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keferon · 2 months ago

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Ahhhhhhhhh! The TF mecha Deadlock and human Ratchet drawing! I just saw it before sending this. His squishy! But yeeee! Continuing from the last one I wrote. Just pulled ideas from other posts you and others have done in this TF mecha universe. This is fun! :P

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Ratchet's living quarters is much like the hanger where his lab is. An open area with some dividers up to make separate rooms. Scaffolding and catwalks line the wall and stairs are at each corner of the hanger. The interior is smaller when compared to the lab but the ceiling is much taller, allowing Deadlock the ability to sit up right comfortably. It looks like a little maze to Deadlock who can look down from above. Out of the five rooms in this hanger turned living quarters, Deadlock can't see into three of them. Ratchet's berthroom, the kitchen, and washrack all have ceilings to them. Ratchet's office is connected to the sitting area. Being the largest area in the hanger Deadlock has taken over the sitting area to recharge and heal in. Being the Chief Engineer no one has questioned Ratchet for having Deadlock in his hanger because Ratchet always takes work home with him. Also don't question Ratchet.

A click from the main entrance door has Deadlock stir from his recharge. Old instincts and habits have made him a light recharger. He opens one optic, a red glow fills the room. Blinding bright and staticky at first but dims and clears as his visual boots up. He see Ratchet opening the tiny entryway to slip out. He rumbles knowing it is way to early for Ratchet to head back to his lab. Ratchet had maybe, at most, gotten two hours of recharge. Deadlock gives a rumble/grunt again, this time it sounds more like a wheeze as he starts to shift to grab his little squishy who has already opened the door and stepped half way out. He is using the door to make himself unsnatchable not without breaking the thin metal.

Number one rule while in Ratchet's domain: Don't break Ratchet's things, he NEEDS them. The objects Ratchet chuck do not/can not hurt him. The disappointment and tired frustration however does hit something deep in his war worn spark. "Power back down kid. Just leaving for an emergency meeting. When I get back I'll check your intakes and engine. It's rattling and straining hard again." Ratchet says in a deep rougher voice used only when he wakes from recharge. The door click behind the human not giving him time to reply in his drowsy state. He rubs his fresh welded wounds and with a unhappy grunt curls loosely back around what Ratchet calls a lazy-e-boy chair and entertainment center.

ALL DAY! All day Ratchet has been gone. Deadlock should be use to Ratchet's long work days. But Ratchet didn't fuel before he left, he hasn't recharged in a long while. Two hours is not a recharge. Not for him, not for Ratchet. He is worried, it oozes out and around him from his EM Field like a shadowy murky cloak. His audial fins are pinned down and back as far as they can go. Ratchet looks so worn down. Overworked and shoulders heavy with responsibly the Cybertonian knows the bioengineer should not have to bare. The tv is on to use as a distraction but it no more then background noise as his proccesor runs through scenarios of what could be keeping Ratchet this time.

The door lock clicks and Deadlock instantly perks up. His EM Field fizzles away from gloomy to a more warm and bright mood. "Ratch-" He stops immediately when Ratchet comes through the door. Deadlock rakes his claws into the concrete floor and his field starts boiling with the energon in his lines. Ratchet is bruised and bleeding. The humans forehelm and knuckes are covered with fresh and dried blood. His glare intensifies as Ratchet closes the door and slumps against it with a grumble. Ratchet grunts as he takes off his shoes and dirty jacket. Deadlock's helm is filled with static and his spark heavy and spinning way to fast. He can taste energon on his glossa thanks to his fangs. Rage is not what is taking over his sensors and proccesor. Something more like a deeply rooted need, something instinctually feral burns hot in his frame. "WHO'D DARE-" Ratchet holds up a hand and makes a hushing noise, Deadlock snarls engine rattling harder to keep up with his burst of energy and restrained energon lust. His limbs shaking with just as much restraint. The only thing keeping him from ripping the hanger down is Ratchet's hunched form at the entry way. When Ratchet looks up at Deadlock his jaw snaps shut, denta slamming hard against each other with a harsh clank. The fragger looks amused! Tired, frustrated, and hurting but Deadlock knows that look. Those lips are ever so slightly turned up into an amused smirk, "R a t c h e t." Deadlock hisses out passed his denta audial fins pinned back.

"Relax, before you blow a fuse. You should see the other guy. These are just scratches Drift." The fragger chuckles wiping some blood from his lip with his thumb. That does something to Deadlock that he will not acknowledge right now. His spark flutters and pulses harder, EM Field a confusing mix of emotions that Ratchet can't feel, "I had a disagreement with some of the others in command while another sister base visited. I am fine. Been in more then one scrapping in my time." Ratchet hums as he limps into his office, Deadlock claws at the floor again. "I did not party and study my whole younger life away just to get my PhD in biomedical engineering and be told how to do my job. I may have got a tad heated." He chuckles again at Deadlocks snort/huff.

Deadlock relaxes slightly as Ratchet pulls out a medical kit. His systems are running hot and HUB flashing warnings at him do as Ratchet suggested. He relaxes slightly and presses his servo against his helm. "Frag doc starting fights for a disagreement?" He rasps out watching Ratchet closely while he steadies his intakes. The human carefully works on cleaning the blood stained knuckles, Deadlock takes some pleaser in knowing all that blood is not just Ratchet's. "You're just as much of a hot menace as me."

