! Please—”

Still nothing.

“Triton! I’m sorry—please! I- I can- Triton!”

The comms line hissed—open, but silent.

Jeopardy’s panic surged. He clawed at his chest, trying to slow his vents, trying to breathe around the pressure in his core. The terror curled inward now, heavy and suffocating, a loop of fear feeding on itself.

His vents convulsed in short, frantic gasps, pulling in smoke-laced air and choking on it. Every intake felt too shallow, too fast. His vocalizer jittered with rising static as the panic overtook his systems like a virus, swallowing rational thought.

“Triton,” Jeopardy begged again, voice trembling. A broken sob tore from his throat. “Please, I can’t— I can’t move, I can’t feel my legs—”

Nothing. Only the soft hum of an open channel, a lifeline severed by silence.

His spark pulsed wildly now, hammering against his chassis like it was trying to escape. The medic curled in on himself as much as his broken body allowed—arm pulling tight across his midsection, as if trying to protect something already shattered. His other hand scrabbled helplessly at the debris beside him, scraping metal to metal in a useless display of desperation.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

The same words that soldier had said—rasped through a failing voice box, optics dimming. Jeopardy had promised them they weren’t alone.

His processor spiraled, temperature rising, emergency cooling failing to keep up. His HUD stuttered, warning icons overlapping in a kaleidoscope of red—movement failure, vent failure, energon leaks, foreign object detected.

It was too much. Too much sound, too much heat, too many errors blaring over his optics. His mind reeled, unable to decide what to prioritize—his broken body or his imploding thoughts.

His legs wouldn’t move.

His comms were dead.

His mentor wasn’t answering.

“Triton…?” The name was smaller now. Like a child’s. The kind of voice used when you know no one’s listening, but you say it anyway. Because the silence is worse.

He gripped his chassis again, trembling—hard. His fingers dug into his own armor as if that might ground him, as if he could pull his spark back into rhythm, pull his thoughts back under control.

It didn’t work.

“I don’t want to die,” Jeopardy whispered, staring at the ridge now—hazy, distant, unreachable. The world was ringing. His audials buzzed with distortion, and the heat shimmered around him like a hallucination. “I don’t want to— I didn’t mean to—I tried—”

Another breath. Shallow. Smoke-filled. His voice cracked again. “I tried to be good.”

Jeopardy’s optics flickered. He squeezed them shut. The ground shook. Another explosion. Closer.

The soldier he’d stayed behind to save had gone silent. Their spark had probably guttered out during the blast. Or maybe they were still alive—just like him. Waiting. Praying.

Trapped.

Alone.

“I’m not built for this,” Jeopardy whimpered, shaking. “I’m not—I was never—Triton, please come back— I can’t do this, I can’t do this alone—”

His vocalizer began to sputter completely, static choking off each word, his voice degrading into noise. A high, keening feedback that blurred into the din of war.

His vents skipped again. Then again.

He couldn’t get enough air.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

And still—no one came.

His hand clenched. Weak. Slipping in ash.

And Jeopardy—medic, soldier, follower—panicked.

He screamed, garbled and cracked, not in words this time but raw sound. Pain. Terror. Something primitive and unfiltered erupting from his chest like it could split his frame wide open. He screamed until his vocalizer stuttered into failure and all that was left was the sound of his vents heaving and his spark whirring too fast.

[quibble-auk]

Uhhhh yeah, I need to draw my boy more

Just some silly doodles

[quibble-auk]

Oh my gosh, it’s a miracle. I didn’t abandon the little mini series that I’ve yet to name with Jeopardy figuring out Dropmix is a gladiator.

This has been half finished for weeks and I’ve just not touched it because… I don’t have a reason.

Anyway, I’m sure the pacing is weird or smth. Not my finest work but it’s not terrible. Just Dropmix coming to terms with things. If I’m nice I’ll get the next part of this done quickly…

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

—

Dropmix didn’t sleep.

He ran diagnostics instead—rechecked inventory numbers, reorganized the stims in drawer seventeen, recalibrated the optic scanner in room B, rewrote two minor patches of code in the medbay monitoring system. He kept moving until his joints ached and his internals throbbed with the kind of fatigue only stress could create.

He didn’t ping Jeopardy.

Didn’t track him down or demand a meeting.

No, that wasn’t how this had to happen.

This needed to be natural—or as natural as anything could be with a transfer request hanging like a blade above their heads. He waited in the medbay, sitting at one of the observation stations, pretending to review case notes on a datapad he never once read.

At 0600 sharp, the door hissed open.

Jeopardy entered with his usual fluid grace, frame compact and composed. His plating was polished, weapons stowed, his optics dull in that same detached way that Dropmix had grown to dread.

He didn’t even pause when he stepped inside.

Didn’t look at him.

Didn’t speak.

It was achingly familiar, like a strange mirror to when Jeopardy first showed up in his medbay. He had been quiet and unsure, keeping to himself while trying to look as busy as possible. An odd little bot who watched Dropmix’s every move when he drew close. He had been duller then too, detached and untethered like he didn’t plan on staying.

