#optical image stabilization

[rashid92786]

Vivo T2 Pro 5G: 22 सितंबर को लॉन्च, फीचर्स ने बढ़ाई उत्साह

22 सितंबर को लॉन्च होने जा रहा Vivo T2 Pro 5G स्मार्टफोन लेकर आ रहा है अनुपम स्पीड और शानदार फीचर्स। अगर आप भी ताकतवर परफॉरमेंस और उत्कृष्ट कैमरा की तलाश में हैं, तो यह आपके लिए एक बेहतरीन विकल्प हो सकता है। जानें अधिक! वीवो ने हाल ही में अपने T2 सीरीज का नया सदस्य, वीवो टी2 प्रो 5जी, का उद्घाटन करने की घोषणा की है। यह स्मार्टफोन भारतीय बाजार में 22 सितंबर को उपलब्ध होगा। लॉन्च से पहले ही, इस…

[em1i2a3]

can you do bob x reader where he sees us interacting with a child and it makes him want to be a father so bad?

It’s You I’m Thinking Of

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/ The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: Valentina organizes a PR event for the Thunderbolts and during the event Bob realizes that he may want more out of life than just saving the world.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because of Bob’s involvement and because some events are mentioned in passing. Fluff, a hint of Angst and an Established Relationship is at the forefront here.

Author's Note: Surprise, it’s double update day…Because I had this in my drafts and forgot to post it…YIKES. I found this to be so fluffy and cute to write! Thank you so much for the request! I loved writing this a lot!

Word Count: 3,805

Valentina had called it a “Visibility Effort,” which–as far as Bob was concerned–was just a polished way of saying: “I need people to stop thinking you guys are monsters, so go smile for the cameras and pretend you guys didn’t almost destroy New York City a year ago.”

The Thunderbolts had only just begun to scrape their way back into the public’s good graces after the Void. If grace could even be applied to a team that, not long ago, had been seen as volatile assets in containment rather than heroes in recovery. But Valentina didn’t care about semantics–she cared about optics. And what better way to scrub down their image than to host a carefully staged, feel-good community day in a public park–complete with banners, press kits, and security briefings disguised as media rundowns.

The day before, you and the rest of the team had been sweating under the sun, assembling the layout from the ground up. Tent poles groaned in the wind, tarps snapped against knuckles, and the oversized bouncy castle–more akin to a pop-up cathedral–took three hours to stabilize. It loomed over the field like a surreal monument to liability.

By sundown, the park had been transformed.

Face-painting booths stretched along the paved path like an art market in miniature, each tent hung with paper lanterns and garlands of plastic ivy. A ring toss area had been set up beside a small prize table, its wares still barcoded and smelling faintly of plastic and lemon cleaner. Further down, a row of food trucks idled along the lot’s edge, the air thick with fried batter and roasted peanuts, preparing for the next day. A banner, bold and hopeful, rippled above the main walkway: THUNDERBOLTS COMMUNITY GIVEBACK DAY!

The park was bustling before noon the next day.

Children darted between booths with faces half-painted and shoes untied. Parents loitered on benches, plastic cups of lemonade in hand, cautiously optimistic about letting their kids near a group of enhanced individuals who, six months ago, were being referred to as national liabilities. Still, smiles came easier than expected. The air smelled like kettle corn, sun-warmed vinyl, and freshly cut grass.

Valentina had positioned her pawns with precision, each member of the team slotted into a role meant to soften their image–familiar, friendly, safe.

Yelena was stationed at the face-painting table. She didn’t argue when she was assigned to it, though she rolled her eyes hard enough that everyone could basically hear it. Now, seated with a paintbrush balanced between her fingers, she looked…Focused. Delicate even. She painted dragons, daisies, and one incredibly accurate depiction of Bucky’s old Winter Soldier face paint layout. She didn’t say much unless spoken to, but the kids flocked to her. Her bluntness came off as hilarious to them. Her gentleness? Earned in silence.

Walker manned the obstacle course–one of the only areas Valentina trusted him not to overcomplicate. With his sleeves rolled up and clipboard tucked under his arm, he barked out encouragements that sounded suspiciously like bootcamp commands. But he was patient. He let kids redo the course as many times as they wanted. And when one boy tripped near the finish line, Walker helped him up without hesitation and whispered something that made the kid’s chest puff with pride.

Ava floated between stations like an unofficial supervisor. She had no designated role, but her presence was felt and it was heavy. She hovered near the cotton candy vendor long enough to be offered a free sample, then spent ten minutes helping a little girl reattach the wheel to her toy stroller. Ava didn’t smile often, but she kept her sunglasses off today. It mattered more than anyone would admit.

Alexei had placed himself right in the center of the park’s open lawn, surrounded by children wielding foam swords. He was absolutely in his element. Towering, loud, enthusiastic. He let them “ambush” him over and over again, dramatically collapsing onto the grass as they tackled him, crying out in mock defeat with every fall. When one kid asked if he was Santa, Alexei laughed so hard he nearly swallowed a whistle. He’d fashioned a red Thunderbolts cap to resemble something almost festive. No one stopped him.

Bucky was at the photo booth. Not because Valentina assigned it to him–but because he asked. Quietly. Just once. And when she raised a brow, he explained:

“Kids like the arm. Makes them feel like they’re meeting a real superhero.”

No one argued with that.

He stood beside the printed backdrop of a Thunderbolts mural, his vibranium arm resting lightly at his side. At first, only a few families came by. Then word got around. By midday, there was a line curling around the booth. Bucky posed with toddlers who clung to his leg, tweens who wanted to see if he could lift them with his arm alone, and teens who just wanted proof they’d stood next to him. He let them. All of them.

And you–you’d been running the craft tent since the gates opened. Low folding tables filled with paper crowns, pipe cleaners, sticker sheets, and markers with their caps long lost to time. You moved between projects with practiced ease, coaxing confidence out of even the shyest children. One girl in a purple tutu had stuck to your side all morning, proudly referring to you as “Miss Thunderbolt” like it was an official title.

Bob on the other hand…Wasn’t assigned a booth.

Valentina had called it a “strategic decision”–which meant don’t scare the kids. She hadn’t said it outright, of course, but Bob understood the subtext. The others had made peace with their reputations, learned how to bend their edges into something palatable. Bob’s problem wasn’t sharpness. It was scale. People didn’t look at him and see a man. They saw The Void. A storm in a body. The thing that turned Manhattan’s sky black almost a year ago. Or they saw him as Golden Boy Sentry, which he rarely presented himself as now because all of that was dormant since the incident, so he was just Bob, and unfortunately nobody was really interested in just Bob.

Except you of course.

You had grown extremely close to him throughout the time he was recovering from the incident. You would stay back from missions just to keep him company, and within those small moments, the two of you grew a bond and became inseparable.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no big declaration, no kiss in the rain, no sweeping hand grab before battle. It was subtle–gentle, even. A shared quiet. The way you waited for him to speak on his own terms. The way you handed him warm drinks without comment and sat beside him on the floor of his room during the worst days, and just held him or smoothed his hair down. The way you always reached for his hand under the table when Valentina debriefed the team about “public image,” like you were grounding yourself in him, not the other way around.

It started with one date. A walk. A drink from the local coffee shop that you used two straws for. A movie you barely paid attention to because Bob had cried halfway through and apologized for it, and you’d told him, “I’d rather watch you feel something than watch the movie anyway.”

Now it had been nearly a year.

A quiet year. A healing one. A year where Bob–somehow–had begun to believe that maybe he wasn’t made just for disaster. Maybe he was allowed to want softness. Warmth. You.

So he stayed near you now, just like he always did. Even in the middle of this pastel-bright circus of a public relations stunt, even with the buzzing press cameras and the thunder of kids’ shoes over packed grass–he stood a few feet behind your tent. Watching quietly like he always did.

You didn’t need him to be part of the event. You didn’t ask him to engage. You just wanted him to be close and hover around you. And every so often, you’d glance over your shoulder and give him a little smile–soft, unhurried, like a tether that reminded him that he was still on your mind.

That’s what he was doing when it happened.

You were helping a child–maybe four, maybe five–cut out the outline of a star from glitter paper. She was sitting in your lap, legs swinging off the edge of the bench, her small fingers clumsy around the safety scissors. You guided her hands with your own, gentle and patient, your chin tucked down as you murmured something too soft for him to hear. The girl giggled. You smiled. And Bob felt something in his chest fracture.

It bloomed sharp and sudden, like a crack in glass that spiderwebbed behind his ribs before he could stop it. A low, aching pressure that pulsed under his skin and settled into his throat. He couldn’t look away from you. From the way the little girl leaned back against your chest, utterly content, while you helped her snip the edges of her glittery star. Your voice was low, your hand steady on hers, and when she got frustrated, you smiled and told her it was perfect just the way it was.

And the little girl–she believed you.

Bob watched her beam like she’d just won a medal, then twist to throw her arms around your neck. You hugged her back instinctively, without missing a beat, without needing to think about it.

And just like that, Bob saw it.

Not as a fantasy. Not as a warm, fuzzy, distant dream.

He saw you. Sitting in a living room. Soft lamplight across your shoulders. A child curled into your lap with a crayon clutched in one hand and a juice box in the other. Your hair a mess from the day, a blanket half-draped over both of you. And him in the doorway. Holding a book in his hand that he’d forgotten to read, too caught up in the simple, breathtaking fact that this was his life. That somehow, impossibly, he’d made it here.

His throat tightened.

The thought came quietly, like breath fogging glass:

He wanted this.

He wanted you. A child. A family. Not someday, not maybe. Just–yes. He wanted tiny shoes in the hallway. A swing set in a yard. A sleepy voice calling him Dad. He wanted your laughter in a kitchen filled with baby wipes and half-assembled toys. He wanted something that was his and yours and no one else’s.

But right on the heels of that beautiful, terrifying longing came something cold and heavy.

Fear.

He swallowed, hard.

His father’s voice echoed somewhere in the dark part of his memory–low, sharp, filled with the kind of disgust that was harder to forget than fists. He could still hear the way the floor creaked before a bad night. The sting of being told he was nothing. How love only showed up with bruises attached.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

What if I turn into him? He thought.

He didn’t think he would. He knew–rationally–that he wasn’t the same. He didn’t drink. He didn’t shout. He couldn’t even raise his voice without wincing at the echo. He loved gently. He loved softly. But fear didn’t care about facts. It sunk into his lungs anyway.

What if something in him broke? What if the Void came back and he couldn’t stop it? What if one day he opened his eyes and the sky was black again, and the only thing he’d ever loved was looking up at him, afraid?

He could never live with that.

Never.

And yet–

You turned slightly, and caught Bob’s eyes across the grass. You smiled at him–something so simple, so safe–and in that moment, the fear didn’t disappear, but it softened.

Because you weren’t afraid of him.

You’d never been.

Even on the days he didn’t like himself, you liked him. Even when he flinched at his own reflection, you reached for his hand and rested your chin on his shoulder. You didn’t see The Void. You didn’t see the Sentry. You just saw Bob–the man who carried your snacks in his hoodie pocket just in case you got hungry when you went out, who still got bashful when you looked at him for too long, who curled into you at night like you were the only thing that had ever made sense in his life.

Bob’s hand gripped the edge of the canopy pole beside him, just to ground himself.

He wanted to go to you right then and there just to say it. To whisper something clumsy like, “I want to build a life with you. A whole one. With glue-stained paper crowns and messy bedrooms and bedtime songs.”

But he stayed still.

Too scared to break the moment.

Too scared it might not be his to want.

—————————

Later, when the event was winding down, and the sky had shifted to gold and mauve and soft watercolor blues, Bob found you sitting on the grass alone near the now-abandoned craft table, peeling dried glue off your fingers and watching a few leftover kids chase bubbles across the park. He moved towards you slowly, and his looming presence immediately got your attention.

You stopped picking at the glue on your fingers and looked up at him instantly.

”Well, hey stranger.” Bob gave a quiet huff of a laugh at the greeting and smiled down at you, shoving his hands into his hoodie pockets, “You gonna sit down or are you going to just stand there and stare?” You joked, patting the patch of open grass beside you. He hesitated for a second before lowering himself beside you, knees folding awkwardly in the grass. You watched him for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek–light, and lingering, your lips warm against the wind-chilled skin just below his eye.

“I haven’t been able to do that all day,” You said softly, almost teasing, but the affection behind it was unmistakable.

Before Bob could even respond, you leaned in and pressed another kiss to the corner of his jaw, then to his temple, and then one right between his brows where they had scrunched up, each kiss softer and slower than the last.

By the time you pulled back, Bob’s cheeks were as red as a rose, and they had become warm, and his smile had curled wide and helpless across his face, because to him your affections were always welcome.

”Y-You’re gonna make me explode,” He mumbled, voice thick with love as he turned to hide his burning face against the shoulder of his hoodie, “This is h-how I die.” He stumbled, looking over at you with those big blue eyes you couldn’t help but stare into every night.

“Death by affection sounds like a dream to me.” You laughed, slipping your hand up to cup his cheek, to turn his face towards yours so he was looking at you directly.

“Y-You know I’m a fragile m-man.” You snorted at his comment.

”I know Sentry is dormant but you’re technically the strongest person on Earth.” You said, giving him a knowing look. “I don’t think you’re fragile.” Bob gave a breathy little laugh, his pupils blown out from how close you were.

”Y-Yeah, well…D-Don’t flatter me too much…You’ll make me f-fall in love with you or s-something.” You raised your brows at him, seeing his cheeks go an even deeper red, “I-I mean–more. Like…More in love with you.” You smiled, so warmly it made his breath catch in his throat, you could hear it.

”Almost a year in,” You whispered, brushing your nose gently against his, “And you still get all flustered with me…I love it.”

And you kissed him–gently, fully, your mouth warm and sure on his. Bob melted. His whole body slackened like your kiss had pulled all the tension right out of him. He groaned quietly and let himself fall back into the grass with a helpless thump, hoodie riding up slightly at the hem, his eyes fluttering closed like he was physically overwhelmed. You laughed lightly and laid down beside him, turning your head so you were looking at him and all his glory, feeling his hand find yours, lacing his fingers between yours instantly.

The sky above you was dimming into deeper blues now, streaked with soft brushstrokes of pink and violet. The hum of the event had finally died out completely. You could still hear the occasional giggle of a child somewhere off in the distance, but for the most part, it felt like you two were the last ones left in the park. Like the whole day had been waiting to exhale.

Bob stared up at the clouds for a moment, before letting out a small sigh.

”C-Can I ask you something…Kind of b-big?” Your eyes studied him for a moment, tracing the way his brows furrowed gently, like he was already halfway to apologizing for whatever he was about to say. Like he was bracing himself to ruin something just by saying it.

“Of course,” You replied, your voice just above a whisper, slowly growing more and more concerned with each moment that passed in silence.

Bob just kept looking up at the sky like the words were written somewhere in the clouds and he just had to find them. His thumb rubbed slow circles against your knuckles.

”Have you ever thought about…Us?” He swallowed, “I mean–not just us, b-but more like…A family.” You raised your eyebrows slowly, turning onto your side so you could face him fully, still holding his hand, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I–I watched you today,” He whispered. “With that little girl in your lap. And it didn’t feel far away…It didn’t feel like someone else’s life. It felt like something I could…Want.”

Your heart gave a soft, aching pull at that.

“I want it,” He admitted, voice trembling. “I want it so bad it scares me. You, a kid–us. A home. Not perfect. Not polished. Just ours. Something warm. Something safe.”

You reached up and gently tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear, your fingertips trailing along his temple. He leaned into the touch like it soothed something he couldn’t name.

“I want that too,” You said. “Not tomorrow. Not next week. But one day. When things are a little quieter, when the world doesn’t need us to carry it. I want that with you, Bob.” He nodded, like he was trying to let the hope settle in–but his eyes were still stormy at the edges.

“But what if…” He swallowed. “What if I’m not good at it? What if I…Mess it up l–like I always do? What if I hurt them? What if something in me snaps and I—”

“Hey,” You cut in gently, reaching up to cradle his cheek. “Look at me.”

He did, reluctantly, his blue eyes wide and full of unshed fear, tears filling up in the corners threatening to spill at any moment.

“You’re not like your father at all Bob, you’re not him.” You said, your voice steady and firm.

