I have no excuse other than he was on my brain after re-reading MTMTE. Another side project to keep me sane through what IRL is throwing at me, plus the main story isn't going to let me explore Fulcrum and Co in any great detail aside from Krok. I headcanon the Decepticon language as kin to Australian English, yet I hope the slang used is relatively easy to understand.
i -;
"Are you Cadet Fulcrum?"
"Yes, and I'm run off my feet," the young Cadet didn't even look up, too focused on fixing the latest slew of errors associated with his job, and fix them he would. He'd never failed, and he wasn't about to start now. The voice didn't trip any alerts, so it probably wasn't that important; just another warrior wanting time and energy he did not have to spare. Like always. "I'm sure there are a bunch other techies you can go harass for what y'want."
"Negative. We require your services. They were recommended by-."
"You and sixty other mecha have said the same thing t'megacycle," he snapped, still not looking up as fingers flew over the keypad. To the techie, it was just another Combat-class who'd heard 'Fulcrum can do anything'. "I'm busy- scrap-slagging product of a glitch-"
A snarl and he hunched over as fingers literally flew over the keypad, while yellow-gold optics zipped back and forth as the data scrolled down the screen. Behind him, the Combat-class waited. Fulcrum could feel the amusement rolling off it each time he hit the console or insulted it in increasingly clever and demented ways. The Cadet twitched, but he'd learned within the first half-vorn of Cadetship to deal with the warriors by ignoring them.
It worked, most of the time, because the slaggers got bored and wandered off to find someone not neck deep in work.
"Are you finished?"
"Urgg no. Fragging thing's about to cark it. Too many system errors that're sparking CBFs allover the joint, and I wouldn't be surprised if sum'on' shoved a virus in there as well, meaning I'll be jackin' with only an EF to safeguard me," he rambled, Kaonite dialect slipping into his speech as he punched in the code to get the external firewall brought over. Most, if not all, Decepticons understood it due to the original core of them coming from the city-state and her allies, but if one slurred the glyphs, it was harder to understand. "'Cause our jobs aren't hard enough as is!"
The warrior was silent, and Fulcrum could hear a faint, barely there hum of thought. Likely attempting to translate him, the Cadet thought. The voice sounded posh - Nyonin, perhaps - and like something he wanted to punch. It reminded him too much of his creators' 'contract-owners', before the pair had killed them and fled to the Decepticons. "What I desire can wait. I'll ensure no-one else disturbs you, technician."
Fulcrum grunted, waving him off as he snatched up a datapad, hardlining the thing in to get a better look at what was going on while he waited for one of the younger Cadets to bring the EF over. Better he have some idea than go in blind. Last time he'd done that he'd wound up in medical and his Supervising Officer, Cloudkill, had almost blown a gasket over the whole fiasco. More to the point, to aid a warrior like the one speaking to him in what they wanted... It didn't bring up good memories, even if he knew mecha who sounded like that and were the kindest people in the universe.
Blood Kill came to mind; mech was a built like a literal killing machine, yet one of the most skilled surgeons they had, and he was a pacifist too. Last he'd heard, the mech had been confined to New Tarn with a Unit of bodyguards. Not that he blamed them; pacifists often ended up some of the most gifted or skilled Support they had. Protecting that was vital. No Support, no army and even the youngest sparkling knew that.
Pity the Autobots didn't seem to understand that; ah but they were civilian frames, not designed for a war they'd brought on themselves by alienating the very classes designed to keep them safe. Tch, oh well. Eventually they'd have to see reason, eventually.
It wasn't until the warrior was almost out of sight that Fulcrum looked up in time to catch the retreating back of a purple tank. He shrugged, dismissing the notion of anything important. Purple and tanks happened more than not because Cadets and newly adulted mechs and 'bright ideas' born from one too many drinks. At least it wasn't last vorn's fluro purple, which several of his agemates still sported.
There was classy; then there was tacky.
He didn't manage to connect the peace and quiet to the tank that had visited. As far as he cared, Cloudkill had probably had something to do with it (he was her star Cadet after all); the sooner he could get this done, the faster he'd move to the next job, and the one after, and the next, until one of his Unit dragged him away for recharge.
Hmph. He didn't need recharge; he needed peace so he could work and prove his worth and maybe get assigned to a Unit at the top of the class. Or, he silently hoped, Cloudkill would keep him on as part of her Unit's Support.
ii -;
"Ah-" he squealed as Cloudkill all but shoved him into the loading room. "I- Cloudkill-"
"Load up with a weapon, Fulcrum," she said with a sigh. "As long as you have it and are on the field, you can hide all you want."