Now, Jeopardy didn’t watch him at all.

Didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate. Just walked past Dropmix like a ghost skimming through a memory. No trace of that quiet curiosity from before. No cautious looks. Just purpose. Cold, clean, and decisive.

It was somehow worse than when Theremin would yell at him, it stung more than the harsh words exchanged.

Dropmix stared at him for a long moment, unsure how to start. Every line he’d rehearsed all night scattered like scraps of broken glass. None of it fit. None of it was enough.

Jeopardy pulled a panel from the diagnostics bench and began routine checks on the scanner coils, as if this were any other shift. As if the weight in the room wasn’t crawling into Dropmix’s throat. Music ebbed in his ear, hauntingly beautiful, too serene for a moment like this.

He shut it off. He needed to focus. The large mech couldn’t deal with the persistent buzzing of BCP in his ear, not when everything was on the line like this.

“I read it,” Dropmix said at last, he lowered his datapad, eye firmly on the other mech in the room. He watched and waited.

Jeopardy didn’t look up.

“I read the request,” the dark mech repeated, quieter now. He watched for any response, any sign that Jeopardy was listening. His voice still felt too loud in the quiet of the medbay. There was no music to speak over now. “You didn’t even tell me.”

A soft clunk of tools was his only answer.

“You were just going to leave.” Dropmix stood slowly, voice brittle with effort. The large mech stood, datapad placed carelessly on the desk like a discarded prop. Words clung to his throat, refusing to surface. Instead they blinked in his gut, unpleasant and building pressure, waiting for something. Dropmix did not know what, though he doubted it would be good.

Jeopardy’s back was to him. Still. Unmoved. The tension in his frame said he’d heard every word—but not a single motion betrayed how he felt about it. Not at first.

Dropmix took a step closer.

The young medic didn’t turn. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even blink.

The only sign that he was still present, still listening, was the faint flicker of a diagnostic screen responding to his idle tapping. But he wasn’t working anymore. Not really. Just going through the motions, letting the hum of routine shield him from the storm at his back.

Dropmix’s spark cracked in the center of his chest. He was going to lose him before he got the chance to fight for him to stay. He managed to keep his voice steady, strong and unwavering “You were going to leave without saying anything. Without giving me the chance to—”

“To what?” Jeopardy cut in, flat. Still not turning around. He didn’t snap like Theremin, it wasn’t sharp and cruel. It sat, demanding attention, almost unbelievably plain at a moment like this. It was soft and cold, “Explain it away? Give me a half-truth I could convince myself to believe for a few more cycles? Continue to play your—”

The mech cut himself off, wincing before going still.

Dropmix seized on the flinch like it was proof of something—fragile, raw proof that Jeopardy still felt something. Still had skin in the game, even if he was trying to walk away from it like it never mattered. It was a weakness, something to exploit. Battle programs idled, searching for higher ground, some way to gain the advantage. There was no telling how much Jeopardy knew.

The mech targeted the weakness like he would a crack in Theremin’s armor during an argument. He needed to play on it if he wanted to keep him. Dropmix needed to tread carefully to not lose Jeopardy.

“I wasn’t playing anything,” he said, quieter now, but laced with a kind of painful urgency. It was a lie, he knew it, perhaps Jeopardy did as well. There was no way to know, not now. Just how there was no way for Dropmix to pinpoint which lie Jeopardy had finally seen through.

Jeopardy still didn’t turn. His shoulders, usually tucked into the perfect line of someone always prepared to be underestimated, shifted ever so slightly—as if bracing for something he didn’t want to hear but had long since expected.

“I wasn’t playing anything,” Dropmix repeated, slower this time. Like if he kept saying it, maybe it would transmute into truth. As if maybe the words that pressed relentlessly against his spark casing and chest would escape and make everything better.

They didn’t. They remained trapped like a wingless seeker in a pit, clawing and screaming for escape, begging to be let out. Dropmix wouldn’t let them, the soft and kind words came after the fight, after the hurt—sometimes they came broken and bent during the fallout, Theremin had taught him that.

A small, almost imperceptible flick of Jeopardy’s hand shut the diagnostic console down. The bench lights dimmed with it, casting half his frame in shadow. He stood like that for a long moment, hands flat on the metal, head bowed—not in defeat, but deliberation.

Then finally, finally, he turned.

Not dramatically. Not with anger. Just—turned.

And Dropmix hated the look on his face more than silence. Calm. Composed. Burned out in all the places where fire used to live, it reminded Dropmix too much of Theremin when he was younger, when the pits had fallen and he was left trying to hold the world together.

He held Dropmix’s gaze for a second too long. Not confrontational, just… measured. The way a tech would look at a cracked fuel line. Not worth salvaging unless you had a very good reason.

“I waited,” Jeopardy said.

