#springers solar

[springersolar]

Connecting Your Sungrow Inverter to WiFi

To reconnect your Sungrow Inverter to WiFi, ensure your home's 2.4G WiFi network is active. If needed, restart the inverter by turning off the AC and DC isolator switches, then turning them back on. Activate the inverter's WiFi hotspot by pressing the multifunctional button three times. Use the iSolarCloud app to scan the QR code on the inverter, log in with the default credentials, and select your home network. If issues persist, contact Sungrow Service or Springers Solar for assistance.

For further details, visit the full article here http://www.springers.com.au/blog/solar-updates-1/how-to-connect-your-sungrow-inverter-to-wifi-114

[springingfromnothing]

Tarantulas crawls up Springer’s side, mass-displaced to fit comfortably in the gap between his neck and shoulder pauldron. It’s nice and warm there, and she loves him so, even as it gets harder for her to move around like she used to. “I’ll need to molt, soon. I won’t be able to do much for a while after. I know you’ll keep me safe.”

Springer holds very still as Tara skitters up his armor. Another mech might feel discomfort to have another mechanism in a relatively vulnerable area. Springer just sets an adjustment ratio so the armor won't close on her. Spark warming as she speaks.

Especially after the last random message he received.

" You just stay with me Momma. I'll keep you safe and warm okay? Do you need anything else-?" Rumble purring at her. A digit reaching up to nudge under his armor and brush a pseudo fuzzy leg.

[breakdownsbuttlights]

prowl sitting up until the early hours of a monday morning, putting together a diorama of a solar system from pipe cleaners and old yoghurt pots, because sping forgot to do it before bedtime on sunday evening. prowl drinks wine throughout.

You're half right. Sping didn't forget; Prowl simply said "may I" and took over the project before Springer could reply. Sometimes if you want a pipe cleaner model solar system built right, you have to build it yourself.

[transingthoseformers]

Regarding the latest post abt Prowl usually carrying and what would happen if Tara was the one with Springer and Prowl didn't know-

It's just so funny to me cuz that's literally exactly what happens in my AU. Tarantulas is the one carrying Springer, he's literally the one who even wanted a sparkling in the first place lmao

The whole thing was incredibly complicated but in a nutshell it ended with Prowl getting a restraining order and literally not knowing about Springers existence till he was around 5 solar cycles. Who he then later go the full custody of cuz lets be honest, despite everything he is, at least he's a better parent that Tarantulas. Especially with how in my AU he's living with his younger brother Bluestreak, who helped a lot with Springer

But yeah it was just hilarious how you described exactly what happens in my AU

Ooo yesss

Tarantulas: hey Prowl :) :) :)

Prowl: what do you want

Tarantulas: I have something to show you

Prowl: it better not be a dead body

Tarantulas: many would argue it's the exact opposite of a dead body

Also logical that Tara ended up having a restraining order put on him and Prowl got full custody lmao

Prowl may be a shitty person but he's still a better parent than Tarantulas (tbh the bar is pretty low)

Makes sense Bluestreak would be a big help

[double-u-qed]

early birthday post! i wanted to write something relatively fluffy involving hot rod vaguely within the g1 cartoon universe. full story under the cut.

Title: Sleep Well, Little Star

Rating: Teen and Up

Characters: Hot Rod, Arcee, Springer, Kup, Ultra Magnus

Tags: Team as Family, Found Family, Food Insecurity, Injuries, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Infection, Fever

Summary:

Still, if there’s one thing Hot Rod is determined to hold onto for the rest of this war, it’s his hope. Like a kindling ember, he grasps it between his servos and feeds it nothing but love, love, love and wishful thoughts, lacing the two together until they’re indistinguishable. Until he’s positively smothered by its warmth. Anger will do nothing but diminish its flame, so if he has to choose a role, he will gladly play the fool.

FULL:

His leg is busted. There’s no way around it – it’s bent at an all sorts of wrong angle, twinging badly as he grapples with the crumbling wall, knee locked up and shaking. The landslide of fallen debris was to blame, a piece of what had once been a building falling on the limb in his rush to escape. Smashed it real good, it did. He can see things he hadn’t even known were inside him, a trail of energon following behind.

But it’s not… that bad? All things considered; it could be worse. He can still sorta move it – just barely enough to shuffle around awkwardly, but nonetheless; it’s progress. It’s been a few orns and he’s managed to make it to a new city at least, as unrecognizable as it is. Not that he would be able to identify it even if it wasn’t in ruins; he’s never known a time where every place didn’t look unremarkable and desolate. The only indicator that this isn’t the same city he’d previously been holed up in is the fact there weren’t any buildings for a while before he got here.

It was just his luck that his injury would start to get worse the moment he stepped foot in someplace new. It was just his luck to be injured at all, really, without a proper medkit to at least clean out the area. Infection was likely, but again – he’s been through and has seen much worse, so he’ll gladly take a busted leg over the other options. Such as being dead. Being dead would be very bad and painful, and he’s never been the best at sucking it up and working through pain.

Now successfully upright without a wall collapsing this time, Hot Rod gives himself a little smile of triumph before it eases back into a grimace. That… that exerted more energy than it should have – he can feel it twisting in his near-empty tanks, all coiled tight. It’s not an unfamiliar sensation, but he’s fresh-out of what limited rations he managed to scavenge from the last wreckage. He doesn’t need a mirror to know he’s grown out of his features a bit, either, his hunger turning in on itself. At most, he’s got a few solar cycles before he falls into stasis.

(He tries to ignore the smears of dried energon next to his shaky servo; tries to ignore the lightless optics racing through his processor every time he shutters his own).