”Y-You don’t know that,” He whispered, his eyes glancing away at you, making you chase his gaze a bit so he could look at you.

”I do know that…Because I know you. Because I’ve watched you fall asleep holding my hand. Because you carry two different granola bar options in your hoodie pocket in case I want a choice. Because you always refill the toothpaste without me asking. Because when I’m upset, you don’t try to fix it–you just stay with me. Quietly. Constantly.” Bob blinked, his lip trembling ever so slightly.

“You don’t lash out, Bob. You lean in,” You said. “You don’t shut down. You open up, even when it scares you. You feel everything so deeply, and you never make anyone pay for it.” His brow furrowed and he looked down, overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the weight of that truth.

You brought his hand up to your lips and pressed a kiss to his knuckles, then whispered into the space between you:

“You already take care of me in a thousand tiny ways. You love gently. That’s why I trust you with my soul.”

He let out a shaky breath, and the hand that held yours tightened just a little more. He nodded faintly, like he was still catching up to the truth you’d handed him–like he wasn’t sure if he deserved it, but he was holding it anyway.

You reached up, your thumb brushing delicately at the corners of his eyes, wiping away the tears that had gathered without pressure or embarrassment. Just care.

“You cry so pretty, you know that?” You whispered, a little playful, attempting to lift the mood just a bit.

Bob let out a short, breathy laugh–surprised and soft. “Th-That’s not a real thing.”

“It is when you do it,” You smiled, leaning closer, your voice light but laced with everything you meant. “You’re beautiful when you feel things.”

He looked at you like you’d just handed him a future and told him it already belonged to him. Like no one had ever said that to him before–and he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from it.

You leaned in and kissed him, slow and sure, lips pressed to his like you had time. Like you weren’t afraid to show him just how loved he was.

And when you pulled back, your forehead stayed pressed against his, your breath brushing his lips as you whispered:

“You’d be the safest place a little soul could ever grow.”

Bob let out another shaky breath, and this time he smiled–full, unguarded, like something inside him had just settled for the first time.

“Only if it’s with you,” He said quietly.

You nodded, your fingers lacing tighter with his.

“Then we’ll build it,” You whispered. “Slow and messy and ours.”

And beneath a darkening sky painted with stars and leftover laughter, you lay together in the grass, your future unfolding between your palms like something sacred.

Just warm.

Just real.

Just home.

[muletia]

𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐬𝐨𝐝𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐝 ₊ ⊹

obsessed!optimus prime x human!reader obsessed!megatron x human!reader obsessed!starscream x human!reader

summary: various mechs react to your injury. didn't specify what happened to reader in starscream' part so you can fill the gaps yourself

cw: angst, hurt, graphic injury (reader), blood and gore, possessiveness, obsessive thoughts, very ooc starscream

word count: 2700

thank you!! <33

i may write the 'next part' for other bots too when mood for angst comes back...

He reacted too slowly, missing the leap by mere seconds. Didn’t make it in time to shield you from the stray projectile, which struck directly at your side, piercing the abdomen and immediately knocking you to the ground. He deals with the attacker without hesitation, taking down the Vehicon that had ambushed you during your ride. Quickly moves to your side, shielding from further threats. Something he should have done from the very beginning.

Your eyes are closed, and chest heaves rapidly, chasing after the blood slowly spilling from your wound. Optimus realizes he has never seen your equivalent of energon before. He’s seen bruises and scratches but never blood. Once, he was curious about what it might look like, how it would behave outside your body. Now, he would give everything to erase this image from memory.

He feels disgust—not with you, never with you—but with himself. Because he let this happen. Because your suffering and the scar that will forever remind you of his failure are his doing. He looked into your eyes and swore to protect you at all costs, even at the cost of his own life.

He failed. As always. But you should not bear the harvest of his incompetence.

And to think, he once desired to be your partner, to bear the title of conjunx. Now, as he considers it, the thought feels like a cruel joke.

He’s convinced his entire body is aflame, as though he’s sharing your pain. As if the projectile had torn through his own frame. You deserve this pain, he thinks. Should suffer more, take this burden from you and carry it himself, and preferably, bear it for the rest of his life—an echo of failure, a reminder to never let anything happen to you again.

“[Name]…” he tries, his voice unworthy of a Prime—weak, strained, fighting against his own voice box. “I beg you…” He wants to add more, but physically cannot.

No response. He clenches his servo so tightly that it begins to tremble, energon soon dripping from the stress. The vision of your death flashes through processor. Then remorse, fury, and grief. Days spent admiring you, fantasizing about the future twist into self-torment, revisiting the image of your lifeless body before him because he acted too late.

Cannot allow that future to come to pass. You will not give your life for his mistake. Even if his passion never bears fruit, even if your smile continues to haunt him in his dreams, even if your closeness is limited to shared rides, he will not let you go. He is willing to endure the worst tortures, walk through hell and back, starve and ruin himself just so you can see another sunrise.

“Ratchet, ground bridge. Immediately.” The true Prime emerges. Stern and decisive. “Bring surgical tools.”

The medic arrives swiftly. Unlike his leader, Ratchet doesn’t take an eternity to overcome the shock. He gently lifts you onto his servo and takes you to the base, directly to the operating table. Optimus follows closely behind, optics fixed on you, desperately searching for signs of life.

Optimus doesn’t leave your side, staying through the operation, watching as Ratchet stitches the wound with his trademark precision. The medic refrains from his usual muttering about caution. One look at Optimus’s empty faceplate, devoid of any visible emotion but still fiercely focused on you, reveals the terror within. The fear and guilt have burrowed so deeply that even after the procedure is finished, with you unconscious but stabilized and safe, hooked up to an IV, Optimus does not leave you.

Wants to etch this image into his memory, so it becomes his specter. A motivation to reflect on himself, on your relationship. He must become better, more attentive, and less distracted. Because he isn’t sure if another failure like this would break him. If you were to end up on the operating table again, would he join you in death? Even though he knows it’s a lie. No matter how battered life makes him, no matter how many heartaches you bring him, he is compelled to continue the fight.

He longs to take your pain away. To bear it himself, to atone for his sins. And so he does, staying by your side without pause. Doesn’t eat, doesn’t rest, merely existing and waiting for you to wake up, incapable of doing anything else. He knows the team is worried, that they check in on him, bringing energon, begging him to rest, offering to take over the vigil, but he refuses every time. This is his burden, his failure, and he will not place it on anyone else. He must atone.

Intends to suffer alongside you until you fully recover. He doesn’t expect you to forgive him; doesn’t even dare to hope for it. But will the horror fade into the fog of an unpleasant memory if, from time to time, you grant him the same look you once did?

You lie in his servo, small, trembling, barely alive. Your entire forearm is crushed, and the side of your torso bears claw marks—a result of your encounter with a Vehicon who wasn’t acquainted with human fragility. Megatron’s soldier only intended to carry the runaway back to his master, not realizing that grabbing you by the arm would cause such devastating harm. It wasn’t done on purpose, nor was there any intent to deliberately hurt the partner of the Decepticon leader. Well, it didn’t matter anymore, now that the Vehicon lay dead with several holes in their frame.

Despite the carnage, Megatron doesn’t seem fazed. He carries you to the medbay with his familiar proud stride, showing no signs of stress. Calm and cold-blooded, unnaturally so. Yet his optics remain fixed on you, monitoring you, searching for signs of agony.

"You will survive," he states firmly, words resolute.

This composure is a bluff, a rational decision to avoid spiraling into destruction and despair. You didn’t need his wrath right now, silently demanding rescue. There would be time later for him to unleash his fury, to drive the message into everyone’s heads that if a similar situation ever occurred again, it wouldn’t end with just one Vehicon. He wouldn’t be so composed next time.

"I do not permit you to die," he adds.

In the recess of his servo, blood pools—your reminder that you urgently need medical attention, but also his. Perhaps for the first time since you set foot on the Nemesis. He clings to that need, even though he wishes to experience it under different, more fitting circumstances.

The medic is already waiting in the medbay, preparing the operating table for a small human. Knockout straightens at the sight of his leader and gestures to the empty table, where you are carefully placed. The silver mech steps back but does not leave the room. He intends to witness the procedure, to maintain complete control over it, even if he isn’t the one holding the tools. Needs to be certain that the only thing you leave this room with is scars from the operation. He allows no thought of any other outcome.

"My liege," Knockout begins, but Megatron’s optics remain locked on you. "I must inform you that I’m not yet fully versed in human anatomy."

Fury begins to seep through in the form of bared dentas.

"Well, I trust you are versed enough to save their life."

"Yes, I will do my best, but I must emphasize that the likelihood—"

"Knockout. You have exactly three nanokliks to make a decision. Your life or theirs. What is your choice?"

The medic bows submissively and picks up his tools. "Understood, my lord."

Megatron stays present throughout the entire procedure, closely observing as the bleeding gradually subsides and your body begins to regain its shape. He should be pleased that you’ll survive and soon be able to sit in his servo again—this time not bleeding out. Perhaps you’ll even look at him a bit more kindly when you learn that he personally carried you to the medic and dealt with the wretch who spilled your blood.

Yet his mind keeps returning to the feeling of utter panic he experienced when he saw you barely alive, with a cascade of crimson flowing from your wounds. He hadn’t expected anyone to provoke such a reaction in him—a sensation of dread, of helplessness. It lasted only a moment, swiftly transforming into rage, but it was enough to take him by surprise. Normally, he considers hypotheticals a complete waste of time, but he can’t stop wondering: what if you had died? He knows you won’t, because you belong to him. But if you had truly left him, struck him in his most vulnerable spot by taking yourself away—would anyone have been able to stop him? To halt the devastation before it consumed even him?

"There’s a strong chance they’ll survive," Knockout reports, wiping his servos clean of the unpleasant, human blood.

"I cannot rely on a ‘strong chance,’ Knockout. I need certainty," he growls. "So… is everything fine with [Name]?"

"Yes, my lord. However, they must rest extensively, preferably under the close supervision of a me—"

He doesn’t finish the sentence, as Megatron has already lifted you back into his servo. "I will decide that," he interrupts. "Expect frequent visits. Be prepared." With that, he leaves the medbay.

A claw gently strokes your head, tousling your tangled hair. You’ve already spent too much time in the company of the narcissistic medic—as if he would ever allow you to remain there without his constant vigilance. No, he had sworn to care for you, and not even death could meddle with that vow.

At first, he thinks it’s a weak start to a joke. You like to tell him jokes, maybe that’s how you got to his spark and shaped it into your likeness. He never considered them exceptional, and they were rarely funny, not measuring up to the quality of those from his home planet. But sometimes, they made life more bearable than he’d ever admit because they were yours, and then they became private, reserved just for the two of you.

But the closer he gets, and the larger your figure becomes, the prologue turns cruelly engaging. Because you’re lying motionless on the ground with your eyes closed, and blood seeping from your side. You show no signs of life.

He mass-shifts even before transforming, landing sharply on the ground, pedes digging into the surface.

"[Name]!" he yells. Kneeling beside you, knees sink into the soft earth, staining them with dirt. But his focus remains entirely on your small, unmoving body. "Would you be so kind as to stop joking? Get up!"

Because if this is a joke, it’s exceptionally cruel.

His claws tremble as he brings them closer to you, gently brushing your cheek, trying to rouse you. To make you show him any sign that everything is okay, even though he knows it’s not. As always, he tries to deceive himself, convince himself that you’ll come out of this unscathed, and that the horror before him won’t leave a mental burden behind.

"You fool," he hisses. "This isn’t funny, not even a little, do you hear me? Get up!" Voice cracks, and his strokes quicken. "Ha ha, you got me. Congratulations, one of your pathetic jokes finally caught me off guard. You can stop now..." He’s no longer stating; now, he’s pleading — for mercy, for another dose of humanity that you had mercifully bestowed upon him, even though he never truly deserved it.

With uncharacteristic tenderness, he pulls you into his arms, yearning to feel some sign of life against his body—proof that this isn’t the end. Your heart beats rapidly; feels it drumming against his chassis, granting him temporary peace. But it’s fleeting, as panic swiftly regains control. He doesn’t let it show, the terror boiling inside. He holds you tighter. Optics stare into nothingness as he tries not to think about the implications of your condition and what consequences it might lead to.

"Wake up, do you hear me? Now!" he screams desperately "[Name], please, I feel like I’m losing my mind."

No, you won’t leave him. You can’t do this. You mustn’t.

A faint groan catches his attention, and he gently pulls you away from his chassis to inspect your face. Apparently, you heard his plea, because a grimace appears on your pale face. Starscream can’t discern what it signifies. Pain? Despair? Confusion? Whatever it is, it softens his features, revealing hope that this is, in fact, a poor joke.

You blink rapidly, revealing bloodshot, unfocused eyes that lock onto him. Your chest begins to rise and fall more quickly. And even despite the horror you must feel, the pain burrowing deep into your body, the confusion and exhaustion, you manage to smile for him. As if you had a reason to.

"Star..." you whisper.

"Yes, yes, I’m here! You’re never to scare me like this again, do you understand? Never." His last word is a growl, though his servos remain gentle.

Hearing your voice anchors his thoughts, letting him focus on the possibility that things will be alright. That you’ll both come out of this unscathed, because this entire farce was driving him to madness. But he realizes he doesn’t want to hear you say his name as though it were for the last time. As if it were a farewell. No. You promised him eternity. You broke him, reprogrammed his processor to think only of you, infected his body to make it weep when he hadn’t seen you for too long, and now you intended to leave him? No. He won’t allow it. You swore eternity, and you will keep that promise. Otherwise, it would prove he truly didn’t deserve softness. That he was never meant to know comfort.

"Frag," he curses, lowering his helm because, for some reason, he can’t bear to look at you. Instead, he notices the crimson stain on your side growing, overtaking your shirt and slowly reaching your pants. His olfactory senses are assaulted by the metallic, unpleasant smell, and he concludes that this must be the scent of human death. "Did he do this to you? Hurt you? Violate you?"

Did Megatron finally find out about your relationship? Recognized you as a weak point, a tactic to get to him in the most devastating and cruel way? He searches his memories for provocation, an act of defiance, another attempt to seize power, though he’d recently tried to keep his head down, to behave. For you, so this would never happen. But Megatron needed no particular reason to strike. Especially not him.

Vents a sigh of relief when you weakly shake your head, but it’s not enough to restore calm. You’re still suffering, still bleeding out, and he is powerless. Usually, such powerlessness was closely tied to irritation when he lost control over his own fate. Now, he feels only a chilling terror in his lines at the thought of losing you. Of losing the love you gave him.

"Good... That’s good." It’s not good. Nothing is fragging good.

Your eyelids begin to flutter again, as if you’re fighting with yourself to stay conscious. You try to focus on him, keep your gaze fixed on a single point, but your eyes refuse to cooperate, rolling back.

"[Name]?" your chest rises and falls rapidly. "You must hold on, do you hear me?! Hey, hey! Focus!"

"S-Star..." you try, even quieter than before. "It hurts... help..."

"Stay with me, now. Please," his voice cracks. "You won’t leave me alone, will you? You promised..."

"It hurts..."

"I know, I know, hold on." He repeats himself. Knows how to get out of this situation, to use the last resort. It involves enormous risk and danger, especially for you, but he can’t hesitate any longer. Can’t wait. Can’t lose you.

He sends a message to Ratchet.

"Just a little longer, [Name]." He soothes, though he no longer knows who needs reassurance more. "Don’t make me die with you."

[yayasvalveplay]

Your art for come home seeker where baby Orion is looking up at Strika makes me wanna know exactly what Team Chaar does once Cyclonus finds the baby boy’s pod and brings him back.

I can so clearly see Cyclonus’s brief panic when he realizes there’s an injured, almost dead-looking sparkling in that pod. Taking the pod and rushing back to the ship. Strika tries to ask why he’s rushing back, but doesn’t get an answer until Cyclonus finally lands inside. She walks over and her spark sinks as she sees the poor baby bean as Cyclonus is attempting to open the pod. Strika and some other member of the team helps break the pod open, and another member passes over medical supplies. Cyclonus putting a patch over the baby’s torn off wings and the damage to his pedes. The baby doesn’t even make a sound, just small labored venting.