It was a simple thing. No venom. Just the truth, bare and low, like a report filed and timestamped. Dropmix’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He nodded. Once. He needed the truth, Dropmix needed it so he could spin his words, give Jeopardy what he wanted to hear so he would stay.

The young medic shook his head, voice getting quieter, “I trusted you, Dropmix, I… I cared. I fragging cared about you!” Jeopardy hissed the words, angry and vile. But not directed at Dropmix, rather himself.

The dark mech didn’t flinch, but the words hurt. They stung and sunk their ugly claws into his chest. Even if they weren’t for him it revealed an unsettling truth, Jeopardy had twisted whatever lie he had discovered on himself. Dropmix was not trying to convince Jeopardy to stay, but rather the kid’s own self hatred that it was wrong.

“I know,” he said softly.

Two words. Not an argument. Not a defense. Just… acknowledgment. Something real. He didn’t know what else to say, there was nothing else. Nothing but the suffocating presence of what he couldn’t say, what he wouldn’t let spill out and tarnish whatever chance he had. Dropmix couldn’t lose the young medic, he was all the dark mech had.

He was all Dropmix had of Theremin—the thought stung his processor.

Jeopardy blinked, optics narrowing, not quite sure what to do with the lackluster response.

Dropmix stepped forward again, slow and deliberate this time. No sudden moves. Like approaching a wounded creature in the dark. He carefully crossed the space between them until he stood beside Jeopardy. He knew the motions, how to get through the thick of self doubt and self deprecation that existed in the smaller mech’s head. Dropmix knew what he had to do, he had done it hundreds of times before.

The medic watched, posture tense and unsure, still cold, but something was dripping through the cracks. Something hurt, something that wanted so badly for this. Craved it even. Depended on what Dropmix had to offer. It wanted comfort when the rest of Jeopardy was sure he was above it.

Dropmix reached out—but paused.

His hand hovered inches from Jeopardy’s arm, static humming faint between them. His fingers trembled, just slightly, as if even now, with Jeopardy standing right there, he still wasn’t sure if it was allowed. If he was allowed.

Because this wasn’t Theremin.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He saw it now—too late to undo, too soon to forgive himself for. That look on Jeopardy’s face wasn’t just hurt. It wasn’t just betrayal. It was exhaustion. The kind born from being mistaken for someone else over and over again, until your identity became a costume someone else kept trying to sew you into.

Even if Jeopardy hadn’t noticed it, even if he wasn't aware of the part he had played, he was tired of it. Jeopardy could not continue to be some lackluster version of Theremin. Dropmix was reaching for Theremin, afraid he’d lose him all over.

He was afraid to lose Jeopardy because it was all he had of Theremin—which was a lie.

The pressure eased from his chest, not gone, but lightened.

Dropmix’s hand lowered.

He looked at Jeopardy—not the silhouette of Theremin superimposed over him, not the half-built replacement his mind had shaped to fill the void his Conjunx left behind—but really, really looked.

This was someone different.

Smaller. Quieter. Sharper in some ways, softer in others. The precision of his work came from obsession, not pride. The guardedness wasn’t defiance—it was self-preservation. He didn’t argue like Theremin had, didn’t spit venom just to feel heard. No, Jeopardy folded when pushed too far. He disappeared inward. He let silence do the screaming.

Dropmix wouldn’t reach him by using battle programs to locate weaknesses, he wouldn’t get him to stay by having a shouting match only to fall and comfort each other afterwards. Jeopardy was more delicate than that.

Jeopardy stood in that silence now—arms at his sides, jaw tight, optics dimmed like a signal blinking on low power. He didn’t look away, but his whole frame was on the edge of retreat. One wrong word, one careless misstep, and he’d vanish. Not physically—no, Jeopardy would finish out his shift, pack his things, file the paperwork—but he’d vanish all the same.

And Dropmix couldn’t let that happen.

He broke the quiet, voice low and plain. “I’ve fragged up.”

[quibble-auk]

I made more of my transformer OCs as the animals they are loosely based on. This time it’s bird edition.

These are a weird mix of actual bird pattern mixed with the general design and color of the characters.

Echo- Lord Derby’s Parakeet: he actually doesn’t have green but the bird does so… yeah.

Overstrike- Harpy Eagle: the pattern follows the birds more than hers, the colors are right though.

Oh, and a doodle for the edifice au.

[quibble-auk]

Hehehe, just the fantasy AU that’s been rolling around my head for a bit.

Theremin would be a fae, little insect man hehehe.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil it’s finally done

Heh, I also have a close up cause the photo is kinda crappy

He’s got fun eyes. Oh! And a maybe Dropmix, still in the works. As well as unicorn Jeopardy

[quibble-auk]

I dug up an old mini animatic that I forgot I made.

Anyway Sunrazor is interrogating this dude or smth. He’s not sure

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil one of the many “animations” I’ve started heh.

[quibble-auk]

Heh, powercase lore I suppose? Idk. This got weird fast imma be real. But I honestly don’t care.