Energon is going to be a problem. If he does find any, there’s a high risk of it being spoiled, or a trap. Decepticons were just bad like that, leaving cubes out as bait for the lone, wandering souls left on Cybertron. They didn’t care that they were practically starving out their own flesh and blood. Their greed wasn’t one of pure survivalist instinct; it was something far more sinister.

Hot Rod cycles in air and lets it out slowly, shifting more of his weight to his good ped, cautiously letting go of the wall he’d been using as a crutch. When he doesn’t immediately fall to the ground, he takes a few unsteady steps forward, internally cringing at the sound of metal scraping across metal. He doesn’t – well, it would be a lie to say he doesn’t feel any pain from the movement, but it’s bearable enough to keep going.

So he does.

It’s a mindless, automatic thing to him by now; crouching down in piles of rubble and sorting through the mess, bit by bit. Almost all of the paint has been scratched clean off his servos, what little remaining being a pallid, sickly sort of hue. His spoilers don’t even so much as twitch at the harsh, cold air that blows by. None of this is new.

Bitter, selfish anger wants to take what little control he has. It wants to be ugly and loud, claiming unfairness and spouting nothing but hatred at the world.

But it won’t do him any good. It never has, really. His anger won’t be anything more than a droplet lost in the sea. And it isn’t like he has it all bad, even if he’s alone in his plight. He’s still alive, for one thing, and not everyone can say the same. He’s alive and relatively well. The dull, ravenous ache of hunger is a sign that he’s alive. It’s the lack of feeling you have to look out for.

“Ah.”

He pauses, digits locked around the metal beam he’s lifted up. His optics cycle, loud in the otherwise silence. It’s a small emergency ration, just sitting there – the kind that soldiers often carry. It’s the brittle, tasteless kind. The kind that’s like paste and dust simultaneously in your intake once it’s chewed, suffocating if you don’t have something better to help wash it down.

He swallows it all before he can think twice of it.

It doesn’t satiate the hunger, not by a long shot – but it does make it ease its grip a bit, tension draining from his frame with a content sigh. It makes it a bit easier to focus as well, the edges of his visual feedback less fuzzy and dark. He hadn’t even realized it had gotten this bad.

Like a king upon his throne, Hot Rod leans back a bit, rubble helping him sit upright. It’s not very wise to leave himself vulnerable and open like this. It isn’t, but he figures he deserves at least this much. Just for a bit. Just a moment to himself to relax and take in the fact that the hardest part of the day should be over and done with for now.

The sky is alight with small, twinkling stars watching down on him from afar. He wonders what else they’ve seen, the stars. He hopes it’s not all bad, that they’ve seen some pretty things, too. A foolish thought, considering he knows what he’s seeing is already long gone. Gone and no longer there, just an afterimage phantom of company.

Still, if there’s one thing Hot Rod is determined to hold onto for the rest of this war, it’s his hope. Like a kindling ember, he grasps it between his servos and feeds it nothing but love, love, love and wishful thoughts, lacing the two together until they’re indistinguishable. Until he’s positively smothered by its warmth. Anger will do nothing but diminish its flame, so if he has to choose a role, he will gladly play the fool.

…

He doesn’t remember falling into recharge, but it must have happened at some point. His optics are no longer trained up towards the sky, but to the ground. Flakes of rust – gold, red, and stained with blue, purple and blue – fall in specks across his vision, floating through the air.

It’s still, but it isn’t silent. He’s not really sure what it is, but something has changed.

He’s on his side. He doesn’t remember rolling over onto his side, but he’s definitely on his side. Hm.

He thinks… he thinks he should get up. That would be the right thing to do, wouldn’t it?

But the ground’s so warm and he’s so tired. Everything feels heavier than he remembers, his optics sluggishly shuttering open and close. The very thought of moving is rather tiresome and not very appealing. Moving means leaving this warmth. Moving means facing reality. Something sharp is prodding into his side, but he pays it little mind. He’s in no danger.

No danger to be seen, although he gets the feeling he’s forgetting about something. Something important. Something that could be dangerous, if forgotten. But he’s dropped it somewhere in the branching trails of his mind. He’s lost it and doesn’t know where to look. The fog that’s taken up space there has devoured it, leaving him stranded. It’s hard to think over the whirring loudness all around.

His head has been tossed into the ocean, bobbing up and down just to stay afloat. It pulls him to-and-fro, all dizzy and lost to its rhythm. Any idea he has gets swept up in the tide, the rough edges wearing down.

He’s been laying here for a while, hasn’t he? That’s no good. He should get up. Get up, and…

He’s not really sure what comes after that.

His face scrunches up as he tries to recall what happened. Why is he on his side? It’s uncomfortable sleeping like this, with his spoiler and all. He doesn’t usually sleep like this. It leaves his back exposed as well, and he hates that.

It’d been hot last night for once (was that last night?). That single fact itches and nags at something in his processor. It irritates it, the whirring sound getting louder and louder. Maybe that’s why he’s down in the discarded metal. It’s cool down here, down in the metal. Down, down, down, down from the sky and up.

He feels like a star, burning hot from the inside out. He’s fallen and he’s burning, that’s why it all hurts. He’s not where he’s supposed to be. The metal here doesn’t feel of home, twisted and biting like the jaws of a turbofox. He used to feed them back home, and they would always nip at him, drawing energon. They’d all their friends over to laugh at him with a high-pitched yip.

He doesn’t like it when that happens. They always leave soon after.

The world spins and spins as Hot Rod tries to get up, if only to stop the biting. He doesn’t want to bleed – that would be bad. Would it? He thinks it would be. Because then… something bad would happen. Something even more bad.

