#gunny oc sawhorse

[bellygunnr]

it must be stressed that while Sawhorse's earth-form IS, indeed, a Toyota Previa of first-gen fame, he is NOT constrained by the Previa's many, many, MANY shortcomings, most of which make it a shambles of a car. for example:

he contains 1 (one) minigun. the normal previa, does not.

[bellygunnr]

🎤

Tell me more about your robit guy(s)

Sawhorse used to go to illegal truck pulling competitions with his buddies out in the desert. He entered one while drunk and placed third, then threw up on the organizer.

Firewall is afraid of heights! This is bad because he is also an airplane! Also, during the war, he got re-engineered to accommodate Sawhorse as a passenger.

[bellygunnr]

Sawhorse and Firewall sheltering from a solar storm under the cut!

The shelter was hot, crowded, and loud, fit to bursting. High concrete walls kept everyone in, too collectively nervous to shy away from the screens that displayed the city and a timer to the end of the storm. Others took up corners to play games, or told stories, or badgered the current-volunteers for this or that. A pair of sparklings collected empty energon rations to listlessly build towers with.

You had no idea the apartment building had this many residents. Or maybe it didn't, and its underground bunker held mechs from the surrounding area. If they were able to get there in time, anyway.

An alarm bleeped once. The timer flashed, stamped a longer countdown. You rolled your neck and shoulders, cut a long look at your buddy, Sawhorse.

"We're fucked," you said.

He nodded. "Eh, maybe. Storm probably fried the sensors. I'd give it twelve hours."

Twelve hours. The clock said two days, give or take some change.

"Where'd your roommates go?" You ask instead.

Sawhorse hummed, a subsonic buzz. "Half of'em work for the city. Blink's at work at some country refinery, though. She should be okay."

Oh. You frowned. The temperature ticked a little higher so your internal fans clicked on.

"I can't remember the last time I had to shelter for a storm," you admitted. "Or, well..."

Delta, as the capitol, had the infrastructure to survive minor solar storms. When they did occur, the underground oval tracks opened up to the public and teams got some free testing in. Alpha only had a few circuits, all above ground. You weren't allowed in any of them.

Sawhorse pinged you a two-way comm session. You accepted it instantly, only to frown at the proposal.

"...Sawzer. Where the hell do you get this stuff?"

"Look, Omni Medical offers these up for free. And they pass the time!"

"We could watch a real show or something instead? I'll even watch ER Horror Stories--"

You loved Sawhorse, really. Even if his fascination with surgery training vods was weird. He was too good at his job for you to deride him for it.

Sawhorse puffed up slightly. You tweaked one of his rubber-coated cheeks, noted the faint cracking in the left bulge. Automatically, you pulled out a bottle of nanite-laced filler while he loaded up an episode of some medical show.

The video played between your processors while you pinned him down and cleaned up his finish.

[bellygunnr]

Hanging it All on You

A Transformers OC story. ES-based with G1 elements. Liberties taken. Sawhorse POV first, Firewall POV second.

If you weren't so attuned to the scent of energon, you wouldn't have noticed him. Bumblebee knew how to hide well, though you question the efficacy of such a skill when you're on death's doorstep. You don't even need to be a medic to parse that out. Injuries of all kinds had a scent to them-- and this one was bad.

Still, you don't announce your presence until you're rolling the rock away from the under-bridge tunnel. You take the blaster fire handily, letting your battered shoulders dissipate the worst of it, until he registers the tell-tale markings of a medic. Technically, you weren't supposed to retain these decals, but you kept them on hand. Didn't make Bumblebee look at you with any less suspicion, but he did stop firing.

"You're not Autobot," Bumblebee hisses.

"What gave it away?" You huff, sarcastic. "Let's cut a deal, baby."

You spare him the glare of your lightbar, opting for the low beams across your chest. Bumblebee was in shambles, curled up against the concrete wall, arms cast listlessly in his lap while energon flowed anew from his joints. No doubt from the effort of transforming them into weapons -- what a pain.

"You think I'm just gonna-- make deals? Better off lettin’ me bleed out, 'Con," Bumblebee says, baring his teeth. "I've got buddies on the way, you know."