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Yeah, I realized there is no way for a normal person to calm sparks down like a forger would so I made one up. Your welcomed it’s awkward and Sunrazor is pissed about doing it but Powercase has gotta be dramatic so… yeah.

Also I usually try not to shift povs mid chapter thing but I gave up and did it for this.

—

The party was burning hot—too hot.

Not with heat, not with flame, but with pressure. Energy crackled in the air like a thousand unsaid thoughts, and Powercase couldn’t tell if it was the music, the energon, or the way everyone’s chestplates seemed to glow just a little brighter tonight.

Powercase was grinning, or trying to.

The room was a chaos of glow-strips, overlapping conversations, and energy—literal and metaphorical. The air reeked of stale energon, ozone, and overclocked vents. Merging sparks was a casual thing here, electric filaments intertwining for comfort, thrill, or simple curiosity.

He’d said yes too many times.

He was already three merges deep and he had only arrived a bit ago.

The first had been easy—quick and playful, barely more than a brush of open sparks against one another. The second one lingered too long. He felt the drag of it now in the hollow ache behind his core, like someone had siphoned off more than they gave. The third was much like the second, slightly unpleasant but still gave the desired effect, a connection, a buzz of radiant energy through his frame.

But still, he stayed.

Powercase was on the floor, half-reclined, his plating undone from the throat down.

His spark chamber was open.

The pulsing light within cast a harsh glow against his dark frame, flickering unevenly. He would close up once the energy had settled, when his spark finally accepted the charge and decided not to try and fray and splinter. He was smiling—kind of—but his optics weren’t focusing properly. They glimmered, green and glassy.

Another mech leaned over him, their chest open too. Their spark throbbed brighter, humming in time with his. Hands were reaching and he returned, functioning on an odd kind of autopilot. He knew the game, the dance, the motions he needed to move through to get what he wanted. Touch there, grab that, pull this, each action was empty, unintentional. Each kiss was hollow and dead, he didn’t care, not really. He had stopped thinking about it the moment he finished his first merge.

Their optics met his. “You good?”

Powercase nodded. It was a lie.

He felt weightless. Like he wasn’t inside his own frame anymore. They leaned closer—too close—and the edges of their sparks kissed, crackling with energy.

Light spilled between them in a silent flash, electric and soft, like a breath too sharp to inhale.

Powercase gasped.

The sensation wasn’t pain, not at first. It was pressure—an unbearable closeness. His spark bloomed outward reflexively, trying to balance the contact, trying to connect. Their pulses synced, for a moment, thudding in eerie tandem. He could feel the other mech’s rhythm, the way their spark oscillated.

But there was no rhythm to match it. His was off. Wavering.

The other mech deepened the merge.

Tendrils of light licked deeper into his core. Energy flooded across the connection like liquid fire—and Powercase shuddered, overwhelmed. The mech gave a soft sound, pleasure blooming across their face. Powercase wasn’t sure if he was feeling it anymore.

The intimacy had become imbalance.

He was giving—more than he realized. More than he wanted. His spark, desperate to connect, wasn’t filtering. It spilled. Wild and unfiltered.

His systems flagged it. Energy levels dropping. Heat rising.

He leaned forward instinctively, trying to find balance in the contact, but the other mech just moaned softly and pulled closer, spark almost fusing to his now, enveloping him.

And that’s when it hit—

It wasn’t pleasure. Not anymore.

It was too much.

The others murmured encouragement, unaware—or uncaring—that his systems were already flagging. His spark stuttered like a failing engine, static building at the seams of his chest as his vents overcompensated.

Powercase whined quietly, head falling back on the wall.

He tried to say something—pull back, warn them—but his vocalizer cracked, the words lost in a wash of distortion. The edges of the party blurred, washed in purples and sick greens. Everything felt too loud, too sharp—his systems fluttering like torn wings.

He was going under.

Then—

“Enough,” a voice called out, low and deadly steady, like a blade unsheathed in silence.

Powercase blinked, vision refocusing just enough to make out her gold plating, the edges of it gleaming like fire in the flickering light. Her jaw was tight. Her optics blazed—not with anger, but something heavier.

Sunrazor was here. She’d shoved through the crowd to find him. And she was already pissed. Her eyes locked on Powercase.

On his open chest. On his flickering spark, barely tethered. On the mech above him, still connected.

He saw it in real time—her namesake—the fury crash over her like a wave hitting steel.

“Get away from him!” she barked.

The surrounding mechs turned to see what was the commotion. They talked amongst themselves, stepped back to keep their distance from whatever was going to happen.

The mech leaning over Powercase flinched, pulling back with a confused, half-offended frown. “He said it was fine.”

Sunrazor didn’t answer. She was already moving.

In three long strides she was there, between them, shoving the other mech back with a single brutal hand. They staggered, caught off guard by her strength. The rest of the group scattered with mutters and quick glances, suddenly uncertain whether they were witnessing a scolding or a fight.

