#But he is even smaller than average mech

[keferon]

Please tell me Swindle is an actual Gnome in your Spellbound AU

There’s two types of Anons out there

One wants Swindle to be a dragon. Because. gold and greed.

Other wants him to be a gnome. Because. Well. Lmao

I offer you this secret third option where he gets to be a hybrid of both.

Because of his dragon half he is very fucking hard to kill and can breathe fire although he doesn’t have wings.

And then because of his gnome half he’s small OH AND turns into stone under the sun?

[boss-the-goofball]

An Archivit's Spark: Chapter 2 Teaser

Just finished chapter 2

Have a teaser~

--

He did not know what to expect when he was brought to the Pits. For a moment he expected to be immediately thrown into a fight with crowds cheering for the fighters to quickly spill energon, but instead it was eerily quiet. 

No cheering crowds, no noise from the other Gladiators, nothing.

D-16 soon knew why no one was saying anything based on the way they were looking at him—assessing him, as if trying to gauge his capabilities.

The stares were soon followed by whispers.

“Isn’t that a D-Unit? Didn’t think there were any left.”

“Weren’t they all forged with some odd glitch? Thought it would have been a fatal one.”

“Well I’m sure he’ll last longer than Shockwave, think this will finally be his last one?”

D-16 proceeded to tune the rest of them out as he was led to his new quarters, only to blink when he saw a smaller than average warframe standing there.

The look of shock on his faceplates quickly shifted to one of resignation, as if he knew this would eventually happen.

“I see they’re already prepared.”

The mech had a frown on his faceplates that were matched by his drooping antenna-like finials. His optics look like they had long since gone dim with acceptance of whatever fate he thought was in store for him, and from the way his frame lacked any real paint outside of a faded teal and hints of red. 

“Prepared for what?” D-16 asked, moving to sit on one of the two berths, though he couldn’t help noticing that the one he sat on was a newer addition.

“Didn’t you hear the other gladiators? They’re making bets that this will be my last fight.”

D-16 frowned, remembering the gladiators talking about someone with the designation “Shockwave.” He looked his roommate over and could quickly understand why they would think that about this mech, especially since he looked less built for fighting and more for something else.

“So what’s your designation?” Shockwave asked as he perched himself on the second berth.

“D-16.”

His companion winced.

“You still go by your serial number? I thought everyone had a proper designation by now, even if some of us got it from a humiliating moment…” he trailed off, running a servo over his face as he leaned back against the wall. “You accidentally cause a planet-wide quake within the mines one time and you get labeled for the rest of your functioning.”

“I don’t remember that happening here on Cybertron, and I’ve been in the mines since we quit expanding after coming into conflict with the Quintessons.”

Shockwave chuckled. “No no, this was over on Animatron. The energon we mined from there was not like what you find here on Cybertron, a lot stronger than the high grade produced here.”

[of-nyon]

Just some cute optirod languishing in the wips folder that's going nowhere, I release it into the wild

It was some big fancy event, the actualities of which didn't really matter to Hot Rod, just that they were hiring extra temp help for the day, as in were actually paying wages, and there was the additional opportunity to steal everything you could fit in your subspace and get away with, so why not apply?

He was good at interviews; being an entertainer had meant, first and foremost, being a friendly, smiling chameleon that was whatever the person who would be paying you wanted you to be, and Hot Rod had smiled and nodded his way through to an 'accepted' ping in his inbox. His current identity was a near blank slate, and definitely had the skills to bring energon from the kitchen and simper over noble aftheads and not make a single complaint when they inevitably grabbed at him. No sir, he'd done this song and dance before.

[SOME TIME LATER]

“You aren't one of the regular staff,” Optimus Prime appears out of nowhere behind Hot Rod's shoulder to say: “do you mind if I sit here for a while?”

“Um,” Hot Rod says, holding his tray in front of him like a shield as he turns around. Yep, that's Optimus Prime, big and red and blue and startlingly handsome, up close.

It wasn't an order. But this is the Prime, and Hot Rod doesn't want any extra attention on him tonight that'll get people asking questions like 'where did all our cutlery go,' or 'did anyone actually see the little red and yellow one doing his job,' and annoying the Prime himself by denying him seemed like a great way to attract unwanted attention on a night he wanted to be invisible.

“Sure,” he says, backing up a little to give them some room between them. Optimus Prime is big, and/or Hot Rod is smaller than average, his head only coming up to the Prime's windshield chest. That he is not staring at. No sir. He just happens to be optic-level with it. “It's, uh, I've gotta be out there, so-” he makes to move past, holding his tray aloft as proof of the work he definitely intends to do, but the Prime holds one big hand out, blocking him.

“No need,” he says, and with any other mech this size bottling him in alarm sirens would be blaring, but there's something disarming about him that has Hot Rod shrugging and moving to sit on the window ledge of the little alcove. “I'll ensure your time is compensated. Ah! I'll have the borovan, if you don't mind.” Instead of getting handsy with him before hustling him off out of sight to the nearest berth, which is about what Hot Rod expects from most nobles he runs into in his shitty temp jobs, Optimus delicately plucks one of the cubes from Hot Rod's tray and then slides down the wall to sit, his shoulders just about level with Hot Rod's aimlessly moving feet. The Prime takes a draught of his chosen beverage, then cranes his head to look up at him.

“My apologies, I haven't even asked your name.”

Hot Rod opens his mouth, ready with the fake name he's been using since leaving Nyon, but what comes out is: “Hot Rod.” He blinks in surprise. The Prime blinks back at him, then smiles, easy to tell even with the protective facemask across his mouth.

[WOW WRITING SURE IS A THING HUH]

In the end, Hot Rod didn't deliver a single cube of fancy-aft energon to a single grabby-hands noblemch afthead. Instead, he woke next morning fully sober – his system burned through fuel fast, and had left him sitting at a reasonable thirty-five percent, not bad.

And then he registered that he was on top of Optimus Prime, sprawled out and fast asleep, his soft ex-vents the only sound in the room until Hot Rod broke out of his frozen stupor and yelped and scrambled backwards off him, tumbling to the floor.

Prime's chestplates were open. His spark was visible, glowing beautiful white, and oh slag had they -? No, Hot Rod's memory was crystal clear, thanks to his stupid frame's complete inability to get and stay drunk. No, they hadn't. He picked himself back up, unable to stop staring.

They hadn't fragged, and they definitely hadn't spark-bonded. So why...?

He jumped as Optimus groaned and shifted. The Prime threw the back of his hand over his optics, visibly winced, then moved to sit up.

“Ah...?” He asked, blinking in confusion at the sight of his own open sparkchamber. “Oh, hello, Hot Rod. You're still here.”

“Yeah.” Hot Rod said, wishing he'd fled the room instead of hanging around like an idiot. “We didn't – I didn't – it was like that when I woke up a couple seconds ago,” came out in a rush, Hot Rod flapping a hand to indicate the glowing spark. “I promise, I promise I didn't do anything!”

“No – no, don't worry,” Optimus said, putting his palms up in a peace gesture. “Strange. I'll visit the medbay, I think. But do you know, I think I was looking for someone last night? And I found you.” He smiled as his chest finally closed back up, concealing the light within. “I would-” Here Prime became suddenly bashful, looking away as he stood up. “I would like you to stay, Hot Rod, if it is at all possible.”

“Um,” Hot Rod said, current events having rapidly gotten away from him. “What's the pay rate?”

---

“A quick scan, if you don't mind, Ratchet. And this is Hot Rod, he'll be my assistant from now on.”

“Right.” A medic pattered over, barely glancing at Optimus before critically eyeing Hot Rod, who shrank back against the Prime's large thigh from the intense gaze. “Does Prowl need to do a background check on your new assistant? Does he know you have a new assistant?”

“Well -” Optimus hesitated only for a moment as Ratchet brandished the handheld scanner, then brightened and looked towards Hot Rod. “You passed the interview, didn't you?”

“Sure did,” Hot Rod said nervously. Under a fake name and no actual background. He was gonna get kicked out. The cushy job of a lifetime, the Prime apparently being doo-lally over him, and he was gonna blow it.

“There you are, then.” Optimus beamed like he'd solved intergalactic peace as the scanner beeped and Ratchet looked over the results.

“You're fine,” the medic announced. “Looks like there's some...heightened Matrix activity happening, but unless you want me to pull the thing out, which I'd be happy to, by the way, you probably want a priest for that.”

Optimus 'hmm'd while Hot Rod blinked. The Matrix? Like the actual Matrix of Leadership? He'd scrambled too quickly off of Prime's chest that morning to actually see if it was in there or not. Guess he had an answer. “Thank you Ratchet. I suppose we should finalise everything with Prowl, and then I'll bring Hot Rod back for his first check-in. Sound good?”

“'Sound good',” Ratchet repeated with a roll of his optics. “You vanish for the entire party, then show up next morning with one of the temp hires hanging around your thighs. It doesn't take much to put two and two together.”

“Oh – no! We didn't do anything – improper,” Optimus stammered. “But – as you said – heightened Matrix activity? That makes sense. I think it was – searching. Reaching out. All I did was follow.”

And I found you, Hot Rod remembered.

“Well -” Ratchet shrugged. “Get him vetted, then get him back in here. When was the last time you saw a proper medic, kid?”

“They had one at-” he started to say defensively on automatic, then shut his mouth. He wasn't about to defend the slaggin' House that had been the first one to show up at the Hot Spot to scoop up any suitable sparks for their business. He wasn't even sure Splitscreen was a qualified medic. Ratchet raised an optic ridge. Hot Rod didn't continue, staring down at the floor instead. He found his hand reaching for Optimus almost of its own accord, and the Prime took it gently.

“Right,” Optimus said decisively. “Prowl can be a bit difficult sometimes. Please don't think too badly of him, Hot Rod, he doesn't like it when surprises like this happen, but he does mean well. Let's go see him now.” A gentle tug, and Hot Rod willingly went, away from Ratchet's judging optics.

[at0036]

Name: SeeFels (Deutsch, means " rock in the open water")

Affiliation: Primal Vanguard [Retired, currently no faction]

Alt Mode: Interstellar Frigate

Previous positions: Scouting/Orbital Material Transportation

Current Residence: Stanix, Cybertron (near Vos）

Current occupation: Scenic innkeeper

Witnessing Cybertron's golden age of interstellar expansion and diplomacy, he saw more civilizations and the natural wonders of the universe than the average Cybertroians. When he was in the team, he didn't get too involved in the debate between the team members, just silently undertook and completed the assigned tasks, and chose to learn about the customs on a strange planet in his spare time after completion. But unlike the perception of general team members, SeeFels is not a lonely mech. During his time in service, he made quite a few friends of the alien race. Despite all of his radio communication, most of his alien friends were unaware of his Alt Mode, and even fewer know about his Robot Mode. Finally, when he was retired, he gave these friends the address of the Cybertron Inn he opened, and welcomed them to visit Cybertron for sightseeing. There were indeed many races who later went to Cybertron to support his undertaking. When they saw SeeFels in person, they thought his real appearance was very inconsistent with his active radio communication.

