This story started out at first as "Not The Story You're Looking For", but I have since scrapped that name and changed it to "Origin" as you can see. The reason for this is simple: I realized this could be far more than just a random story to write random things in. I'm turning this into a full story, although in a different way than my other projects.
Here's how it works:
1: Every chapter will be inspired by a word prompt that will be the title of the chapter.
2: Each chapter (at least initially) will be from a different character's point of view, or a third person point-of-view of multiple main characters.
3: No chapter (at least initially) may be set on any planet besides Cybertron and its moons.
4: Chapters can focus on both canon characters and original characters; however, there will not be more than one consecutive chapter where an original character is the point-of-view character.
5: Identities of characters will be kept vague for as long as possible. Most of the time I will outright say who a character is by the end of each chapter, but there will be some in which I purposefully leave their identity a mystery. When this happens, their identity are will be up to you, the reader, to guess.
6: After their introduction (their own point-of-view chapter) no main character may make another appearance until every main character has made their debut. Cameos in chapters before their own chapter are allowed. Once all main characters have been given their point-of-view chapter, this rule will be made void.
7: No chapter (be it an introduction chapter or otherwise) will exceed 5,000 words before the addition of author's notes.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.
His helm was pounding. Vision spinning. Servos shaking. Tank lurching. His digits were slow to respond to his commands, and when they did they didn't grip with any strength. That, coupled with his pounding helm, made him feel like he was in a dream. A dream he couldn't control.
It was times like this, that Treads hated drinking games.
Treads' opponent downed another cube of high-grade in a single gulp, then slammed the cube down onto the table upside down. The crowd that had gathered around the competitors—made up of Praxians, Iaconians, and even one Seeker from Vos—cheered and looked at Treads expectantly.
This wasn't possible, Treads decided. There were already five turned over cubes in front of Treads, and he was losing to someone less than half his height and probably a sixth his mass! How could someone so small drink so much?
Not to be outdone, Treads forced himself to down the cube he gripped weakly. Then he reached out, grabbed another cube, and downed it as well. He felt dizzy from the rapid consumption of two cubes of high-grade, and it hurt his helm to listen to the rambunctious cheer the crowd gave, but he felt a certain satisfaction in turning over the cubes on his side of the table.
Treads' opponent looked down at the two cubes Treads just turned over, then looked up into Treads' optics. She—yes, he was struggling to keep up with a femme—had the audacity to look amused by Treads' showing. She matched the two cubes Treads drank, and then did something that left Treads gaping in shock.
She drank three more.
The crowd—already roaring when the femme matched Treads—went absolutely insane as the femme topped his total and slammed each cube down with a giant grin on her faceplate. When she was finished, the femme leaned back in her chair and placed her pedes on the table, servos folded behind her helm as if to say, "Don't bother; I've already won."
Treads didn't appreciate that.
With the crowd roaring, Treads drank the first and second cubes he had to drink. He wavered at the third, servo shaking so much he almost dropped the cube. The room was spinning, and his helm felt like a Laborer was taking a hammer to it. The crowd seemed so loud his audio receptors hurt. He couldn't make out a single word being shouted at him.
Across the table, the femme grinned again. A victorious grin. She knew he was on the edge of defeat.
The look she gave him stabbed at Treads' pride. He couldn't let this happen. Mechs were the ones who were supposed to drink lots of high-grade without a problem, not femmes. How was her tank big enough to store it all?!
Treads steeled himself, and downed the final cube. As he slammed it down to the table, he started to feel strange. Not like he had since his fourth cube—it was a different strange. The room stopped spinning, crowd going silent. His servos felt numb, and the killer processor ache pounding away at his helm dulled. He felt like everything had slowed down. Almost stopped. As if that moment were a monumental occasion in his life, and his CPU was making sure it recorded it with perfect clarity.
The moment ended when Treads realized he was slowly—ever so slowly—tipping backward. He tried to right himself, but he found his frame wasn't responding. He was frozen in place, helpless to do anything as he slowly fell back like a falling statue on a low gravity world.
In a way, it was fun. Well, it would have been fun, had him falling over not meant he was about to lose a drinking game to a femme.
The mechs at HQ were never going to let him live this down.
Treads hit the floor, and then it all went black for him.
A mixture of groans and cheers rose up from the gathered crowd, as mechs and femmes either won or lost their bets on the game. Those that bet on the femme collected their wins, with a few winners tossing some of their newly-earned Shanix chits in front of the winner.