If only he could put together the disconnected pieces. They’re right there, nearly in his grasp, yet he only clutches air.

His optics and vents all stutter as one as he finally manages to get himself sitting up, a harsh pounding erupting in his head. It’s not like the hunger, but it’s close in the way it ebbs and flows, coming and going. It’s a bit easier to think like this, the tidbits of memory a little bit closer with every firework of pain.

He-

Gunfire is the first thing he manages to process before he’s taking cover.

Fever – that’s what this is. It’s so obvious now, alertness leaving his body feeling cold as he struggles to pick up the lost bits of his mind. He’s out in the open in Decepticon territory with an infection settled in his busted ped, because why wouldn’t he be? His luck may have kept him alive this long, but it sure seemed to be against him at the worst of times.

The sounds of war are so near and loud and devouring, and he – he can’t think. He can’t think over the feeling of his body deciding he’s an intruder, working against him. He can’t think over the hunger that’s had enough of being prisoner, clawing at the walls of its enclosure. Can’t think over the memories in his own head as the distinct sounds of blasters carry on.

The sounds ricochet from opposing sides, yells carrying through the dark. He can’t tell how many people there are over the chaos and his overclocked fans, but he knows that there’s more than one group fighting. Fighting and…

The bit of energon in his tanks churn.

Then, it’s over.

Over isn’t a good sign, typically. But curiosity has always been in his nature, making him peek out from the slight cover he managed to squeeze himself behind.

There are three – four? It looks like four figures there, just mere silhouettes in the cloud of dust. Four threats that he has no chance of eliminating, he thinks with pain and panic bleeding together as one.

 

If they notice him, it could easily be the end.

Hot Rod doesn’t want to die. It sounds childish to his own audials and mind, but he doesn’t want to die. His hope is simple and a bit like a sparkling kicking up a fuss, banging their fists against the floor. He just doesn’t want to die and extinguish that bit of hope he took such care tending to. It’s all he has left.

Stilling his very being, leaving what he can only hope is no trace of his existence, he observes the figures for a moment. One of them is massive, a hulking figure leering over the others. Their commander, maybe? Definitely trained in combat, with the way they carry themselves.

They’re searching for something. Supplies? Other bots? It’s hard to know, their intent unclear.

The chances of them walking over here are depressingly high. And all he can do is pick up a jagged piece of metal and brandish it in front of him. Hands shaky. Air cycling much too quickly. Optics losing focus. Haze threatening to pull him under.

They’re getting closer – each fall of their peds into the metal ground is like the tolling of the bell. Ice inhabits his lines, from spark to processor. He presses himself close to the wall, something like resignation being his intrusive, unwanted companion.

He can feel the probing, probing eyes. He can hear them get closer. His grip on his makeshift weapon tightens as he maneuvers himself with a last intake of air.

He twists. He swings. He-

‘Arcee, no!”

The shout startles him, his peds tripping over each other and his weapon easily tumbling down from his loose grasp. It all happens so fast. He’s falling again, again. Falling and hitting the cool metal, frigid against his overheating systems.

He thinks he hears a hiss as someone presses their weight upon him, immobilizing him against the floor. Maybe they’ll let go? Maybe? Now that they know he’s no threat, not anymore. He can barely stand, sick as he is. He’s no threat.

Then the weight is suddenly gone, servos brushing gently against his helm. There’s noise. Some odd noise.

Words. They’re words. They’re speaking to him.

His optics online to see a worn, worried face staring back at him, trying to pull him into a sitting position. It’s so use, though – Hot Rod’s systems have gotten comfortable in the lull they’ve found themselves in, powering down into nothing more than a murmur.

“Is he alright?”

Two pairs of optics shine brightly over the shoulder of the mech inspecting him. Static makes it unclear what they look like, but he gets the feeling they might be young. Young like himself, maybe. Impossibly young in war.

A small laugh makes its way past his lips, hitching into something incomprehensible as the older mech takes a step back. He says something over his shoulder to the others, his hand never leaving Hot Rod. He can’t tell if it’s unwanted or not. His processor is still stuck on the idea of this being the end.

“He’s got an infection from what I can tell. He’ll need to be taken back with us to properly recover.”

No, no – leaving wouldn’t be good. Others had tried that already; it never lasted long. People came and went similar to the hunger, their absence felt just as much as their presence.

Hot Rod’s meant to stay here where his biggest worry is his own aching head and the burn of his own optimism.

But these mechanisms – they don’t seem to get it, heaving him up as if he weighed nothing more than a sparkling. A steady, comforting hand that he can’t help but lean into soothes his aching frame.

His captor, who may not be a captor at all, shushes him gently. “It’s alright now, sweetspark. It’ll be okay now.”

Oh… it’s not just him clinging on with hope. It’s not just him stringing together pretty words that are capable of both harm and good.

He never knew someone else’s hope could be this warm.

Being on the road with Hot Rod has taught Arcee many things. Some of them aren’t that surprising, nor does she have the luxury of saying that she hasn’t ever observed them before. His quirks are all too common in other bots since the war, but that doesn’t make it any less painful to bear.

Place a cube in front of him, and he’ll freeze. Grow ever so still in a way that’s uncharacteristic of him. Then he’ll stare at the cube, almost as if he doesn’t really think it’s there. Next is the snatching. A rather crude word, but an appropriate one. He’ll snatch it real close to himself, no matter how natural he tries to make the action seem. It’s a wounded, instinctual motion – common in wildlife.

As bright as his optics will be, aflame with something downright predatory, he’ll never scarf it down. He’ll sip it carefully and in rotation almost. Too much could make it a waste, after all.

He subspaces his cubes often as well, rationing out any bits he can’t finish. Anything he comes across is similarly stored for later, his face carefully blank as he does so.