After retiring, although SeeFels no longer frequently crosses the stars, he focused more on taking care of his inn. But he still keeps in touch with his old teammates, and he also silently follow Cybertron's political changes. Smelling that there might be a large-scale civil war in Cybertron, he felt that it was a pity, thinking that the pattern of the Cybertronians had become smaller, and they would shrunk back to a planet from what they were supposed to be looking at the universe. Cybertronians would degenerate like some alien civilizations without stellar-travel technology. But he clearly know that his own strength could to nothing to stop it. Before the outbreak of the Civil War, he went to Vos and brought back a young Seeker with the most advanced design at the time. He believed that these weapons should not be thrown into war as soon as they are activated, and at least one must know what Cybertron is like and what Cybertronians should be aiming for outside of war.

He rarely speaks verbally, but he is very active in radio communication. After retiring from the Vanguard, he became an alcoholic. Later in the service, he befriended a female Cybertronian named Meteor and business the inn together. SeeFels went to Vos to bring back this Seeker named Thundercracker without the consent of Meteor, for which Meteor complained about him for a long time, but later accepted this new Seeker member.

[Meteor(Said to Thundercracker, pointing to SeeFels: Just look at him care about nothing. If he really made up his mind to do something, no one could stop him. ]

[anony-man]

How the Tables Have Turned

Word Count: 3,253

Relationship: N/A

Rating and warnings: T; belly kink, forcefeeding, underlying degradation/humiliation (not explicitly so)

This work was inspired by the amazing genius of @evcaffeine! Do me a favor and go check out their stuff—you won’t be disappointed!

“It’s top quality, way more affordable than your average batch of fuel, and made by keeping special frames like yours in mind! You, my friend, have hit the jackpot with this offer.”

As Swindle studied the curious expression of the huge aerial bot, he couldn’t help the smug smile that spread across his faceplates. He prided himself on being one of the best salesmechs to walk Cybertron, but this was a deal that had practically fallen into his lap. Not only had he managed to rope an unsuspecting individual into what he believed to be a ridiculously good offer for energon—energon, of all things, when the supply and demand were at the peak of accessibility.

It wasn’t just regular energon, though, and that was the catch. Swindle had hinted at the strange quality of this batch he’d managed to get his servos on, and while he didn’t claim to understand any of how it worked, the Decepticon at least seemed somewhat convinced. He’d never stepped out of his comfort zone like this before, and while he was new to purchasing and selling energon and other perishables, Swindle had a very good feeling about this deal in particular.

Not only had he managed to get the entire stock of thick, glossy fuel for dirt cheap, he’d also been informed of its extra special quality and benefits. It was similar to high-grade in the rich texture and flavor, he’d been told, which was one of the biggest reasons the original owner had been so desperate to get rid of it. In the middle of a war, such mechs couldn’t be responsible for keeping such indulgent rations aboard their ships. They needed to rely on the simpler, less filling resources, of course, to keep their soldiers in good shape.

Swindle wasn’t quite sure where on the combat spectrum this particular customer fell, but he didn’t care all that much. At the end of the day, what mattered most to him is that he got out nearly three times what he put in, and this time, that seemed much, much easier to manage. He hadn’t even had to bother talking up the product! It was, in of itself, top of the quality and a very smart investment.

“I understand you had some hesitations when we first spoke,” Swindle continued, standing with his frame propped against the stack of energon cubes. He kept his servos folded over his chest and regarded the larger bot with his chin held high and his optics half-closed, as if to press home the point that he was the more powerful mech in this exchange. “But as you can see, the product itself is just as I had described it.”

“True,” the Decepticon said, one servo propped against his hip while the other absentmindedly scratched at his chin. He was silent for some time before he spoke again. “In that case, I’d be happy to take it off your hands. Unless…”

Swindle fought the urge to sigh, doing his best to keep a pleasant look on his faceplates while the other mech considered his options. He’d learned from experience not to seem too keen about making a profit as big as this. A single misplaced word could make or break the deal, and he didn’t want to risk losing out on such a valuable client.

“Yes?” He pressed, leaned in as he awaited the Decepticon’s conditions.

“I’d like to see you try the stuff for yourself,” the Decepticon eventually decided. He gave a brief nod, as if satisfied with this decision, then stared at Swindle expectantly. “I won’t take money off for the lost ration. Better safe than sorry, am I right?”

Oh. Well, that was unexpected. Still, Swindle wasn’t about to let such a deal pass him by, so he merely flashed an even wider grin before turning to reach for one of the smaller cubes of energon. If he were being honest, he was almost a little nervous about how the fuel might affect a bot’s systems, but he figured a small sip of the stuff couldn’t hurt. It wasn’t like he was downing an entire ration in one go, after all. Besides, if anything went wrong, he’d have enough cash from the deal to treat himself to the best medical assistance Cybertron could offer three times over.

Swindle held the container to his mouth, struggling to ignore the strange look plastered across the flier’s face as he tilted his helm back and took a sip. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but the rich, sweet taste that coated his tongue and warmed his throat as it went down wasn’t at all it. He gave his a satisfied smack and smirked at the Decepticon, who was practically leaned in and staring with wide, curious optics.

“Not bad,” he said, already sealing the container and setting it back amongst the pile. “A little sweet, but that’s just a plus of buying such a rich quality product. So, what do you say? Are we good with the price, or do you have room to raise it a bit?”

The Decepticon frowned, his arms crossing over his shoulder in a similar fashion to Swindle’s earlier stance. “Who said I was satisfied?” He asked, one eyebrow raised as he watched Swindle’s grin fade. “You’ve hardly touched the stuff, mech. I’m not budging until you drink the rest of that container.”

Swindle gawked at this, his optics wide behind his visor and his mouth hanging open in the most offended look he could muster. Primus above, who did this bot take him for? Did he look like a personal test subject?

Still, Swindle thought, tearing his gaze away from the huge mech long enough to stare down at the opened container. With a bit of hesitation, he reached back and grabbed it again, then peeled the top back enough to create the smallest opening. It didn’t taste bad, of course, but… well, what if there actually was something wrong with it? There had to be a better reason behind the original owner’s insistence on getting rid the stuff besides the obvious: it was almost addictive, the creamy, warm texture and rich, sweet flavor.

“Well?” The Decepticon said, his faceplates scrunched in a mean glare as he waited. “Enough stalling. You want your shanix, don’t you?”

Swindle didn’t bother answering. He wasn’t a sparkling. They’d had a deal, after all, and regardless of the other Decepticon’s sudden requests, Swindle wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. He braced his pedes into the ground, shifting his stance until he stood proud and defiant, and, with one servo propped against his hip, glared over the rim of the container as he tilted his helm back and chugged.

It was thick, it was sweet, but most importantly, it was delicious. Unlike the thin, watery energon nearly every base on Cybertron had been feeding to its soldiers, this particular batch left him feeling full—much fuller than he’d ever felt before—from a single mouthful. It resembled the flavor of the kind of alcoholic beverages you could only get at top-dollar establishments, and Swindle certainly wasn’t about to start complaining about getting a taste. At the same time, the flavor profile made it to be something he should savor, not guzzle, but given the circumstances, that wasn’t an option. There was plenty to drink, and Swindle did his best to keep a steady pace and chugged the entire ration down, his optics squeezed shut against the way his tanks gurgled and swelled to accommodate the sudden influx of fuel.

Once he’d polished off the last of it, Swindle was, strangely, both relieved and disappointed. The arms dealer sucked in a sharp breath and stifled a belch behind the back of his servo before wiping the residue energon from his mouth and glaring back up at the other mech. There was still a warm, tingling sensation that lingered in his throat, but the weird concoction of sweet and filling sat like a stone in Swindle’s already full tanks. It had only been a few seconds, but he was already starting to regret agreeing to such a ridiculous proposal.

“There,” Swindle said, his upper frame jerking with a sharp hiccup. “It’s—ghk—it’s down. I drank it. Now, the money?”

The other Decepticon made a show of crossing his arms and humming under his breath, his optics narrowed in the most unimpressed and unconvinced look Swindle had ever seen. Had he not felt so stuffed, he would’ve been tempted to wipe the sneer right off of the mech’s plates, but even in his normal state, Swindle knew he wasn’t any match for such a large bot. Sweet-but-pushy bargaining would have been just as fine, but in such a state, Swindle was afraid of opening his mouth for more than a few seconds at a time.

“Money?” The mech scoffed, “what, you think I’m finished here? You’ve hardly had your fill, runt.”

“We had a deal,” Swindle snapped, one servo held against his middle as the Con lumbered forward. “You said you’d by the stuff. Have you change your mind or something? I have a right to know whether or not I need to take my business elsewhere.”

The Decepticon was only a few feet away now, and Swindle realized how much bigger the bot was up close. The shade of shadows had helped obscure his judge of size, and now that the potential customer was up close and in person—maybe a little too close, now that he thought about it—Swindle was starting to feel a little intimidated. It was a poor move on his part, but when the Decepticon took another lurching step forward, Swindle stumbled backwards.

Now that he thought about it, maybe he should have taken Vortex’s offer for backup a little more seriously.

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you around,” the Decepticon snarled, shoving Swindle back against the stack of energon with a taloned servo. “I’ve heard your name plenty of times to know exactly what your business is about, Swindle, and I’ve gotta say: I ain’t impressed.”

“S—so?” Swindle squeaked, his frame practically arched against the pile of energon containers as he struggled to get out from underneath the mech’s critical gaze. He was trapped, however, boxed in by the hulking frame and one huge servo braced against the stack of containers nearest to his helm. He did his best not to imagine that huge servo crushing his helm with ease. “Well, if—if you’re not here to barter, then… wh—what do you propose we do?”

The mech’s lips drew back in a wide, threatening smile, and Swindle’s frame shuddered with fear as the large helm bent low to hover just above his audio receptors.

“Believe it or not,” the mech breathed, his free servo trailing down to rest against the top of Swindle’s swollen middle, “but I think it’s about time someone gave you a taste of your own medicine.”