Strika picking up the baby once Cyclonus has stabilized him the best he can. Getting her titties out for this poor bitty and moving his mouth over a nozzle. The sparkling shifting ever so slightly when he smells food but is so weak he can’t move to the nozzle, so she moves him and helps him get his little mouth around it. He begins feeding as Strika starts commanding her team and they get their ship through the field though it takes some time.

Strika feeling a movement at her tit and looking to see the bitty letting go of the nozzle and wiggling a bit. She fills the bitty above her tits and puts them away for now, then places the bitty over her spark and pulsing out love and protection to the bitty. The sparkling gives a cute little purr and yawn at that, then opens his big blue eyes and looks into her eyes. She can feel the connection snapping into place and she gives him a little nuzzle. The bitty happily chirps a few times, then yawns again and goes right back asleep on mama’s chest.

-Oppy Breeding Anon

OPA I'm crying because It is like this. THIS IS WHAT I ENVISIONED WHEN I WAS DRAWING THAT IMAGE )Of course I gave him door wings because I wanted door wings even though he doesn't have them at that time BUT STILL)

BUT HMM YES. Strika is commanding getting everyone to be ready to take care of a sparkling as she feeds it from her energon reserves. She is lucky she has this problem. At first she thought it was a curse years ago. Until she realized it can be used to save mechs lives when energon is scares.

And now it's saving another life again.

A sparkling. Her sparkling when it opens it's big blue optics at her, Yawns and snuggles on her. AND THEY MAGNETIZE TO HER FRAME. If he wasn't magnetized to her at that very moment this would of been the beginning of hitting oil slick

[oblivious-prime]

Draft: The Matrix Meddles

Chapter ?: “You Poor, Single Aft”

Peace was supposed to be quiet.

Not easy—but quiet.

Instead, Optimus stood in the center of the High Council chamber, optics dim with exhaustion, surrounded by squabbling diplomats and far too much polished stone. He kept his expression neutral, his shoulders squared.

The Matrix, nestled within his chest, pulsed.

Warmth spread through his spark—sudden, sharp, and intense.

He froze.

A powerful wave of longing rolled through his core, unfamiliar and dizzying. A vision bloomed behind his optics unbidden. —hands cupping a face —foreheads pressed together —a kiss that made the world still

Optimus inhaled sharply.

To his right, Ratchet gave him a concerned glance. “Headache?”

“…No,” he said quickly. “The Matrix is… active today.”

Ratchet stared. “Active as in ‘wisdom of the ancients’ or active as in… well—you’re blushing.”

“I am not—” Optimus stopped himself. Recalibrated. Lowered his voice. “I am simply… warm.”

Ratchet did not look convinced.

Across the chamber, the diplomats debated the stability of Kaon’s outer bridges. Optimus tried to listen—he truly did—but then another wave hit him. This time, it came not as heat but a heartbeat. Not his. Someone else’s. Deep, slow. A familiar rhythm.

His optics flicked up—unthinkingly—searching for the source.

And found Megatron.

The ex-warlord stood in the far corner, arms folded, posture stiff and proud, optics flicking over the chamber like a bored cat sizing up lesser beings. The light caught along the silver of his plating. His scowl was… elegant. Unmoving.

The Matrix surged.

Another image. —Megatron, laughing, hand resting on Optimus’ chest —Megatron asleep, curled beside him —Megatron in a flowing silver cape, walking down an aisle of light—toward him

Optimus’s field jolted. He staggered.

Megatron’s head turned sharply, optics narrowing.

“…Is something wrong, Prime?”

Optimus scrambled for composure. “No,” he managed, voice thick. “Everything is… functioning.”

Megatron looked him over with that intense gaze that made Optimus feel picked apart, examined down to his smallest screws.

“You were staring,” Megatron said slowly.

“Was I?” Optimus asked too quickly. “I wasn’t. I was looking—past you.”

“There’s no one behind me.”

“Ah.” Optimus’s hands twitched. “So there isn’t.”

Ratchet leaned closer. “Do I need to drag you to medbay?”

“No,” Optimus said a little too fast.

The Matrix pulsed again, hotter this time—almost desperate. Longing coiled in his spark, visceral and aching. Not just his. It felt like someone else’s, too. Someone hollow. Waiting.

His optics drifted back to Megatron.

Megatron was staring again, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. Suspicion and��� confusion?

Another image burst behind Optimus’s optics. —his own hand brushing the side of Megatron’s face —Megatron’s lips parting in surprise, leaning in —the feeling of something clicking into place, finally, completely—

Optimus forced a breath. “We should revisit the Kaon bridge plans later.”

One of the diplomats looked up in confusion. “But we haven’t finished—”

Megatron’s voice cut in, low and sharp. “Kaon is mine. You do not reroute anything without my explicit approval.”

The Matrix responded instantly.

A final image—this one hazy but heavy with feeling—Megatron curled against his side, breath soft, whispering something into his chest.

Optimus didn’t hear the words. But his spark clenched like it already knew them.

He blinked hard. “Meeting adjourned.”

And walked out—face calm, expression unreadable.

Even as his spark roared.

--

The matrix ships it and has begun actively trying to do something.

[critical-skeptic]

Does Democracy Have a Chance Or Is This America's Epilogue?

The fact that Democratic leaders are still clashing over who gets to run where, while the entire system teeters, should tell you everything you need to know: they’re too distracted to prioritize survival. We are watching a slow-motion collapse, and they’re backstage arguing about who deserves top billing in a dying show. The world isn’t just metaphorically burning; it’s openly smoldering on every front—authoritarian power grabs, oligarchic entrenchment, and populist fanatics are tearing down our civic infrastructure. Instead of shoring up defenses, Democrats obsess over which identity group to appease next, as though chanting different verses of “Kumbaya” at each other will somehow hold back the tide.

This is what passes for strategy: endless purity tests, virtue signals, and factional infighting. Ironically, the only consensus they seem to reach is on the need to prove how morally superior they are, as if righteousness alone can stop an actual coup. Meanwhile, those who prefer the world in ashes—authoritarians, demagogues, and billionaires whose wealth has quadrupled—are more than happy to watch the left’s self-immolation. Every progressive ritual that excludes potential allies or demonizes pragmatic solutions only strengthens those who thrive on chaos. Look hard at this pattern: the paralysis, the obsession with optics, the refusal to excise the extremists on the left’s own fringes. It’s a gift to the right’s war machine.

Let’s be blunt: this insistence on ideological purity is killing any real chance at countering the onslaught. The movement has become so terrified of offending its own fringe elements that it stifles legitimate criticism, lets crucial battles go unfought, and alienates both moderates and the millions trapped between two dysfunctional extremes. What’s the result? Resentment from centrists, disillusionment among would-be allies, and a public image of a party too busy with ego contests to mount an effective defense against the very real threat of authoritarian rule. Instead of building a broad, disciplined coalition, Democrats play theater, as if moral posturing alone can halt the steady erosion of democracy.

This isn’t a plea for centrism, nor a capitulation to the status quo. It’s a demand for backbone and disciplined action. Ideals mean nothing if we can’t secure the structural integrity of the system long enough to implement them. There is no point in preaching progressive values while extremists and oligarchs set about dismantling the very framework needed to enact those values. Without a stable foundation, justice is impossible; without a functional government, ideals remain slogans on placards, easily swept away when stronger forces kick down the door.

If the left wants to outmaneuver the extremism consuming our institutions, it must learn to prioritize. It must stop pretending that endless internal rituals of moral one-upmanship lead anywhere but ruin. Dumping the dead weight of performative purity and facing the hard truth—yes, that means telling some factions “no”—is the only way to stand firm. Embrace strategic pragmatism. Form alliances that, while imperfect, get the job done. Focus on immediate existential threats rather than fighting over who’s the purest progressive in the room.

The stakes could not be higher. Our institutions are under siege by forces that thrive on division, and every minute spent in self-indulgent squabbling grants them another inch. Morality without strategy is self-sabotage. If Democrats—and anyone who values an open, stable society—want to survive this era, they need to step off their soapboxes, kick out the elements that corrode cohesion, and line up behind a ruthless pragmatism that prioritizes lasting stability.

Stop performing and start governing. The time for elegant speeches and tribal ceremonies ended long ago. If the left can’t bring itself to mature beyond these theatrics, then it’s simply inviting the collapse that its enemies are counting on. The world needs action, not another round of self-righteous pageantry. It needs leaders who can confront threats head-on, who understand that protecting a future worth having requires getting their hands dirty now. It needs a movement ready to fight fires, not argue over who holds the hose.

[sing-me-under]

now that they’re all laid out and colored, it feels very power rangers for some reason.

Anyway, this is me combining my favorite elements of Tim’s costumes. It’s basically an adult Tim Drake AU (because DC refuses to give us a canon adult Tim— LET HIM AGE PLEASE) as a follow up to this post.

Here’s some notes:

Tim is lithe and does not build up defined muscle easily. I should do more anatomy studies at some point, but Tim’s strong suit isn’t brute strength anyway.

I’ve taken to calling this the Pilcrow AU, but honestly, I’m just so obsessed with Tim’s self-image in the Unternet essentially just being a caped Nightwing that this could also be Flamebird design.

The single stripe on the side is supposed to mimic the Pilcrow symbol (¶) but I didn’t want to make it too obvious because then it’d feel too similar to Anarky’s A.

WINGS. GIVE HIM BACK HIS WINGS.

The wings have magnets in them that can connect to the arm bracers for more precise control. They’re more for gliding than sustained flight, but I could picture a jetpack or something being hidden in there.

Beak mask.

I miss Tim’s spiked skater boy hair, but the middle part is fine. I like to think the y-axis of his hair has a direct correlation with his emotional stability. His hair spiking up is when he’s emotionally not-terrible and his hair is long when he’s extremely emotionally unstable (ex. Red Robin 2009). I cannot stand his undercut in the current mainline comics. He looks like a fuckboy.

He’s got a lot of invisible pockets and hidden compartments. Some of them are just blended into the fabric.

The black sides against the black underwing feathers helps prevent enemies from striking precise blows. It’s an optical illusion.

20-something year old adult Tim is 5’7”. Cass is like 5’3” and Steph is 5’10”. I will not take any criticism. When Tim was a teenager, before his final growth spurt, he and Cass could swap clothes. Meanwhile, Steph has always been taller than him and will continue to hold it over his head.

[the-spacedust-collector]

Unveiling Saturn- a few lesser known facts

source

Saturn, the majestic ringed planet, often steals the spotlight in our cosmic lineup. But did you know there's more to this gas giant than meets the eye?

1. Saturn's Many Moons: While almost everyone knows Saturn has a bustling entourage of over 80 moons, it’s lesser known why.

Saturn's numerous moons are a result of its massive size and gravitational influence. As the second-largest planet in our solar system, Saturn exerts a powerful gravitational pull, allowing it to capture and retain many objects in orbit around it. Additionally, its proximity to the asteroid belt provides a steady supply of potential moon candidates.

Many of Saturn's moons are believed to have formed alongside the planet during the early stages of the solar system's formation, as material in the protoplanetary disk coalesced to form both the planet and its moons. Others may have been captured later as Saturn migrated in its orbit or as it encountered passing objects.

The complex interplay of gravitational forces among Saturn's moons, as well as tidal effects from Saturn itself, contribute to the diversity and number of moons. Some moons may be locked in resonance with each other, stabilizing their orbits, while others may experience tidal heating and geological activity, shaping their surfaces and interiors.

In summary, Saturn's extensive moon system is a result of its size, gravitational pull, orbital dynamics, and its location in the solar system, making it one of the most moon-rich planets known.

2. The Hexagonal Storm: Deep within Saturn's atmosphere lies a peculiar hexagonal-shaped storm at its north pole (as seen in the image below). This bizarre weather phenomenon, discovered by the Voyager mission in the 1980s, continues to puzzle scientists to this day. How and why it formed remains one of Saturn's enduring mysteries.

3. Saturn's Density Dilemma: Despite being known as a gas giant, Saturn is surprisingly less dense than water! If you could find a bathtub large enough, Saturn would actually float in it. Its low density is due to its composition of mostly hydrogen and helium, making it one of the lightest planets in our solar system.

Who Discovered Saturn?

Saturn's discovery is shrouded in ancient history. While it's difficult to pinpoint a single individual credited with its discovery, the planet has been observed by civilizations throughout history.

Galileo Galilei: In 1610, Galileo became the first person to observe Saturn through a telescope. However, due to limitations in his telescope's optics, he mistook Saturn's rings for large moons on either side of the planet.

Christiaan Huygens: It wasn't until 1655 when Dutch astronomer Christiaan Huygens correctly identified Saturn's rings as a disk surrounding the planet. His discovery revolutionized our understanding of Saturn's unique features.

first ever colored picture taken of Saturn source 1

source 2

[md-theotherside]

Episode 2: Access Denied

Lucky jolted awake. The phantom screams still echoed in his circuits. It was the same nightmare, again. His adoptive mother. His uncle. Their end. He never could help them. The scene always twisted, different fates each time. Sometimes, it made sense. Other times, it was just plain crazy. But one image stuck. It felt too real. Sentinels, metal claws tearing through them. A chilling thought. He felt the prickle behind his optical sensors. Digital tears. He swallowed hard. He tried to lock it down. How long could he keep up this act? How long until he broke? Then there was yesterday. He still couldn't make sense of it. What even happened? He just knew it was bad. Really bad.

"I should have never put that stupid USB into me." He muttered, the words sharp, aimed at himself.

 His alarm blared then. He swiped it off the screen. Time for his workshop business. He pushed off his bed. His apartment felt cold. He left quickly. The street blurred. He was lost in his own head. Too many thoughts. He didn't see the other drone. Thump. He collided hard. A familiar silhouette. Rachel. His ex-partner. Still a good friend. She stood there, a flash of color against the dull morning. Her hair, the shade of a ripe red pear. Digital eyes, the color of old bronze. A construction hard hat sat on her head. Makeshift bull horns jutted from the front. A pink jumper, the colony's symbol stitched on. A magenta skirt. Black boots with bright magenta laces. No mistaking her.

"OH! Sorry 'bout that, Rachel. Wasn't lookin' where I was goin'," Lucky said. His Texas accent always thick when he was flustered.

"It's fine, Lucks," she replied. "Though you might wanna be careful. Some kinda eldritch monster got in. So now I'm hunting it." Her words hit him.

"Oh? How come you're huntin' it?" Lucky asked. Rachel's digital eyes dimmed. She frowned. Her face went grim.

"Cause it killed my older sister..."The words slammed into Lucky. That's what that screaming was. The screaming he'd heard. When he was stuck in that black void. Unable to move. He forced his expression flat. Stayed still.

"Oh... Well, I'm sorry for yer loss," he managed. "Anywho, I'm headin' out of the colony."

"You are?" Rachel tilted her head. "But I thought you went yesterday."

Lucky gulped. He had to keep the story going. He couldn't risk telling her the truth. "Oh, it's just because I forgot to look for a quantum stabilizer yesterday. Need one to finish off ma acid sniper."

Rachel's eyes widened. A small gasp. "Oooohhhh! That weapon you made from a disassembly drone tail! Alright, well, I'll see you later then?"

"Heh, sure. See ya later." Lucky offered a weak smile. He turned. He skated away, leaving the colony behind. Heading back to the harsh, open wastes of Copper-9.

The feeling in his core twisted. He felt even worse than before. He just drifted. Aimless. He was far enough now. K0rra couldn't see him. A cold dread settled in. He started to think. Had he accidentally killed Rachel's elder sister? The possibility clawed at him. He reached into a pocket. Pulled out a small mirror he'd found. He checked his face. Nothing changed. Same old Lucky. Then, a symbol. It flashed across his optical screen. Bright. Blinding. A jolt. The mirror in his hand shattered. Glass splintered. An unseen force had done it. He dropped the broken pieces. Startled. He just kept walking. Through the desolate land. He saw dead worker drones. One after another. He revived them. Just like he had before. He kept moving.