But he doesn’t have to, is the thing – rations haven’t been as hard to come by as the Autobots from Earth have thwarted plan after plan. It’s better now.

When she says as much to Hot Rod, he just stares at her, not saying a thing. It’s always up to Arcee to awkwardly change the subject, with Hot Rod all too eager to smile and follow through.

Kup’s smile is something bitter whenever she brings this up with him. The old mech can only rub soothing circles into her palm as he tells her there are many burdens they’ll forever carry with them. Her kindness is appreciated, but it’ll take more than love to make it all believable.

Ultra Magnus—who was perhaps the first to take to Hot Rod, fussing over him despite wanting his elaborate image of someone more firm—always says something similar, but she doesn’t miss the way he deliberately makes their youngest member’s portion a little bit bigger than theirs.

Neither mech ever mentions it, but it’s clear it’s appreciated in the way Hot Rod will duck his head a bit, contemplative.

It gets her thinking. It gets her and Springer thinking. It’s been a long, long time since they first picked up Hot Rod, and everything and nothing has changed. The war doesn’t seem like it’ll end any time soon, forcing their hands into fighting more often than not.

It’s all Hot Rod has ever known, but there used to be a time for other things. Celebrations and good fortune.

And a cause for such frivolities is just about upon them.

Hot Rod isn’t sure when he first notices it, but something strange has been going on. It’s not exactly a big thing, only being noticeable in the smaller details you have to really search for.

Springer and Arcee have been talking on their own a lot lately. Nothing strange, but their optics are always deliberately away from him when he enters the room, as if they don’t want him to know they’ve been talking about him. It’s a forced kind of silence. Maybe even a guilty one.

Try as he might, he can’t think of anything he’s done to make them angry. He tries to make a habit of apologizing immediately the moment he realizes he’s stepped out of line. He can be hot-headed, words often tumbling out without his control, the irritated side of him making his rationale take a backseat.

But he wants to be good. This is the longest he’s ever stayed with someone, and he- he needs to stay… He doesn’t think he would survive going back to the stifling quiet of loneliness where it’s hard to remind himself what functioning involves.

Every compliment from Kup fans the fires of hope. Every teasing remark from Arcee makes him feel seen and wanted. Springer’s habit of joining in and inviting him to play games brings him a joy he lost somewhere along the way. And Ultra Magnus’s patience and willingness to teach him means more to him than the other could possibly ever know.

He feels like he belongs.

So why?

What did he do that was so bad?

Unease has his heart in a death grip as he paces his room of their temporary base, trying and failing to summon an answer for this odd alienation. Even Kup and Ultra Magnus have added to this uncomfortable feeling.

He doesn’t like being ignored. He doesn’t like being turned away. He doesn’t like being dismissed.

There’s only so much a small flame can take before it’s gone.

He needs to confront this problem head-on. He needs to understand so he won’t do it ever again. He’ll leave if he has to. He won’t want to, but…

Mind made up; he leaves his room. The others are likely to be in the common room where they have all their monitors strewn up.

As he gets closer to the room, he feels himself faltering, hesitating. The lights are off. The lights are almost never off, except for when they have to hide themselves in case of an enemy being near. They can’t afford to be caught unaware, scrambling for a weapon in the dark.

“What’s going—”

A flash of light is his only warning as shouts of, “surprise!” cut through the quiet. A jolt of alarm zaps through him, his optics resetting and cycling to take in the sight of Springer and Arcee standing by a table full of all sorts of energon goods, Kup and Magnus smiling at him brightly.

It’s weird. Very weird.

“What’s… happening?” he asks, feeling sorely out of the loop.

It’s Arcee who answers him, beaming in a way he doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. “It’s the anniversary of you joining up with us!” she explains, her servos already interlocking around his wrists as she eagerly guides him over to the table. She shoves a plate into his hands, stacking it high. “We don’t know exactly how long it’s been, but we did remember the date! It’s just… been too chaotic to celebrate it, you know? But it’s been calm lately, so…”

She shrugs, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “We just wanted to surprise you, I guess.”

He hears her, but his attention is still fixed on the plate in his hands. There’s… a lot of food here. Most of it pastries he’s never seen before. It’s no doubt all delicious, but-

“This is… for me? The- the weird behavior, the whispers, the glances? They were all because of this?”

His voice is a bit reedy and laced with static. He can’t help it; he’s at a loss and overwhelmed. Overwhelmed but full of love, love, love. Burning love that makes him giddy and shaky, a vulnerable smile on his face as he continues to eye the energon sweets before him. He can’t even remember the last time he had the chance to eat anything just for fun.

A large servo clamps down on his shoulder. It’s Magnus, his optics practically swimming with adoration as he encourages Hot Rod to begin eating. “Of course,” he says, words just as full of care. “It’s always good to indulge yourself here and there. I’m – we’re all happy to call you on of us, you know.”

And Hot Rod does. He’s blanketed by that fact, his head and spark full of sheer gratitude as he spends the night surrounded by the people that mean everything to him.

[lonestarflight]

"STS-29 Tracking and Data Relay Satellite (TDRS)/ IUS deployment from Discovery, OV-103, payload bay.

Onboard view shows Space Shuttle Discovery's payload bay with tracking and data relay satellite D (TDRS-D) in stowed, pre-deployment position. In this head-on view, TDRS-D stowed components including single access #1 and #2, solar cell panels, SGL, S-Band omni antenna, and C-Band antenna are visible. TDRS-D rests in airborne support equipment (ASE) forward cradle and aft frame tilt actuator (AFTA). Discovery's aft bulkhead and orbital maneuvering system (OMS) pods are visible in the background.