"For you." Ratchet mumbles as he gently rubs ointment on the cuts. "They wanted me to turn you over to the field officer. Told them that you are still a work in progress that needs more time. That you came to my lab mmm.." Ratchet realizes it's the next day, a whole day wasted arguing in a concert room with metal chairs. With stuck up, pathetic excesses for- "Two days ago now.. said I activated some guardian protocal that day by accident which what brought you looking for me. They think you are imprinted on me. Something like that." Ratchet winces as he wraps his most bruised and swollen hand. A whine leaves Deadlock's stuttering engine, the tip of his pointer digit's claw has been hovers over Ratchet's helm as the doc talked, "What is it Drift?" Ratchet pauses from reaching for the alcohol soaked cotten ball. He looking up into overly bright, almost white with worry optics. Ratchet's optics dart around looking over Deadlock's form and healing welds.

Deadlock wants to huff, to roll his optics at the bioengineer's worry for him. But he can't stop his spark and fuel tanks from turning while he watches the red liquid drip down Ratchet's forehelm and optic ridge. "I... can't help you. You are hurt.. cause of me... and I can only watch you patch yourself up." He admits dimming his optics and looking down. All of this because he got impatient and hunted down his squishy to get him to recharge for once.

Ratchet's optics soften slightly. He shuts the kit with a sharp snap and huffs as he straightens from being hunched over. "Hand down please." Deadlock's audial fins perk up at the request. He carefully and gently, as gently as he can, places two digits into the office room. He lifts Ratchet up slowly once the small being had found a good spot to sit on his servo. He doesn't want to risk even the slightest breeze to brush against the bruised and cut flesh. He makes certain his servo is locked so it doesn't twitch on them. "This is high enough. Stay still." Deadlock is about to scold him when he thinks Ratchet is going to check the welds on his chassis. Instead Ratchet pops the kit back open and works on himself. Deadlock's vocal box clicks a few times as he tries to comprehend what his squishy is doing. His spark flutters with his EM Field when he realizes Ratchet is using his metal plating like a mirror. Ratchet dabs the cotton ball on the cut above his left optic ridge. "Didn't feel like going all the way to the bathroom. So thanks kid."

Deadlock purrs and almost melts from the thanks. Yes he will happily be a mirror. "Clever thing to do doc. Have those idiots thinking I am loyal and protective to only you will mean I can follow you around more. I am content being imprinted on you. Just tell them you can't undo it doc and if they touch you ever again I will pluck their little tiny servos off and feed it to them." He rumbles in a flat tone towards the end. He rolls his optics at the small ping from Ratchet flicking his chassis, "You may start a fight doc but know I will finish it."

"Didn't really start it either kid." Ratchet sighs looking at his reflection with a solemn expression before going back to dabbing the cotten ball harder against the cut, "Wasn't just about you Drift. They wanted.... they want..." Deadlock wants to curl around Ratchet the tone he is using now sounds like defeat, that's not his Ratchet. Deadlock lifts his free servo and retracts a claw so he can rub Ratchet's back as best he can to comfort him. "I can't." Ratchet rasps placing his forehelm against Deadlock chassis. Deadlock's engine settles to a purr Cybertonians use to sooth each other. It seems to work. Ratchet's shoulders relax and he seems to be getting his thoughts together. Deadlock stays silent and even if he doesn't need to keeps his EM Field in check. He only giving off support, warmth and calm, "It's inhumane, evil... Tourture... It would break down to much of the muscles and cells of the body. The hippocampus, the cerebral cortex, and the frontal lobe... that much damage to the brain would... I can't do what they want me to. Not to anyone Drift. Not what they ask. I can't. To adults, to teenagers, To Children. Young kids not knowing what they have signed up for. Never told. No choice. No way in hell could I ever-"

The strain and deep pain in Ratchet's voice is killing Deadlock. Deadlock can feel the trembling coming from Ratchet as the human catches his breath. He keeps a steady presser against Ratchet's back for support as he moves him up. He ignores the small gasp from Ratchet when he presses Ratchet to his cheek gently. Warm smooth metal touched warm soft skin, "Never. Never will you do what anyone demands of you. They can not make you harm anyone. You have never done anything you didn't want to and you won't start now. You are to much for them to try to control. My little squishy scraplet. I will kill them if they try. You have my glyphic, honor, and spark on this." Deadlock pulls back feeling something wet on his faceplate. Before Deadlock can get a good look at Ratchet's face, the bioengineer is shakily wiping his optics in a rushed motion aggravating the wound on his forehelm making it bead up with fresh blood, "Woah easy doc!" Ratchet bats his digit away when he tries to stop him.

"Stupidly cocky little shit! Lets get you feeling better before you try taking on a whole mecha filled base for me!" Ratchet laughs and smacks the digit still pressed against his back. That laugh does something to Deadlock's systems and spark, "We'll need to discuss a plan. I don't ever do anything half ass. I will not go into anything blind. But you are right, this is not the place for me to be anymore. Sad really. I was doing a lot of good here, made things safer for our pilots. Slowly sure but less were dying... so horridly all the time." Ratchet mumbles the last bit under his breath before shaking his helm. Deadlock likes the smirk that comes back to Ratchet's lips, "Now lay down so I can check that engine. You are starting to sound like a shitty abandoned junker car. Think you knock something out of place."