Far from the frozen, metal-scarred wasteland above, quiet reigned. No angry whirring. No metallic shrieks of danger. This peace came from being deep underground. Hidden. The worker drone colony, sometimes called the "Doorman" colony, offered safety. It was a secret bunker, sealed off. Three thick, steel doors stood guard. Each one clanged shut with a final thud. Passing through them felt like entering another world. Or rather, a world carefully kept apart. Behind the third door, a small group had gathered. They were in a common room, the lights dim but steady. A beat-up metal table sat in the center. Around it, a strange mix of bots sat perched on various crates and salvaged chairs. Two Disassembly Drones, N and V, looked out of place. Their usual sharp, dangerous look was dulled by the soft glow of the room. A few worker drones were there too, their regular work lights now off. They were all playing cards. Or trying to. A simple game of Go Fish. Frustration brewed among most of them. The air grew thick with it. Why the annoyance? The source was a unique worker drone. Or rather, a part of one. Its tail, separate from its main body, sat upright. A small, round head and a faint core glowed at its tip. It barely reached the tabletop. Yet, somehow, it was dominating the game.

The tail let out a series of high-pitched chimes. Robotic, yet childish. Its voice followed. "Giggle, Giggle, Go fish."

V slammed her hand onto the table. "UGH!" Her visor flickered brighter. "How did you win again? Seriously? You don't even have hands! You must be cheating!"

The tail-head rotated slowly, facing V. A soft, almost mocking whir came from it. "Or maybe you are all just bad at these games of thin paper and cardboard." It was a simple statement. But it hung in the air, a tiny, digital taunt. And it certainly did not help V's mood.

V's claws twitched. Not just a little, but like she was moments from pouncing. She had her eyes locked on that bizarre head-tail thing. A full-on grapple was about to happen. Uzi felt the same way. Her circuits hummed with the desire to just end it. The air in the room was thick. You could almost feel the weight of it. Then, a sharp thud hit Door 1. Metal on metal. It cut through the tension instantly. The standoff froze.

Whispers followed the thud. A low, buzzing sound. Definitely drones. Lots of them, by the echo. Everyone stopped. No one moved. What was that? Who was outside? No one had a clue. Silence settled back, broken only by those faint voices.

Then N, always N, piped up. "Oh, I'll get it!" Uzi barely started to say "N, wait!" He was already there. Override key in hand. A quick click. A soft swish. Too late. The door slid open.

A sigh of relief passed through the group. No monster. No killer robots. Just... drones. But that relief died fast. What came next was enough to make anyone's optics glitch. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. They just stood there. Worker drones. Each one looked like it just came off the factory line. No dents. Not a single scratch. They looked like they'd never been broken down, ever. Some faces felt familiar. Like someone you pass in the hall and vaguely recognize. Others hit harder. Seeing them was like staring at a ghost. Rebecca. Penny. Sam. They were right there, clear as day. But how? They had been mangled. Destroyed. So how were they standing there now, perfectly fine? It made no sense at all. It just didn't compute. A few faces were missing though. No Doll. No Grant.

Uzi mumbled, "Ummm, am I really seeing this or..."

Nori answered, her voice flat, "You are definitely not seeing things." Uzi's mother, Nori, sat on Khan's head. She glared, watching the approaching worker drones walk in. Her eyes narrowed, suspicious of the entire situation.

V stepped forward. "I'm getting answers."

Uzi nodded. "Yeah, fair enough."

V moved then. Fast. She grabbed Rebecca, hauling her back towards the group. "Alright, Rebecca," V demanded. "We want answers. You're going to tell us. How are you alive?! 

We saw you die."

Uzi chimed in, a bit awkward. "Yeah... Sorry about that..."

Rebecca looked scared. She hesitated, but she spoke anyway. She clearly did not want to get damaged again. "Umm, well, I never got a name, but I was – sorry, we were fixed by this random drone." She paused. "He had wheels for feet and wore a bowler hat. One weird drone, for sure. But I'm not complaining. He technically brought us back from the dead."

A sudden, sharp "WHAT?!" ripped through the quiet. V, N, and Uzi shouted it together. Khan's screen flickered with pure shock. Nori, still on top of him, looked just as stunned.

Uzi's voice dropped, barely a whisper. "Is... is he still out there?" she asked, her eyes wide.

Rebecca just shrugged, a small, uncertain movement. "Maybe? I really don't know," she mumbled. Her tone was no help.

V, however, was ready. A wicked grin spread across her face. "Sounds like an outing!" she declared. "We go out there. We find him. We make him talk. Then, we pop his weird little head right off!" Her tail twitched with excitement.

N stepped forward, a clear frown on his face. "V! We are not going to kill him!" His voice was firm. No room for argument.

V let out a dramatic huff. "Hmph! You always ruin my fun, N." she grumbled, crossing her arms.

Uzi cut in, already moving towards the door. "C'mon. Let's just go," she ordered. Time was wasting.

The trio didn't wait around. V, N, and Uzi headed for the door, eager to find answers. Khan called out, "Good luck! Stay safe, you three!" It was his usual dad-like concern.

Nori echoed his words. But she was visibly annoyed. Really annoyed. She couldn't join them. Her new body wasn't ready. She was still just a core. Stuck. While the action was happening.

The cold hit them first. Not just a chill. This was a deep, biting freeze. It went right through their chassis, straight into their core processors. The whole area felt wrong. Different from anything they knew.

It stretched out. A huge, empty space. Just stark, frozen white as far as their optical sensors could see. No sound. Nothing at all. The silence felt heavy. It felt wrong. Usually, even in quiet places, you heard something. Wind might whistle. Maybe a broken building would creak. Here? Just a dead quiet.

N, V, Uzi, and Cyn, who hadn't really chosen to come along, pushed through the stinging air. Every step made a loud crunch. Ice cracked. Packed snow groaned under their weight. The sound felt too loud. It was like shouting into a completely empty room, where your voice just echoed back at you.

This quiet wasn't peaceful. It pressed down on them. An invisible weight. It made every circuit in their bodies feel alert. Then, a small sound. A faint scrape. A slight shuffle. It cut through the total quiet. Just a tiny noise. But it was enough.

Instant reaction. They froze. Their optical sensors locked onto the sound's source. Then they moved. Fast. Like a machine with perfectly timed parts. Uzi's hand shot up. Purple energy sparked at her fingertips. Absolute Solver. Ready to go. N's arms shifted. His hands became sharp points. Blades clicked out. They reflected the dull light. V stood right beside him, doing the same thing. Her claws extended, long and gleaming.

Something appeared. It rolled out from behind a frost-covered rock. It wasn't a Disassembly Drone. It was a Worker Drone. But a strange one. It used wheels instead of legs. A proper bowler hat sat straight on its head. And from the hat, two rusty pipes curved up. They looked like odd antlers. It rolled slowly. The drone hadn't seen them. It didn't glance their way. Its focus was on a small object. The object was clutched in its hands. It pulsed with a faint, steady green light. A quantum stabilizer. It was Lucky.

Lucky mumbled to himself. He seemed totally unaware of anyone else. "Alright, that oughta do the trick just fine," he said. He let out a small sigh of relief. "Well, time to get back to the colony. " He looked around quickly. Still, he didn't see the three drones and a sentient tail standing frozen nearby. "Hooh, boy. Didn't realize I wandered out dis far from the colony, did I?" Lucky chuckled awkwardly. He spun around a little. That's when he caught a glimpse of the three drones watching him. Lucky didn't really know how to feel. Was he spooked? Maybe. Creeped out? Possibly. Cautious and needing to run away? Definitely. So, that's what Lucky did. He spun his wheel-feet. Snow flew up, making a cloud. Like a smoke screen. Just like that, he was gone.

"What the? Where did he go?" Uzi asked.

"Don't know," V replied. "But I think that was our guy. Maybe if we can get a better view, we'll be able to see him."

"Oh, I know a spot!" N chimed in. "Though I don't think anyone's going to like it."

Uzi and V hated the corpse spire. Every twisted beam of metal, every creaking strut, felt wrong. It stood as a grim monument. A reminder of J, or what was left of her, and everything that went down. The air felt heavy up there, charged with dark memories. But they needed to see. A good view was worth the discomfort.

They flew up, the wind whipping around their wings. The spire reached high into the cold air. They landed on its jagged peak, surveying the wasteland below. Silence held the air, broken only by the wind. Then, a voice cut through it. Sharp. Unmistakable.

"What do you bozos want?"

J. She stood there, somehow, arms crossed. Her voice dripped with more snark than usual. She seemed completely unbothered by their presence.

V bristled. Her voice was flat, laced with contempt. "We ain't here for you, J."

No time for pleasantries. V got straight to it. "We're looking for a weirdo worker drone. And we needed the high point to scope things out."

J's eyes narrowed. A smug smirk played on her face. She knew something. "So, one with wheels for feet? And a bowler hat, maybe?"

Uzi blinked. How would J know that? "How would you know?"

J scoffed. "Chased that same one yesterday. Ended up collapsing from exhaustion. And hunger, too." She paused, a flicker of something close to confusion crossing her face. "It was strange. Woke up, and there were cans of oil just sitting there for me. No idea why a barely sentient toaster would do that, but I'm not complaining."

J let out a soft sigh, her gaze drifting out to the horizon. It was a clear sign she was done with the conversation. "Your runaway toaster with wheels is over in that direction." She pointed south-east. "Now leave me be."

She didn't wait for a reply. J launched herself off the spire's edge. She dropped quickly, heading straight for her nearly completed space shuttle.

V and Uzi exchanged a look. An eye-roll, of course. N, though? He showed a tiny bit of worry. A quick blink.

Then, they were in the air. Straight up. They blasted off, a blur following J's earlier hint. The chase was on. They flew for ages. The ground below was just a gray streak. Empty. Lifeless. Finally, they spotted him. Lucky. He moved like a flash. He ripped open a thick, metal door. It looked like a bunker entrance. He ducked inside. The heavy door hissed, then clicked shut behind him. Soft. Final.

Uzi, V, and N dropped down. They hit the ground. A thud. Right in front of that massive door. They just stood there for a second. What next? N took a step closer. He rapped on the door. Nothing. Not a peep from inside. He knocked again. Louder. His fist hit metal.

Then, a small panel slid aside. A spy-hole. Lucky's face stared out. His green and blue eyes, sharp with suspicion. No welcome there. His voice was gravelly. A thick Texas drawl. "I don't know who y'all are, but yer not welcome here. So get lost!"

Uzi fired back instantly. "What? Why?!"

Lucky didn't waste time. "Disassembly Drones ain't welcome." He squinted. "And for all I know, you're just one of them wearing a disguise!" He pointed at Uzi.

A different voice cut in from inside. Soft. Gentle. "Oh, Lucks. You're back! Who are you talking to?"

Lucky snapped. "Rachel, this isn't the time! Just some drones we can't let in."Rachel held her ground. "Why not? Let me see them."

Lucky's head jolted. He moved aside. Rachel's bronze eyes appeared. Her face was kind. She looked at Uzi, V, and N. "They seem friendly enough to me," Rachel said. Her voice was steady.

Lucky shot back. "They're Disassembly Drones!"

Rachel set him straight. "Actually, one's a Worker Drone." She looked right at Uzi.

"It could be a disguise!" Lucky yelled. His voice rising.

Rachel sighed. A long, weary sound. "Right, you and your wild ideas."

Lucky let out a deep groan. Pure anger. He started to skate away, clearly annoyed. Steam practically came off him. But he stopped. He spun back to Rachel. His voice turned bitter. Full of spite. "OK! Du willst sie reinlassen? Nur zu. Aber wenn die ganze Kolonie tot ist, weil sie uns alle umgebracht haben, vergiss nicht, dass all das Blut an deinen Händen klebt!" (FINE! you wanna let them in? be my guest. but when the entire colony is dead from them killing us all, just remember that all that blood is on your hands!)

He finished his outburst. Then, he spat on the ground. A final, angry move. He skated away. He was gone from sight. His fury hung in the air.

"Yeesh," Rachel mumbled. "Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning." She was still looking where Lucky had gone. Then she turned back. She saw Uzi, N, and V through the spy-hole. "Oh! Let me open this up for you all."

The lock clicked. It slid open. Rachel stood there. Her full body now visible. "Come on in, and hurry." Her voice dropped. "Don't want the beckoning reaper getting in as well."

The three stepped inside. Rachel slammed the door shut. Just in time. Banging started from outside. Hard.

"Okay," Rachel said to herself. "That was a close one. K0rra almost got in." Cyn, her tail with a head, perked up. It seemed to hear her. "Alright, follow me then. I'll show you around."

[dominimoonbeam]

To The Edge - 19

This work is mine and I do not give consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted without my permission. I am sharing chapters as I work on this story but it is copyrighted material that I plan to rework and publish when completed.

story tags: scifi romance, hijinks in space, rogues learning to trust, violence, blood, guns, death, explicit language, so much kidnapping,

Works organized and easily found over on the patreon. <3

TO THE EDGE - CHAPTER 19.

Stardust removed the small metal hatch low on the wall of their room to expose a diagnostic panel. They’d found it weeks ago after moving a crate of protein sodas and used the direct connection to get back into the ship’s control system. Just because they weren’t piloting anymore, didn’t mean they were going to stay locked out. What if there was an emergency? What if they decided to stab Cosmic in the back?

Their heart hurt and they absently rubbed the spot on their chest. They wouldn’t betray Cosmic…but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to die on this journey. And for what? For the promise of treasure? For them?

Stardust mumbled a curse and pulled the panel loose. They’d had to rewire it when they changed its purpose from a general access point to a primary control hub for the ship. If they really wanted to, they could steal piloting controls from here. It would be stupid though, since he could easily take it back from the deck if he realized. He’d put extra security measures in place to keep anyone from locking him out again.

Stardust linked their optic implant to the ship and holographics of the systems popped up in their sight. They ignored those and pulled up their own call log. A hundred unread messages blinked and at dozen video messages waited.

It took some work to amplify the signal and bounce it across a few stations and planets, but Stardust got a call through to Cornelius Contessa Ignacio Li from their room on Cosmic’s ship.

They needed to talk to someone.

Things were getting out of hand past the edge and it had almost nothing to do with their perilous journey or the map printed on Stardust’s back.

They had run away from Cosmic when he flirted with them. Who did that? Not Stardust Solinoh Fairvell! Not until today…

When Cor answered, the image glitched a few times before focusing. They could tell that it took a little longer for the connection to stabilize and deliver their image back to him, because he wore that perfect mask of annoyance when he answered the unknown caller. For those seconds, he had his head cocked back and to the side, cheek high and daylight stretching the dark shadows of his lashes. The pale opal light of his optic implants glinted.

He looked fearsome…and then his image connected and he saw Stardust. The relief and delight bloomed across his features in a sly grin, his shoulders easing back and his head perking up. “Oh good, you’re still alive!”

Stardust spreading their arms as proof. “So far so good!”

Something on Cor’s side of the call took his attention away for a moment, his implant doing a good job of muffling background sounds, but they saw the shudder of the wall and noticed the broken glass across the floor. Light poured into the room around him in a way that made them think he was on a planet or moon—unfiltered.

“What’s going on?”

Cor’s focus returned to them and he waved a hand as if to dismiss the question. “How are you?”

“Shut up. Where are you? What happened?” Now that they thought about it, Cornelius Contessa was barely even wearing any jewels—just the one choker of diamonds. It was a five-centimeter-wide choker, but still…

“I’m on Lu-Pan, darling. I told you, it’s the place to hold up. Turns out all this ocean is great for warfare.”

“What are you talking about?”

Cor stared at them, through a lens that connected them instantly across so much space.

Was he really deciding whether or not to tell them? Since when did they keep secrets?

“One of your cousins tried to have me snatched from a club a few days ago so I moved the party to Lu-Pan… It’s more defensible.”

Stardust was glad they were already sitting, ass on the floor and legs crossed. “Why…” they trailed but they knew the answer. It was either because they thought Cor would be able to tell them something about the map on Stardust’s back or because if they put a gun to his head, Stardust would surrender…and they would. They would put their hands up and give up the whole game.

Cor laughed, the sound somehow full of sympathy. “Come on. Don’t look like that. It’s not a surprise. It’s flattering really. Do you know what this will do for my reputation? First a Solinoh sends a party of goons and turns one of the hottest clubs in the prime into a shooting gallery. You should have seen it. Who knew so many of us were packing? It turned into an absolute bloodbath and the music never stopped. It was in all the tabloids. A bunch of them are speculating that it was a gimmick. I guess we broke a record for the expense just to put everyone back together afterward. I heard a medpod broke under the strain.”