Crewmembers were Astronauts Michael L. Coats, John E. Blaha, James F. Buchli, Robert C. Springer and James P. Bagian."

Date: March 13, 1989

NASA ID: STS029-71-000AE, STS029-71-026, STS029-78-019

[amazingarchitecturewebsite]

Milford Off-Grid House, #PrinceEdwardCounty, Canada by Solares Architecture @solaresarch. Read more: Link in bio! Photography: Nanne Springer @nannespringer. Solares Architecture: The Milford Off-Grid House sits lightly in the rural beauty of Prince Edward Country, at one with the surrounding pastures and woodlands. This is the weekend retreat of a professional couple from Toronto. They relish their fast-paced life in the city – where compact quarters suit their lifestyle – but dreamed of a spacious countryside refuge to which they could welcome their blended family and many friends, and completely unplug from urban living… #canada #ontario (at Prince Edward County, Ontario) https://www.instagram.com/p/CmUmGeuOaIa/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[themaresnest-dumblr]

The first real day of Spring

That moment you know Spring has officially arrived when every cat you encounter outside gives you the crab walk and the park is full of new Springer Spaniel owners, their faces a mask of terror as they realise with the first fraps of the new season how completely ill equipped they are physically and mentally to dealing with their new fun family pet with the solar powered batteries.

Clearly, they should have stuck to something a little less dangerous, like keeping nuclear weaponry in their back garden.

[lu-s-energy]

Australian off-grid project upgrade shows power of modern PV

Australian off-grid project upgrade shows power of modern PV An off-grid residential system on a secluded island in Australia has received a new tech upgrade. The additional capacity highlights the new era of off-grid living available to remote households in the country. The K’Gari home with its expanded rooftop PV system, featuring Trina Vertex modules Image: Springers Solar From pv magazine…

[tflegendarium]

How legendary! Arcee is?

The legend herself, Legendarium Arcee! this will be long so I'll do a read more.

In Legendarium Arcee is actually a professor of history and an archeologist. She specifically travels throughout the solar system and studies old ruins and areas linked to Cybertron's history and that of the Prime's Era is her specialty. This required her to minor in Religion and become a laymech in order to study this though, but she did.

She has a bit of a Indiana Jones reputation of fame as an explorer and adventurer which is entirely due to her need for funding. She met amateur historian and rich celebrity influencer Meteorfire and his Conjunx, Cosmos, when she'd lost her grant. Meteorfire does have a genuine interest and money and so he cut a deal with Arcee to fund her research and help "ease the way" with the Primacy. Arcee was the mentee of Glyph of Harmonex, who was declared a heretic after her publishing of The Legendarium, and barely survived being executed by the skin of her teeth and several friends within the Church speaking on her behalf.

Tap-Out, Glyph's Conjunc and Arcee's other mentor, spoke against Glyph (unbeknownst to Arcee) at her request and as part of a bargain to save Arcee. They have not spoken since.

Her name has been basically dirt since then and she has been struggling under the eye of Primal Auditor's reviewing her work and submissions on top of the university. Meteorfire had read her blog in which she wrote about history in a way the everyday person could understand and shared her work even when she got denied things and found her compelling.

Arcee signs a deal with him and becomes a celebrity making her own team and exploring the paths she'd charted for Quintus and the the other Prime's explorations off planet. She did this all on camera and submitted the work and had it approved. She inspired a new rush of historians and interest in history and the Primacy which Sentinel happily approved of and funded. The caveats though had Meteorfire as co-host though and he occasionally got them in trouble.

Arcee's show was called The Strange Worlds and was educational and factual and she enjoyed parts of it.

During one of these quests she finds something of Vector's and experiences visions of the potential futures and meets Blackarachnia early who is using the same item in the future to look into the Past. It's very inspired by the Library Episode of Dr. Who and introduction of River Song, so I won't say more.

Arcee and Blackarachnia interact a lot more later on and they do become a couple after/during the War Against Unicron.

Arcee, due to her popularity and reputation, was granted a Mentee, Gauge who she loves dearly and is very protective of. Gauge is from the same generation as Thunderclash and Hot Rod | Rodimus and is therefore the last of the pre-war generation.

Her team consisted of:

Meteorfire (Co-Host)

Reflector (Camera Man)

Cosmos (Translator and Director)

Astrotrain (Transport and General Help)

Grimlock or Springer (Bodyguard)(I am on the fence about Springer still)

Gauge (Arcee's Mentee)

[springersolar]

Why Australians Are Investing in Solar Batteries

Australians are increasingly purchasing solar batteries to avoid rising electricity costs, prepare for the EV revolution, achieve fairer energy economics, and ensure energy resilience during adverse weather. Solar batteries allow for energy independence, storing excess solar energy for later use. Additionally, integrating batteries at the initial installation phase avoids future retrofitting costs. Personal recommendations from friends and relatives further influence this trend, highlighting the financial and environmental benefits of solar battery systems.