Deadlock matches Ratchet's smirk with a slag eating grin as he lifts the human a tad higher to press his forehelm against Ratchet's. He feels Ratchet pulls back after a moment, a stuttering raspy purr rumbles pleasantly through him when Ratchet places his servo against his forehelm and rubs. Yeah he does sound like slag and his HUB is flashing warnings, "What ever you say Doc. I am your guardian knight after all. You just tell me when to start swinging." He hums as he shifts to lay down.

Y O U. YOU JUST WROTE THIS ABSOLUTE MASTERPIECE OF A FIC??? AND I DONT EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME?? WHOEVER YOU ARE, ANON, I LOVE YOU I LOVE YOU SO MUCH NGKGKFGBFHGH YOUR WRITING DOES THINGS TO MY BRAI N

Also. Al s o. I just realized. Oh my god.

We have two Cybertronians on Earth at the moment right. Prowl and Deadlock. But Prowl is very much restricted in his actions because he has strong moral codex and also he's not a very good fighter (at least on his own).

But then we also have Deadlock. And the only thing keeping Deadlock in check is. Ratchet.

Like. Oh fuck just imagine. He isn't restricted by any moral implications except Ratchets opinion. He doesn't really give a fuck about other organic life or laws of Earth or anything. He is also a really fucking good fighter. He doesn't commit murder because that would disappoint Ratchet, but if. IF. Something happens to Ratchet?

THE HELL he would unleash would be visible from outer space.

Him being so sweet and caring and protective over Ratchet doesn't mean he behaves like this with everyone. Him being protective over Ratchet means that if anything takes Ratchet from him, he'll drown himself in blood. He'll burn, claw, gnaw, punch and tear his way back to his human.

All so he can be nice and sweet and caring again right afterward:)

#tf mecha universe #ratchlock #ratchet #deadlock #omg can you imagine #Prowl waking up in Ratchets garage (after he was saved from mecha program) and the first thing he sees is the fuckin Decepticon high comman #Idk I just think it's so funny #like you know when you visit someone's house for the first time and find out they have a giant guard dog that looks like satan himself?#and the person you visiting is like. Don't worry I promise he's a good boy and doesn't bite #but then you look at the dog #and it's clearly trying to choose which one of your internals to make external first #yeah .#same vibe haha

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vexwerewolf · 1 year ago

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Showrooms of LANCER Manufacturers

IPS-N

IPS-N showrooms are what you'd get if you slammed a truck dealership, a hardware store, a camping gear shop and a sports bar together in the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid. We're talking row upon row of shelves stocked with the most precision-engineered engine parts you can print on one side of the floor, and on the other, durable, hard-wearing survival gear. Camping stoves you can run off of your mech's coldcore, sleeping bags that'll survive a HEX charge, automatic camo cloth, the works.

Right down the middle, you've got the mech floor. They've got the Tortuga. They've got the Blackbeard. They've got the Drake. They've got the Lancaster and the Kidd. They've got the Vlad (they put a chain-link fence covered in DO NOT TOUCH signs around that one after the infamous CFO's 10-year-old Incident). They've even got the Raleigh, kinda tucked away a little bit behind the water feature, but it's there!

Everything on the shop floor is ruggedized to the point that you could take a mech's fist to it without leaving a dent - and they sometimes do that to demonstrate the engineering quality. There's a giant screen hanging from the ceiling displaying constant advertising for the mechs and IPS-N in general, usually striding purposefully through idyllic Diasporan wilderness or doing hard, honest work like starship loading or construction. There's a mixtape of the most famous bro-country hits playing 24/7.

Smith-Shimano Corpro

In a word: bespoke. Everything in this place is custom. Each and every desk is individually built according to the height of the salesperson who sits behind it, and manages to be a unique art piece without disrupting the overarching aesthetic of the showroom. Whenever there's a change of staff on the sales floor, they rearrange every single desk so that they're still in ascending order.

All of the salespeople are inhumanly pretty, by the way. This atelier has its own fully-staffed makeup and wardrobe team. You're part of a work of art when you work for SSC. Everything and everyone gleams. Even the most chic visitors might feel underdressed in the midst of all this splendour.

The mechs aren't just there to be sold, they're there to be part of the experience. You might see a Monarch holding up the ceiling like the titan Atlas himself. A Mourning Cloak might be posed provocatively like a nude statue. That Swallowtail - is it in a slightly different position every time you see it, or is that just its camouflage decals? How does it always manage to be just inside your line of sight, even when you're looking somewhere else?

They have a catwalk, like you'd see at a fashion show, but it's sized for mechs. If they really think you might make a purchase, they'll queue up the entire performance for you, and you'll get to see a Viceroy strut.

The mix tape for this showroom is a seamless mixture of complex jazz, psychedelic ambient and classical piano music. It's sophisticated and mysterious.