You roll your optics. The tunnel echoes with the sheer noise of your movement inside. It'd make you claustrophobic, if you still had that defect. Bumblebee doesn't even move as you lumber closer and closer. He must really be injured.

"See, I'm gonna fix you, deal or no deal," you say bluntly, dropping to a crouch. "You're too valuable to die, ain't that right? Aside from that... I think I can change your mind."

Bumblebee's face contorts, conflicted. He doesn't protest as you reach behind your neck and unspool a diagnostic cable, the shielding pitted and burned, simply staring up at you with wide, blue optics. Dim optics. At this distance, you can hear his internals working, most notably a clicking coolant pump.

You're a doctor by trade, of course. For speedsters and modifieds and outliers. Not always a surgeon, but you figure you make a pretty good one now, after millions of years at war. Unfortunately, you didn't kit up for a field op, but...

Wordlessly, Bumblebee turns his right arm over, exposing an open port at his wrist. Before you can jack in, though, he jerks back, plating and doorwings flaring in alarm. Yet, just as quickly, he cringes in pain, knocking his helm back against the wall.

"You can tell me to frag off, you know," you say dryly. "I can just let you bleed out, if you're gonna be ungrateful."

"No, no, no-- I just-- why the port? Can't you just scan me or whatever?"

Bumblebee has the grace to look guilty through the pain warping his body and rolling off his field. Still, you hesitate, cursing yourself for it all the while. You're a doctor-- an enemy, maybe-- but everyone listens to doctors! What kind of medics do the Autobots have if their scout is acting like this?

"I don't have a handheld scanner, so no," you explain patiently. "And just between us? One of your lot damaged my medical suites. We're down to analog, you and I."

This time, he lets you plug in. You push forward nothing but medical requests and your ident-tags. He responds in kind and a klik later you’re analyzing his vitals, from spark integrity to fuel pressure. He taps at the firewalls inside your head, a packet closed within a metaphorical fist.

You brush him aside. <<Were you serious about your backup?>> You ask instead.

He’s a mess. Not as dead as you thought, but his coolant pump is on its way out, no doubt due to the significant physical trauma wrapped around his abdomen. Already, his temperature is ticking up, wicking away the intensity of his self-repair. Hard to think about sealing fuel lines with the radiator threatening to boil, huh.

<<I thought medics were supposed to talk more,>> Bumblebee complains. <<What are you even doing in there?>>

You don’t cease peeling Bumblebee open like an organic crab, but you push apology-guilt into your field while opening a watch-along to your processes. His jaw clenches as he’s now able to watch you file away his topic change for later.

“It’s not overly invasive, don’t be a baby. I’m clamping your lines because you can’t stop bleeding– not your fault— and I’m checking out your cooling system. Half your fans are burned out. Did you get some voltage?”

<<Business end of a power line,>> Bumblebee confesses.

Memories flicker on the peripheral of the hardline connection, most likely of said power line. You ignore them, tying off the last errant line through the first wisps of steam. Absently, you pop open a physical compartment in your abdomen, fishing out a large unmarked tin. The sweet scent of coolant is stronger now, nauseating with the acidic odor of energon already weighing down the air, its source obvious. 

<<I’m gonna be real honest, Autobot,>> you start, switching to the silent comm-link, <<I ain’t equipped to handle your wiring. Best I can do is keep your internals from cooking.>>

You’re aware of Bumblebee tracking your every movement. You make a show of wiping off your hands, as if showing off your wide palms and blunted fingertips will put him at ease. Over the link, you push forward images of your intentions. 

For some reason, it doesn’t put your patient at ease. But you’re not here to make him feel good so you forge ahead, tarring up the cracks in his radiator and dumping a cube of coolant down his intake. His pump clicks all the while.

Some part of your treatment seems to work. Bumblebee visibly relaxes, but you warn him against moving too suddenly, lest your hard work come undone. His optics brighten marginally and newfound alertness prickles over his field. He makes a weak gesture to the cable running between you both.