Swindle tried to speak—a few times, actually—but only short, stuttered syllables came of it. Eventually he fell silent, his optics trained on the larger Decepticon, who seemed absorbed in studying the Combaticon’s frame. After some long, uncomfortable minutes spent staring back at each other, the mech finally spoke.

“I’ll give you a deal,” he said, “a real one this time. You polish off all of this energon, and I’ll pay you double your original asking price. You gotta do it all here, though. No more tricks, got it?”

Despite his growing desire to just frag it all and count his losses, Swindle couldn’t pass up such a profitable opportunity. He wanted to, and desperately, but every time he tried to say as much, the words simply died in his throat. With a whine, Swindle clutched his belly plating with a servo and frantically nodded his helm.

“Good choice,” the Decepticon said, his grin growing wider yet. He lifted that huge servo over Swindle’s helm, and for a brief moment the trembling Combaticon was sure it was all over, but was surprised to find that the mech had just reached behind him to grab one of the nearest containers of fuel. “Whaddya waiting for? Get to drinking, scammer.”

Swindle lifted a shaky servo to accept the container, but hesitated once he’d grabbed ahold of it. He could already feel his tanks beginning to sour, already filled to the brim with his regular energon rations in addition to the sickeningly sweet fuel he’d been saddled with. He’d already fueled earlier that morning, which left very little room left in his tanks. He wasn’t even hungry when the mech had forced that first serving down his throat, and even then, the stuff was enough to get his belly churning like crazy.

A cold panic rushed through him, and for a brief moment, Swindle almost wondered what would happen if he couldn’t stomach all of it. The mech hadn’t been all that friendly about forcing him to drink it in the first place, and Swindle feared what might come up bringing it all back up again. Only time would tell, he supposed, and with a shuddering sigh, he let his optics close and tipped his helm back.

Swindle could feel the pressure behind his tanks slowly beginning to build with every gulp of fuel. Much to his disappointment, the sweet flavor and syrupy texture did little to ease the pressure of packing away so much at once, and by the time he’d managed to polish off two more containers, he was already a bloated, groaning mess. Swindle tossed aside the empty container in exchange for both servos desperately rubbing at the taut dome his belly had become, but little resulted from it. He hardly even got a chance to settle his roiling tanks before another much larger container was being pressed to his lips, and Swindle looked up from his prone position to find the Decepticon staring down at him with a nasty smile.

“Giving up already?” The mech teased, his free servo pushed Swindle’s aside as he groped and pinched the tender mesh. “Didn’t think you’d quit so soon. I’m a little disappointed.”

“Guh,” Swindle moaned, arching his back up off of the pile of energon in an attempt at relief and turning his helm away from the container, which was pressed closer with a bit more force in response to his denial. “Just—just taking a breather.”

The mech grunted in response, his smile fading. “Don’t remember saying you could,” he said, and it was enough of a warning for Swindle to continue drinking.

Four containers became five, which became six, and Swindle was disappointed to find that the process didn’t get much easier. After his seventh ration, the Combaticon took to panting openly, both servos bracing against his rapidly plumping middle as he struggled to soothe the furious gurgling that rumbled beneath the surface. His feeble attempts did little to help, as the mech was far from shy about rubbing his own servos over the mesh.

Instead of the gentle, soothing rubs Swindle had hoped for, the mech’s touch was firm, almost painful. Swindle found himself wincing and groaning in agony as thick fingers pinched and squeezed rolls of fat, leaving no layer of bloated mesh untouched. When he grew tired of the rough handling, he merely moved onto digging his fingers into the softer pouches of mesh until it resulted in Swindle emitting loud, rumbling belches that echoed down the empty halls.

So much for privacy, Swindle thought as he suppressed a burp that brought up a little more than just gas. The denial only resulted in the mech’s servos digging deeper, and Swindle’s frame jerked in a series of violent hiccups in return. He should’ve just taken the hint and done this exchange somewhere more public. Primus knows he probably wouldn’t have been subjected to such embarrassment if that had been the case.

After what felt like ages, the Decepticon held up the last container of energon, a cruel smile permanently plastered across his faceplates as he took in the pitiful sight of Swindle stretched out beneath him, moaning and groaning from the audible protest of his tanks.

“Last one,” he said, giving the container a little shake. “Think you can handle it?”

“Please,” Swindle whined, “can’t we just settle on a good price and go our separate ways?”

As expected, the mech simply shook his helm, already in the process of tearing the lid free of the container.

“Afraid not,” he said, “but I’ll go slow.”

Primus above, he was almost certain his tanks were near bursting. But truth be told, Swindle wasn’t even sure he would have wanted to give up the opportunity when he was so close to finishing. He felt as though he were only seconds away from purging, his tanks too stuffed to even gurgle, but the promised reward was too good to pass up, even if he’d be stuck nursing a bellyache from the pits of Kaon for the foreseeable future. Swindle lifted his helm, his optics squeezed shut against the pain in his gut and his lips parting in an open invitation for the mech to start pouring.

True to his word, the mech did go slow. Swindle took slow, steady sips until nearly half of the container had been polished off, but there were never any complaints or pressure from his feeder. In fact, the few times he turned his helm away to catch a breath or release another sickening burp, the Decepticon never complained. To his surprise, Swindle even received a few supportive pats to his overly stuffed middle, if only to encourage him to keep drinking.

It felt like an eternity of agony, but the mech eventually pulled away, and Swindle was relieved that the steady flow of fuel had come to an end. As the Decepticon stood to his pedes and searched his subspace for the promised reward, Swindle was quick to stroke his middle, a shaky groan escaping him at the utter pressure that had built up. He didn’t even think such levels of over-fueling could be reached, let alone overpassed.

“Is that all of it?” He asked, a burbling hiccup forcing its way up his throat following the effort it took to speak. “Are we finished?”

“Yep,” the mech said, a sack of shanix cradled in his servos. With a cruel smirk, he tossed the bag at Swindle’s pedes, just out of reach. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Swindle.”

Swindle gave an indignation huff as he struggled to sit upright, his overly stuffed belly immediately spilling out into his lap and between his thighs. As the other Decepticon transformed and flew off, leaving the sickly Combaticon to nurse his furious belly alone, Swindle eyed the bag of shanix that lay only inches from his outstretched frame. Rather than overexert himself with the effort of retrieving it an end up with a mess of purged energon that would rival that of a barrack’s bathroom after a night in the bar, Swindle sagged back against the floor and activated his comms.

“Urgh… Vortex?” He moaned into the signal, one servo pressed against his audial receptor while the other rubbing in slow, soothing circles over the swell of his belly. He suppressed another nauseating belch behind a shaky servo, if only to keep his current state a secret until his gestalt member arrived, then continued. “Think I’m gonna need that backup after all.”

[blue-jewel-muses]

Lambda Supreme

Name: Lambda Supreme.

Nickname(s): 'Lamb, Valentine (jokingly).

Age: Adult.

Height: 120ft.

Birthplace: Project Bay, Iacon, Cybertron.

Gender: Mech.

Pronouns: He/Him.

Sexuality: Gay.

Faction: Autobot.

Rank: Supreme Medic.

Alt mode: Cybertronian ship (picture to come).

Weapon(s): A blaster on his right arm and a laser on his left arm, both can be retracted to reveal his hands, he has integrated weapons in his shoulders, above his chest, his hips and his ankles.

Accent: American.

Personality: He is a pacifist, sweet and kind, a pure soul that wouldn't hurt a fly, he can be a bit shy and get a bit bashful from a compliment, he can also have a laugh with his family and be a bit cheeky, however when there is a confrontation it causes him distress because he hates conflict, the mere idea of causing someone harm is enough to make him uncomfortable, he is happy to heal rather than destroy, when his medical programming takes over and it makes him serious, firm but calm under pressure, but when it isn't he is back to his usual personality.

Appearance:

Background: Lambda was built and onlined when the wars were over, this was so that if the Decepticons were to ever return to Cybertron then there would be a Supreme there to protect, however Weeljack and Perceptor couldn't have anticipated that he would be a pacifist, while that did complicate things, he was still given a chance to live his life, and it turned out that Lambda did love being able to heal bots rather than harm, so it was decided that he would be the first Medic amongst the Supremes, which he was more than happy to do, so he got medical training and now works in Iacon Hospital.

Likes:

Healing bots.

Working at Iacon Hospital.

Spending time with friends and family.

Dislikes:

Causing harm.

Decepticons.

Bots being hurt.

Using his weapons.

Fear(s):

Losing his family.

Killing someone.

Strength(s):

Strong because of his thick armour.

Able to protect others without the use of his weapons.

Weakness(es):

His size gives him a disadvantage since he moves slower than an average-sized Cybertronian.

Because he doesn't use his weapons it makes him a bigger target should be ever be in a battle.

Extra info:

The only time he ever has his weapons out is when he has maintenance done, even if he isn't fond of it he understands it's necessary so he is comfortable and he isn't ever forced to shoot his weapons, even for a test run because of being a pacifist.

He has holoform tech to be smaller and can work in Iacon Hospital, he's taller than the rest of the bots.

The weapons at the ends of his arms retract to reveal his hands, which are coloured red and white.

Crush(es)/Bondmate(s): Male!Muse.

Family: Omega Supreme (Eldest brother), Sigma Supreme (Older brother)

TF Verse(s): Transformers Animated.

[apphiarothowrites]

Mech Pilot AU thoughts

I'm leaning between Pacific Rim and Titanfall with this idea-mostly because Titanfall is the nicer end of "the mechs are/can become sentient" without the horror elements that NGE introduces

Marco's mech is a compliment to his father's.

Whitebeard, legendary mech pilot from back in the day, piloted a massive and fucking heavy beast of a mech unit that was wholly designed to level a battlefield and everything on it. When Whitebeard went to war, his side had to call active retreats on all positions in the ground assault because when he showed up he was absolutely going to reduce even their allied positions to pancakes. Rare was the day that Whitebeard left enemy survivors. The weakest points on Whitebeard's early design mech was the joints but unless you destroyed the cockpit (the most well protected point inside the behemoth), she could still move even with near critical damage to the joints. His big girl was made to keep moving and the only way to stop her was to destroy the legs and even then unless you also destroyed the arms this bad motherfucker was going to destroy everything in range anyway.

Marco's in contrast, was built to fly. Fast, light, and equipped with jet wings. Still well armored, still equipped with some gnarly guns, the weakpoint of Marco's bird was in the wings. The attachment areas to the back were designed to be easy to remove-pop in and out. If Marco is grounded due to wing damage, he can pop those suckers off and still jump fairly high and have high mobility on the ground. His was designed to work behind, physically on, and in tandem with Whitebeard's giant-a buddy to focus on destroying incoming missiles intended to stop Whitebeard in his tracks. With Marco around, he never stopped moving. With the whole Whitebeard fleet behind him? They never lost a battle and only the more-feared Rogers fleet could draw them to a standstill.