Harrison Armory

Imagine if America could be a showroom. Harrison Armory mech outlets are part dealership, part museum. Every mech is in its own diorama, depicting some heroic event in the Armory's glorious history. A phalanx of Sherman Mk. Is holds the line against some Diasporan slaver-tyrant's army. A Saladin fends off Karrakin hordes during the Interest War. The Genghis Mk. II? Oh, that diorama isn't open right now, it had to be closed for *coughcoughcough* and *coughcoughcough* but let's move on shall we heh heh

Everyone who works here has been in the Colonial Legion at some point, and knows every specification of the mechs they sell off by heart without even looking at their slate. If possible, the Armory tries to employ people who have actual combat experience with the mechs they're selling; people who can speak to the efficacy of their technology first-hand. It's one of the many programs which the Armory has open for retired veterans; it's easy work for decent pay, good benefits and it looks great on your Social.

The music here is a constant loop of patriotic Armory anthems. If you've ever heard the music from Starship Troopers, or the Outbreak of War from Star Ocean, you'll know what I'm talking about.

HORUS

Being a decentralized omninet collective with no official branding or even consistent manufacturing standards, it should come as no surprise that HORUS has no showrooms.

ERR:CONNECTION_INTERRUPT

CartesianWhisper: P55555t CartesianWhisper: Ignore that 5hithead CartesianWhisper: They don't have any idea what they're talking about CartesianWhisper: You want a mech, kid? CartesianWhisper: And I'm not talking the tra5h the Purv5 try to 5ell you CartesianWhisper: Or that overpriced garbage 55C want5 you to mortgage your genetic5 for CartesianWhisper: Or the macho trucker bull5hit IP5-N i5 trying to hawk CartesianWhisper: I'm talking about the REAL DEAL CartesianWhisper: The PROPER 5TUFF CartesianWhisper: Log on to rgx0582.node-7.c4l.omni CartesianWhisper: I'll 5how you what true power mean5 >:]

#lancer #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer-rpg #mecha #ttrpg #mech

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watarfallar · 6 days ago

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Still got the brain worms

Grian: Are you good? Scar: In what sense? Grian: Generally. Scar: Oh, definitely not.

Scar: Wait you like me? For my personality? Grian: I know, I was surprised too.

Grian: I'm not mean. Name one mean thing I’ve ever done. Scar: When we were younger, you convinced me eggs weren't real. Grian: They're not. Scar: Haha, very funny. Grian: I'm serious. Didn't you hear? Scar: No… what happened? Grian: …Why would you fall for this again-

Grian: Why are you on fire? Scar: This is just how my day is going.

Grian: DID YOU REALLY THINK THAT JOKE WAS FUNNY? IT WASNT. NOBODY IS LAUGHING. Grian: pulls up a graph THIS IS WHEN YOU TOLD YOUR JOKE, YOU HAVE SINGLE HANDEDLY RUINED COMEDY! IVE ALSO ASKED MANY COMEDY SCHOLARS ON THEIR OPINION OF YOUR JOKE AND THIS IS WHAT THEY HAD TO SAY! Scar: I've been researching comedy for the past 20 years, and I have genuinely never seen a joke this bad. We have used quantum physics to look into alternate universes to see every joke made, and yours was still by far the worst. Grian: CONGRATULATIONS! YOUVE SINGLE HANDEDLY CREATED THE WORST JOKE IN HUMAN HISTORY! HERES A MEDAL! pulls up a horrible ms paint drawn star that says "you need help

Grian: I believe in you, Scar! Scar, to themself: God, I must suck. The nicest thing Grian can think to say to me is that they don’t doubt my existence.

Grian: Last night, I had a dream about sandwich pizza. Scar: What? Grian: It was pizza with bread on the top and the bottom. Scar: So a calzone? Grian: You can’t just name things I dream up.

Scar: Good morning! Grian: Is it? Is it really?

Scar: Grian just said "I have an appetite for destruction" and then they reached down and untied my shoe.

Grian: But that’s censorship. Scar: Well done. You are correct. You’re being censored. Now go.

Scar: So I was just having a conversation with Grian about Star Wars; particularly, about the choice of architecture. The amount of people who die from falling down bottomless pits is TOO DAMN HIGH! Like, who designs architecture like this? Catwalks with no guard rails whatsoever, just zigging and zagging through enormous voids. Giant holes to nowhere! Grian: It's by design. It's a cleaner look, for a more elegant time. Scar: Like… who the fuck put this hole here???? And why???? Grian: Exhaust? Scar: Darth Maul falls down a hole, Palpatine falls down a hole, Solo falls down a hole, everyone falls down a hole! Star Wars universe needs OSHA. Grian: Luke falls down a hole, Boba Fett falls down a hole… Scar: Yes, yes, I forgot about those! R2-D2 falls down a hole in the Millenium Falcon after he fixes the hyperdrive. Grian: We're onto something here! Scar: Obi-Wan almost falls down a hole. Grian: C-3PO falls off the barge into the sand. Pretty close to falling down a hole. Scar: His lightsaber does though. Grian thinks hard about what other Star Wars Characters fall down holes Scar: What if the hole is symbolic? The hole represents the dark side. Grian: Nah, doesn't work. Luke chooses to fall down the hole instead of joining Vader/The Dark Side. Scar: Fair point.

Grian: How long do you think it'll take? Scar: I don’t know, three or four. Grian: Three or four what? Days? Weeks? Months? Scar: Yeah, maybe five. Grian: Five what?!