“That can’t be true,” Stardust countered automatically, still absorbing the information. But legit medpods were basically indestructible, designed for long travel in space by the primers afraid of what could happen to them out there in the unknown. The Solinoh’s had the company with exclusive rights to producing the particular cocktail of energy and protein that charged the miraculous machines. It was a great scorn to the family that they hadn’t gotten their hands on the medpods before production and distribution to install the planned obsolescence that would have made them even wealthier.

“So I escaped to Lu-Pan but the shit actually followed me,” Cor continued, grinning and clearly not upset about the fact in the least. “Did you know I have a rail gun on my island?”

Stardust did not, but they also weren’t surprised. Lu-Pan was a massive ocean planet known for mining stations and luxury islands. The islands were all synthetic and had become the go-to escape for all primers as well as the setting for a dozen soap operas.

“I really wish you’d been here. When they realized they couldn’t sneak onto my island they tried to show up with jets and just shoot the shit out of it. I’m going to have to have the whole thing remodeled!” he said, delighted. “And then—” Cor cut himself off.

Stardust stared. “What?”

He bit his lip, trying not to smile but it was far too late to contain it. “I might have captured your cousin…”

“What do you mean might have? And which cousin?” It mattered. It definitely mattered. Capturing any Solinoh was dangerous but some were more vengeful than others.

His grin escaped his teeth. “I mean that I’ve got Vida Solinoh locked in a room downstairs.” He enjoyed the sentence too much. “It’s not my fault. They attacked me. I even retreated to Lu-Pan. Vida brought the fight to my doorstep.” Cor defended and he was right. By all primer rules, Vida was the aggressor and if Cor really had them captured, was fairly taken. The Solinohs couldn’t call it an act of war…but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t treat it like one. “I might not have downed that jet if I’d realized they were piloting it themself. It’s a good thing they’re so recognizable or I might have had them shot in the water when they swam to the surface.”

Stardust gawked. Why was Vida getting involved? Did they want the prize for themself or had someone else in the family enlisted their aid? Was it Genesis? “What are you going to do?” they asked, still reeling.

Cor shrugged. “Breakfast is being set up. I suppose I’ll bring your cousin up for the meal. No reason not to be civil.”

Stardust nodding absently. Prime families had a long history of kidnapping one another. Some stayed kidnapped for cycles until a family dispute or corporate siege could be settled. After the initial abduction, it was generally a pleasant affair… Assuming all went well with negotiations. It did sometimes result in a bullet to the brain for at least one party involved.

Stardust had discovered that kidnapping was a much different experience outside the prime.

“You should have heard my mother. I don’t think she’s ever been this interested in me. She’s talking about marriage negotiations.”

“To Vida?”

Cor shrugged noncommittally and Stardust realized there was a very real chance he hadn’t bothered to ask. A Solinoh was a Solinoh, after all.

Stardust laughed, finally joining him in the madness of the situation. “Cornelius Contessa Ignacio Li Solinoh?”

“It has a ring, doesn’t it?”

It did. But it wasn’t likely to happen. Primers loved a wedding and most had a handful of spouses carefully linking all the most powerful and dangerous families in the known universe into alliances. Most, but not the Solinohs.

There had been a time, centuries ago, when things had been different and the Solinohs had been climbing that social ladder just like everyone else. Since the old days of earth, the Solinohs had been trying to build their numbers and keep that legacy alive. They’d had wealth and power, but they’d always been dirty in a way that the primers sneered at, making it hard to get into marriages with them—to tie their family into that network.

Stardust thought they understood, because once a person took the Solinoh name, there was no escape. Their own great great grandfather had been proof of that. Massimo had tried to leave Galileo. He had left… but he had never escaped. Galileo let him go, paid him an allowance, and pretended he was free. But he was still a Solinoh even when he dropped the name and his daughter—Galileo’s daughter—made him irrevocably a part of that crime family, for better and worse.

Stardust had seen the old records of relatives and marveled at how the numbers dropped off three hundred years ago. They’d been a hundred strong, and then they’d been a handful.

The reckoning of Galileo.

The reshaping of the family.

The primers had thought they would at last witness the fall of Solinoh when that new Galileo rose to power, climbing the bodies of her bloodline to the top. They had been wrong. Theodosia Solinoh had gone from an ensign of her family, a youth generations below the crown, almost lost in the numbers of her cousins—to the Galileo. And she had culled every member that did not kneel, leaving just that handful by the end.

And that handful had been hungry. In the next hundred cycles she was behind four wars, political and corporate, and the family was there to profit off every turn.

Solinohs had monster in their blood.

Stardust’s gaze strayed to their arms in their lap and the veins under their skin.

Monster.

“Are you okay?”

Stardust wondered if Galileo had thought she was different from her family when she decided to topple them. What if they were all trapped by that blood? Bound to be who they were born to be, one way or the other? A monster in the prime or a monster out here in the dark where only one person would pay for all their sins?

“Hey,” Cor said, loud enough to snap them back to attention.

Stardust blinked at the image of their friend and smiled. “Yeah. I’m here. If you’re going to have Vida at your table, remember to keep some guards around. They’ll try to make a run for it.”

Cornelius curled a lip in disgust.

“I know. But they’ve never been abducted. They’ll want to get away on their own before someone comes to collect them, especially since it’ll probably be Fatima.”

Cor’s mouth twitched into a smile again. “Do you think it will be?”

Stardust exhaled a laugh but it felt strained. They were trying to stay in this conversation and this moment—and not think about how they might be getting Cosmic killed out here. Was it too late to cut and run? Was there any chance Genesis wouldn’t run the bounty hunter down even without Stardust onboard?

“Why did you call?”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t call to hear about my triumphant battle with your cousin. What’s going on? Have you found the end?”

The end. The end of the map. The treasure.

Stardust shook their head. “Just checking in. Still on my way.”

Cor studied them and then nodded once. “Okay. Anything else going on?”

Stardust shrugged. “No.”

With a laugh he said, “Right. I believe that.”

Stardust rubbed the back of their neck and cut a glance around the narrow little room with one cot and a bunch of boxes. “I should have taken a ship when we were at that last station and gone the rest of the way on my own.”

“You can’t read the map without another person.”

“I could figure it out.”

“What is this about?”

They scrubbed their face and shook their head. “Nothing. Just getting nervous I guess.”

“About Genesis? You should be.” He laughed, like all that danger was a fun game they played. And it was. That club in the prime had turned into a blood bath and before they were even done putting everyone back together, it was hailed as a fun time. Stardust knew that if they had been there, before all of this, they would have felt just as casual about it as Cornelius did. “If you have to, you could use that pretty bounty hunter for a decoy. It might buy you enough time to get away if Genesis corners you,” he suggested.

Stardust rubbed their heart again. They couldn’t even pretend they hadn’t thought about it already.

Monster.

“You’d make a good Solinoh,” they said with a smile.

He touched his chest as the flattery struck and then they ended the call.

There had been a time when that would have been an insult, just as there had been a time when primers would have turned up their noses at a marriage with a Solinoh. But Solinohs did not marry to climb that social ladder anymore. In fact, they didn’t marry often at all. A few had secret spouses, hidden away so that not even the family would know who they were, but nothing ever stayed secret forever.

Stardust closed their eyes and there, in the dark, they still saw the holographic reminder to check their messages.

Breath trembling past their lips, they opened their eyes and pulled one up—the last one of four sent by Genesis over the last few weeks.

Artificial light made him glow, his dark hair in long curtains and his red lips parted in disapproval. His head tipped to the side, tattoos peeking up from the collar of his shirt to fan up the back of his neck. For the first time in a long time, Stardust was reminded that this man was the son of Galileo. He looked so much like her that just the sight of him sent a jolt of terror right down to Stardust’s soul.

His voice was quiet, because his anger did not require a raised voice. “If you surrender, I’ll let them live.”

They held their breath.

“If you don’t—If you put your hands on the—” he bit off the words and they wondered if he was going to say treasure too or if was just thinking better of admitting to knowing what they were all after. His cold, dark eyes met the camera and pierced through it to Stardust when he said, “I will kill them all, cousin. I will hunt down and see to the end of your pathetic fucking parents. I will make sure every friend of yours burns. And, so help me, I will break that bounty hunter you have chauffeuring you around the edge. You’ll see it all and beg me to end you too.”

[veryconnoisseurcherryblossom]

Teasing Hands

Summary: Rodimus gives you a lovely handjob and you give him a lovely facial.

Pairing: Rodimus/Reader

Fandom: Transformers

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: None

Tags: Handjob, teasing, facial, Exhibitionism

Ao3 link is here.

“S-squeeze tighter, Rod- Aaahn!” You bit your derma to try and hold back a loud moan, barely succeeding. Your fans let Rodimus know much he’s affecting you, though- they’re on max setting and loud. Your hips falter for a nanoklik before thrusting at a more frantic pace. Eventing sharply, you turn your head to look at Rodimus with hazy, flickering optics, drool leaking out from the corner of your intake.

“Fr-frag, I- Roddy-”

You barely get the words out when he smiles at you innocently, as if his servo wasn’t wrapped around your spike, as if you weren’t desperately thrusting into his servo with abandon. Your vocalizer glitches and stutters when he begins to lazily rub the very tip with his thumb, pulling a staticky whine from you.

“Mm? What’s up, sweetspark?”

His face might have been the picture of innocence, but his gorgeous bright blue eyes shows how he feels- smug and mischievous, no doubt enjoying how he’s able to get you to this point, almost begging him to let you overload. 

“Pl-please- please, I-I’m so close-”

Another whine rips through your vocalizer, your head falling back as you grit your denta. Primus, you were so, so close-

“M-mah- blowjob! L-let me finish on, in your- intake, face-!”

Almost babbling into hysterics as you plead with your lover, you hear him chuckle. Another whine emerges from you when his servo leaves your spike. You could cry, you almost did- until Rodimus quickly, forcibly turned you around and knelt in front of you and quickly took your spike back into his grip. When he swiped his glossa over the weeping tip, you had to choke back a sob. When you looked down, Rodimus was all smiles, his pretty mouth just in front of your spike.

Hips thrusting once more, you bite your derma to keep yourself from making desperate, needy moans as his grip once more tightens, his glossa lapping at the head of your spike. If you look down, you could see your biolights blink rapidly, showing that you were on the cusp of an overload.

“Come on, sweetspark- I want you to cover me.”

The combination of Rodimus’ dirty talk and the ensuing image of his face covered in transfluid, your transfluid, pushed you over the edge with a cry. A thick rope of glowing pink fluid shot into his open, accepting mouth. You grab your spike and press it against his cheek, the next spurt landed just above his right optic. Smearing it across his face, you finish overloading on his left cheek with a moan.

Feeling your stabilizing servos wobble, you quickly lean against the wall to keep yourself from toppling over, your spike retreating back into your modesty panel. Rodimus smirked before he licked his lips and swallowed. The sight caused you to exvent- you loved the sight of Rodimus covered in your transfluid. Marking him as yours.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Not needing to be told twice, you raised a finger to your temple, a sign between you and Rodimus that you were doing something on your HUD. Specifically, taking a photo. Rodimus smirked as he posed for you, the transfluid slowly dripping down his face. After taking a few photos, you reach into your subspace and pull out a soft cleaning rag.

“Aw, I was hoping I’d get to show off.”

Snorting at Rodimus’ whine, you lower yourself down and begin to wipe his face gently.

“Ultra Magnus will have a saprk attack and lecture you while Megatron will sigh and look at you with disapproval.”

Thinking for a second, you continue, finishing cleaning Rodimus’ face.

“I’ll send you the pics to show Drift?”

Before Rodimus could answer, you pull him in for a kiss. You can faintly taste your transfluid on his derma and glossa as you deepen the kiss, swirling your glossa around his. You can hear his engine rev loudly.

“Gotta go, I’ll be late for my shift. See you later, captain.”

Giggling as you got up and walked away, you didn’t need to look back to know how Rodimus looked. He would be looking at you with want in his optics, biting his lip. He’d also be looking a little shocked at how casually you left him on the floor of his office. But, this was the game you both played, and you knew he would repay it ten times more later when you both retreated to his habsuit for the night.

Oh yes, you could not wait.

[sirfrogsworth]

This might sound like a weird question, but have you ever come across a camera with a Bird Watching setting? I have an Olympus SP-800UZ and one of the modes it comes programmed with is literally called that, for taking pictures of birds in the wild.

As someone whose special interest is birds, I love this setting and use it a LOT, but I've never been able to find another camera with a setting like it, and at some point I told myself I didn't want to replace the camera until I could find one with a similar setting.

The reason I ask is because I've been following for a while, and I've come to respect your opinions on photography.

I tried researching your camera and figuring out what exactly the bird watching mode does and even the official manual did not say. If I were to guess, it just sets the camera up with certain parameters that are usually ideal for photographing birds, but I don't think it does anything special that other cameras can't do. You would just have to set a different camera up to those parameters rather than the camera doing it for you.

If I were to guess, it probably enables a certain autofocus mode for small subjects and limits how slow the shutter speed can go so you don't get motion blur when very zoomed in.

However, I know exactly which features are important to get good bird photos, so as long as the camera has the following features, you don't really need a dedicated bird mode. Though if a camera has a "pet mode" it would probably work similarly to the bird mode you are used to.

Most important bird photography features...

Good autofocus

Good zoom range

Image stabilization (Either optical or sensor, not digital)

Autofocus has come a long way in the last few years. It's difficult to assess the autofocus from specifications alone, so you will probably need to rely on reviews to know if the camera locks in on subjects well. Some cameras have pet and wildlife autofocus features that can be very helpful in tracking smaller subjects like birds. So I would look out for any camera that has a pet autofocus mode or a review that says it locks onto smaller subjects well—even if they don't mention birds. If it can lock onto a chihuahua, it can usually do so with a bird too.

Birds and wildlife in general tend to get spooked easily and it is often difficult to get close without them running or flying away. So having a longer zoom range can really help you keep your distance and not startle your subject. I would say the minimum focal length for getting good bird shots is around 300mm (on a full frame camera). Some cameras only quantify their zoom by magnification (20x, 30x, 40x, etc.) and don't really say what that is in relation to. So focal length is a better metric to assess how zoomy a lens is. 10-35mm would be wide angle. 50mm is about like our eyes. 100mm is slightly telephoto. And 300mm and above would be very telephoto.

You may need to google the focal range equivalent to a full frame 35mm camera. So you would search "[camera model] 35mm equivalent focal range" to figure that out. And as long as it goes past 300mm, it might be a good candidate for birding.

When you have a camera that zooms in that far, any movement will be exaggerated—especially if you have naturally shaky hands. Not only can that introduce motion blur into your images, but it can make it very difficult to track your subject. Looking through the viewfinder will result in a wiggly mess and you won't know what you are pointing the camera at.

Image stabilization helps negate that exaggerated movement.

There are 3 kinds of stabilization. First is optical, which is built into the lens with a floating glass element. Then there is sensor stabilization (often called IBIS for "in-body image stabilization") which allows the sensor to shift and move to counteract any motion introduced by your hands. And the last form is digital stabilization which is done using the camera's software.

The first two are physical solutions that can adjust on the fly much like a chicken's head.

The digital solution is mostly just fancy image cropping. It zooms in a tiny bit on your image and then aligns a continuous crop to give the appearance of a stable image.

The lens and the sensor are still a jiggling mess, but this constant cropping allows you to see the illusion of a stable image in your viewfinder and in the videos you take. And while this is very helpful for tracking subjects and capturing video footage, it will not help you negate motion blur—which is why the other two methods are preferred for still photography.

Bigger cameras can often forego stabilization because the zoom lenses are bigger and heavier and don't shake as much and they let in a lot more light so you can raise your shutter speed to freeze motion. It's still nice to have, and if you have IBIS and optical stabilization combined on a big camera you can almost take pictures in the dark without camera shake, but all of those conveniences can get costly.

The camera you have now is called a "bridge" camera or a "superzoom". These are (relatively) inexpensive cameras that use a smaller smartphone-style sensor but with a more classic camera body surrounding it and a non-changeable lens. Small sensors have one big advantage where if you put a zoom lens in front of them, they can see from Alaska to Russia.

For instance, your camera has an 840mm equivalent lens. That is near telescopic.

For reference, this is what an 800mm lens looks like for a full frame professional camera.

It weighs 10 pounds and costs about $13,000.