The Mechs developing sentience was unintended but welcomed. Whitebeard's chose the name Moby, was a jovial and gentle giant off the battlefield much like her pilot. When Whitebeard retired, his body unable to bear the strain in his mid 60s, Moby was devastated. They both knew it was coming, they both acknowledged it was needed in order Whitebeard to not just suffer a fatal heart attack or brain aneurysm inside the cockpit from the strain, and both hated it. Moby refused every attempt at a replacement pilot. Phoenix, in contrast to both Moby and Marco, is catty and moody and and elitist to the point that they rarely speak to anyone who isn't a "ranking officer" on par with Marco, Whitebeard, or Moby. They much prefer being left to themself, and on the battlefield typically treats other mechs and their partners as part of the scenery-to be climbed on if large enough or otherwise ignored unless they need assistance. Phoenix also is not immune to flattery, but is often suspicious of it unless Marco gives it his blessing.

Marco's chose the name Phoenix, he liked the imagery and the meaning. When Pops retired, both were nervous of the idea of stepping up into the lead. Sure, Jozu and Atmos and Blamenco all had physically larger-than-average mechs but they were still smaller than Moby and none could hit as hard. Pheonix was a heavy-hitting support, without the buddy he was designed to help. Both floundered a bit in the first year of their new leadership role, but upon finding their ground-with Pops leading logistics over their communications lines-they were somehow even more formidable than before (perhaps, some whispered, so they could make up for the lack of their greatest weapon no longer being in play).

Then came Ace, and Fire Fist. So named for experimental technology; flame throwers and a super-heated retractable sword that often just set the mech as a whole on fire. Ace, safe inside an airtight cockpit that's externally doused with all kinds of flame retardant, would cackle and Fire Fist would echo a laugh of their own. Small, fast, and lightly armored the mech would often take damage during fights-and just as easily shrug them off to roast enemy pilots alive inside their partners. Not every pilot even considers fire damage, let alone takes the measures that Ace and Fire Fist have to ensure their own safety with their equipment.

The audacity of these punks is beautiful, and Marco's smitten within a week. Phoenix takes a little time, but one compliment about their rockets setting a building ablaze is all it takes for them both.

Other idle thoughts: -Moby had, to begin with, a very stark white and gray paintjob. It faded over time and got all kinds of chips and wear/tear. Whitebeard's jumpsuit was navy blue with white highlights. -After retirement, Moby mostly hangs out at base and plays defense on the very few occasions someone attacks the WB directly. -Moby, appropriately, stands at 76 meters/250ft (PR jaeger height) -Phoenix is painted sky blue and usually enters battle from a high altitude-they match their surroundings and is difficult to spot visually and on radar. They much prefer it that way. The gold highlights were Marco's idea, as is the yellow/gold jumpsuit he wears when piloting. -Phoenix is much smaller than Moby, just about 9 meters/29.5ft (8.5 times smaller than Moby). He used to enjoy climbing all over the big guy, but after Whitebeard's retirement he now climbs all over Jozu/Blamenco/Atmos' mech's instead (each of which stand about 70-72 meters or 229-236ft) -Fire Fist is 8 meters/juuust over 26ft. He demanded that he be painted red and orange to match the fire laden equipment they use (he's a stickler for thematic matching). He's happy, fiery like Ace, but is easier going and prone to wanting to de-escalate rather than feed into an argument. Ace's jumpsuit, to match FF, is orange with red highlights.

[soundcrusher]

Of computers and mechs

Alright, after two days of writing and one headache, I can finally present this mess of a story featuring @cuppajj's version of Lord Imperious Delirious and my newest boy.

I don't know if I managed to grasp the being that is LID and write him correctly, but hey, I tried. And in the process, I set myself up for a second part. A part for which I already have an idea, but still.

What is it with me and being unable to just write a one-shot?

Either way, I hope you all enjoy this. ^^

(Should something be wrong with LID's depiction Cuppa, let me know. I'll change it then.)

----

Empty ships were nothing new. Especially not when there were many races who had already perfected the art of space travel. But it was strange for a cybertronian research ship to be abandoned without a single crew member in sight.

Usually, there should be someone around, be it alive or dead, but the stretching emptiness of winding halls where the dust and neglect has slowly settled in showed otherwise. There weren’t even corpses lying around. Granted, the ship wasn’t damaged, minus the small and simple blaster shots on the outside of the spaceship, but that didn’t have to mean anything. After all, it doesn’t always have to be a fight that kills Cybertronians. There are a plethora of reasons why a mech or femme could meet their end. Diseases had every race, and while the names and effects might be different, with a closer look, they were all the same.

And yet, it seemed like the crew of this research vessel hadn't disappeared because of a spreading disease, or a scraplet infestation. Both scenarios would have left something behind. Which means, the lack of crew could mean that they simply left. That theory was supported by the missing escape pods, but what happened doesn’t really matter. Not when the one who entered the ship was searching for information.

But for that, he would need access to the ship in general, but every time the ‘visitor’ tried to overwrite the ship’s passwords and security measurements, an [Access Denied] would pop up on the screen. It didn’t matter how many tries he took, or how much he changed his approach, it was always [Access Denied].

However, the tries did not go unnoticed. For what the visitor didn’t know was that the ship isn’t as empty as it may appear. There was still one crew member left behind. Tugged away in a sef-induced stasis that left them unresponsive to the happenings on the ship.

That was, until the intruder started to mess with the very code of the ship. Because for every access that got denied, the mech in stasis slowly started to wake up. Although, despite being ‘awake’ again after a long time of staying in stasis to protect himself, his mind still needed time to adjust. However, that time wasn’t given to the poor mech. Instead, the pain in his processor grew worse and worse with every [Access Denied], until things started to change on the ship.

At first, the engines deep within the bowels of the ship started to rumble and holler like wounded animals, before the lights turned on. Bathing the bridge in a cold, clinical, light as yet another [Access Denied] flashed across the screen. Although, before the visitor could try his luck again, the terminal started to shake. Folding in on itself while other parts extended. And as the keyboard snapped back and in place, there no longer was a control terminal/computer sitting in front of the visitor, but rather a slightly smaller than average Cybertronian.

An angry slightly smaller than average Cybertronian.

“Can’t you read?! When your access is denied, it usually means that you should stop! Do you have an idea about how many processor aches I get, whenever one of you greenhornes forgets the passwords and just tries their luck?” Asked the smaller mech, as he japped one digit at the other. “At least as many failed attempts as you made. And you know what that means?”

“I do not-”

“The ship’s security systems stop working correctly! And then I have to transform back and wait for security staff to come along and fix the problem. And I HATE when security comes. They're always rough and… wait…” The small mech stopped for a second to take a good look around the bridge, and as he saw that no-one else but them was there, he quickly got up. Stumbling a little bit due to not being used to moving after such a long time, before walking as far as his connection cable allowed it. “Where is everyone? They should be here… Th-They should be here!”

“Perhaps they had to evacuate.” Suggested the visitor, as he watched the still weak bot stumbled around the bridge. “The escape pods are missing after all and I haven’t found one single body on this vessel, except for you, which means that they must have left.”

“No. Nonononono! If they really left, then they wouldn’t have left me behind. They wouldn’t leave me behind. So, they’re probably on one of their scouting missions. I’m sure of it! They did talk about having found an interesting race after all.” Said the smaller bot as one of his keyboards snapped from his back to the front, while a small screen appeared above it. And as soon as he could, the small bot started to type away. Checking logs and camera feeds while sifting through information in rapid succession.

And as the small Cybertronian was occupied with searching for his ‘missing’ crew members, the visitor took his time to observe the smaller one. He’s heard of the various forms someone from the cybertronian race can take on. Cars, planes, boats, even beasts, and yet, he hardly has heard about anyone taking on the form of a control terminal, let alone a computer. It was fascinating, to say the least, but at the same time it means that gaining access to the ship’s archives would be more difficult than before. Especially if this small cybertronian’s connection to the ship runs as deep as he made it out to be.

Although, the visitor was sure that he could work with that too. Who knows, maybe he would even gain a new ally for his little group of misfits, if he played his cards right.

“Say…” started the visitor. Gaining the cybertronian’s attention in the process, if the little twitch of his head was any indication. “When was the last time you saw or interacted with your crew? I mean, if your first reaction is this, then it must have been only recently for you, but the state of the ship suggests otherwise. Surely, by now you must have noticed all the dirt and dust scattered around.” The visitor said, as he took a seat in the captain’s chair. One knee crossed over the other and servos folded, resting on said knee. “Also, I do not know why you’re calling me ‘greenhorne’. I am neither a newly constructed being, nor a green horn.”

While the small mech was looking at the visitor with uncertainty in his optics, which were hidden beneath his visor, the last sentence got a chuckle out of him. “Na, you might have horns, but they aren’t green.” He said, before shaking his head and letting his keyboard snap back onto his back. “And I tend to call new crew members ‘greenhorne’, especially if they forget the password and make too many attempts to gain access to whatever they need access to… But looking at you now makes me think that you aren’t really part of the crew…”

There was silence for a moment, before the smaller of the two sprung into action. Or better said, the small cybertronian quickly dove behind a console, and only peaked his head out, while a hatch in the ceiling opened and a small laser gun came down. Pointing straight at the visitor.

But the visitor wasn’t faced by any of that. He’s seen scarier security measures than that, and a simple laser gun shouldn’t do much against him. And yet, he still raised his hands in surrender, as he watched the other one. “Yes, I’m not part of your crew, nor am I a threat.” That didn’t seem to convince the small bot. In fact, it only seemed to make him even more tense, but the visitor simply continued his small speech. “I am only here, because I was curious. A ship like this one, stranded with holes in its hull but intact inside, surely you can understand my curiosity. And then, it only grew as I found a small terminal standing in an unusual place. If I had known that you’re a Cybertronian, I wouldn’t have tried so many times to gain access. I am deeply sorry if I caused you any pain, it was not my intention.”

While him admitting to have come for the information the ship held didn’t seem to help his case, the apology did. Because after he said sorry, the laser gun retreated. The small bot still stayed behind the console, but at least there wasn’t any weapon pointing straight at his head. And that was a small win. “Thank you. I don’t want to admit it, but having a gun pointed at me made me a little bit nervous.” A lie, but the other one didn’t need to know that.

“Well… you’re sorry…” Muttered the small cybertronian, as he slowly came out from behind the console. Arms crossed over his chest and tilted his head at the visitor as a sign of gratitude. “Not many apologise for causing me processor aches…”

“They don’t?”