Scar: Ah shit, I forgot. Grian: Forgot what? Scar: How do you expect me to answer that?

Scar: Why do you think I don’t like you? I do. I would kill for you. Scar: Ask me to kill for you. Grian: …First of all, calm down-

Grian: Being half asleep and feeling someone gently plant a kiss on your forehead is one of the purest kinds of love in the world. Scar: Unless you're home alone.

Scar: My goal is not to be the best, but to inspire someone enough to one day surpass me. Grian: YOU CAN'T JUST SAY THAT EVERY TIME YOU BEAT ME AT CONNECT FOUR!

Grian: Act natural. Scar: For this kind of situation, the most natural thing would be to panic, so technically I can panic. Grian: NO, that’s not what I meant! Act like it’s a normal day! Scar: My ‘normal’ days of late, consist of a lot of panic. Grian: Will you just cooperate? Scar: When a person is panicking, they are not apt to cooperate very well!

Scar: venting endlessly to Grian about their week Grian, every once in a while: in a monotone Wow, that is so wild.

Grian: A banker? Me? Scar: Yes, Grian. Grian: But I don’t know anything about running a bank! Scar: Good. No preconceived ideas. Grian: I’ve robbed banks! Scar: Capital! Just reverse your thinking. The money should be on the inside.

At the police station Scar: Hi, I’m here for Grian. Police officer: Who’s Grian? Scar: Ah, you must be new.

#grian #gtws #incorrect quotes #desert duo #scarian #enjoy💜💜💜

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magicandmundane · 6 months ago

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Friendly reminder that the first time we see Hunter’s and Crosshair’s faces they’re in the same frame and they’re the only ones in said frame

#feels significant #i’m fucking screaming btw #the little details you pick up on rewatches are ABSURD #they really are meant to be a duo in more ways than one #star wars #the bad batch #the clone wars #tbb hunter #tbb crosshair #hunter and crosshair #something something standoff on kamino vs tantiss catwalk scene

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lothalnyx · 5 months ago

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Reasons for why Kanan Jarrus/Caleb Dume and Flynn Rider/Eugene Fitzherbert are one and the same.

they're both brown haired men with goatees and a nose that's hard to get right (kanan's nose is hard for me to draw ok)

Both changed their names and their true loves were the first to know their true birth names

Kanan: Flynn: Caleb Eugene

Kanan and Eugene were alone at a young age Kanan: Eugene: order 66 orphan

after they became these cocky scoundrels and ladies men (idk about eugene i think they implied it??)

they both met and fell in love with 18 yr old women with beautiful voices and green eyes

said women did not take any of their “charm”

ahem

Kanan and Eugene were hopelessly in love with them while Hera/Rapunzel took more time Hera - rebels s4 says it all Rapunzel - Eugene asking to marry her a bunch of times

These women were on a mission and Kanan (in A New Dawn) and Eugene were just along for the ride (oh but it became more)

Hera: Rapunzel: Empire stuff lanterns

Hera and Rapunzel are both optimistic and able to see the good in others

Kanan and Eugene both left their previous ways of life to be with these women

Kanan and Eugene went on a lil adventure with Hera/Rapunzel after meeting them!

They both revealed something about themselves to Hera/Rapunzel in times of peril

Kanan - being a jedi, stopping falling catwalk front crushing Hera Eugene - his real name, when the cave was filling up with water

Kanan and Eugene both come to rescue Hera/Rapunzel when they were kidnapped and proceeded to die/almost die (close enough) oh if only Hera had magic tears

Kanan Jarrus and Eugene Fitzherbert were lost for a long time, and then they found something and someone to live for

the only difference between these two is that Kanan and Hera didn't kiss after their adventure in A New Dawn like Eugene and Rapunzel and Kanan is in Star Wars so naturally he died before he and Hera could have the happily ever after Eugene got

#i recently rewatched tangled so #tangled gives such kanera vibes #kanan jarrus #caleb dume #hera syndulla #kanera #kanan x hera #star wars #star wars rebels #flynn rider #eugene fitzherbert #rapunzel #eugenzel #rapunzel x flynn #rapunzel x eugene #tangled

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slocumjoe · 7 months ago

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in other news, is there any romance quite as frustrating and stupid as danse x sole, when you look at it from. Any other companions point of view.

Preston Garvey has his whole world chewed up and spat out at his feet. Everyone he knew and loved is dead. Maybe he had a best friend, a lover, a brother or sister in the Minutemen. Maybe they were a civilian in Quincy. It doesn't matter anymore. This guy who's given you this second chance, you go with him to try and redeem yourself.

You are Preston Garvey, the last original Minuteman. You are tired, down in your bones, but you follow this stranger in a strange land across what you call home. While you're both picking through the ruins of Lexington, finding the corpses of the last of your friends, their pipboy gets a signal. A call for help.

You go to Cambridge. You help a dude in power armor gun down some ferals. As you reload your musket, dust yourself off, you look up as the big guy starts talking to your pal. And you can hear the white noise behind their eyes. You blink as they agree without question or hesistancy to do anything this dude needs. They're pretty nice, they're a good person, but usually you're not worried about if they're using their brain or not. Now, you're kinda worried. So you follow your buddy and Paladin Danse (What kind of name...) to some space station or whatever, watch them cook the man alive after some button mashing gone wrong, and then he can barely offer them a place in the Brotherhood before they're verbally signing their life away.