Granted the image quality of that lens is in another universe compared to your superzoom, but if you are mostly interested in documenting the birds you are encountering, a superzoom is a neat tool to have. It's like digital binoculars.

So I guess the question is, do you just want to document your bird adventures or do you want to delve into artistic bird photography?

You can upgrade to a nicer superzoom and get some improved clarity and ease-of-use features, which is totally valid. You could even get a "premium" superzoom that can do artistic bird photography in ideal lighting conditions.

Or if you go with a more professional interchangeable lens camera system (ILC), you can achieve some stunning artistic photos like these...

Freezing a bird midflight while catching a fish is just not really feasible with a basic superzoom.

Let's talk about the advantages and disadvantages of a superzoom bridge camera as compared to a more professional ILC setup.

Superzoom Pros

No learning curve. These cameras are designed for novice photographers and have very good automatic functions. You can pretty much pull them out of the box and start taking pictures without knowing the fundamentals of photography.

Incredible zoominess. You can get amazing zoom power for a fraction of the price.

Budget friendly. The top of the line superzoom camera is still only about $1500 as compared to the top of the line mirrorless ILC (for wildlife) which is $6500 *without* a lens. And the lower to mid range superzooms are even more affordable, especially if you consider used options.

Superzoom Cons

Noisy images in low light. These cameras are mostly suited for bright sunny days. The small sensors and cheaper lenses do not capture very much light. In more challenging lighting situations you will tend to get very noisy images due to using a high ISO to compensate.

Inconsistent image quality. Under the best of circumstances, you can get some really beautiful photographs. But when you push the camera to its extremes, the image quality can start to deteriorate. Low light causes noise. The more you zoom in, the softer your images will get. Low megapixels limit your options to crop in on far away subjects—which is often an issue with wildlife.

Deep depth of field. A lot of bird photographers like using shallow depth of field to blur the background so the bird really stands out in the photo. Small sensors can have a very hard time blurring the background unless the subject is quite far away and you are zoomed all the way in. But when you are all the way zoomed in, the image can get soft and lack detail. So you trade image quality for a blurry background.

Lack of professional features and accessories. There are many advanced features that can make bird photography much easier. Some cameras have advanced motion tracking that can allow you to capture birds in flight. The latest generation can even track a tiny bird's eye. There are also accessories that are only made for ILCs. Like motion activated shutter triggers that will take a picture of a bird automatically if you set up a camera near a feeder. There are flashes that work at very long distances. You can get camouflage skins for your lenses so the birds can't see you. Stuff like that.

ILC Pros

Lower image noise. With a bigger sensor and better lenses you can shoot with a very low ISO in good light and get incredibly clean noise-less images.

Better high ISO performance. If you are in low light, you can increase the ISO and still get a very good image. The noise on an ILC is much less distracting and easier to deal with—especially with advanced noise reduction software.

Background blur is easy. Due to the much larger sensor and telephoto lenses, almost every telephoto image will have beautiful blurry backgrounds no matter how small the aperture is.

Sharper, faster lenses. The lenses are much sharper and let in a lot more light. The quality of the image does not decrease as you zoom in. And the sharp optics allow a lot of leeway for cropping. So even if a bird was super far away, you can crop the image after the fact and it will still be quite detailed.

More megapixels. A lot of bird photography needs to be cropped in due to subject distance. Having more megapixels allows for more cropping. (I know I keep talking about cropping, but it really is a huge aspect of most bird photography.)

Advanced autofocus. This is the big game changer, especially on the new mirrorless cameras. The latest Canon and Sony cameras have eye detect autofocus for animals. You can literally lock onto a bird's eye while it is in flight and get perfect focus. It's bonkers.

ILC Cons

Steep learning curve. A lot of people think they'll get a big ILC and immediately get better pictures than their smartphone. They are often disappointed when that isn't the case. You really need to learn the fundamentals of photography to get good photos out of an ILC (free course here). They do have automatic modes, but without learning about aperture, shutter speed, and ISO (the exposure triangle) and how to balance them and when to prioritize what, you might end up with *worse* photos than a smartphone.

Wildlife photography can get very expensive. Big lenses with a lot of zoom are some of the priciest available. There are some budget options, but you will have to sacrifice quite a bit of zoom and light-gathering capabilities. The quality of the photos is usually worth it, but you may have to learn how to get closer to birds to photograph them.

Heavy as heck. Superzooms are very light and portable. A wildlife ILC configuration is very unwieldy. The camera is heavier. The lens is long and heavy. Carrying all of that gear into the wilderness can be quite a hassle.

Some camera suggestions...

Superzoom Options

If I'm being honest, in the sub $300 range, I don't think you'll be able to drastically improve over what you already have. All of the cameras in this range are quite similar and while a few might have some features that are helpful, the image quality is going to be roughly the same.

You are probably going to need to spend at least $400-700 to get a meaningful upgrade from what you have.

The top-of-the-line superzoom would be the Sony RX10 Mark IV at $1100 used. You can get the previous model, the Mark III, for about $900 used. It's a wonderful camera and the image quality and features rival or even surpass some ILC options. If you don't have the time to learn an ILC system but want the best possible quality, this might be an option. But an ILC will still give you better results if you are willing to put in the time.

For more mid-tier superzooms, you might look into the Panasonic Lumix models. They use slightly larger sensors than most superzooms and are known for their lens optical quality along with their stabilization.

The FZ1000 is getting very old, but it is still a powerful camera at a good price. The only downside is the focusing system isn't as advanced as newer cameras. But it will be better than what you have and you can find one used for around $400.

The newer FZ1000 II or the FZ2500 would be great options that have more modern autofocus and a lot more bells and whistles. They are fairly similar and can both be found for around $650 used. They do great video as well.

These are not the only options, but they are ones I know of and models I have heard positive things about. If you want to see what else is out there I would google "bridge superzoom cameras" and then maybe add your price range as well. Read reviews and watch YouTube videos to get a sense of the cameras you are interested in. As long as the camera has decent autofocus, I don't think you need a specific bird feature—so I wouldn't limit yourself in that regard.

ILC Options

When trying to come up with a good bird photography setup for interchangeable lens cameras, there is basically an easy, medium, and hard mode depending on how much you spend.

As I mentioned, the top-of-the-line mirrorless cameras have autofocus tracking that can lock onto a bird's eye while in flight. They have both IBIS and lenses with optical stabilization. They have burst modes that let you take 30 photos per second. They have 50 megapixel sensors that allow you to crop to your heart's content and still have megapixels left over.

It's quite dreamy if you have the money.

But I'm guessing if you are coming from an Olympus bridge camera that is probably a bit more of an upgrade than you were thinking.

So if easy mode is not viable, let's talk about medium and hard mode.

If you still want the bird detecting autofocus, in body image stabilization, and a pretty zoomy lens, Canon has some newer mirrorless cameras that would take amazing artistic bird shots. It's still spendy, but not $9000 spendy.

The Canon R7 is a great APS-C mirrorless camera with IBIS that can be found used for about $1300. It has 32 megapixels and due to having a slightly smaller sensor, you even get some bonus zoom out of all your lenses at about 1.6x. It's still a much larger sensor than a superzoom, just not quite the size of the Alpha 1.

Alpha 1 is Full Frame. R7 is APS-C. And Superzooms don't get any bigger than the 1" sensor.

Pair the R7 with the RF 100-400mm lens ($600 used) with optical stabilization, and you would have a stellar bird photography setup for about $1900. (It would be a 160-640mm equivalent lens on the R7 due to the 1.6x crop factor.)

Which is probably still way more than you want to spend.

So we have the hard mode option.

No bird eye autofocus. No stabilization. You have to learn the fundamentals and practice in order to get good shots. However, wildlife photographers have been getting AMAZING photos with the gear I'm about to suggest. In fact, all of these photos were captured with the hard mode ILC combo.

The Canon 7D Mark II has been a beloved camera body for wildlife photography for many years. Many pros still use it to great effect to this day. It doesn't have bird autofocus, but it still has one of the best DSLR autofocus systems that was ever developed. It can even track moving subjects, it just doesn't know it is tracking a bird so it is more prone to error on occasion. It can be found used for $500-600.

The Canon 400mm F/5.6 telephoto lens is one of the most affordable lenses Canon ever made for wildlife. It is an old lens, but it is sharp and takes beautiful images. No stabilization, but it is big and heavy so that isn't a huge deal. You can also carry a monopod rest it on. And on the 7D II, it is the equivalent of a 640mm lens. It costs around $650 used, which is very inexpensive compared to other telephoto lenses.

So you are looking at around $1200 for the combo. But the photos you can achieve with these two items will blow pretty much any superzoom out of the water.

To sum up...

ILC photography is always going to have a steep learning curve and expensive barrier for entry, but you can achieve some truly stunning results.

Superzooms are getting better and some of the newer ones can still take excellent pictures of birds under the right circumstances. They are lightweight and hassle free and allow you to get incredible zooms for a low cost.

If you mostly take photos of stationary birds outside on bright sunny days, you will be fairly happy with a superzoom.

If you want to take photos during darker times like sunrise or sunset or in a dense forest... or if you want to take photos of birds mid-flight, you will probably have to get an ILC.

I hope that was helpful. I know I overdo these answers, but I try to help as many people as I can by giving a broad overview of the topic and the myriad ways to go about things.

[damnmmmmmmmmmm]

TBH I think the fact that he’s choosing to do PR for this many years just proves he knows this and is on the way to being ok. i feel like it’s a good sign that he’s separated work and personal life, as strange as it may look. he’s not doing the public bachelor thing or ladies man thing. so he’s either not looking to date or really really private about how his actual dating. i don’t blame him, the pressure of building a relationship under this many people watching and judging must suck // that’s a different take on it. How, in your opinion, does this PR thing mean that? really curious

The comment suggests that Sebastian Stan’s continued participation in PR relationships means he’s in a good place emotionally and has successfully separated his work and personal life. It also argues that since he’s not pushing a ‘public bachelor’ or ‘ladies’ man’ image, he’s either not dating or keeping his real relationships extremely private. Finally, it acknowledges that being in a highly scrutinized relationship in Hollywood must be difficult, so PR could be a way to protect his personal life.

Now, let’s break this down.

“The fact that he’s choosing to do PR for this many years just proves he knows this and is on the way to being ok.”

This assumes that participating in PR relationships is a sign of emotional stability and personal growth. But why would that be the case? If anything, engaging in calculated public narratives suggests a need for control, not necessarily a sign of being ‘ok.’ Hollywood PR relationships are often about optics, career positioning, and media influence rather than personal well-being.

“I feel like it’s a good sign that he’s separated work and personal life, as strange as it may look.”

PR relationships don’t separate work and personal life—they blur the lines between them. If anything, these types of arrangements turn personal life into a tool for career management. Real separation would mean no publicized dating at all, rather than these hyper-visible yet oddly hollow displays of ‘support’ (that conveniently always make headlines).

“He’s not doing the public bachelor thing or ladies’ man thing.”

True, but that doesn’t mean he’s automatically private. It just means he’s controlling what the public sees. Instead of being ‘the bachelor,’ his image is now centered around being a ‘serious, taken man’—which still serves a PR function. Hollywood often pushes actors into particular personas, and ‘committed, supportive boyfriend’ can be just as much of a brand as ‘charming playboy.’

“So he’s either not looking to date or really really private about how he’s actually dating.”

There’s a third option: He is dating but wants to keep public attention focused on an approved narrative rather than his actual personal life. PR relationships provide plausible deniability while keeping his name in the press in a controlled way. So it’s not necessarily about privacy—it’s about managing perception.

“The pressure of building a relationship under this many people watching and judging must suck.”

That’s absolutely fair. A real, organic relationship under this level of scrutiny would be difficult. But that’s what makes PR relationships such an appealing option for some celebrities—they create the illusion of a love life while shielding whatever is actually happening behind the scenes. If the scrutiny was the real issue, wouldn’t a complete ‘no comment’ approach be the best way to protect something real?

Conclusion

This take gives Sebastian a lot of benefit of the doubt, assuming his PR choices are about personal boundaries rather than career strategy. But the very nature of PR relationships contradicts the idea that he’s keeping things private—because these setups are inherently public-facing. If anything, his pattern suggests he’s comfortable with visibility, as long as it’s on his terms.

[usafphantom2]

The U.S. Air Force Has Released The First Official Images Of The B-52 In Orange Paint Scheme

David CenciottiLast updated: October 4, 2024 1:54 PM

B-52 orange

The B-52 sporting the amazing throwback paint scheme has returned at Barksdale Air Force Base.

As reported in details a few days ago, a U.S. Air Force B-52H Stratofortress bomber was photographed by our friend Rob Stephens at Redhome Aviation, taking off from Tinker Air Force Base, Oklahoma, home of the Oklahoma City Air Logistics Complex, on Sept. 30, 2024 sporting an eye catching paint scheme.

The B-52 sporting the amazing throwback paint scheme has returned at Barksdale Air Force Base.Under testing after six decades of operationsThe previous orange BUFFs

The B-52H 61-0028 “Wolfpack” had forward fuselage, wings near the wingtips, engine nacelles, and vertical stabilizer painted in dayglo orange, contrasting the typical overall dark gray paint of the Stratofortress aircraft. As explained, the bomber was not given any markings, as the “OT” and “49 TES” tail markings, black arrow point on the tail, and “U.S. Air Force” on the fuselage will be applied upon return to Barksdale AFB, Louisiana.

The U.S. Air Force has now released some official images of the test aircraft.

These photographs depict the “throwback B-52” arriving at Barksdale. According to the captions, “the test orange scheme was used to remind everyone of the B-52’s incredible journey and continuous progress made in the U.S. Air Force.”

A B-52H Stratofortress with a special orange paint scheme parks after landing at Barksdale Air Force Base, La., Sept. 30, 2024. The orange paint scheme was used to signify the B-52’s modernization while paying respect to its legacy. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Aaron Hill)

The B-52 with orange accents that touched down at Barksdale is part of the 49th Test and Evaluation Squadron, which leads operational testing for the bombers.

U.S. Air Force Aircrew from the 49th Test and Evaluation Squadron, 53d Wing, gather beside a U.S. Air Force B-52H Stratofortress with a special orange paint scheme at Barksdale Air Force Base, La. Sept. 30, 2024. The orange color represents a test and evaluation paint scheme based on the test and evaluations conducted during the 1950s and 1960s, honoring the B-52’s history. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Aaron Hill)

Under testing after six decades of operations

In the next few years, the Air Force plans to modernize its fleet of B-52H bombers with a series of upgrades that will extend the bomber’s service life into the 2050s, by which time the aircraft will be nearing 100 years in operation.

The “new” B-52s will be designated B-52J.

Rolls-Royce F130 engines will replace the aging Pratt & Whitney TF33-PW-103 engines through its remaining operational life, significantly improving fuel efficiency, range, and reducing maintenance costs. Another key upgrade is the installation of a modified version of the APG-79 AESA radar, used in the F/A-18EF Super Hornet. This radar will enhance the B-52’s range and situational awareness while freeing up space for additional electronic warfare capabilities. Externally, the removal of the AN/ASQ-151 Electro-Optical Viewing System (EVS) will streamline the bomber’s appearance, as modern targeting pods have made the EVS obsolete.

Inside, the B-52 cockpit will receive new digital multifunction displays, a hybrid mechanical-to-digital throttle system, new data concentrators, and an upgraded engine management system. While not a fully modern glass cockpit, these upgrades will improve functionality. Additionally, crew size will be reduced from five to four members.

The B-52J will also feature humps near the wing roots, possibly for classified equipment such as satellite communications systems, further enhancing the bomber’s capabilities.

The Air Force aims to complete integration and deliver the first modified B-52s by 2026-2027, with full operational capability anticipated by 2030.

U.S. Air Force Airmen from the 49th Test and Evaluation Squadron, 53rd Wing, gather beside a B-52H Stratofortress with a special orange paint scheme at Barksdale Air Force Base, La. Sept. 30, 2024. The orange color represents a test and evaluation paint scheme based on the test and evaluations conducted during the 1950s and 1960s, honoring the B-52’s history. (U.S. Air Force photo by Airman 1st Class Aaron Hill)

The previous orange BUFFs

In mid-1957, NASA made the decision to replace the B-36 Peacemaker with the B-52 Stratofortress as the launch aircraft for the X-15 hypersonic research program. The B-36 was nearing the end of its operational life, and it was anticipated that finding spare parts to maintain it after retirement would be challenging.