“Na. They would usually yell at me for not giving them access, even though I know them.” The mech shrugged, as a small pout pulled at his lips. “But I can deal with the yelling. The kicking is worse. I mean, sure, they’re angry because they can’t do their work, but I don’t make the rules. If you need a password, you need a password. Captain’s rule. Not that they would get it though… it’s always the computer's fault if they can’t do what they want to do.” He muttered quietly, before shaking his head and looking over at the visitor. “Either way, you got a name?”

The visitor tilted his head at the small mech. Looking intensely at the cybertronian computer who was left behind by his own people, without ever knowing what happened to them, or why they didn’t come for him, and he lowered his hands back to rest on his knee. Nodding his head as a greeting. “My name is Imperious, sometimes Lord Imperious, it is a pleasure to meet you…?”

“I don’t have a name.”

That was surprising, and Imperious’ optics widened slightly at the simple admission, before they squinted in amusement. “Surely, you must have a name. Every cybertronian I have met so far has had one.”

The small mech simply shrugged his shoulders, before walking over to the communication terminal and sitting down in the chair in front of it. “Well… I did have a name, at first, but with time I forgot it. There wasn’t really a need for me to have a name, when everyone called me ‘Cybertronian Research and Security System’ or ‘CRaSS’ for short…. And even if I had one, I would probably not like it.”

“Then why not choose a new name.” Asked the taller one, as he gestured towards the other. “Why should you let others reduce you to nothing more than a machine? Why should you let others take your name and give you one that restricts you to nothing more than your function? And even if you liked that name, wouldn’t it just mean that you have accepted your fate to be nothing more than a tool for those seeking to take advantage of your uniqueness?” Imperious could see that his words struck something within the mech’s spark, if the way his lips pressed together or his body grew stiff was an indicator. But there was still wariness and reluctance. “How about a new name then? One that liberates you from the shackles put onto you by others. Would you like that, Quick Search?”

“Quick… Search?”

“If you don’t like that name, you can change it. But given the way you seem to be able to quickly search through information and find what you’re looking for, I thought it might be fitting. Or, perhaps, I should come up with a more suited name for a mech like yourself?”

Quick Search was quick to jump out of his chair and shake his servos viciously. “No!” Before realising what he was doing and stopping. Kneading his fingers together, as he bashfully looked to the side. “I… I mean… I like that name. Quick Search. It’s… different… Has a nicer ring to it than ‘CRaSS’. It sounds more like a name too…” Muttered Quick Search quietly to himself, before a bright smile broke out on his face, as he put his hands on his hips. Grinning up at his visitor while walking back to where he usually stands when using his alt-mode.

“Alright! I, Quick Search, number one Research and Security System and computer/control terminal of the ship ‘Wandering Scholar’ officially give you, Imperious, security clearance number 1 for one day. With that, you can access some rooms of the ship and some of the archived data without much problem. But that’s just for you to satiate your curiosity and as a ‘Thank you’ for giving me a name I actually like. Should you come back after your day is over, you’ll be noted as a visitor and nothing else.” Said the mech, before he transformed back into a terminal/computer. With his screen lighting up and displaying a mini version of himself on a side screen. “Well, what are you waiting for? Curiosity doesn’t really satisfy itself.”

“Maybe not, but it is still fascinating to see someone transform into such a unique form.” Said Imperious as he stood up from the captain’s chair and walked over to the terminal. Leaning over it, and this time, when he typed on the keyboard, he not only got a [Access Granted], but also a good impression on how much information this ship, and therefore Quick Search, hid beneath the surface.

Information he, with time and patience, will soon enough be able to access as well.

[train-fans-anonymous]

Ok so you ask really good questions that kind of slip my mind when info dumping, so I collected some questions you had and I'll try my best to do some form of answers. I'm honestly getting really into this and might end up making a whole thing for this o_0

"I would’ve expected sleeker, smaller frames" (in context to ideal frame size/height): understandable, and I've seen that a lot in fan content for TF honestly. My reasoning behind it was that they want to look strong, but not that they were built for it. Basically to not look like they do too much labor or anything, but being to small or slender would be not a safe for their internals and it could make them look weak (the upper class don't like that, they want to be strong but not too strong)

"did they have blasters integrated BEFORE the war?": in short, yes. Blasters were a thing that mostly active duty enforcement/military or the likes had, although it's not all that hard to make one out of your own frame parts if you feel so inclined. Separate weapons are very common in the inner circles of the upper class, they will often get a new weapon as a gift to show of that they can afford that kind of non-bodily accessory. Characters like Swindle would sell mostly to upper class and middle class bots who were limited in what they could/would do to have a weapon.

"I wonder what the ratio of mechs in castes is (what’s the biggest caste, how does this impact the average?)" I haven't figured out how I want to organize the cast system just yet, but there are a lot and some even would have sub-castes. The largest class of castes (ie, upper class, middle class, lower class) is the middle class followed by lower class and upper class having the least. The middle class consists of mostly working class bots and low ranking officers, Orian is technically middle class but he's close enough to count as upper class (the laws and regulations say otherwise thou). The average is the way it is because of just how large cybertron is, making its birthed working casts the largest group.

Also random thing I wanted to add about government bots. If a mech has a high enough position of power or can see things that the government would rather not the majority see, bots will get government brandings on their palms & digits. It's practically like a fingerprint for government bots.

I do ask a lot of questions don’t I? 😅 I’m REALLY REALLY excited were you with your ideas. I like your idea of showing superiority through physical superiority, looking stronger to represent their strength and higher status. (Could also be interpreted as looking down on those who are lower than you, or could also be like “the higher the hair the closer to god” mentality, love the different ways this can be viewed) Blasters before the war… mm. I’m glad this is another thing they had because it’s also a show of power, your comment about mechs getting them on their own interests me too.

It reminds me of these things from KO’s toy bios. And brings a whole new meaning to it. The caste things is very interesting and I can see why middle class would be highly populace. I’m invested in how you write the different castes, with Higher class mechs choosing to have things like weapons and bigger builds to show their strength vs mechs who were built that way. Higher class bots would def have branding in unique places, I haven’t considered much on the hands but I love the idea. There’s a variety of meanings behind hands however it can be seen as a symbol of authority and I think this shows in that if you were to deal with a high class mech, you’d likely have to shake their hand, where their insignia is proudly on display. It’s not on display like how a bot who joined to fight for the cause would have it (like on their chests for everyone to see) instead it’s like an invitation, a reminder of what they support and who they go against.

[burnwater13]

Grogu wondered who the people were who thought Nevarro was a planet that should be explored, developed and inhabited. The planet’s most notable feature was that it was volcanic with exposed lava flows. That was not going to be an easy planet to live on, so why?

As far as Grogu could tell the only thing Nevarro had going for it was it’s location in the Outer Rim because that made it easy for pirates and the Empire to do as it pleased. There had to be better planets for law abiding people the wouldn’t attract those two groups. 

He asked his dad about that, and as expected, Din Djarin dipped into his vast knowledge of bounty hunting facts and figures to provide Grogu with his assessment. 

“Not really.”

‘Not really’? How was that even possible. Galaxies were made up of hundreds of billions of stars and their planetary systems (when they had planets). That was a really, really big number. If even one half of a percent of those star systems had planets and only one percent of those planets were remotely habitable, that meant that the average galaxy would have at least five million habitable planets. Five million! That’s a lot of planets.

Which, from Grogu’s perspective, meant that the people of that galaxy could afford to be picky about which planets that were technically habitable to actually inhabit. Even if the numbers of really habitable planets were smaller, there was no reason to pick a place like Nevarro. Or Tatooine, or Mustafar, or Jakku, or Hoth.

Grogu did understand why the Tuskens were on Tatooine. It was their home world and it had once been lush and green with oceans and rivers and all that sort of thing. The planet still had enough sustainable nutrients to support critters as big as Krayt dragons and as small as dung worms. The Tuskens had been able to adapt to the changes in their planet, although it could not have been easy.

That was exactly why he didn’t understand why people wanted to inhabit other planets that they had just found or weren’t anything like their native world. How could you be sure that you could eat the critters or drinks the liquids or even breath the air without getting sick? How could you determine how many people were enough to make a go of it and how many were way to much for the environment to sustain? Grogu had to admit in his travels he hadn’t bumped into any planetary scientists or even regular scientists who might help with that problem. 

He wondered if people spending time in space made them think that they could do anything and go anywhere? If you could create a ship that would protect you from the near vacuum of space, it background radiation, it’s lack of breathable atmosphere, or any atmosphere at all, and have an artificial gravity generator, and food that was made from a yeast extract and bits of flavorings, you might think that you could make any place you landed habitable. You might.  

But then why hadn’t they? Why not transform some of these worlds? Obviously not Tatooine. That was for the Tuskens to determine. But Nevarro had no native inhabitants. What would you have to do to make it a better, more sustainable planet, other than wait a couple hundred millions years to see what nature could do? Grogu knew that some species lived a long time, but he didn’t think any of them lived that long. 

Grogu thought about his day dreams about time travel and wondered what the galaxy would be like in a hundred million years. Would Nevarro’s sun have cooled at all? Would the geothermal energy of the core of the planet cool enough to stop spewing lava everywhere? Would the water from the steam given off ever condense and form rivers, seas, and oceans? Or would the whole place be a source for fine black volcanic sand that people on Coruscant used in their gardens?

Grogu laughed at the thought of that. What would Coruscant look like in a hundred million years? A big pile of rust and concrete dust? What did a droid or mech look like if it had abandoned and neglected that long? Coruscant was more like those kind of things than like a planet any way. 

“Hey buddy? How about some dung worms? Peli sent you a shipment of them in case you missed them.” His dad called over to him as Grogu sat by his pond and watched the frogs hop about. The pond had been built for him and the frogs had been imported from Sorgan. 

He nodded his head and watched his dad go off to get him some food that came from Tatooine. You’d think with conditions like that, where you food came from planets on the other ‘side’ of the galaxy, people would be a lot more friendly and cooperative, but Grogu knew they didn’t always behave that way. He was willing to bet that in a hundred million years they’d have to or they’d be gone. He wondered what the odds were for that? 

Whatever they were, he was sure that the Mandalorian would say he liked them and Grogu supposed that was for the best. They would find a way.

[jjsanguine]

When I was 12 I watched Rise of the Guardians and I was absolutely mesmerised by Jack Frost. I didn't make a Tumblr account till I was like 20 years old so it definitely wasn't for those reasons.