She reared, facing the mech, teeth bore and plates flaring in an aggressive display.

Powercase groaned, one arm lifting weakly. “Sun…”

The golden guardian paused. She glared at the mech one last time, watching them scamper off before she dropped to her knees beside him, hands hovering, not sure where to touch first.

His chest was still open—his spark still exposed, brighter than it should be. The energy flared too fast, erratic. His core was unstable. He was overheating.

“Primus, what the hell were you thinking?” she hissed.

His vocalizer clicked and fizzled his first attempt to speak. “I was just—” he tried again, voice cracking with heat and fatigue.

“Just what? Trying to fry your own spark?” she demanded, voice clipped. Her large hands were on his shoulders, gaze looking over him for any sign or injury. “You’ve got a wound in your side that still hasn't sealed, and you're out there passing current like you’re invincible.”

He slumped against the wall, one hand gripping his chest like he could hold himself together. “It felt good,” he muttered, hating how small his voice sounded.

Sunrazor stared down at him. For a second, her expression twisted into something unreadable—fury, maybe, or fear. Her hands finally settled gently on either side of his chassis, thumbs bracing the edge of his open plating.

“Close your spark,” she said. “Now.”

Powercase’s optics flickered. “I can’t—won’t seal.”

Her expression went cold, sharp. The guardian clenched her jaw as she reached for his core—deftly, quickly—finding the manual override. Her fingers slid under the plates, pressing the lock-release.

The seal whined. Stuttered.

Then snapped closed with a loud hiss, cutting off the spark’s exposed glow.

Powercase slumped forward immediately. Not unconscious—but close. His vents wheezed. His hands trembled where they gripped hers.

Sunrazor held him. One arm bracing his shoulders, the other curled protectively over his now-sealed chest. Her fans cycled hard, trying to calm her system down. She didn’t speak for a moment. Couldn’t.

When she did, her voice was low. “You ever do that again, I will weld your chest shut.”

The dark blue mech just hummed. They both knew she wouldn’t—Sunrazor was terrible at sealing wounds, always had been. There was no way she would ever weld his chest closed—but the meaning was there. Powercase was in trouble, he knew it from the strain in her voice, the way her fingers found a seam in his armor and traced it.

He would be back out at a bar within a week, they both knew that as well. He would do his dance, she would come save his hide. An endless waltz they were both tired of but the music kept playing so they continued.

Powercase blinked slowly. The bar was a smear of color and motion, leaking around the edges of his vision like paint in water. Light flickered in his optics—gold, violet, static green. His processors buzzed, cycling uselessly. Thoughts came in half-shapes. Words he couldn’t grip.

There were still people nearby. He could hear them—their voices filtered, murky, warped by his slowing audio receivers. Laughter, movement, the thump of a bassline behind the wall. It all pulsed around him, too far and too close. Someone bumped into something. A curse. Someone else whispered, too low to parse.

None of it mattered.

The only thing that felt real was the pressure of Sunrazor’s hands on him—bracing, grounding. Her touch was steady, but not harsh. Not now. One hand at his shoulder, the other over his sealed chestplate, like she was holding the seams closed with her own strength.

His fingers twitched. Not intentionally. Just a misfire.

His optics flickered again. Dimmed.

He thought about saying something—something flippant, something stupid, to make her laugh or curse or stay—but the words floated just out of reach. His vocalizer fizzled when he tried, heat distortion warping the syllables. Static rolled down his back like sweat.

His spark ached.

Sunrazor adjusted her stance to brace under his weight. Her voice was still sharp, too loud and harsh for his liking “You’re lucky I showed up when I did. Another minute and your spark would’ve started throwing off arcs.”

“Would’ve been… dramatic,” he muttered. He weakly smiled, huffing out a meager laugh, “Mini light show.”

Sunrazor was not amused nearly as amused, “You could’ve died.”

The words landed like a strike to the floor—solid, unflinching. He didn’t like that answer.

The goulden guardian exhaled slowly, fingers curling slightly into the seam she was still touching. “You’re still running too hot,” the mech murmured, mostly to herself. “You’re not stabilizing. Frag…”

She shifted her weight, crouching more firmly in front of him, voice lowering like she was trying not to disturb something delicate. “Hey. Case. You with me?”

Powercase blinked. That was all he could manage. A slow, lazy shutter of his optics. Then another.

She took it as a yes.

He blinked again—slower this time. Like his optics weren’t sure whether to bother reigniting. His frame gave a single shallow shudder, vents catching mid-cycle before hissing out unevenly. That wasn’t good.

Sunrazor’s processor clicked into sharp focus.

His internal temperature hadn’t dropped. His systems hadn’t rerouted. His spark hadn’t resettled—it had curled in on itself, still pulsing too fast, wild with residual current. And now that it was sealed off, it was trapped inside him, panicking against its own containment. It was reaching and meeting a wall, thrashing against it.