For further details, visit the full article here http://www.springers.com.au/blog/solar-updates-1/why-are-people-buying-solar-batteries-in-australia-117

[euro-journal-english-news]

A dehydrated space-weathered skin cloaking the hydrated interior of Ryugu

A dehydrated space-weathered skin cloaking the hydrated interior of Ryugu

Pieters, C. M. & Noble, S. K. Space weathering on airless bodies. J. Geophys. Res. Planets 121, 1865–1884 (2016). Article  ADS  Google Scholar  Grier, J. A. & Rivkin, A. S. Airless Bodies of The Inner Solar System (Elsevier, 2019). Reams, D. V. Solar Energetic Particles 2nd edn (Springer, 2021). Grün, E., Zook, H. A., Fechtig, H. & Giese, R. H. Collisional balance of the meteoritic complex.…

[theinfamousdoctorf]

On the other hand though... Eclipse so just wanted a fresh start away from his Sun and Moon's troubles. Old Moon coming around to tell these new people how awful Eclipse is and how much everyone in his home dimension hates him? That's probably not great for his depression. And it feels like bullying AGAIN. Because AGAIN- Eclipse did barely anything bad himself. HE'S A CLONE. Eclipse may stink at making new friends; but Old Moon sabotaging him deliberately is not great. And doing it after he restored Solar and voluntarily fucked off someplace else? I wince. It's just mean. Old Moon is clearly depressed himself. Does it make him feel better to follow Eclipse and kick him some more? It's bad enough that Puppet keeps inviting Lunar to play with them for clickbait when she's clearly hoping they'll tear into one another Jerry Springer style. Lunar is just as bad as Old Moon. He can't shut up about how much he hates Eclipse and wants him to suffer.

I understand that he used the word "my" to refer to Moon of the Dimension he's in, but I can't help but feel like he sounded a bit like an aggressively possessive parent at that moment.

Like:

"Excuse me, what do you want from MY child?! I'm pretty sure I'm doing a great job raising him. So no, thank you, sir, and go fuck yourself."

[verratensduo]

{{Connie Springer}} @solar-pxwered​

Connie eyed the rock in his hand, then the hornet’s nest he had, indeed, been taking aim at. Maybe it was a foolish thing to do but the next was in such a frequently walked past spot that it might be dangerous of left undealt with! Perhaps….there was a better way.

“And I suppose you have a better idea, Jaeger the Genius?” he teased, good-naturedly as he tossed the rock to the side and back to the ground where it belonged.