Rather it was because of the way he moved. I got a similar feeling watching Across the Spiderverse with Pavitr. It just seemed like it would scratch the sensory seeking itch to be able to casually do a handstand. If the pandemic hadn't happened i'd probably have gotten really into pole sports, since that's probably the closest Johnny average gets without having magic.

I can't get into poling or any kind of sport now because of the debilitating fatigue caused by reccuring flu infections, probable COVID infections, and possibly the joint hypermobility and the many times I had malaria. Basically, I'm confined to my bed most of the time if I want to have enough energy to be able to have coherent thoughts.

I was by no means an athlete ok I was on the school cricket team and in the university mountaineering club for like a year each, but I didn't do any training outside the weekly meet up but I used to walk all the time. I used to be able to sit up for hours and pace up and down when I was restless. I used to dance a lot. Now, I don't do any of that, not without paying for hours or days or weeks. I also eat properly most of the time, so I lost a lot of muscle and gained a bit of fat.

It would be a lie to say I am fat, but this is the heaviest I've ever been. I keep getting startled by the way my skin folds. It's fun, it's novel, I like it. I look at pictures from when I was like 17 and had basically reached my adult height and am lowkey horrified by how boney I was.

But the lost muscle? I'm realising I was doing that thing where people hate their body and get really shredded but it turns out to be gender dysphoria. Like, trying to lose weight via dieting so your breasts will be smaller is not a healthy or logical course of action when you weigh like 60kg (≈132lbs) and are already mostly muscle.

I'm looking at the same 4½ walls every day and I can't move around to emotionally regulate myself slash zone out like I used to, so I'm forced really sit with my body. And man. I have a lot more gender dysphoria than I thought.

Before, provided I was wearing a really tight sports bra, my body felt the way way I wanted it to, minus not being flexible enough to sit cross legged. But I could do a deep squat so it was ok. Now, my body feels like garbage the exceedingly vast majority of the time.

I could probably lift weights a bit, and I could probably do stretches to become more flexible, but I'm never going to be able to move like I used to even 2 years ago, and I'm absolutely never going to be able to move how I want.

So like if I can't do anything about the dysmorphia I have got to treat the dysphoria because I really really spend all day looking at the same 4½ walls and I will lose my mind if I don't customise this flesh mech to the best of my ability.

[nn1895]

AU August Fic 3

Country Side

“Prowl, this is what people do in the countryside,” Carrier explained.  “We visit our neighbors and exchange gossip.  That’s it.  So, unless you want to sit in this house and -”

“Yes, thank you.”  Prowl spun around and retreated back to the guest room.

“Ugh!” He saw Carrier throwing up his servos behind him, in the reflection of one of the many, many chrome decorations.

Prowl had been living with his Carrier for six months and he was already going mad.  If he had to recharge to the sound of scurrying turbofoxes and buzzing diodeflies for one more night, he’d bash his own helm in.

He’d been persuaded -threatened - to give up his small apartment in the city, right above the armory Enforcers’ armory after they had put him on indefinite leave.

He had heard of disgraced nobility being banished to the country for crimes that average bots would go to prison for.  As a child, every time they visited their country estate there was at least one “they’re staying with us while they sort all that mess out in Vos/Iacon/Polyhex” at every party.  His creators always made sure he was never left alone with them.

It had made watching those holiday specials where an overworked city bot learned all about the joys of simply country living awkward.  Strongarm and Ultra Magnus had devoured those quietly during every Lost Sparks Day season.

He had not expected to be sent to the country for protesting a training.

The “Frame Protection Act” was functionalist propaganda that would lead to more crime, more murders, and more suicides.  Prowl had run his tactical computer at its highest setting (and given himself a three day migraine) in order to get the most accurate predictions.

He has presented them at the beginning of the week and by the end he had been pseudo-fired and his carrier was sending for him.

He missed the clink of the armory guard cleaning the rail guns and the explosion when he accidentally shot a hole in the wall.

0-0-0

“There will be crystals - you like crystals!”

There will be people. I hate people.”

“One, that’s a lie, two, there will be far more crystals than people.  You don’t have to talk to them, just get a cube and wander the gardens.  You can pretend to be all mysterious-“

“I don’t- “

“- brood a bit and then we can go home.”

Prowl opened his mouth to argue and then the kitchen timer dinged.

“The jellies!”  Carrier tripped over the ornately carved floor - very old-credit country home chic - and raced towards the kitchen.

Prowl walked over and slumped onto the entryway couch.  He stared down at the floor.  Following the old style of interlocking squares, it was deeply and intricately carved.  The deeper the carving, the deeper the expensive flooring would have to be.  It was a tripping risk and very difficult and time consuming to clean.

It would be horrible for any bot who used wheels or had stilt legs instead of pedes.  Smaller bots - mini-bots, symbiotes, the microbots that lived in the Archives of Iacon - would need to be carried across most of it or their pedes would be stuck.

In the country, even the slagging floor was functionalist.

0-0-0

There was a knock on the door.  Prowl stood up.  Maybe it was a criminal come to murder him to get him out of the garden party.  That would be helpful.

Carrier was still packing up the jellies and their best high-grade into baskets because apparently just carrying them was a faux-pas.

He swung the door open.

“So sorry, but we’re about to leave - “

“I know.  I’m ya ride, sweetspark.”

The mech in front of him looked so out of place Prowl’s processor skirted the edge of a crash for a brief moment.

His paint was flat and stark.  There were no contrasting or complimenting flecks or glitter.  The black and white were generic.  He ran the blue and red as well and both came back as triple zero series paints - the basic colors every shop had for mixing custom colors.  Instead of making him look cheap, he looked clean and fresh.  His curves glinted in the fading afternoon light.  His curves -  He looked like poetry.  He sounded like poetry.  His visor was tinted blue - just blue.  It matched his optics.  His very pretty optics.

Prowl had been standing in the doorway for five kilks, just staring.  

“Hello,” he choked out, servo gripping the door tightly.  “Who are you?”

The mech put a servo on his hip and grinned.

“Me?  I’m Jazz, love.  Ya must be Prowl, down from Praxus for the season.”

“I - yes, I am Prowl.”  He fumbled for something cool or interesting to say - anything!  Bots this beautiful didn’t turn up on his doorstep very often - or ever - he needed to do something impressive.

His processor was blank.

“Heard - a little cyberhawk tol’ me - that ya opposed the Frame Protection Act.  Tha’ true?”

Prowl nodded.

“I - “

“Prowl!  Hurry and take this basket!  Our ride should be - oh, hello!”  Carrier was shoving a large silver woven basket into his arms, squeezing around him.  “You must be the singer everyone’s been talking about!  You’re staying at the Rubidium Cottage, yes?  I’m looking forward to your performance tomorrow night at Flashfire’s ball!”  He held out his servo and Jazz took it with a smile.

“That’ll be me,” Jazz said.  The grin he’d given Prowl was gone.  This smile looked…professional, false.  “I’m here to escort ya both to the party and carry anything ya need me ta.”

“Oh that’s perfect!  Prowl, you can go with Jazz and he can carry the Vosian Ale -” Carrier was shoving a similar sized basket into Jazz’s arms, “ - and I’ll stay here and put in another tray of baked jellies to replace the ones that burned!  I’ll see you both there!”

Then Carrier was gone and he was left standing across from a gorgeous mech holding a picnic basket.

“We’ll talk ‘n drive,” Jazz said, nodding his helm toward the path back to the main road.  “I wanna hear more about ya, Officer Prowl.”

0-0-0

“- and even if the statistics didn’t indicate it would be putting such a high number of sparklings and youngling at risk, the law is unethical.  It is dangerous.  It increases the pressure on non-standard frame types and prevents bots with standard frames from fully understanding the situation.  Without a solid grounding, bots will be more easily misled by outdated functionalist ideals and propaganda.”

Jazz had politely asked about Prowl’s thoughts on the new Act.  Prowl was halfway through his rant, complete with references.

They had only been driving for five minutes.

“Ah, but what about all the bots that the Act protects?” Jazz asked, his amusement coming through the comms clearly.  “We don’t want standard frame sparklings feeling guilty or having uncomfortable questions -”

“They didn’t!  They never have!  At no point has the Senate or any of the governors been able to produce ANY statistics on that nor were they able to prove that it was harmful.  The statistics - which educators have been collecting for four generations with double-blind studies and longitudinal studies - indicate that mixed frame type classrooms have lower instances of bullying, lower instances of depression, AND HIGHER SCORES!  They score HIGHER on the tests!  All of them!”

“Careful, sweetspark, ya wanna slow down on these country roads,” Jazz said, driving closer to push him away from a pothole in the middle. 

 Prowl slowed down.  

“I usually go to the Station racetrack when I’m angry,” he confessed.  “But there is nowhere out here to safely race.”  Well, maybe it was more than anger making his frame heat.

“Oh, there’s a couple a’ places.”

Prowl revved his engine.  “I said safe places.  I know all about those back country roads with their twists and hazards and mud.”

Jazz laughed.  Prowl would really like to keep making him laugh.  Possibly forever.

“And you?  What is your opinion on the Act?”  Prowl had a guess, but he was curious to hear what Jazz said.

He was silent for a moment as they drove.  Prowl took the time to admire the patterns the light cast on Jazz’s altmode as it cascaded through the aluminum trees’ branches.

“I look standard,” he said at last.  “I can pass.  But it ain’t right.  Don’ wan’ the non-standard bitlets ta be scared.  I wouldn’t trade my friends - the ones tha’ can’t pass - for the world.  Don’ wan’ some other bitlet missing out jus’ ‘cause the grown ups won’ teach ‘em right.”

They let the silence fall between them as they drove.

0-0-0

The party was just as horrible as Prowl had predicted.  Many bots who had questions about living in “the city” as if it was on the other side of the planet instead of two days drive.

Two other bots asked him about the Act - news traveled fast in the country where every day brought a new teatime visit and new gossip - but both regretted it.  They’d clearly been under the impression that Prowl was a poor youngling, misguided by the big city.  Neither of them lasted past the first three bullet points of his rant, quickly making excuses and hurrying away.

Prowl counted it as a win.  His Carrier at his side pretended not to hear any of it.

In such a small community, grievances cut more deeply.  Once he left, they would all politely pretend that he hadn’t verbally ripped those bots apart.  They would ask Carrier about him and pretend to be overjoyed at whatever news he gave.

Reason number 438 why he hated the country.

The only part he was enjoying - besides the crystal which were stunning - was watching Jazz move through the crowds.

They were all clustered on the tin grass lawn in front of the house.  To his left was the entrance to the formal gardens, but there were small sprays of crystal lining the walkway and the along the edges of the house.