You are Preston Garvey. Your General has joined another, foreign army because this one guy, who had the charisma of a bag of corn nuts, asked. You are Preston Garvey. You are tired. Your general is now wearing a rival army's uniform because it makes that one guy happy. You want a nap so fucking bad.

You are Nick Valentine. You are a synth. You just helped this dude find out their baby is in the Institute. You walk out some security doors and see this big, hulking shadow in the sky, smothering the land from the sun. It bellows out that it comes in peace, heralded by armed air support, spotlights glowering down. You smell war and you don't even have a nose. As you stand there, in the wind, covered in blood and oil from the synths you've helped kill, you watch as your...client? You watch the dweller turn on their pipboy, mark Cambridge on their map, and make their way to the road.

You follow, of course. You follow, stupid sentimental bot you are, to thr Brotherhood of Steel. The dweller is vibrating to get on the death blimp. The guy offering the ride, Danse, is both sizing you up like you're a hot meal and like he wonders if you're actually a synth, because how the fuck would the dweller think bringing you here was a good idea? You shrug at him. You don't know either. You get on the vertibird. You get on the blimp. The dweller bats their eyes at Danse as he stomps down a catwalk, and they snap back to their normal selves once they talk to Kells. They balk and turn green and scoff out in the hall as you both listen to Maxoson's speech. They wonder how dumb a man could be as you venture deeper into the bowels of the beastly aircraft. People sneer at you. You are in danger. You stay very close to the dweller. You both find Danse again. He asks what they think. They don't say what they were just saying. He believes in himself, he sounds like he cares, he seems to truly trust in this army and it's cause. Not "what a load of horseshit." Danse beams with pride and they drink it in like clean water.

You are Nick Valentine. You wish you could drink.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #nick valentine #preston garvey #like do you understand my vision #everyone else is watching obvious x idiot. sole knows. danse doesnt. this goes on for too long.#sole wades increasingly deeper through and into BOS bullshit like but i can fix him!!!!#hancock is in the back like BITCH GET BACK HERE NO YOU CANNOT

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gravedwe11er · 24 days ago

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My brain's been completely consumed by @keferon 's mecha pilot AU lately, especially all the texaid things, and I just had to add my own two cents to the pile! So, here is Felix/First Aid's Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day (followed eventally by a much better one).

cw for gore and violence, as well as the usual things that come with Vortex being Vortex

He’s still scraping out the remains of the latest unlucky bastard, the sharp stench of cleaning agents mingling with the iron-sweet tang of blood and making his nose burn, when the enemy-incoming alarms bathe the whole hangar in red. Immediately, the usual post-battle calm turns into a frenzy of shouts and barked orders, dozens of footsteps rushing to and fro.

It hasn’t even been thirty minutes since they’d come back from the last fight.

Swearing to himself, Felix wills his hands to stop shaking as he finally succeeds in prying out the - god, is that the guy’s finger? – from inside the pilot’s harness. He throws it out of Vortex’s cockpit in the vague direction of the catwalk, not bothering to see if it landed in the glorified body bag they give him for these clean up jobs. Ten pilots ago, they still used to bring a stretcher in a show of, what- misguided optimism, maybe? Now, they can’t even be bothered to pretend.

The floor is still filthy, bodily fluids splattered liberally all over the cockpit, but Felix can hear the next pilot/sacrifice marching up the catwalk and prepares to make himself scarce, content at least in the knowledge that all the more solid bits of the last one have been disposed of. He gets up on unsteady legs, eager to get out of this stinking grave when the blood red plexiglass of the cockpit suddenly slams shut in front of his face. The hydraulics hiss as they complete lockdown procedures, entombing him inside.

His blood runs cold.

There’s frantic banging on the glass, from the outside in, from the inside out. There’s shouting, from the pilot, from control, asking what’s going on, telling him to get out, get out now. There’s a sharp, heavy gaze pressing down on him, with all the suffocating weight of a rockslide, and Felix feels oh so very small.

Beneath his clenched fists, words coalesce into being on the glass screen, white on arterial-blood red; it makes him think of bone shards in an open fracture.

TAKE A SEAT

Felix starts, jumping away from the glass. Stumbling backwards, he gapes, mind reeling, before forcing out, “Please, I don’t- I’m a medic.”

I KNOW

“I’m not- I’m not a pilot,” he whispers, pleading with the cursed thing, shivering like a leaf under the thing’s crimson lights. Something in the machinery around him hisses, a stuttering staccato of a sound, and Felix somehow tenses even further as the screen in front of him changes again.

I DON’T WANT ANOTHER PILOT. I WANT YOU ; )

His heart stutters in his chest. “Why?”

BECAUSE YOU’RE PERFECT

The letters blink out, only to be immediately replaced, bigger than before. More forceful.

TAKE A SEAT

He does. His hands shake like never before as he puts on the pilot’s helmet, still reeking of the previous pilot’s blood and sweat and fear. Dozens of others have died here, at the behest of this deadly war machine, corrupted AI or cursed or whatever the hell is wrong with it. All in the name of humanity’s survival. Felix is sure he’s going to join their ranks today.