“Need to keep observing you,” you say aloud, only slightly admonishing. “Now– that deal. You have something I want.”

Bumblebee jerks forward, expression darkening. “What could I possibly have? I don’t even know who you are!”

“Stop moving!” You snap. “You don’t need to know who I am. You just need to help me find him.”

“I never agreed to the deal,” Bumblebee says, but there’s no fire in it.

He lets his helmet rest back against the wall. You wonder if you misjudged all of the Autobots, or just this one. Aren’t they supposed to be soft? Don’t they like paying back favors? You just saved his life, after all, oath be damned. Did you have to get physical with him?

Primus, his chest was open. You were plugged into his systems (and he, yours). It would be so easy–

Bumblebee is waving his hand in your face. You snap reflexively at his fingers, sharpened fangs scraping across metal planes.

“Fucker, ow,” Bumblebee hisses, snatching his hand back with the whine of a servo. “I said I was gonna help– not my fault you were spacing out, ‘Con.”

Oh. You stare at him, winding back the last thirty seconds of your life. Ah.

“Oh. Well. Good,” you say. “His name’s Firewall. You took him prisoner three local cycles ago. I need him back. Please.”

For a terrifying moment, Bumblebee looks as if he doesn’t recognize the name. Then his field flickers, a mixture of shock and confusion covering bitten-back lethargy and wariness.

“You want that lunatic back?” Bumblebee demands, optics flying wide.

“That lunatic is my conjunx!” You snarl, suddenly witless, frightened. “I need your help, so please– please.”

Begging. You’re disgusted with yourself, but you can’t stand the idea of failing here, not after juking the Decepticon brass and diving headfirst behind enemy lines. You won’t fail here. You’ll show him–

Bumblebee waves a placating hand,vocalizer fritzing. “Hey, hey, hey– I’m not retracting my offer or anything, calm down. Didn’t realize it was so serious.”

It's at that moment the rocks blocking off the opposite end of the tunnel shift. Harsh lights flood inside, followed by two pink chassises. Bumblebee shouts for them not to fire, but you’re already subspacing a handheld saw and jamming it against his throat. 

—

The Autobots have a tight ship, at least. Of course, why wouldn’t they? Their base was literally a spaceship. The brig, stuffed in the deepest, lowest section of the hull, is especially tight, with cells reinforced with both force fields and bars, the dimensions just wide enough to accommodate a seeker’s wings. And with your build, that means plenty of room to walk four paces and turn around in a never-ending cycle, so long as you keep your cooling fins and excess blades retracted. Not that you have a choice – the inhibitor claw newly bolted into the back of your neck makes it impossible to even think about a transformation, let alone do it.

So you pace, lurching and lunging back and forth, memorizing the featureless metal box with every pass. Rivets, some missing, most not, line the walls, potential weaknesses if you were the type to notice or exploit such things. You’re not, but your wrists are cross-cuffed, so you especially couldn’t try to make something happen. It’s whatever, really.

That’s what you tell yourself. It’s not a big deal. Just being alive is infinite possibility. You owe it to Sawhorse to behave. Keep your helm down. To hell with your way out, so meticulously planned. You two always worked best when improvising, after all. Maybe this was meant to happen. Serendipity at the business end of an Autobot firing squad. They wouldn’t believe you if you told them, after all, that you were Conjunxed and want to move to Earth-Italy, and would they pretty please let you go so you can stuff yourself inside a box for ninety local cycles and come out a new mech– it’ll be like being a bug, you’d tell them anxiously, like those caterpillars, have you ever seen them, did you ever care to look– 

You freeze mid-step. Your thoughts have wandered off. This is a very, very small room. Primus didn’t forge you with cramped spaces in mind. Only the brig warden– well, guard– shifting his plating grounds you back into reality. 

His voice carries.

“Didn’t expect you guys back so soon. Is that another–?”

“You’re dismissed, Sunstreaker,” a faintly familiar voice says. “Get some recharge.”