Jazz fluttered from group to group, changing his manners with each one.  With the elderly group of bots sitting by the buffet table he was charming and gentile.  Every movement was grace.  He moved over to what his Carrier called “idiots with guns” and he stood straighter, laughed louder and more obnoxiously.  He touched the other bots more - slapped a squat femme on the shoulder and laughed at her joke - and stood closer.

With the sparklings he became a sparkling and it got Prowl right in the center of his spark.

Prowl stuffed more baked jellies into his mouth and pretended to be studying the large Malachite by the garden entrance so on one would try talking to him.

A little while later, Jazz sidled over, one servo cradling a cube, the other swinging freely instead of behind, held stiffly behind his back, as was proper.  He smiled at Prowl as he got closer.

“Hello, Jazz.”  Jazz stood next to him and surveyed the party.  He took a sip of the cube.

“Hey, so, ya wanna sneak off and make out in the gardens?”

It was said so casually that it took Prowl an extra .023 kliks to process it.

“Oh, Primus, yes,” he growled.  Jazz stifled a laugh, but his optics danced and flickered behind his visor.

“Awesome.  I’ll go ‘n make our excuses ta the host - can’t wait ta see how the peridot has grown, oh the rose quartz is so pretty, blah blah.  Be righ’ back.”  He handed Prowl his cube and made his way over to the largest gossiping group as quickly as he could without drawing attention.

Prowl lifted the cube to his mouth automatically and then stopped.  It wasn’t his.  But….

He took a sip anyway.  It felt more intimate than half the interfacing he’d done in the past ten vorns.  He caught Jazz looking back at him as he spoke, servos fluttering through the air as he explained their leaving to the host.

Jazz smirked.

Prowl’s chest heated as his spark spun faster.

[egg-emperor]

What's the worst injury Eggman has ever gotten after a defeat?

This is very interesting to think about and I've had concepts of it for a while but wasn't sure if anyone wanted me to share until now. He's impressively far above the average human in many ways, including in strength and durability and we don't see him suffer from even a mere scratch on screen. But this isn't always the case because he's still human too and he can still hurt, bruise, and bleed like the rest of us. I imagine there are times where he does suffer injuries, whether minor or occasionally bigger and even serious.

In many boss battles we hear him make sounds of pain in reaction to Sonic landing blows to his Egg Mobile and mechs, it's common for him to at least get bumps and bruises that we just don't see the damage of on screen. I headcanon that he has issues with padding the cockpits of his mechs quite as well as he should, it's something he makes an oversight on when he's much more focused on making sure the robot is powerful and durable as he wishes, so he can get hurt when his machines take damage.

In the best cutscene in Lost World, we see him briefly clutch his hands from the pain after punching down that huge ice wall. When Orbot expresses concern, he says his hands are fine. But I imagine his knuckles were cut quite a bit and eventually started to bleed through his gloves. He was eager to casually neglect it and just keep moving but Orbot and Cubot wouldn't stop pestering him about it until he finally gave in to letting them treat it with the first aid kit that they always make sure to carry around for him.

I imagine that it's common for him to pretend it's fine in a similar way when injured after defeats too. He takes care of himself in almost every way he can as he highly values his brilliant self but when it comes to getting hurt, he doesn't like to admit when he needs help or even treatment due to pride. Also because he's incredibly strong, durable, and has a high pain tolerance, he doesn't feel the pain as bad as the average person, so he doesn't take it as seriously. But that doesn't mean he shouldn't treat it, tsk tsk.

In times he's caught in explosions or falls into the rubble of his machines and it's caught fire, he crawls out miraculously alive but sometimes not without burns and he may have marks on his body left from that. He's gotten scratches and cuts from sharp glass or metal in the rubble of his destroyed machines and the way he's collided with hard rough terrain with falls. A lot of the times he gets lucky and it's only 'minor' to him, even if it draws blood. He tends to hardly even react and gets back up easily.

When he goes flying out of mechs and his Egg Mobile has crashed, he's hit his head which can lead to concussion, hurt his back and neck, and sprained limbs. I like to headcanon that he's never broken a bone though, they're immensely strong and everyone is amazed. XD If he can fall off the Lost Hex back down to Earth without breaking one, I don't think anything can! But he has long term back issues from repeated fall damage, there's a spot that's tender when pressure is applied, so he makes seats and bedding extra soft to be comfy.

I imagine he has a few scars in various places, some newer and some older and faded, some due to his worst injuries and others smaller that he just neglected and risked scarring and infection because he got careless with it and didn't want to admit how bad it was to his enemies or his robots. Unless his injuries are so bad that he can't deny it to himself or anyone else, people don't get to see it or hear about it. And he can take a lot, so it has to be really serious to get him to admit it before someone else notices.

I think he'll try his best to hide when he feels the pain for as long as he can even when it feels worse than usual, as long as he doesn't think it's seriously dangerous or life threatening. If he feels pain on a level high enough for him to really react, he tries to hide it as he grits his teeth, sucks in deep breaths, and curses under his breath, quietly enough so others don't hear him as he applies pressure to a wound to stop the bleeding or massages a sore area. He hides the injuries from others' view and treats them himself in private or with secret medibots.

I imagine that there are rare cases where he's gotten very unlucky as things get especially nasty and bloody and even test his abilities of how much blood loss he can handle. These would definitely all be amongst the worst injuries that he's ever gotten after defeats.

He's banged his nose hard a couple of times from taking hits or falls and gotten some bad nosebleeds. When his poor beautiful big nose is hit hard enough, blood can gush out in a concerning amount. He grabs it after taking the hit and when he pulls his hands away and looks at his gloves, it's soaked with blood. He just has to hold it and beg for it to stop soon enough. Then he has to deal with it getting swollen and sore and has walk around with it covered with a compress for a while to soothe it and reduce swelling.

Something else at risk as much as his nose is his big tongue that he's painfully bitten after hits and falls too. It's alarming when he opens his mouth and blood just pours out and he can't speak. Sometimes it seems it isn't going to stop and he has to rinse it tons before it finally does. Because of the size and strength of his teeth/jaw, he's very lucky that he at least doesn't split his tongue. It stings terribly during healing and he can't talk much as moving it hurts a lot. He also hates not being able to eat much until it does!

Sometimes he gets nasty deeper gashes with a lot of blood in various places on his body. He might gain them during an intense fight or after it, due to the sharp rubble of the destruction of his machines again. But if it's the former, he won't let his enemies see how bad it is. He can take a lot more than the average person but of course there's eventually a point where he starts to feel very uneasy and faint from blood loss. His head starts spinning and he has to get down onto the floor before he can possibly pass out and fall and he has to try to order robots to come and get him.

I'd say the worst is when it was seriously dangerous and even seemed life threatening in the moment. He took a bad hit to the chest with something sharp during battle but tried not to visibly or audibly react too much, he attempted to hide how bad it was and kept fighting, the pain giving him extra determination to keep fighting, no matter how much it hurt. Sonic noticed there was even more fire in his rage but didn't exactly know why. It wasn't easy to see the injury when he's clothed, especially in his red jacket.

And of course he wouldn't let Sonic know how bad it is, he never wants to show what he considers weakness to his arch nemesis. But as soon as he got away after holding up until defeat, he staggered out his Egg Mobile and realized this injury is much worse than he thought. Now that he focused on the pain instead of the fight that was distracted him, it was a lot even for him to handle. He clutched the wound on his chest and couldn't bear looking down at the injury, especially when he saw the blood on his hands and it hurt to breathe.

That's when he actually started to panic, which isn't a common state for him with his usual fearlessness. But it's a case where he recognized the severity of an injury, of course a cut that's bleeding quite a lot across his chest is scary and he hoped it wasn't too deep but still couldn't look. His mind was racing and he was too stunned and confused to take the appropriate actions by himself. What's worse is that he was close to his base but not close enough before he had to stop the Egg Mobile before he could crash from dizziness.

He at least managed to remember to hit one of the yellow square buttons on his jacket that sent an SOS to his robots (like in X). All he could do is stay there, lay face down with his hand pressed against his chest. They tracked him down to see him groaning and mumbling in pain and saved him just in time, took him home and treated his injury. He hates when more know about his injury other than medibots at the most that deal with some injuries in private but when it's this serious, he lets them all take care of him.

Luckily the cut wasn't as deep as he feared but it was a tough healing process and the scar didn't fade for a while. He was relieved and grateful to make it out alive as it's not often he really worries like that with how strong and durable he is. But he still acted like it wasn't that bad, even though he had to rest for days with robots doing serving and keeping an eye on him. Much like when he's sick, he acts like it isn't a big deal and is too eager to get back to work too soon and they to had to force him to take it easy!

It's very dangerous being a man of his status and a great threat to the world when he constantly has to take risks and puts not only others but also has to be prepared to put himself in danger to get what he wants. But that never scares him off or make him give up on his dreams because no matter what happens, he always pulls through as he's the strong, brave, and determined fighter he is ��

[plokoonsdisapprovingeyebrows]

Frame type headcanon ramble because I’ve had it sitting around for ages and I wanna share it lol. There’ll be a part 2 at some point so I can talk more about the individual frame types cause there’s lots of them.

PART 2 HERE

Notes on Frame Type:

↠   Frametype refers to physical (non-electrical) schematics like skeletal structure, engine type/grade, and armor pattern. Also comes with some base coding, some inherited memory data, and some other weird shit that no-one really knows a whole lot about (because the Primacy only grants study proposals once in a blue moon). Because it's the most visible level of differentiation between Cybertronians, it tends to be the first... sorting system that they categorize themselves by, resulting in stuff like Functionism.

↠   Divided into three 'ancestral types' based on mythological divisions of the Thirteen: 

Warframes claim descent from Prima the Sword, Megatronus the Shield, Liege Maximo the Burning Torch, and the Wanderer. They are distinguished by their thicker armor, more struts and shock absorbers in their skeletal system, more flex joints practically everywhere, and some more fun stuff I'm not sure how to describe as yet. 

Groundframes claim descent from the Record-Keeper, the Muse, Alchemist the Philosopher, and Solus the Smith. They are distinguished by not having most of the stuff listed above. 

Flightframes claim descent from Vector the Timekeeper, Nexus the Sundered, the Guiding Hand, and the Guardian Wall, and are distinguished by being flight-capable (without deliberate modding). 

Over time, these three ancestral types split into several quite different phenotypes — unintentionally due to environmental pressures, such as the case of the minibots during the Cataclysm, or through deliberate engineering, such as the Second Generation military projects that led to the creation of dexters, rotaries, and flighted warbuilds ('Seekers').