"O-Ok." He grabbed the first gun in the rack; it happened to be an outmoded sniper rifle, but he didn't care, and the magazine of coloured oil pellets. A war-game was a war-game, and the rest of the Supportmechs who'd been picked to play had entered without much fuss. So, with a deep intake, he marched himself through the door, acknowledging the RNG'd number as it beeped onto his wristband that would then project it over his head. Five.
He almost purged. Of course he got the death number. His luck was bad, yet he followed the lines to where his RNG'd 'team' awaited, giving them the barest of nods as he looked up at the monitor that showed the layout to the 'battlefield' they'd play in. If he was lucky, he could reach one of the high ground sniper positions fast.
He didn't have much time to think on it - Cloudkill had been right after him; the alarm sounded, the gates opened, and they were rushing out into the battleground, some of the more gung-ho warriors whooping in delight.
He veered left as soon as he could, optics flicking side to side, gun at the ready until he spotted the ramp that'd take him to the sniper's hideaway. He darted up it, living up to his alt-mode's frametype of racer. Crouching against the far corner, his thoughts raced. He could hide here, and maybe, maybe if he was lucky, get a few shots in.
He doubted it though. His natural reaction to the battlefield was to freeze or flee, and flee was so very, very out of the question. Likely why he'd been 'volunteered'; being three megavorn old and freezing to the point of locking up even on a mock battlefield was embarrassing and incompetent even for a Support-class. To say nothing of freezing on an actual battlefield and even the most egotistical Support would admit that was Very Very Bad.
Fulcrum swore he'd do the best to push past the fear. He had too, if only for his own pride. His finger rested around the trigger while the other hand attempted to choke the gun itself.
He didn't even notice he wasn't alone until the sound of an oilball rifle fired - from beside him.
Fulcrum glanced up; it was one of his team, nothing to worry ab - and bleated static while his spark attempted to escape through his closed sparkplates as he realised who it was.
Oh fragging Primus on Unicron -
The gunformer held up one finger in a Shh motion before turning back to the battlefield, expertly snipping several not on their team. Fulcrum dry-swallowed, wisely shut up and turned his attention back to his own gun-sights even as anxiety set in. Fragging slagger on Unicron's rusty horns, he had to make a 'kill' now.
Eventually, a mech came into view, and eager to impress the Very High Ranked Decepticon beside him, he fired, gun jerking in recoil. The oilball hit the purple mask dead centre, and the mech cocked his helm to the side, reaching up to rub at the oil before pulling his hand away, staring at the oil as if in disbelief.
Beside him, the gunformer snickered, firing off several shots, one of them very pointedly hitting the purple tank's sparkplates. Fulcrum stiffened, wanting to look away yet unable. It was like the wreck of a warworld, only far more likely to kill you. Instead of reacting with anger, the purple tank gave an exaggerated bow before removing himself from the battlefield as per the rules.
Risking a glance beside him, Fulcrum boggled as Vos flashed him the victory sign.
"Really? The sparkplates of all things?"
"Showing off for the Support that was hiding there."
"A Support?" A hand reached up to touch the mask. "They must have wanted to impress."
"Naturally," the gunformer said as he clambered up to sit on his friend's shoulder. "We should play more often."
The purple tank chuckled before exventing. "When we have the time, we will play again. It was rather entertaining."
"Perhaps with the Command-Cohort."
Tarn turned his head slightly to stare up at Vos. "Against Krok and Soundwave? Hardly."
He valued his processor, and he neither wanted, nor desired, to go up against either of them, even if it was 'just an oilball game'.
iii-;
Fulcrum's first true face-to-face actual introduction to one of his new Unit came via a mech he'd seen - interacted? with before. Namely onlining to the gunformer crouched on top of him, head cocked considering to the side and that wasn't at all the most pleasant, or safest, thing to online to in the history of onlining.
Fulcrum was Decepticon enough to admit his spark almost guttered from fear alone, that his mind automatically assumed the look was his assailant picturing how to vivisect him, and Fulcrum was very, very aware of everything he had and had not done in his short megavorns of life. Up to and including the oilball war-game in the last vorn when he'd shot that ... purple... tank.
Of course he'd shrieked and flailed like a sparkling.
It was his default reaction to warriors getting handsy - or crouchy in this case. What techie wouldn't? It didn't help that the Ninja laughed at his shrieking, flailing and general attempts to crawl out from under him. He hadn't managed to even after half a bream, so with growing unease, Fulcrum settled, the only sign of how thoroughly terrified he was was one highly, highly charged EM-field.