It wasn’t that he enjoyed damaging the homes of living things, he always avoided stepping on ant hills if he could and the like, but these things were vicious and another story entirely!

~~~

Of course Eren could not offer a better alternative. He had to think for a moment on that. He chuckled awkwardly. “Not really, but if the goal is to not get anyone stung, that is the opposite of what you should do.” He sighed and then boom-a stroke of brilliance.

“Why don’t we ask Marco for advise? I heard Jinae is a farm district, he might know how to relocate these things without anyone being hurt.” That would hopefully work.

“If not, we can always ask instructor Shadis and he and the vets might take care of it. After we are all inside safely.”

[kimboltart]

AoT/Pokemon

Attack on Titan crossover with Pokemon, i wanted to draw the eevee evolution's and then the season 3 trailer came out so i decided to combine them. (note: there is No specific reason why  made them what they were my sibling just told me to doodle them as what they are).

do tell me which one’s your favorite and if you’d like to see more of this please send me a note.

(mikasa/espeon, eren/jolteon, armin/sylveon, jean/vaporeon, hange/flareon, levi/umbreon, krista/glaceon, sasha/leafeon, connie/eevee)

[silkling]

Falsely Accused: Freedom and Flight

Ten solar cycles had passed since Jazz brought Master Yoketron’s helmet to Ultra Magnus, and a lot had gone down in that time. In those solar cycles, the Magnus had had the old video files retrieved from the database and had them fully de-corrupted. What the fully restored footage had revealed had shaken the leader of the Autobots to the core.

The feed has shown that Lockdown had been the one to enter the Dojo first, many joors before Master Yoketron’s student had arrived, and when he’d left he was dinged up and injured and covered in energon, not all of it his own. It had shown him returning with more Decepticons and massive storage containers, and they’d filled the containers with the protoforms and left. Then, about three joors later, the black and gold mech had arrived. Barely a full two breems had passed before Springer, Axe, and Dai Atlas had rushed into the Dojo as well. And everyone knew the story from that point onwards.

The new footage had been disseminated among Autobot High Command, and then two orns ago his former Master’s final student had been cleared of all charges. These last two orns had been spent getting the paperwork with Trypticon settled. Now, Jazz was on his way to bring the wrongly convicted Praxian out of his prison. Autobot High Command had organized a hotel room for him until they could get him moved into a more permanent residence. They’d also organized for a medic to be brought to the hotel room to look over and treat any injuries he might have.

They intended to have a ceremony in two orns time, officially broadcast to all of Cybertron of course, to reinstate the young mech into the Autobot ranks and publicly return his Autobrand to him. The higher ups had already released an official statement to the public with the information that he’d been innocent all this time, and that they’d discovered the identity of the real criminal, and that they’d already began reparation efforts to fix their error in judgement.

Jazz thought they were being too political about it, really, but at the end of the day he’d offered to be the poor bot’s guide as he adjusted back to normal life. He thought having a fellow cyber-ninja, and one who’d never known him and thus never treated him harshly, might help him feel more at ease.

Jazz arrived at Trypticon and managed to gain entry without much trouble. He was led by a guard to one of the armored visiting rooms that usually never saw much use, and the door was unlocked to let him inside. He was expecting to see the lithe Praxian free of cuffs or shackles, maybe sipping at some decent energon and sitting on a chair. He wasn’t expecting to see the mech sitting with stasis cuffs on his wrists, which were magnetized to the table, and individual cuffs around his ankles that kept his legs magnetized to the chair legs. He definitely wasn’t expecting the muzzle that was wrapped around his face, either.

For a moment, the sight was enough to freeze him in shock. He could tell with a single glance that the mega-cycles hadn’t been kind to him. His paint, which was supposed to be black and gold, was scraped and dull. The previously flawless black was faded and lifeless, and the once brilliant gold was practically a muddy, dirtied yellow with how bad off he was. Frag, the mech would need a good detailing before the presentation High Command had planned. It certainly didn’t help that the poor bot’s armor was dented and scratched. The Praxian’s doorwings, which every bot on Cybertron knew how sensitive those were, had scratches and scuffs all over them, and he was holding them low and tight to his back.

Those observations took only a sparkbeat, and then Jazz was letting loose a furious snarl of his engine. He felt regret stab him when it made the mech twitch back, his armor clamping as close and tight as he could make it. Jazz forced his field to settle, starting to approach the bot on his right side. He noticed as he did, he twisted and got even tenser, trying to turn his helm to look Jazz head on at all times, almost like Jazz was walking into a blind spot. But that wasn’t right, so he pushed it aside for now.

“Easy, Prowl.” he said. He didn’t like the way the mech’s doorwings jerked up and flared wide at the sound of his name, before clamping back down and lower. If possible, he looked even more wary and uneasy now. “Easy.” he repeated. “I’m not here to hurt you, mech. Didn’t the guards tell you? High Command came into evidence of your innocence. I’m here to let you out. There’s a room at a hotel waitin’ for you.” he explained, crouching to get rid of the ankle cuffs. He ignored the sharp jerk Prowl gave when he ducked out of sight, undoing the cuffs quickly then standing and freeing his hands.

Immediately, Prowl lifted a hand to rip the muzzle off, making a sharp, panicked noise when it wouldn’t come free. Jazz frowned, then reached up to do it himself. The release lock was coded so the wearer couldn’t take it off. He’d have to be the one to do it. He ignored the violent flinch from Prowl, trying to project something calm and soothing into his field.

“Easy.” he said softly. “I gotcha, mech.” His fingers dug into the release patch, and the muzzle dropped to the table. “There.”

Prowl was quiet for a moment, his form tense and his field held just as tight and close as his armor was. Then he slowly shifted away, slipping from the chair and standing. He turned to face Jazz, and the saboteur noted distantly that the younger cyber-ninja made sure to keep the right side of his face carefully tilted away from him.

“What do you mean?” When Prowl spoke, his voice was rough and staticky. It spoke of disuse. Jazz quickly realized he was asking about what he’d told him.

“You’re free, now, Prowl.” he said gently. “You’ve been cleared of all charges. We found the evidence that suggested you weren’t at fault on a bounty hunter’s ship and High Command used old records to confirm it. I’m here to bring you to a hotel. Once you’re there, I’ll bring a medic to your room to look you over. High Command want to have a ceremony to reinstate you and begin making reparations.” he explained.

Prowl’s doorwings, still held tight and low against his spinal strut, quivered. “….I can leave?”

“Yeah.” Jazz gave his best friendly grin. “I’ll be your guide until you can stand on your own two pedes again. For now, let’s just get you to a your hotel, alright?” He wanted to question the guards as to why Prowl had been shackled and muzzled upon his entry, but he could take care of that later. Right now, his priority was to get the mech out of here. There was no doubt he didn’t have good memories of the prison.

Prowl seemed to hesitate, but then he nodded slowly. “…fine.”

“Good mech.” Jazz said cheerily.

He moved up to step by Prowl’s right, frowning as the bot flinched and shifted until Jazz was at his left side instead. Something wasn’t right with that, and all the other little things that suggested Prowl’s vision wasn’t what it should be, but that could be handled later. He didn’t say anything, instead smiling and nodding his head in a gesture for the mech to follow him. He started walking, hearing quiet pedefalls behind him.

Neither mech said anything as they left the visitation room, nor was anything said as they left Trypticon itself. As they stepped past the boundary line of the prison, the quiet steps behind him stopped and Jazz turned to see what was wrong. Prowl was still, his doorwings held up and wide, quivering madly as he turned his face to the sky. Oh. That was right. Trypticon didn’t have windows, not for the prisoners, at any rate. Prowl wouldn’t have seen the sky since he’d entered the prison. Jazz felt his spark ache in sympathy, turning to watch as Prowl tilted his face up and seemed to just soak in Hadean’s warmth. He hated himself for having to disturb the mech, but they needed to get going.