As the X-15 project advanced, two B-52 Stratofortresses, the NB-52A and NB-52B, were chosen to serve as the launch platforms. The NB-52B, designated 52-0008 and nicknamed “The Challenger,” continued in this role until its last mission in November 2004, while the NB-52A, known as “The High and Mighty One” with tail number 52-0003, was retired earlier in 1969. “The High and Mighty One” is still preserved and displayed at the Pima Air & Space Museum in Arizona, with its distinctive orange markings.

High-altitude contrails frame the B-52 mothership as it carries the X-15 aloft for a research flight on 13 April 1960 on Air Force Maj. Robert M. White’s first X-15 flight. The X-15s were air-launched so that they would have enough rocket fuel to reach their high speed and altitude test points. For this early research flight, the X-15 was equipped with a pair of XLR-11 rocket engines until the XLR-99 was available. (Image credit: NASA)

The NB-52B served as an airborne launch platform, essentially acting as a flying launch pad. It operated at altitudes of nine miles, providing the rocket planes it carried with necessary fuels, gases, and electrical power. To handle this role, the right wing of the aircraft was reinforced and equipped with a pylon capable of carrying over 50,000 pounds—approximately a fifth of the aircraft’s total weight. This made the Stratofortress a crucial asset in various aeronautical research endeavors, including those that eventually contributed to the development of the Space Shuttle.

One of the NB-52B’s key contributions was helping validate the Space Shuttle’s steep gliding landings. It accomplished this by launching wingless lifting bodies, which demonstrated that such landings were possible. The aircraft also played a vital role in testing parachutes for recovering the Shuttle’s solid rocket boosters and the drag chute used during Shuttle landings. Despite its increasing age and the growing cost of maintenance, the NB-52B continued to support a wide array of cutting-edge research throughout the 1970s and 1980s, launching drones, remotely piloted vehicles, and experimental payloads.

In addition to its launch duties, the NB-52B was used in research on wake turbulence, served as a target for gunnery exercises, and tested fuel additives aimed at reducing pollution. At one point, it flew with ten engines when additional engines were mounted under the bomb bay for testing purposes. During the X-38 program, the aircraft deployed the largest parafoil in history, with a surface area larger than a Boeing 747’s wing.

The NB-52B’s last mission took place in 2004, when it launched the X-43A, which reached a speed of Mach 9.6 using the most powerful air-breathing engine ever built. After a long and significant career contributing to both aviation and space research, the NB-52B was officially retired on December 17, 2004, during a ceremony at NASA’s Dryden Flight Research Center.

At the time of its retirement, “Balls 8” (a nickname derived from its NASA tail number 52-008, where military slang refers to leading zeroes as “Balls”) was the oldest B-52 still in active service and the only one that wasn’t an H model. It also had the lowest total flight hours of any operational B-52. The aircraft is now displayed permanently near the north gate of Edwards Air Force Base in California.

@TheAviationist.com

[quibble-auk]

Oh man, im on a roll when I procrastinate. It’s impressive. I finally got around to writing this. I’m not sure if I love it, I kinda hate it. I had a mental image thing that I wanted and it’s not quite it but I’m too lazy to fix it.

So enjoy I guess

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

Yeah, I’m just talking about why Dropmix likes to sleep so much.

—

The medical bay was unusually calm for once—no wounded gladiators screaming, no overworked bots clamoring for supplies, no pressure alarms blaring across the overhead channels. The shift lull was rare and welcome.

Too many shifts had been happening like this, with the pits being rebuilt there weren’t as many matches—no matches in fact. The medics were only tasked with helping civilians and the gladiators recover from the injuries sustained in the purge. Over a year had passed and most had recovered, but some were still lagging behind.

Still, it had been a quiet and uneventful shift, nothing noteworthy or interesting. Dull and slow. All of the permanent patients attended to and any passerby’s weren’t there for long, standard check ups at most.

With no matches there was no real need for the medics to be there other than for show. Nova claimed the pits would be starting their shows again in a month or so, though, volunteering military frames taking the place of missing gladiators. Then the medics would be needed again soon.

For more than just check ups and minor repairs.

Theremin stood beside one of the secondary storage cabinets, gently organizing a tray of core stabilizers into neat, labeled rows. He worked slowly, mechanically, barely listening to the soft ambient track filtering through his portable speaker. It was a haunting melody—low strings and sparse synths, the kind of music that hovered at the edge of memory rather than demanding attention.

He glanced toward the hallway beyond his office. No sign of Dropmix.

Again.

Theremin frowned slightly.

It had been three days since Dropmix last dropped in unannounced. No boastful retelling of a pit fight. No smug grin at the door. No door-slamming at all, which might have been a mercy under other circumstances—but now felt... wrong. Off.

The medic hadn't thought much of it at first. Gladiators went through cycles. Physical recovery. Mental cooldown. Sometimes you just didn’t feel like talking. But Dropmix was loud, chaotic, persistent—he didn’t go quiet. Not like this.

He had been like that since the purge. At first Theremin assumed it would end as soon as he had recovered—when his systems weren’t full of pain medication. This quieter version of Dropmix didn’t leave though, it persisted, looming in corners and staring blankly at ceilings.

Theremin sighed and clicked the cabinet shut. The faint sound echoed a little too much in the quiet. He glanced at his desk, cluttered as usual with reports and minor scan logs. His eyes paused briefly on a datapad set to one side—a flagged record from Dropmix’s last check-up. A note he’d written but hadn’t followed up on.

"Low-grade energon efficiency drop. Likely stress-related. Monitor if symptoms persist."

Theremin’s frown deepened.

Most gladiators had longer lasting symptoms, things that lingered from stress or exposure. Dropmix was not spared from it, not in the slightest, the list went on for both his mental and physical state. But like much else, the medics were left stumbling blindly with no clear fix. They could not repair what had been broken in the gladiators—nor themselves—when the pits had fallen.

It was painful to watch, to see the proud gladiators stumble numbly around with no clear purpose. None were battle ready, but they needed it, they needed their element and the crowds. They needed something normal.

Nova Prime denied them any of that.

Theremin rubbed a hand over his face, optics dimming as he stared at the note a moment longer. His fingers hovered above the screen before pulling away again—he didn’t need to reread the rest. He remembered what it said.

“Energon filtration sluggish. Minor resistance in shoulder actuator. Ventilation irregularities—likely anxiety, possibly lasting damage. Lethargy. Minor spark spasms—radiation related. Potential spark fracture risk.”

A familiar ache pulsed processor.. Not a systems alert—just the weight of knowing something was wrong, and having no immediate fix.

He paused before he pulled up the surveillance grid for the medbay perimeter, and tapped into the Pit levels below. Gladiator quarters. He hesitated—this felt invasive, it probably was—but he set the motion logs to scan for Dropmix’s ID signature anyway. He was only looking for activity timestamps. Not watching. And it was for medical purposes.

The logs painted a stark picture.

No movement for the last thirty-six hours.

Before that, minimal. Room access. No external check-ins. No sparring, no common area use. One brief appearance in the ration hall, and then... nothing.

That wasn’t Dropmix.

Something in Theremin’s chest tightened—a familiar, unwelcome sensation he had long ago trained himself to ignore. He tried to rationalize it. Maybe he was resting. Maybe he was being dramatic. Or sulking.

He knew better though, he had seen it with other gladiators before—it was not something to be ignored, especially now.

The medic sighed, plates shuddering slightly as he looked elsewhere. He turned away from the desk, grabbed his medkit, and left the office. He hesitated at the entrance of the medical bay, there were other medics, they would handle things if something came up—which he doubted would happen—but it still felt strange to not sign out.

He never did anymore, he was just expected to be there, always at the pits. They didn’t let him return to his home outside after the purge. He belonged to the pits now, just like the gladiators.

Theremin belonged to Nova Prime now, just a cog in his machine.

—

The lower levels were even quieter now.

Reconstruction efforts meant fewer personnel in these wings—no injured to house, no matches to prepare for, no cheering crowds to pretend they weren't all prisoners with names stripped away and lives commodified.

The gladiators weren’t out much anymore, they were no longer allowed to roam freely, not until the repairs were done on the pit—until they made sure there was no chance to escape.

The Pit corridors were colder than the medical wing. Less polished. Less… alive. Fluorescent strips flickered here and there along the ceiling, and the hum of old machinery pressed in close. Gladiators didn't get luxury. They got metal and silence and space just big enough to house a recharge slab.

Theremin walked the halls silently, boots clicking against the floor as he looked between each door. They had moved the gladiators to other housing units, not as polished or nice. None had been fond of the change but they didn’t have enough energy to protest.

It didn’t take long for Theremin to find his friend's room.

Dropmix’s door was shut, of course. It always was lately. No loud music blasting from within. No faint thuds of training routines or pacing footsteps. There was no sign there was anyone in it. Just silence. Oppressive and still.

He hesitated for a long second, hand hovering over the control. Then, with a quiet sigh, he keyed in his override code.

The door hissed open.

The room was dim, exactly as he’d found it the first time he came down here three days ago. It smelled like stagnant energon—everything did, the smell was hard to get rid of—and dust. Dropmix was still on the berth, same spot, barely moved. He lay sprawled out across the berth, not even fully aligned with it, like he’d dropped onto it rather than properly settled in. If the medic hadn't known better, he might have thought the mech was offline entirely.

“Dropmix,” Theremin said softly, stepping inside.

The gladiator stirred this time—barely. His optics cracked open, golden light dulled and unfocused. He blinked once, slowly, then again. His face was slack, expression unreadable. He shifted under the thin blanket, huffing deeply once.

“…you’re here again,” he murmured. His voice rasped, faintly static-laced from lack of use. It was still groggy with attempted sleep and thick with an accent.

Theremin stood in the doorway for a moment, taking a moment to look over the other from afar. He sighed, plates shifting slightly as he approached the berth slowly, setting the medkit down without looking away. He knelt down to look Dropmix in the eye better, voice low, “I’ve come to check up on you.”

“Thought you’d stop eventually.” Dropmix shifted onto his side, not enough to be considered sitting—just enough to acknowledge he wasn’t entirely asleep.

Theremin frowned now without trying to hide it. He tilted his head slightly, concern flickering in his expression. He kept his voice low “You haven’t left this room in a day and a half.”

Dropmix made a noise that was somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. He didn’t move much. Just rolled slightly onto his side, half away from him. His dull plates didn’t flare or shudder, they just shifted with the movement, lackluster and mechanical.

“So?” The gladiator huffed, closing his eyes again. He shifted slightly, getting more comfortable before sighing and going still once more.

“So,” Theremin echoed, sharp, but not unkind. He settled on the ground, arms resting on the berth, “That’s not like you.”

There was a long pause.

“Don’t feel like doing anything,” Dropmix mumbled, curling in a little more. His plates drew in tighter, almost reflexively, like he was trying to hide under himself. He didn’t look at Theremin, his eyes remained closed, but the medic saw this for what it was, submission.

Dropmix didn’t want to talk, he didn’t want to challenge Theremin to a duel of words and thoughts. He wanted to sleep and he was letting the medic know.

Theremin exhaled slowly and looked around. The room wasn’t messy, but it was lifeless. The only sign anyone lived here at all was the faint scarring in the floor plating near the berth—old claw marks from some bad recharge cycle, maybe.

He stayed quiet a moment longer, just watching the slow, shallow rise and fall of Dropmix’s intake vents. The medic resisted the instinct to scan him right there, to check vitals, sparkrate, anything. That would feel clinical, and Dropmix didn’t need a medic right now.

He needed someone to see him.

“…You don’t even listen to music anymore,” Theremin finally said, his voice softer now, not accusing—just… sad. Observational. He frowned, “I gave you a speaker, I know it’s not great… but it should work alright, at least until we can get you new ones.”

Dropmix didn’t respond at first. He shifted again, curling tighter, tucking his chin toward his chest. His shoulder plating twitched once, a mechanical tick of discomfort, then stilled. For a moment Theremin thought he’d slipped back into recharge.

Then, a quiet, bitter murmur: “Music’s loud. Makes everything worse.” He paused, like the admission cost something. “Too much in my head already.”

Something bitter settled around Theremin’s spark. Dropmix had been so excited when he finally got his speakers installed in his private room. He had insisted that Theremin had to drop by and give him some songs. He didn’t listen to music often, but he said he had started listening more often.

He had stopped complaining about Theremin’s constantly playing speaker ages ago.

Dropmix shifted slightly, and this time when he opened his eyes, they were a little clearer. Tired. Burned-out. But present. He looked at Theremin, and the barest trace of something passed across his face—recognition, maybe. Or guilt.

“I can’t keep waking up to this,” he whispered, eyes getting distant as he looked away. “Every cycle, I come back online and it’s still—this. Still quiet. Still gray. Still wrong.”

“I know,” Theremin said, and meant it. He wasn’t going to sugar-coat it. There was no fixing what had been done to them, no erasing the memory of the purge, of the crowds, of the old life that had been stolen and warped beyond recognition. No clean restart. “But things aren’t going to get better if you're just… sitting here.”

Dropmix blinked slowly again, optics dimming as if the light from the hallway pained him. His voice came after a long pause, softer now, less bitter—almost wistful.

“…I like sleeping,” he murmured, grumbling as he tucked his head away, eyes closing. “It’s easier.”

Theremin stayed still, processing the words. His jaw tightened, fingers curling around the blanket.

“It’s nice,” Dropmix continued, his voice low and strange, like he wasn’t really speaking to Theremin, “I don't have to deal with… all that. All this? I don’t know… it’s better. I like it.”

The gladiator paused, huffing once, “And I’m tired.”

Theremin didn’t reply right away. The words were sharp in their gentleness—resigned, not defeated. Dropmix wasn’t resisting anything anymore. He was choosing the dreamless dark. It was his refuge now. His only peace.

That was not a good sign.

“You’re not sleeping because you’re tired, Dropmix,” Theremin said again, voice calm but firm. “You’re sleeping because you don’t want to be awake.”

Dropmix didn’t answer.

The only sound was the faint hum of the ventilation system overhead and the distant, rhythmic pulse of the building’s backup power cycling through. The kind of sound that was easy to ignore. The kind of sound you only noticed when you’d been quiet for far too long.

Theremin never had to listen to it before—the pits were never that quiet.

That silence pressed in now, low and constant, like pressure building in his chest. He wasn’t sure if it was worse than the sound of crowds screaming or better. It was certainly lonelier.

Dropmix curled tighter into the berth, one arm tucked beneath his helm, the other draped limply across his chest. He took another deep breath, long and drawn out. His optics stayed dim, unfocused. He didn’t refute what Theremin said. He didn’t argue. He didn’t do anything.

And that was the problem.

Theremin slowly rose from where he sat beside the berth, careful not to make any sudden movements. The room was too still to disturb carelessly. He moved to the side, checked the environmental panel. Standard temperature. Ventilation slow, but within acceptable ranges. Nothing to flag.

Except the mech on the berth who was slipping further away every cycle.

He turned back toward him, voice quieter now. Almost a whisper. “When was the last time you ate?”

Dropmix let out a long, slow exhale. It wasn’t an answer, but it wasn’t a no.

The medic frowned, Dropmix was nearly starved when they had first found him, his frame was still recovering from the shock, this was unacceptable. “Your energon levels were already low last time I checked. If they drop further, your systems will start to shut down—gradually. You know that.”

Dropmix stirred, barely—a twitch of plating, a shift in the line of his jaw. Not protest. Not acknowledgment. Just movement, like a failing motor trying to spin back to life.

“You think I don’t know that?” he muttered eventually, voice hoarse, distant. “Think I can’t feel it?”

Theremin's mouth drew into a thin line. He took a slow step forward, crouching again, this time with a data stylus in hand. He didn’t activate it. Not yet. His voice was firm, but still careful, “I think you’ve stopped caring what happens.”

There was no response at first. Just the low static of Dropmix’s vents cycling irregularly, the brittle scrape of metal shifting beneath his armor. Then—

“…It wouldn’t matter if I did,” he said. Quiet. Flat. Not a declaration—just a fact he believed.