Oh, and that he looked anywhere but what he was sure was Approaching Doom on a scale of I am So Very Fragged.
He knew what Vos looked like; it was hard not to when he'd briefly teamed with the sniper back then. Yet the rest of the D.J.D. he'd only dealt with through Kaon over a viewscreen as he took down whatever orders for the logistics team; be it for weapons, energon, or t-cogs for Tarn. Fulcrum wasn't sure he wanted to meet the D.J.D. in person, or Kaon. She was happy, calmingly sweet, yet she had hooks for hands and feet, and was the colour of dried energon and possessed baleful, malevolent golden-red optics deep set into her face.
And she was a mnemosurgeon.
Fulcrum never wanted to deal with them, ever. He was a good Supportmech who could fetch things on cue. Cloudkill had trained that into him herself even after he'd been assigned to her Unit for real.
So the worst thing he'd ever done was ask Kaon to repeat herself - or hit Tarn dead centre in his mask with an oilball. "Uh-"
Vos snickered again and Fulcrum blanched, silently praying someone would come looking for him right now, please and thank you. He did not want to die!
"Vos."
Fulcrum's spark screembled in its casing. Oh. Oh. That sounded like th...
He was so very Very Doomed. Scratch everything, he'd mouthed off to Tarn as a Cadet. He was so very, very, very doomed. There was going to be nothing left of his frame fpr them to find.
"Unless you plan to replace the poor thing's processor, kindly get off our newest Support."
And just like that Vos was off him, and Fulcrum was scrambling up and off the berth, though not backing away. He knew better than to flinch or scramble away from those so high above his rank it made his head spin. He almost tripped over himself to stand at attention, yet he managed to straighten even as he stared wide opticked at his supposed saviour. Really? Really? What had he done to merit this? Vaguely, he noticed he was the only Supportmech still in the barracks. But that was unimportant.
The D.J.D. were before him, the two Founders -
"Wait, what-" He stared, replayed Tarn's words - orders? - again. And stared some more, this time sure his processor and cortex were both shorting out on him while they attempted to murdernate him for daring to question Tarn.
"You have been assigned to us. I trust you wish to remain stationed here?" Tarn said, as if he had not just broken the processor of an already stressed mechanoid.
"Uh-" Fulcrum blinked, swallowed, and snapped off a hastily salute as protocol finally caught up with him like a hammer to the helm. "Y-Yes, Sirs, if that is what you intend. I-."
"Good. Report to Kaon to receive your 'tags within the next half-cycle."
Fulcrum nodded dumbly. He could do that. Then he could go hide away and crash in peace while he processed what the slag had happened. He knew the D.J.D. had support and logistics. All Units did, yet the D.J.D. never took anyone under twenty megavorn as their Support. What - Unless it was his skills they wanted, in which case he was so very, very doomed. He was talented, but he was no Outlier. They'd kill him when they found out.
Hastily, he reset his vocaliser as the pair turned to leave. "W-Wait."
"Yes?" Tarn half turned to stare at him.
"W-What of Cloudkill's-?"
"Regretfully in pieces. They had the misfortune of encountering the Wreckers."
Fulcrum knew he blared static as he crumpled to the ground in shock.
"You have my sympathies," Tarn continued. "The Unit was your Cadet Mentor, correct?"
"Y-Yes, Sir." Fulcrum nodded, only to swallow and flinch back when Vos said something that sounded like 'condolere'. "Um.."
"Our sorrow is with you," Tarn said helpfully yet almost offhandedly. "It's Primal Vernacular."
And then they were gone, and Fulcrum shook, hugging himself in disbelief. Cloudkill was gone. Dead. Killed by the Wreckers and it had to be recent, because they never waited more than a half-megacyle before reassigning Supports that'd been attached to Dead Units.
-and he'd been assigned to the D.J.D.
Fulcrum knew the survival rates were... lower than normal for those attached to Special Units. He was going to screw up and die, and running away wasn't an option at all. They'd hunt him down and make an example out of him, and he liked living thank you very much.
Somehow, he made it to the Infra-tag assignments to meet Kaon, who was also sorry for his loss, yet detached from it as she gave him the new infra-tags that marked him as D.J.D. Support; the Unit tag now reading #Support nine (D.J.D.). He didn't think he could deal with it if she hadn't been like that; yet it was War, and they were Decepticons. If he was hollow-eyed and somewhat distracted the next time he reported to his new Unit Commander, no one said anything; they wouldn't, unless his grief lasted more than an orn.
They were at War. He could grieve properly for his friends when War's End came.
Until then, he was Warbuild, and he had jobs to do.