“Prowl.” he said gently. “We gotta get, mech. Your room has a balcony. You can enjoy the sky from there, yeah?”

Prowl startled, then stared at him for a long moment before his armor and doorwings clamped tight against his frame and he nodded. Jazz sighed, then moved off and heard the quiet mech follow.

“You never told me your name.” Prowl sounded tired and worn, but also nervous and wary. Maybe he still didn’t believe this wasn’t all a trick.

“I’m Jazz. I was Master Yoketron’s student before you.” he said quietly. He forced himself to ignore the flinch from the bot, the way he looked away and didn’t say anything. Ah, slag. He should’ve waited before revealing that.

Jazz respected his unspoken wish and didn’t push. They didn’t talk further until they’d eventually got to the hotel room, where Prowl moved to the middle of the room and looked around. Jazz pulled a pouch of snanix from his subspace, setting it on the table.

“This is for you. High Command wants you to have it. It’s some of what was taken from your personal account. We’re working on getting everything back fo you.” he said, shifting awkwardly. At the mech’s silent staring, Jazz fidgeted further. “I’m going to go grab that medic I promised you.” he said brightly, then turned and quickly left. He hoped some time alone would help Prowl settle.

When Jazz returned a groon later, it was with a cranky red and white medic at his heels and a sense of anxiety in his spark. He opened the door to the hotel room, about to call a greeting, when his voice died in his throat.

Prowl was gone. The shanix was as well, and the mesh blanket from the berth was also missing. Prowl, by the looks of things, had taken both things and just disappeared.

And Jazz…couldn’t bring himself to blame him. Not after what had been done to him. He just hoped Prowl was alright, wherever he’d fled to. His only real lament was-

‘Ah, Pit. This is going to be hard to explain to High Command.’

——————————

Prowl had only waited about a breem after Jazz left before making his escape. He’d snatched the mesh blanket from the berth, fashioning it into a makeshift cloak, and the grabbed the pouch of shanix from the table. His subspace had been locked after his arrest, and hadn’t yet been unlocked, but he knew how to hide items without using his subspace. He tucked the pouch away, and then used the balcony to leave.

He had to get off Cybertron. He just had to. He had too many memories here, and he didn’t even know if he wanted to be reinstated. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t want it. He remembered the cruelty of the Autobots who were supposed to have been his allies, and how the only ones to offer any degree of decency had been his fellow prisoners, had been Decepticons. He wasn’t going to join the Decepticons, but…he couldn’t become an Autobot again. Not after that.

So he fled. After leaving the hotel, his first stop was to the space docks. He’d lived on the streets before the Dojo, so he knew to go to the seedier parts of the docks for what he was after. There, he found it. A mech was going off world with a shipment for Velocitron. It only took a few shanix to get himself a ride. He settled in the cargo hold, drifting into a meditative state for the trip. He was jolted out of it when the ship landed, and he slipped from the vessel without a sound.

He didn’t even leave the space docks. He did the same thing, going to the seedier parts of the docks, and buying himself passage on a ship headed out of the star system. It was still going to Autobot controlled space, but he’d be out of the home system. When he arrived at the new planet, he once again moved to the seedier docks without even trying to head to the planet proper. If he bought passage from the decent part of the docks, he risked his travels being documented. Like this, he could buy his passage and do so in a way that ensured he’d stay off any ship manifests or registries. He wouldn’t be tracked.

On the new planet, an outpost called Sigma-35, he bought himself a trip out of Autobot controlled space to a Neutral outpost called Epsilon-8. From there, he bought himself one more voyage, this time taking the ship of a organic crew from a species who lived in this system, and they took him several systems over. They left him on a planet with no official Cybertronian allegiances or strongholds, and that was when he finally allowed himself to relax.

This planet, he’d been told, was called Ortheax. It was a port planet, meaning it wasn’t inhabited and was used for ships from all species to dock and refuel and resupply for their journeys. The only rule was that there was no fighting in the Port proper. Outside the main hub, however, was a vast expanse of unmapped wilderness. Since everyone stuck to the port, no one had ever cared to map or chart the wilds of the planet. That was where Prowl went. He wouldn’t stay on this planet forever, but it would give him a place to lay low and recover, get back some strength. He’d move on once his frame had healed some.

That night cycle, he settled in a cave as far from the port as he’d been able to get. His rest was fitful. His recharge, when he managed to get it, was plagued with memories. When he wasn’t able to fall asleep, he made sure to keep the mouth of the cave to his left or in front of him. It was too easy for something to sneak up on him from his right. He would have to learn to compensate for that. But first, he had to recover.

When the sun rose the next orn, Prowl left the cave. He knew this planet had natural energon crystals, so those would do as a fuel source until he could find better. His goal now, however, was to find some sort of body of liquid so he could clean his armor off.

He wandered until he came to a cliff, where he sat on the edge to take a break. His body was exhausted, not used to so much activity after so many mega-cycles in Trypticon. He sat under the warmth of the sun, his doorwings relaxing at his back as he soaked in as much heat as he could. This was nice, it was peaceful.

And then the peace was broken. There was a roar behind him, and he leapt to his pedes and whirled around, coming face to face with a charging organic beast. He almost stepped back before remembering he had nowhere to go. He was about to panic, when roaring engines stole his attention.

Suddenly, from his right, a sleek race car slid in. It unfolded into a sleek white mech wielding a sword, standing between the beast and Prowl. And then a white jet dived down from above, transforming into another sword-wielding mech, and landed on top of the beast. The sword was driven through its skull, and it crashed and slid to a stop at the first mech’s pedes.

The racer sheathed his blade, and the jet hopped off the beast, putting his own sword away as he walked up to Prowl. The unknown car bot turned to face him, standing just behind and to the right of the jet.

Prowl felt fear seize his spark. Had Cybertron sent them? How had they found him so quickly? Something must have shown on his face, even despite the visor, because the jet was quick to lift his hands.

“Easy there, little one.” he said, his voice soothing. “We aren’t going to hurt you. We were only after the beast. It went mad about an orn ago and was heading towards the port. We wanted to stop it before it could get there. I’m sorry we accidentally drove it towards you.”

Prowl calmed as he realized they weren’t here for him. “…it’s fine.” he said after a moment. At his back, his doorwings relaxed from where they had hiked up high and tight against his back.

The jet smiled. “I didn’t expect to see another Cybertronian out here. You look like you’ve had it rough, how long have you been out in these wilds alone?”

“Not long.” Prowl answered slowly. “I got here last orn. I thought it would be a good place to get away, and get some peace.” he said carefully.

The jet hummed, a look of concern in his optics. “Then how did one so young get such damage?” he asked. Prowl tensed. At the jet’s side, the racer reset his vocalizer discreetly. The jet startled, shooting the mech wide-opticed look before he seemed to realize what he’d said. “Oh my, I apologize. I shouldn’t pry.”

“It’s fine.” Prowl said again, hesitating for a moment. He shifted awkwardly, his posture tense and drawn in.

“Ah, but how rude of me! I should introduce myself and my companion before I ask so many questions!” The jet gave him another warm grin, gesturing first at himself, then at the racer. “I’m a cyber-ninja Master. My name is Wing, and this is my student, Drift.”