It’s difficult, dredging up the data necessary to place the voice. All your taxed brain can give is a featureless pink visage, which a subroutine helpfully labels as either Arcee or Elita-1. Neither of which you’re eager to meet. Did your reputation even warrant Autobot brass? You puff up your plating and press up against the shimmering bars, stasis cuffs humming in warning.

Footsteps rattle. Shadows loom. You perk up, audials instantly detecting an uneven shuffle, the rhythm of a limp. Something in your spark squeezes, then blooms, a savage thing, the first cut of hope– 

“Doctor,” you whisper.

There he is. Half your height but twice as wide, all broad curves and tough rubber edges, dim with the lack of energon, but alive. You shove your helm up against the force-protected bars, howling plaintively when it shocks you– so you keen beseechingly at your captors, up until Sawhorse shakes off his cuffs and grabs the bars, optics cycling to their widest setting. 

“You’re gonna hurt yourself doin’ that, baby, come on,” Sawhorse murmurs gently. “It’s okay, we’re okay, we’re gettin’ out– you understand me?”

His words wash over you, but you’re not sure if you understand him, not really. Your thoughts have vanished, processor going scratchy as your brain module happily loops itself into an existence consisting of “Sawhorse” and “Obstructions preventing proximity to Sawhorse.” You snarl threateningly at the Autobots shuffling behind Sawhorse, uncomprehending of both word and action, until the bars and shield drop and your way forward is– open. You lunge.

Big, stout, heavy arms catch your torso and twist your momentum, sending you reeling through the air in listing spins, but it’s okay because it’s your doctor, your Conjunx, cradling you close and stroking dense digits down your back. You tuck your helm underneath his, letting the quiet rumble of his engine soothe you. He unhooks your restraints with quick, practiced motions, muttering sweet nothings just loudly enough your combat protocols stay offline.

“That’s a good one,” Sawhorse continues, soft as a whisper. “You look unhurt– good, I’m glad. Now, we don’t have a lot of time, Firewall, so… Unless… Are you sure Bumblebee will be fine? I can continue–”

“We do have a medical corps,” one of the Autobots says dryly. “As much as we’d love to have you stick around, we are halfway to committing treason–”

“If you insist,” Sawhorse says. 

You curl a protective arm around your doctor’s waist. The Autobots cast unreadable expressions upon you, data that your mind files away for processing later. Then they turn around and hurry off. 

Bound together, you and Sawhorse follow doggedly. It’s a circuitous route through the fallen Autobot ship, paths and details you should memorize, but you know better than that. You’re leaving this war– trying to pretend otherwise, or save your metal later, undermines the purpose. The only way, now, is this.

Though you have no idea how Sawhorse pulled this off. A breakout is one thing– Autobot command assisting is wholly another. 

<<Sawhorse: query,>> you ping over the bonded connection.

<<Firewall: acknowledge,>> he pings back.

<<How did you pull this off?>> 

One of the Autobots draws short, a fist clenched in the air beside her. You slide your hand up to grip Sawhorse’s shoulder tire, plating clamping tight to your protoform as everyone stops. The other Autobot, pink and chrome, starts digging into the wall. You quickly reason out why– this is a door you’ve stopped at.

Perhaps your way out?

<<Fixed up a scout. You know the one.>>

<<Oh, Bumblebee?>>

You’ve never had the fortune of meeting the scout on the field. But soldiers talked, rumors spread, and you’re at least tangentially aware Decepticon command wanted him personally. Not even for his successful thievery or intel– but because he meant so much to the Prime. 

<<It was a lucky break. And we still may not make it, Firewall.>>

You understand that, at least. 

Mechanisms activating in the walls of the ship startle you. Your claws sink into Sawhorse’s rubber, prompting him to bat your hand away while simultaneously petting reassuringly down your side. Again, the Autobots give you a funny look, but only long enough to point at the chasm opening by way of the door.

“It’s open. You’ll have to make a bit of a jump, but it’s flat ground. Get out of here.”

“We have to jump?” Sawhorse yelps.

His field flares hot and sharp against yours. You shove him forward, into the gaping airlock, and peer over his frame.

“That is a bit cruel, Arcee,” one of them– not Arcee– says.

“Eh, well. Shouldn’t be grounders, then, huh?”