It hurt like hell.

If he didn’t sync to something—anything—he was going to crash.

Her jaw locked. Her hand drifted back to his chest, and she could feel it, even through the plating. A wild staccato. His spark was still firing wrong, not catching any resonance—trying to echo back signals it no longer had.

Powercase whined again, Sunrazor only hesitated for a moment. She leaned him back to the wall and huffed, looking down at her own chest.

She snarled a quiet curse, pushing her plating open with a hiss and snap. Her own chest slid apart with practiced speed, the interior warm and gold-lit, the steady thrum of her spark lighting her frame from within. Hers wasn’t a deep blue like his, hers was green, a cheerful teal.

“Damn it, Powercase! I told you not to do this again.” The guardian hissed, voice straining in an odd way. Her hands were already on the seam of his chestplate. “Torque is going to skin us both.”

She paused for only a second—just one—before triggering the override again. His plating resisted. Too hot. Too tight. Then with a sudden pop, it gave.

His spark was flaring and reaching, pulsing erratically with foreign energy and lacking its own. Light bloomed out of him in desperate, jagged bursts—too fast, too bright, wild like a thrashing thing cut loose. The exposed core crackled in the low light, unstable and screaming for a pattern, any pattern. A home.

Sunrazor winced at the heat radiating off him. His spark was starving—not for energy, but for order. It couldn’t hold its own shape anymore. And if it reached for hers, if it latched even a little too close…

No. She wasn’t going to let it come to that.

“Don’t reach,” she murmured, planting herself in front of him, still kneeling. Her chest remained open but guarded, a controlled flicker of energy humming steady within. No tendrils extended. No merge offered. Just presence.

She pressed a hand to the wall on either side beside his head, shielding the space between them from onlookers. Her frame boxed him in—not threatening, but firm, protective. Deliberate. A wall against the noise. A gate against collapse.

“Just look at me,” she said. Not a plea. A command. A lifeline.

Powercase didn’t have the strength to lift his helm, but his optics twitched toward hers. Unfocused. Glazed. Still fighting. Still here.

She lowered her voice further. “You don’t need to reach, Case. You just need to listen.”

His spark flared again—wild, dissonant. A stuttering flare of misfired rhythm slammed into her shielding and diffused harmlessly. His vents rasped at the effort.

“Not like that,” Sunrazor muttered. She dropped one elbow beside his head, leaned in until her sparklight cast shadows against his plating. “C’mon, don’t make this harder for yourself.”

His optics half-shuttered. A sound escaped his throat—thin, digital, glitched. Not a word. Not even a thought. Just a leak, like everything else in him.

So she did the only thing she could.

Sunrazor shifted, settling on one knee to better hold the balance. Her own chest remained open, but contained—spark flickering steady like a heartbeat she’d long since mastered. She let the rhythm stabilize. Let it echo out—not to merge, not to meet his—but to lead.

A pattern. A call.

And slowly—barely—his spark began to flicker back in time.

Like two signals in overlapping waveforms, out of phase and wobbling—but starting to align.

“That’s it,” she murmured, voice almost inaudible now. “Just like that, just copy mine.”

She knew this was dangerous. Knew if she misstepped—if she gave too much resonance, let him follow too deep—his spark could try to fold into hers. Fuse in a way it wasn’t built for. Not connection. Not intimacy. Just desperation, masked as need.

But he was already halfway to unraveling.

So she stayed.

His optics blinked slow. He leaned into her presence, or gravity, or warmth—she wasn’t sure which. Maybe all of them. His frame still shook, vents sputtering, fingers clenching and unclenching at uneven intervals like he was trying to grip something that wouldn’t stay solid.

But his spark—his spark was starting to follow hers.

Still bright, still too fast—but less jagged. Less wild. Like it had found a tether to orbit instead of burning untethered through its own gravity.

Sunrazor kept her eyes on him. Her body was rigid with control, not tension. If she let herself falter—if her spark so much as hiccuped—it could undo everything.

She barely noticed when one of his hands found the edge of her knee. It didn’t grip, not really. Just a grounding point. Just to know someone was there.

Another few seconds passed. Then another.

Then he exhaled.

Not a mechanical hiss or a venting surge—but a genuine, conscious release. His optics dimmed—not a flicker of failure, but rest. Resignation. The surrender to safety.

Sunrazor felt her own spark twitch at that. An ache she hadn’t expected, hadn’t wanted.

She reached up and slowly—carefully—pressed his chestplate closed again. It groaned in protest, the heat still clinging to the frame, but this time it sealed. It clicked into place.

He didn’t flinch.

She waited a beat. Then she closed her own.

The light between them faded into the muted throb of the bar beyond. Music thumped distantly, the world starting to resume its spin.

Powercase slumped fully against her.

Sunrazor caught him without effort, her frame bracing both their weight like she’d done it a thousand times. And maybe she had. Maybe she would again.