Through the haze of oncoming panic, he idly wonders which one of his colleagues is going to be mucking his entrails out of here, when all’s said and done.

The machinery around him comes alive and his head swims, wisps of his-but-not blinding agony and fear and malevolent glee flitting through his mind as the neural connection settles. Felix feels a pressure on the inside of his skull, almost like a greeting, a jaunty knock on the gates to his brain as a voice echoes from inside-outside-everywhere.

“Let’s dance, baby!”

The mech lurches, enormous frame shaking and hydraulics hissing as it disconnects from the docking station, heading for the hangar bay doors with almost a spring in its thundering step. For a moment, Felix considers trying to stop it, grasping at the controls, dragging the cursed thing back into dock and forcing it to spit him out. Then he remembers the bloodied fingers on the floor, or stuck in sharp gaps between internal plating, and shoves his clammy, shaking hands under his thighs.

The stuttering hiss of what’s probably the ventilation system rings through the air, almost like a choked off giggle, as an intrusive presence hums amusement-approval in his head.

The next seconds or minutes or hours are something of a blur, a waking nightmare soaked in adrenaline and cortisol. Vortex walks itself out of the hangar doors, side by side with other mechs, who look like children next to its imposing size. It does so under its own power, without Felix’s input, and this shouldn’t be happening, none of this should even be possible. Felix is no technician, and definitely no pilot, but he knows the mecha aren’t autonomous, can’t be autonomous, but it’s moving anyway and there’s someone else in here, someone else in his head and he’s laughing at him and-

Then he sees them. The world snaps into sudden clarity.

Felix never thought they could really be that big. He’s read reports of the destruction they bring, seen the wrecked cities on TV (and may or may not have taken a good look at a few pieces of them in the labs without permission), but- he didn’t really get it. Not until now. He kind of wishes he could go back to that, honestly.

The monsters, the quintessons, roar as they notice their group of mechs, who suddenly look so terribly small in comparison to the quints’ lumbering, many limbed forms. Almost immediately, their somewhat nonchalant destruction turns into an organized assault as the group of about two dozen charges right at them.

“Oh god,” he wheezes out between short, terrified breaths. “No, no no, get away, get me away from here-“

Suddenly hearing a chuff of laughter from what simultaneously sounds like the inside of his head and behind him, Felix jumps in his seat as he feels the phantom of a breath on his ear. “Aww, are you scared, Felix? Don’t you worry, darling.”

For a moment, everything stills, the mech around him like a coiled spring, a calm before the storm. An overwhelming wave of foreign bloodlust crashes over him, setting his blood ablaze as the war machine leaps into a run, Felix trapped inside and powerless to stop it. With the thrumming wail of integrated weaponry charging up, they meet the quintessons head on.

“We got this.”

As the fighting begins, Felix somehow manages to stray so far into panic he’s almost feeling calm again. Vortex lunges and parries and strikes, the presence in control of the mech clearly a skilled pilot, and Felix watches with a growing fascination as the monsters fall apart into bloody pieces under its – his, Felix thinks - servos. He sees the thoracic cavity of one open up underneath Vortex’s arm-blade, and his mind, conditioned from years of dissections and med school, snaps into action. Oh, looks like a dual cardiovascular system, with the secondary brain here, and the primary would most likely be- Almost immediately, he feelsthe thought being picked up on, examined, and the ghost/mech/whatever it is sends interest-glee-let’s-see-for-ourselves through the neural connection before changing the trajectory of his strike. The sword cuts clean through where Felix thought the primary brain would be, and the thing seizes in Vortex’s grip before going limp.

There’s a near-deafening buzz of mechanisms all around him, crimson light flaring bright. “Ha! That’s what I’m talking about!” sings through his brain, praise-delight humming along his nerves, and Felix can’t help but let a tiny, nervous smile twitch at the corners of his mouth.

“I told you you’d be perfect, baby,” purrs the voice inside his head, and he could swear he feels two hands, cold and intangible, settle on his shoulders, as the battle rages on.

The alarms flare on the late end of breakfast period, turning Felix’s once slow morning into a mad scramble. He races past other pilots and various personnel, stumbling into his quarters, shoving his uniform on before running out again, already feeling out of breath. All the supplementary pilot training he’s been going through, and, if he’s honest, flunking through, doesn’t seem to have done his physical condition much good. Still, it’s not like it matters much, and both he and his superiors know it, but appearances must be kept up nonetheless. Or so they say, at least. Can’t let the public know their most efficient mech is somehow piloting itself, apparently.

He finally gets to the hangar, his fellow pilots giving him a wide berth as he heads towards Vortex’s cockpit, doing his best not to trip over his feet in his haste. A small smile strays onto his face and, out of the corner of his eye, he sees some of the others stepping further away from him.

Felix is not a very popular man these days, though it’s not like was much of a social butterfly before either - always too awkward, a little too odd for most people to enjoy hanging around. The frequent twelve-hour shifts in the medbay, sneaking off to the research labs and Vortex cleanup duty after he was caught certainly didn’t do him any favors.