It is, as she says, a bit of a jump. Approximately four hundred feet from the edge of the airlock is the ground below. You’re not sure about the flat ground, if only because foliage and moisture make rough work of your systems. Still….

“See you around,” you throw over your shoulder. <<Go into your altmode just before you land,>> you whisper. 

Then you shove Sawhorse out of the ship proper and take the plunge right after. He screams and curses loudly, but that just means he’s okay, so you tune it out.

[bellygunnr]

Tell me about one of r transformer guys 🎤

GUH. I have at least.... 2. Well. 3. But I haven't thought about Jettison in years. ANYWAY

Sawhorse! Named after the structural doohickeys that hold boards up for. Sawing. He's a first-gen Toyota Previa/Estima. He's also... a Decepticon medic. Sports doctor turned surgeon because Cybertronian medicine is weird.

He's nice enough, but if he thinks he can get something out of an interaction, he will try to get it. Not really one for doing things out of the goodness of his heart, needs some bribery, or Firewall needs to be doing it first. Used to be on board with the movement, then everyone went off planet, and by then it was too late to defect.

He has a bit of a limp and always favors his right side. Not sure if he was forged with it or got it during The War^TM. Always uses hand-held tools because what little on-board medical devices he had are burnt out.

One last thing. Before the war, he used to be pit crew and tow truck for Firewall. They'd parade around track venues before races and prep showing off their colors and speed. They've been side by side for millenia.

[bellygunnr]

Praise or scorn or both :)

You cradle the bottle of engex like it's a lifeline, tightly, with trepidation. You know you're not in danger or anything, but the apartment is very small and every inhabitant has apparently oozed out to get a look at you. They're tense, wary.

"Oh, that's-- let me get a good look at that. Damn, I thought Sawhorse was lyin' 'bout you."

What? You shutter your optics in disbelief and carefully freeze in place as a giant convoy-bot eases forward to grab at your peace offering. He hefts it into the air, letting the overhead lights turn the noxious green brew translucent.

"...Where is Sawhorse, anyway?" You ask tentatively.

The convoy-bot hums, passes the bottle to a yellow hauler. Sawhorse didn't even tell you their names, so you can't begin to guess who's who. Really, all you can think about is how small Sawhorse actually is.

"He's-- Airbag, ain't he--?" The yellow one starts.

A green-red truck-type shakes their head. "Nah. He's up a floor or two, helping Razorback with that bad back of his."

Oh. Maybe an emergency, then? You watch them pass the bottle around. One 'bot eventually slinks off. Is that a tail you see?

"Well, he won't mind if we get started without him... Is this nightmare fuel, racer?" The green-and-red 'bot asks.

You're not sure. "I dunno. Maybe? I just gave-- a buddy a couple gallons of, uh, you know. And they made it."

High-end race energon was already close to engex, after all. Just needed a bit more done to it and apparently that could count as "nightmare fuel." Whatever that is.

Something about what you said makes the group laugh, so you just shrug and smile awkwardly.

[bellygunnr]

Sawhorse -- Transformers OC -- Earthspark-verse with some blends from other Conts. Alt mode: 1993 Toyota Previa All-Trac [5MT] Occupation: Medical, Field Scout, Logistics

Firewall -- Transformers OC -- Earthspark-verse with other CONT blends. Alt mode: 1960s Ferrari 512, 1960s Ferrari 275 GTB4 Occupation: Speedster/racer, infantry, infiltration

[bellygunnr]

Sawhorse and Firewall have a few storybeats pre-Earthspark:

Sawhorse getting hired by Firewall's racing team as the tow unit (carting Firewall around to avoid undue systems strain between races).

Firewall getting injured repeatedly by oversights and mistakes of the team captain and physician, causing Sawhorse to take pity on him. (Sawhorse at this point has already been illegally getting medical instruction).

Sawhorse murdering his way through a rival team's staff because they kidnapped Firewall for his power plant (engine).

The Decepticons find Velocitron before the Autobots do, igniting a social rift that was already wide open. It's an easy escape from the planet, consequences and war be damned.