[quibble-auk]

Hahahahaha

I love making art that no one will understand but me because it’s about my ocs and random lore that I’ve never elaborated on… at least not much.

Yeah, just the sketches for a potential art project that I’ve been thinking about. It would get an animatic or two but… I’m lazy

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil you know one of the animatics hehe…

Man I love lore.

[quibble-auk]

I made it around the sun again.

Heh, yeah, my birthday is today so I drew my OC’s with some cake. I was gonna draw more but… I’ve got some celebrating to do.

[quibble-auk]

Hehe, inspired by @madamadamiu’s lost light shelter cat au thing!

But with a couple of my OC’s instead.

I had too much fun with this.

[quibble-auk]

Ughhhhh okay, yeah imma do some rambling.

All of this was so great. How you described everything (like usual) was just… Agh, it scratched an itch. The words, the words you use. It’s just wonderful. I cannot explain it. Yessss ughhhhh the language and whatnot, I know I’m just saying the same thing over and over but I love it so much.

It’s amazing.

“His work was his soul, the sparks were his duty, the armor he forged from the sparks that called, were his bones.”

“Beyond the heavy gates and passageways was the other side of the coin, the Born.”

Like excuse me? I’m over here fumbling over words with seventeen different spelling errors and way too many grammatical ones and your just… ughhhh yesss. I’m jealous in all the best ways. I’ve gotta step up my game. You’re making art with your words.

Oh, oh, and Vourger????

I love him, I would die for him. I’ve known him for a bit I guess but we never really dived too deep? Like we did a bit with his role in the dragged up thing but other than that there hasn’t been a lot on him. Which is why I’m so glad I got him right in my little thing.

And like… not to be dramatic or anything… but he could yell at me for the sins I’ve committed against his boyo and then yeet me into a furnace and laugh as I burned into a crisp and my ghost would come back and thank him for being a wonderful dad figure.

He’s so great. I adore this man. The way he sees things, his creations. Ugh, all of it is just amazing. Imma have to watch myself otherwise I will be yapping about every line in this.

When he recognized them? Even if they ignore him cause they are in their angsty teenager phase (which was wonderfully described by the way, you put it into words that I could not. You made it make sense and I love that) but he still checks on them, even subtly? Him going out and just eyeing them over. The care he put into each one.

The fact that he’s not insulted other then ignoring him or anything???

Ugh, with Empress we’ve not seen her interacting with her creations that much but seeing Vourger with his creations was just wonderful. The guarded affection, the care, the effort, his thoughts on them, the stern patience and understanding of their nature. It’s just amazing. It’s so fun to think about.

And you explained how gladiators generally feel about the forgers too? It was amazing, you got it all. Explained it better than I could. I fumble half the time when I try to explain that stuff. But not only did you explain it you made it sound so pretty??? Once again your words??? AAAAGGGHHHHHH.

Okay, I’m focused I swear.

Vourger is such a great not dad. His pride in them, the way he interacts with the babies. I’m just rambling, the bit with them climbing on him and calling themselves king??? Yep, they would do that. They would be so annoying in a swarm eh side they are all tiny and competing for attention but you made Vourger so understanding towards them. It’s endearing. These are just little guys they can’t help it.

The bit with the lights? Half of them chasing it and the other half deciding that it was a challenge? Yep, that too. They would do that. Dropmix thinking about it and just shoving his tiny but big ole baby claws in this man’s chest casually. Sir, those are for ripping people apart, don’t shove them in your not dad.

Ugh, but the way Vourger reacted??? That’s amazing, I love this man. He asserts dominance but is also gentle, but also brutal so the kid gets the point. AND THE TAPPING. HA, THOUGHT I WOUDLNT NOTICE????

I did. I lost my mind.

And all the thoughts on baby Dropmix? I loved those. You caught baby him pretty well. He was a chill lad, then he got outside and people started cheering his name and he became more of the stereotypical gladiator dirtbag. Then Theremin corrected him. But still, the way you described my boy was amazing. This ramble is already so long and it’s not really gone anywhere but ughhhhh.

Dropmix being described as sly, yessss, yes he is. That boyo figured out the best way to get attention wasn’t to sit and try to out scream each other but manipulate in small ways so you don’t realize what he’s doing. In a crowd full of yelling people the one being quiet is more likely to be noticed. He will not barge in and demand love (usually) but he will try to make you feel like it was your idea to love him. Yeah he’s a cocky bastard but he’s also sitting and plotting. He’s a predator and a performer.

Ughh I have so many thoughts but I’ve gotta run. But when I get you imma shake you.

(Just a quick blurb on Vourger, a forger of old kaon before the purge. Thoroughly inspired by @quibble-auk's whole lore and project, which ahem maybe this is alright. It was for fun mostly and its just me yapping. I needed to try and just write something hehehe.)

-

The forges burned.

Hot and molten, rimmed with fire and artistry. 