↠   Most Cybertronian languages have a pronoun system that is either based around or can be extended into frame types. I’ve been using letter-number codes to describe them — please imagine that they're standing in for sounds I can't possibly transcribe in human orthography lmao.

Coda to the above point — I really fuckin hate the Aligned canon of 'there are 13 different frametypes based on the Thirteen Primes and one of them is Girl', so mech vs. femme is 100% not a thing here. There are no 'girl' frametypes and 'boy' frametypes, there are no girl robots and no boy robots at all, I'm just using she/he/they/etc. pronouns for English-language convenience. 

↠   Shifters have their own system configurations and technically their own frametype, but they have a 'root form' that usually conforms outwardly to one of the standard frametypes. Shifters tend to be smaller (and they're an absolute nightmare for medics, Shifter medical care is its own specialty) and are commonly classed with various minibot subtypes. Jazz, for example, is usually an articulate, but he can make himself as big as a light standard or as small as a sylph.

↠   Triplechangers also have their own system configuration and frametype, but unless they have visibly incongruent kibble (or they're using their pronoun i guess) it's common to mistake them for heavy warbuilds. One way to tell them apart? The warbuilds tend to have narrower waists. It's not foolproof, but triplechangers are generally packing more stuff in their innards. With heavy warbuilds the frametype ideal is to stuff as many important components as possible into their heavily-armored chests. Which is just not possible with the triplechangers.

Notes on System Configuration:

↠   System Configuration refers to processor schematics, (most) computer hardware, (most) software, and electrical system components/layout. It's a lot more important and relevant to your average Cybertronian than frame type is in most cases, but also largely invisible from the outside. Some system configurations are more common in certain frametypes; for example the ferus and efficiens systems are particularly widespread among flightframes as compared to groundframes, but in general any frametype could have any of the five standard configurations.

↠   Shifter configuration is the only one of the special configurations that is 'natural' — it goes back to Amalgamous the Star of Chaos, one of the Thirteen. The others were all the product of deliberate engineering. Although the fracture and gestalt configurations were inspired by the mythical depiction of Nexus Prime as having five component bodies, Nexus did not pass down this trait, and it was left up to daring scientists to recreate.

↠   Literally any transformation-capable frametype can be reformatted into a gestalt configuration, allowing that mech to combine with up to five other mecha. (My combiners tend to look something more like Bayverse Devastator sans wrecking balls, incidentally. Love that alien look.) Theoretically you could even do it with someone like Omega Supreme but nobody has yet because the size difference is Awkward.

↠   Fracture configuration likewise is something someone of any frametype can be reformatted into — it's basically just a matter of getting an extra body or two that matches your existing frametype and creating a spark-deep network. It can be a steep learning curve to pay attention to more than one body at once, though, and that's where the special system configuration comes in. A fracturemech's frametype is whatever frametype their component bodies are — unlike gestalts, a fracturemech's components all match. They do have a combined form, but the form that counts for frametype purposes is the one that can transform — and combined mecha can't transform.

↠   the Sparked Ship Special and Sparked City Special configurations are notable for having more individual variation than any other system configuration — they are tailor-made for the individual ship or city according to their projected needs and environments. 

They are classed as a group rather than as 'Unclassified Configurations' because they do share some basic architecture and also are uniformly ridiculously complex. Most are paired with semi-independent AIs in a permanent network, and they all deliberately add lots of new stuff to their system over the course of their long long lives, in response to external pressures or even just plain curiosity or boredom. (Much like regular Cybertronians, in fact; these guys — sparked cities in particular — just aren't limited to whatever they can stuff into a frame that needs to transform on the regular.)

Notes on Size Class:

↠  the main concern of size class is weight and mass rather than height per se; height classes cross over with each other and the weight classes don't. You get classed to match the weight; so even if you're, say, only 12' tall and massing to match Class 3, if you weigh over 500kg you get classed in Class 4. 

Height does matter in that manufacturers and builders tend to assume that if you weigh and mass a certain amount then you're going to be within a certain height range as well, for ease of standardization. And once you get much beyond Class 12, very few manufacturers and whatnot account for you anyway, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 

[thenamesblurrito]

ask dump the fourth

what can i say, i guess i get a lot of asks!! thanks for the attention, have some miscellaneous info

answered asks are collide from this ask meme, tm waspy dude’s Sky Striker, how much a mech can eat, tar taffy, Springload, Springer the secret John Deere tractor, dandelions, Soundwave, and nonhumanoid root modes

@confusedcriminal this has been in my inbox forever and i forgot about it halfway thru compiling an answer oops! but inspiration for SNAP taken from outside of transformers canon would, most obviously, be the entirely of magical girl anime. i legit scrolled through TVTropes for a long time doing research on stereotypical episodes, character types, etc just so i could really capture the aesthetic. i’m not basing it on any anime in particular, although the classic Sailor Moon and PMMM and even some Pretty Cure had a lot of good tropes for me to steal.

another one is sort of the nature of ~political discourse i see between kids online these days. SNAP revolves around four groups of kids working to better the world but violently disagreeing on how that should be done. it’s not an inspiration i started out with (especially because i avoid all sorts of the disk horse like the plague) but it became an apt comparison as i kept working on the story.

a solid character! it sounds like Sky Raider is a lot like Sky Striker with the addition of some confidence and security

(the post this is referring to)

it sort of depends on the person’s size, how worn/physically tired they are, and what materials their self repair is drawing from. a mech with a lot of dings and scrapes will have their self repair systems working harder and thus “run out” of what they’ve eaten quicker, whereas someone in perfect health who isn’t moving that much will only need general minor upkeep. as for how much they can eat at once, the fuel tanks and material stockpiles someone has will vary by their size and frame. a seeker, for instance, has large fuel reserves for their large energy demands because it’s stored in their wings, like real planes! their material stockpiles are smaller though because flightframes carrying around more weight in the form of eaten food is sort of counterintuitive. the average grounder and toolformer will have proportionally larger material stockpiles, flightframes and spacers and aquatics will have proportionally smaller, and beastformers will have somewhere in between, usually erring larger. eating too much for any one of them will result in lethargy and nausea, loss of appetite for a good while, perhaps physical pain from overstressed tanks, and if necessary purging/spitting up food. doing this over and over can damage their internal forges and repair systems, and lead to self repair tacking excess materials onto places that really don’t need them, like the flash of overmolded stuff, which can cause lumps, compromised welds, and even shrapnel knocking around in the internals. they don’t really have the equivalent of fat storage like organics, at best they get thick and malformed armor.

all that said, to answer your question! yes they could eat more to go longer between meals, as long as they don’t push it and eat more than they’re physically capable of holding. also, it’s pretty normal to get physical materials within liquid fuel. silted energon mentioned in the above link and “protein shakes” are a quick and easy way to get all their “food groups” in one form, and some mecha live exclusively off of these

lol that’s a great name already ghfofhjdfgs nice and simple, i can use that

oh this is really really good! backstory and everything! also gotta love a good FMAB reference *chefs kiss* i don’t know if i have a place for Springload in my current plotline, but this would fit perfectly as one of the accidental alternate timelines that Skywarp sometimes falls into, so i’m gonna tuck this in my back pocket for later. i am however hesitant to use Aboriginal culture as i am definitely not Aboriginal nor even Australian and don’t want to disrespect them. at the very least i’d have to ask some Aboriginal people, but i really don’t think it’s my place to use anything from the Dreamtime, especially without explicit permission

@oldboyjensenhinglemeier​ it took me so long to answer this because it’s so beautiful i wanted to save it forever. also no he’s not a tractor sadly but you’re right about the colors. the obvious solution is to make him a tractor in your own canon! (also what i’m hearing is Sputter’s new nickname for Springer is John Deere)

!!!! i never got part 1 to this but i already love this so much??? giant dandelions yes please. this is so good. sky weeds

yes he can, among a lot of other befuddling supersenses! the Lenses manifest mostly as augmented sight, which is already confusing enough to handle, but his powerset is more expansive. on his character sheet i describe it as “perception so acute he can predict what an opponent will do next”, and that bleeds into hearing as well, even hearing thoughts. he has a lot of work to do to figure out how to operate without a migraine, made more difficult by the way Rumble and Frenzy just refuse to cooperate

as for swimming aids, i think soundwave is one of the ones who can swim safely? i think? i talk about swimming in this dump here. most of the heroes can. his tentacles probably would make some decent swimming aids actually, although it’s unlikely to come up because there aren’t exactly many places to swim on Cybertron

(the post this is referring to)

something like that ;)

there’s an in-universe answer and an out-of-universe answer, and the out-of-universe answer is that i wanted to keep a set style and visual language for each character design to lend a thread of coherency between all of them, so i made the difficult decision to sacrifice nonhumanoid root modes

[ravenwolf1132]

(Holy shit, this got long, I'm sorry)

Yes!! I have a personal headcanon about this!

Optimus, in many continuities, is referred to as a "Convoy." "Convoy" is even his name in some of the early Japanese continuities, or at least Bots that are supposed to emulate him. A "convoy" is a group of heavily armed troops that accompany a smaller group - usually an envoy of some kind - for protection. That sounds like a glorified bodyguard to me, something that a Warframe would be.

So I like the idea that a "Convoy" is special warframe model that was created to protect high ranking members of society. As such, they are required to be presentable to high caste society - which is mostly made up of civilfames. So they are designed to look like a civilframe, but have the strength, power, and - most importantly - programming of a warframe.

Convoys are much smaller than the average warframe, but still on the tall side for civilframes. They still possess the same strength and power as other warframes much larger than them, so they can go toe-to-toe with mechs twice, even three times their size, and are natural fighters. They're feisty and protective and a force to be reckoned with, a One-Mech-Army kind of deal. Only the best of the best for the noblemechs and senator-bots that would commission their creation. However, they are very expensive to create and are thus very rare, even more so are Convoys naturally sparked and not forged. Their creation fell out of fashion after the war broke out due to how expensive they are and tedious to create. Most aren't sure whether they are civilframes or warframes anymore.

This is why Optimus was considered a prodigy in the Academy, he is a naturally strong and gifted fighter. So much so, mechs that have been training for centuries would still get their afts handed to them (*cough*Sentinel*cough*). Such prowess would also score him a higher rank than his friends, a Prime. And how he was able to go toe-to-toe with Megatron and WIN. But this also explains something else, something Ultra Magnus said;

"It seems you don't have the programming to be a Hero."

He's not a civilframe, he's a warframe. Something Ultra Magnus could never see or even accept as a "Hero."

Warframe!Optimus but it's not shattered glass and he's still an autobot

Angst ensues