Now, though? It’s like he’s got the plague. Most of his former colleagues are dismayed at his sudden reassignment, the sudden changes in their schedules leaving them crankier than usual, though it’s not like he was all that close with them before. The various base personnel keep out of his way, seeming to consider him as cursed as the mech he pilots, his very presence a potential bringer of bad luck. Meanwhile, the actual pilots view him as an intruder into their ranks, exempt from the usual camaraderie that comes with the job.

He can’t deny that it stings a little, even though he’s pretty used to the feeling of rejection. Still, it helps that he's never really alone anymore.

It’s a thing he’s heard about from some earlier tests, from other mech models around the world, those types who tried their hand at connecting two people together to fight as one. How their minds, even when disconnected from their machines, still have a thin little thread connecting them for days, weeks after. He looked it up, after their first mission, when the distant feeling of a presence would linger in the back of his head; gleeful and pointed and anticipatory. It used to unnerve him before, but now, like everything else he sees as he steps into the open cockpit, it’s just- familiar.

Somehow, Vortex has become a balm on his eternally shredded nerves, the capricious, sarcastic bastard comfortably fitting himself into Felix’s life and making it- well. If not better, then definitely more interesting.

The gaze of Tex’s camera eyes never gets any less sharp, or less heavy, but he no longer feels like he’ll buckle under the weight of it. The inside of the mech is as clean as can be, because though he might be a pilot nowadays, he’s still a doctor by trade and he refuses to spend hours at a time sitting in a walking biohazard. The glass clicks shut behind him as he hops in, locking him securely inside as a string of ridiculous little white hearts and smiley faces scrolls across the red screen.

Felix snorts a quiet little laugh, laying a hand on the plexiglass, a building anticipation both his and not making his nerves buzz. “Hey Tex. Ready to go?”

YOU KNOW IT, BABY

“Then let’s dance.” Felix borrows the other man’s usual phrase with a small smile, buckling into the pilot’s harness and putting the helmet on his head in a newly familiar motion.

It takes a few moments to ride out the initial discomfort of the establishing connection, but then Vortex - or Victor, but that name is mostly as dead as the owner of it - is there, their minds snapping together like puzzle pieces. Delight, excitement and the ever-present bloodthirst washes over their shared thoughtscape, and Felix sends greeting-happiness-anticipation in return, feeling, as is usual for him these days, much better with Tex’s dark presence in his head.

“Let’s fucking dance, darling.”

He never would have thought they’d end up here, like this - hell, he didn’t think he’d survive their first battle together. But survive he did. Against all odds, against all previous expectations, Vortex had let him go then, with a winky face and a jaunty ‘come again soon!’, aching and terrified, but alive. And then he survived the next time, once command seized on the obvious opportunity to lessen their losses and sent him back into the jaws of the beast again. And then the next. And the next, until suddenly, he’s got dozens of successful missions under his belt and he’s still not dead.

People have questioned him about it, over and over. He never knows how to answer, to describe the understanding they’ve found with each other, so he simply keeps repeating the same thing – it just sort of works.

Once the bay door opens, orders coming in through the comms in Felix’s helmet and scrolling across his visor, they disembark, long strides taking them out into the foggy morning air. Three other mechs on their heels, they make their way to the coords where the quints were reported to make landfall, anticipation-excitement thrumming through them like an electric current. As always, there’s a thread of anxiety running through Felix’s body, but he doesn’t let that stop them, steadying himself against Tex’s ironclad confidence and working to keep his breathing steady.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to fully shake that, no matter how many times they do this – it’s a very sensible fear, after all. He’s going right into the heart of danger, protected only by a breakable veil of glass and steel, mind-in-mind with the ghost of a dangerous man.

Perhaps one day, a single missed strike might lead him to bleed out right here in this cockpit, mirroring the fate of the mech’s first and last true pilot. Maybe he’d join Victor in here too, another ghost in the machine. Maybe humanity will lose, and they’ll both be torn apart by the writhing hordes of quints, ground into so much shrapnel along with the rest of their species.

Or, maybe one day, Vortex will get bored of him, splaying Felix’s blood and sinew across the interior of his cockpit like a particularly macabre painting, yet another victim of his moods joining the already sizable collection. It’s definitely a possibility, though he doubts it more and more each passing day. They’re way too tangled up in one another now, and maybe he’s flattering himself, but - he thinks Tex might miss him, if he was gone.

Not today, though. Today, they fight like they’re dancing, perfectly in sync, Tex’s skills made all the more lethal by Felix’s ever-expanding insight into the biological makeup of their enemy. They shoot and hack and slash, aiming for weak spots, quintessons dropping in their wake as they tear through them like wet tissue paper. A well-aimed punch saves a fellow pilot from being skewered, Felix sending a wave of gratitude through their connection – though Vortex himself couldn’t care less about the lives of others, he knows Felix does, and the fact that he’s willing to do this, just for him? Well. It means a lot, to say the least.

Cold, there-but-not arms wrap around him from behind in a ghostly embrace, a chin laying down on top of his head. Felix leans into it as much as he can, a smile on his face, and he feels Vortex’s feral grin in his head as they dive back into the fray. Together.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!

As always, endless thanks to my beta @jayden-writes, sorry for putting giant robots on your plate, again. I appreciate you.

#transformers #maccadams #tf vortex #tf first aid #tf mecha au #texaid #tf mecha universe #LastWrites

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