Vourger was better than most forgers on leaving their dens. Leaving the well of sparks, while not unlidded and unprotected, but without himself to watch over them. He however trusted the forgers he left behind him and the gates, with something greater than his own spark, those of the unborn.

His work was his soul, the sparks were his duty, the armor he forged from the sparks that called, where his bones. So as the forges and its heat left him, he allowed his optics to trace the other half of his work.

Beyond the heavy gates and passageways was the other side of the coin, the Born.

They parted ways for him as he strode, broad shoulders back and finned helm high with pride. Armor blackened and scorched from his art, the Forger walked through the halls of the pits. Some gladiators lowered their optics ever so slightly, flickering over him but not baring their well sculpted fangs in challenge. 

Respect, not timid but not jaw breaking, sat within the set of their shoulders and eyes. Unlike the handlers who hardly gained the respect of the gladiators, Vourger had earned it before they were even forged. Some of his own creations glanced up at him as he passed, he knew every part of them well enough to recognise them even if they themselves did not move to greet him.

Gladiators knew the faces of their makers as much as any other mech would, the first face to greet them in their lives. The one who honed them as they grew, designed every upgrade and frame piece to make them perfect. Prideful creatures at heart they couldn't help but hold a glimmer of respect for the very mech who created them, gave them some sort of ground for their magnificence and brutality.

Vourger did not smile or wave to his mechs, though he did look them over. Molten optics ticking across their slick frames and bright colors, none of his models clashing or too delicate. They were fighters, not servants. But beauty was still there, what forger could give a gladiator an ugly frame to debut in? To stride and puff up their wiles and teeth in.

Vourger’s mechs were notably sturdy, his style of simple shapes hiding well thought out structures within. He gave them the best he could, every frame his pride and heart. He drew every upgrade and planned every detail for them, so they could thrive. 

Strength in every joint, armor configurations slick but still functional enough for their sport. He knew where the plating should thin and where it should deepen. An art of measurements and calculations to make his gladiator's movements smooth and deadly.

When the sparks are done with their initial forging he allowed himself a few days with the sparklings, checking every node and circuit for discomfort or flaw. The Born would have a datapad of sketches and notes dedicated to them, from the moment they open their eyes he knows vaguely how they will look once they reach the arena and begin their purpose. Their adult faces in his sketches long ago.

Delighting crowds and detailing deaths.

Vourger in his smaller less titan like build, watched his younger mechs softly nod or ignore him completely. Gladiators once allowed to fight and gain the love of the crowds chose one of the two reactions to him, as it should be.

The eldest of his creations seemed more inclined to nod, firmly safe in the pecking order of the pitborn and unafraid to acknowledge their forger for fear of wounded pride.

Vourger knew all their old quirks and childish ways, some had been brutal thrill seeking sparklings. Climbing him when he had visited and perching on his shoulders to claim they were kings, others were of a quieter sort.

But not many.

Vourger felt a warmth throb in his heavily plated chest at the sight of his creation who fit such a description. Midnight and fast, brutal and belly ripping. But also sly, it quirked his lips at the view of Dropmix perched on a high wall. Watching and face passive.

As a child the mech had been sleepy and grumpy, curled in the forger’s lap demanding attention and a place to rest. He of course still did bite and scratch, climb his maker and demand the others look at his accomplishment. But those yellow eyes were deeper than just the pride, he had the makings of a smart mech. Subtle ways of gaining attention from the forger when he had slipped in amongst his sparklings to sketch and check on them. 

Then Dropmix would be blunt, crawling over his forger’s knees and letting out a soft noise. Bright optics glittering with a craving for attention, those oversized claws batting at Vourger’s illuminated sensors. Those bright giggles when the forger would flare his canal lights and allow the bright golden glow to melt and wash over his creations. The other children took it as a challenge, some chasing the lights. Dropmix  had watched for a moment before heading for the source of the glow. Pawing at Vourger’s chest and standing, glaring at the canal under his smaller hand. 

“I want it.” Small voice firm and demanding, clawing digging deep. 

“You do have it.” Vourger knew he was too fond of the mechlet, of those snappy optics and harsh shoves. He would admit it to very few, he loved all his children. But Dropmix was a child who held his spark in a way most could not.

The child had growled and shoved his claws deep then, in response Vourger had snatched him by the neck and pinned him with a large hand. Blunt fingers pressed into the child’s neck, and started to gently tap.

Vourger now looked over his creation for a moment, that slow pride welling up in his chest. He cradled the feeling for a moment, before walking again. Dropmix glanced up from his perch watching the forger continue past him, those two pairs of golden eyes met for a moment.

The exchange of glances was not tender, neither mech was in the position to feel such things, Dropmix still in the age where his maker was seen as embarrassing and a reminder of his sparklinghood. A time of fumbling and a flesh ripping craving for love and attention. 

He had the crowd now, the screaming of the stadium and the adoration of the few with their rounded armor. Dropmix did however meet the gaze, and couldn’t help the old warmth the forger’s molten optics gave him.

It felt good.