Theremin set the stylus down. He ignored the way his spark clenched, the way he had to fight a desperate whimper. He knew what this was, it had claimed plenty of gladiators after the purge—it claimed them before too. When the audience turned against them, when they kept losing over and over again, when their pride had been too wounded to repair.

The medic sucked in a careful breath, “It matters to me.”

Those words sat heavily in the space between them. They weren’t dramatic. They weren’t said with fire or conviction. But they were true, and Theremin didn’t flinch from the truth anymore. He’d had it burned into him.

Dropmix’s optics flickered, as if something flickered behind them too—a flicker of shame, or anger, or disbelief. It passed too quickly to name.

“You’re a medic,” he said finally, more of an edge to his voice than he had for the entire conversation, “You have to say that.”

“No,” Theremin said sternly, plates flaring up slightly. “I don’t. I’m not on duty right now. No one sent me. No orders. No protocol. I’m here because you matter. Because if I don’t check on you—if someone doesn’t—”

He stopped. His vocalizer wavered. He swallowed the rest of that sentence.

—if someone doesn’t, you won’t be here much longer.

Theremin let the silence swallow the unspoken words. He couldn’t say them. Not yet. Not when the line between this moment and the last one could still be breached, when Dropmix might still reach out of the fog and choose something over nothing.

The medic looked down, letting his optics shutter briefly. He needed a second too. He wasn’t supposed to get like this with patients—wasn’t supposed to care this much—but Dropmix had never been just a patient.

When he looked back up, Dropmix was staring at him. Quiet. Watching.

It wasn’t defiance in his gaze now, or dismissal. It was something older. Something cracked and exhausted. Something ashamed maybe.

“I just… I’m just tired, Theremin,” Dropmix said, barely audible, he closed his eyes again. “I just want to sleep.”

—

Dropmix sleeps to escape the sad yall.

[melishade]

Attack on Prime New Age Anthology: Return to that Sick Mind I

Main Story

Comforting the weak

Icebreakers

Strange Technology

"Well, all of the dark energon has officially been expelled from Megatron's spark, and I've been able to stabilize him with enough energon to compensate for the loss," Knockout proclaimed as he walked into the meeting room, with all the Autobots sitting around a table, "And Wheeljack is almost ready to be discharged."

"Should have let Buckethead die on the medical table," Smokescreen grumbled.

"Dear Arcee is making a miraculous recovery while Optimus is still unconscious for the time being," Knockout added before sitting down.

"When will 'Cee be back on her pedes?" Bumblebee asked.

"Depends on a few things," Knockout answered, "She is awake and able to move, but she will need some modifications to make up for the burns she received. I saw flakes of dark energon in her joints. I don't know how it got there, but it did."

"We will ask Arcee personally when she has recovered enough," Ultra Magnus declared as he sat up from his seat. He walked over to the screens and pressed a few buttons on the keyboard. The screens glowed, and images of text messages appeared on all of them, "These are all messages from Jack. He's been feeding us information about this world and any and all information about the human allies to Optimus and Megatron on this world."

Ultra Magnus pressed a few more buttons on the keyboard and pictures of the Survey Corps captured during the final battle, followed by their names and age were displayed on the screen. "We have the titan shifters: Annie Leonhart, Pieck Finger, and Ymir in our possession. What is the status of their tests?"

"So far, no signs of genetic mutations to those powers based on Wheeljack's information," Ratchet informed.

"Which is good," Ultra Magnus declared, "We will no doubt need to run some examinations on some of the others to confirm there will be no...'titan transformations.'"

"Hey, is Miko calling them 'Kaiju'?" Knockout couldn't help but ask.

"Yep," Bulkhead replied.

"Not only have Jack, Miko, and Rafael acquired information regarding this world's history," Ultra Magnus continued as he showed the image of the flow chart Rafael had taken a picture of and sent to Jack, "But there have also been reports on both Optimus and Megatron. Optimus' personality has remained the same for the most part. But...there have been some outlandish claims made by these humans regarding Megatron."

Ultra Magnus showed the screens of Jack's messages that he sent over regarding Megatron. As the Autobots started reading the screens, they were all baffled.

"Throwing books at Megatron?" Smokescreen read aloud, "Saving a human from committing suicide? Pretending to be a human for reconnaissance?"

"Does that say a human blackmailed Megatron?!" Ratchet exclaimed in disbelief.

"Yes, the Commander, Hanji Zoe," Ultra Magnus answered, "Jack noticed the way they were smiling when they told the story."

"And they're still alive?!" Ratchet demanded.

Knockout clasped his claws and placed them over his mouth, his optics wide at all the information that he was reading.

"There are multiple accounts that do state of Megatron's cruel behavior," Ultra Magnus continued, "But by the ends of their interactions with him, he had performed an act of kindness. For example, saving the life of an enemy, or creating a cure to an energon virus for a human that was working as part of an enemy state."

"Primus' sake this isn't happening!" Ratchet clutched his helm in a panic.

"Isn't there a way to fact check these claims?" Bulkhead asked, "There's no way that this is actually true. Megatron helping out humans? Megatron being kind to them?"

"Recent behavior would suggest that Megatron no longer has that same bloodlust and need for violence," Ultra Magnus retorted, "We've all seen the way Megatron was acting during the conflict. He was saving humans, Predaking mentioned he had saved him from being crushed."

"...he saved my life," Bumblebee looked down at his servos that were resting on the table, "Why? Why in the Allspark would Megatron save my life? Especially since I'm the one who killed him?"

Ratchet stared at Bumblebee with concern and guilt over the warrior's stressed expression.

"In any case, the council does want an answer on Megatron's condition, and are debating whether or not to make this a public trial," Ultra Magnus informed, "Megatron will ultimately need to answer for his crimes."

"Wheeljack warned us that the humans won't let us take him without a fight," Bulkhead reminded, "Is that really true? That humans would come to Megatron's aid?"

"The unfortunate truth is that the benefits he might have had on this planet pale in comparison to the destruction he's caused," Ultra Magnus reminded.

"But why would the humans want to fight for him? Why would the humans care for him?" Bumblebee slammed his servos into the table, "...We need to find out the truth. Their accounts might not be enough...We need to go into Megatron's mind."

Bumblebee winced a little at the sounds of everyone screaming at him like he had lost his senses.

"No! NO! NO!" Smokescreen yelled.

"Bee, are you crazy?!" Bulkhead demanded

"Absolutely not!" Ultra Magnus ordered.

"The cortical psychic patch doesn't alter memories-!"

"And the last time you went into Megatron's mind, he followed you back and took over your body!" Ratchet reminded, "What's to say that won't happen again?!"

"We didn't do a proper power down procedure!" Bumblebee reminded, "Knockout, you're an expert in using this!"

"Okay, yes, you guys didn't do a proper shut down which allowed for the cross in the first place!" Knockout relented, "But Megatron has more experience with the cortical psychic patch than you! He can't alter memories, but he'd be able to move around more freely than you!"

"But we need this evidence to present to the council, right?!" Bumblebee addressed Ultra Magnus, "You need a full report!"

"I do, but I am not risking you or anyone else on my team to go into Megatron's mind!" Ultra Magnus declared.

"Bee, do you really want to be inside the helm of the same guy who killed you and took your voice?!" Smokescreen demanded, "If Rung were here, he'd say this would be bad for your mental health!"

"Bumblebee, why would you even consider this-!"

"Because I need to know!" Bumblebee declared, "I need to know the truth! None of this makes any sense! And you guys know that too! Hasn't this been bothering all of you?!"

The Autobots looked away in confliction and Bumblebee continued.

"The fact that Wheeljack is so confident, the fact that Megatron had saved the lives of people who mean little to nothing or have slighted him, the fact that those accounts are real!" Bumblebee pointed to the screens, "It means that something is different! And we need to find out for ourselves."

Ratchet and Knockout looked over at Ultra Magnus, waiting for the Commander to give the final word. Ultra Magnus grimaced before turning to Bumblebee.

"You will stay in there for ten minutes. The minute that there are any signs of distress, you get pulled out," Ultra Magnus ordered.

==

Later

"Everything is almost ready," Knockout informed as he double checked Megatron's brain activity. Bumblebee stared at Megatron and took note of the condition he was in while on the berth next to him. He didn't open his optics, the brown of his armor had completely eroded, leaving nothing but silver and purple. His build was still the same, and he had a tube pumping energon into his chest.

"Bumblebee, you do not have to do this, even for your own curiosity," Ratchet pleaded with him.

"...We need the information." Bumblebee lied down on the berth and waited for Knockout.

"We will be communicating with you while you are in Megatron's mind," Ultra Magnus informed.

The other Autobots watched with apprehension as Knockout pulled out the patch. He attached the first end to the back of Megatron's helm before walking over to Bumblebee with the other end. He kneeled down and was about to attach the device but stopped.

"Last chance," Knockout warned.

Bumblebee vented. "Do it."

Bumblebee felt the device latch onto the back of his helm. He felt the device rotate and click into place. And then...his insides dropped as he felt himself falling. Bumblebee yelled in surprise before he covered his optics with his servo. Don't think about it. It wasn't real. You would be fine. It would be fine! It-!

He was underwater.

Bumblebee gasped as he sat straight up, emerging from the water. Instinctually, he coughed whatever was left in his insides and started to hyperventilate.

"Bumblebee! Bumblebee!" he heard Ratchet calling through his comm. link.

The warrior relaxed at the sound of Ratchet's voice. "I'm good. I'm fine."

"Then where are you?" Ratchet asked.

Bumblebee took a look at his surroundings. This wasn't the lava-induced, brimstone, and gothic scenery that was Kaon. It...it looked like he was sitting in the middle of a river, at night. The river wasn't energon; it was water. And trees lined the edges of the river.

"I...I don't know," Bumblebee confessed, "Is this Earth?"

"Not a place I've seen," Knockout replied.

Bumblebee wanted to question it more but stopped when he noticed something glowing out of the corner of his optic. He looked down and saw...a water lantern. It's small light traveling down the river past him. Bumblebee looked ahead and gasped at the sight of more lanterns coming his way. Some of them floated along the water, while other flew high into the sky. Bumblebee stood up and couldn't help but reach out to touch one of them, but his servo phased right through the decorated light.

"Bumblebee, tread with caution. This could very well be a trick," Ultra Magnus warned.

Bumblebee trudged through the water of the river, going towards the lights and searching through it for any sign of Megatron. Bumblebee noticed a few boats along the river, filled with fishermen that watched the lights above and in the water. Bumblebee still questioned where he was and why everything was so calm. He thought about calling for Megatron to stir him from his subconscious, but...that's when he heard the sniffling.

Bumblebee looked up ahead and saw three people in a boat. The one on his far left was a middle-aged man wearing glasses, a green kimono, and a cartoonish mask on the side of his head. In the middle, was another older looking human, wearing all grey. A flower was tucked behind his ear while a demon mask was situated on the other side of his head. And...those red eyes looked familiar. Why did they look familiar? Bumblebee then noticed the way that the one in the middle was seated, like he was blocking the first human from seeing...

A crying teenage girl. Wait...she was there during the fight. Her hair was slightly longer here, just reaching up to her neck. She wore a pink kimono with cherry blossom patterns, and a fox mask was on the back of her head. Her hands covered her mouth to muffle her cries, and tears still streamed down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" Bumblebee felt his spark freeze at the sound of that voice coming from the human in the middle. No way. There was no way! Was that Megatron's voice coming out of the human?! Was that Megatron?!

"Wait, Megatron has a holoform?!" Smokescreen screeched.

"I didn't know about this!" Knockout insisted.

"How did you not know?!" Bulkhead yelled at him.

“I’m trying to remember my mom,” Bumblebee heard the girl speak through hiccups, “What she would look like when seeing this, but all I can remember is her corpse. I can’t remember what my mom looked like. It’s been so long.”

“…do you know where her spark might have gone?” Megatron finally asked, before correcting himself, "Her soul...I mean."

“I don’t know,” she answered, “I knew the wall religion was a sham, but…if there’s no sure existence of a god or another life, does that mean that my mom is gone forever? And my father? Dr. Jaeger? Carla? Everyone I love? Does it all mean nothing in the end?”

Bumblebee felt pity for the girl and her plight. She must've been through so much. And to not know or even have that reassurance must've been eating her up from the inside out. Bumblebee noticed the way that Megatron looked...conflicted. He saw the human form raise a hand to his chest, and Bumblebee could've sworn he was contemplating something before he lower his hand and slouched forward. “Your mother...she could’ve been reincarnated.”

Bumblebee gawked in surprise. There was no way. There was no way that he would tell her-!

“On Cybertron, when one of us dies, it is said that our sparks return to where we were first created: the Well of the Allsparks,” Megatron explained, his gaze wandering to the lanterns floating in the water, “The Well resides within the core of our planet, along with our creator, Primus. The spark remerges from the Well and is reborn as another Cybertronian."

Bumblebee saw Megatron looking over to his left. "They do not remember their previous life. They do not remember their glory or their sins. They don't remember good and evil. The ledger of their previous life is wiped completely clean."

Bumblebee saw Megatron lower his hand into the water and push something along. The warrior realized that it was a lantern that Megatron had freed. "And they are given a chance to start anew.”

The girl looked at the lanterns before looking down at her bandaged wrist “Do you think that reincarnation would be possible for humans? That my mom got a chance at a new life of peace?”

Megatron turned his gaze back to her. "I wouldn't know,...but you humans tend to surprise me.”

The girl gave Megatron a small, tired smile, content with the hope of that knowledge. “Thank you.”

Bumblebee saw Megatron just grunt in reply and turn back to the lanterns, clearly trying to shake off the expression of gratitude. Bumblebee's mouth dropped as the girl leaned against Megatron's shoulder and rested her head there. Megatron was clearly taken off guard by the act, and was prepared to remove her, but he paused in his actions, and...he just let her stay there.

"...what the frag?" Bumblebee heard Ultra Magnus swear.

"What are you doing here?" Bumblebee jolted at the voice speaking from behind. He slowly turned his helm to see Megatron standing there in his bipedal mode, looking down at him with contempt.

Bumblebee was frozen by fear, but quickly regained his nerves. "What am I doing here?! I could ask you the same question!" Bumblebee gestured to the environment around him, "Where in the Pits are we?!"

"Kyoto, Hizuru, during the spring festival two years ago," Megatron replied automatically.

Megatron did technically answer the question, but the answer still left Bumblebee baffled. "Okay?!...Why are we here?!"

Megatron turned to the lanterns floating above them both. "I don't know. This is the calmest my mind has been in a long time...I suppose it defaulted to this memory."

Megatron turned his attention back to Bumblebee. "I assume that the other Autobots are watching."

Bumblebee didn't reply, but Megatron already knew the answer.

"Why are you here?" Megatron demanded once again, "I have nothing to offer you in terms of knowledge."

"Well..." Bumblebee glanced back to the memory that was still playing, Megatron now talking to the man on the boat, "We've received conflicting reports about you. And you...you're helping people now? You have humans defending you?!"

Megatron crossed his arms and turned back to the lanterns. "You want to see my memories to corroborate their statements because you don't trust them."

"No, we just don't trust you," Bumblebee declared, "Or what you might have done to them."

Megatron sighed in defeat. "I suppose that's understandable."

Bumblebee's optics felt like they were going to bulge out of his helm. "So...you're okay with us going down memory lane?!"

"It's not like I have a choice in the matter," Megatron reminded as the lantern lights flew further away, "Although I have to warn you, that there are many memories you won't consider pleasant."

The former warlord smirked at Bumblebee's grim expression. "But something tells me you'll find more comfort in my misdeeds than my altruism."

Bumblebee heard Ratchet scoff over the comm. link.

"Bee, there's no shame. Say the word and we'll pull you out," Smokescreen pleaded.

Bumblebee clenched his fists before releasing them. "Your mind. You lead the way."

Megatron merely turned around and walked away from Bumblebee and further down the river. Bumblebee followed them, but looked back to see what was happening in the memory now. He saw Megatron's human form carrying the now sleeping girl on his back, as he and the other man walked up towards the bridge and into town.

This was going to be an interesting ten minutes.

(So I'm going to split this into two parts, but Bumblebee and Megatron are going to be going down memory lane and the Autobots are going to be in for a treat. Knockout's going to whip out the energon goodies and everyone is going to be eagerly watching.

And for those of you who want to read where the chapter of that memory is from here is the Hizuru OVA.)