Eventually, a few of Treads' friends gathered the overcharged mech and left. The crowd dispersed after that, and returned to their own tables on the sixth level of Maccadam's Old Oil House, leaving the femme to count up the chits left for her. She counted forty-two chits in all, and they varied in denominations. They totaled up to one hundred and ninety-one. Not bad, but not great—she'd need more next cycle.
The femme was just beginning to pocket her chits, when she sensed someone standing next to her. She looked up.
The person standing next to her was a mech. A large mech. Bigger than Treads, and even more solidly built. His red and gunmetal grey armor was covered in scars, and two large cannons were attached to his crossed servos.
"You have a sub-space canister." The mech's voice was gravelly and blunt in tone.
The femme smiled and gave the mech an innocent look that covered up the mischief in her optics. Then she rested her chin in a palm, leaning forward as if in interest, subtly using her looks to hide her thoughts. "I really have no idea what you're talking about."
The mech scoffed, not buying the bluff. "Don't play coy with me—I know you have one. You're too small to consume that much high-grade. You're hiding the canister at roof of your mouth. Every time you went to take a drink, you paused long enough to activate it with your tongue and let the high-grade fall into it. When you finished drinking, you paused again to close the canister. Leaving that mech overcharged, and you perfectly sober."
The femme's smile faded, knowing she had been found out. She reached in her mouth and detached the small canister she was hiding, placing it on the table and showing the mech he was right. However, her optics remained innocent, with that playful look hidden in their depths. "It seems someone was watching me quite... Closely."
The mech grunted, scared faceplate set in a frown. "I didn't come here to flirt; I came over to let you know that I know, and if I know, someone who lost Shanix could know, too."
That made the femme break optic contact, glancing around at the other tables for signs of mechs or femmes watching her. She found none looking in her or the mech's direction. She looked back at the mech. "Well, if any of them do know, they should think twice before coming back and trying to steal their money back. I challenged Treads to see who could 'Turn over the most cubes.' I didn't say we had to drink any of them. Technically, I did nothing wrong."
"And if any of them do come back, they aren't gonna care about a technicality. What will ya do if then?"
A handle appeared at the femme's side. The mech glanced down and saw the faint outline of a handgun folded against her hip, grip exposed. The rest of it was disguised from sight by her armor. Clever, he had to admit.
The handle disappeared, and the femme returned to putting her chits in her sub-space pockets. "I'll do what I need to, if it comes to that."
Another grunt came from the mech, the sound seeming to carry an impressed tone. "Fair, but if I were you, I'd make myself scarce while I could. No sense losing a place in Old Maccadam's when you can still pull that trick on someone else next cycle."
He was assuming she cared about returning here. A nice sentiment, but bots like her never frequented the same place twice. She'd never see the inside of this place again. "Hmm. Looks like that scared helm of yours hides a smart CPU. Wouldn't have expected that."
"And I wouldn't have expected a pretty faceplate like you would be a thief."
Even though the mech was just returning her jab, the femme felt a touch of guilt at hearing his observation. She pushed it aside. Not because she didn't want to acknowledge he was right, but because she couldn't afford second thoughts. "We all do what needs to be done to live another cycle."
Neither of them said anything while she continued pocketing her chits. When she grabbed her sub-space canister and stood to leave Maccadam's.
As she walked away, the mech felt a strange urgency compel him to ask, "Hey, if ya don't mind my asking… What's your name?"
The femme paused, temporarily stunned by the sudden question. She considered just continuing on into the crowd, but something rooted her in place. Like a magnet that wouldn't turn off until she answered.
She turned back to the mech, and for the first time noticed just how sincere his optics had been the entire time they were speaking. No malice. No false sense she could trust him. Just a pure, honest look. That was rare in this time of the dying Golden Age.
How... Odd.
"My name's Chromia."
The mech put a servo to his chestplates. "Ironhide. I wish you luck, Chromia. Keep that gun on ya at all times."
"I do. I also keep another under my pillow at night." Chromia turned and left, blending quickly into the crowd.
Ironhide stared at the last place he'd seen the femme, nodding to himself. Chromia… That was a good name. A strong name. Fitting with the femme it went with. She had good sense to keep a firearm nearby all the time.
As he made his way back to his fellow soldiers in their corner booth, Ironhide idly wondered if he'd ever cross paths with that femme again. Something about her was intriguing to him.
Eh. He should just forget about her. Cybertron's massive population was complimented by an even larger planet, and thieves like Chromia were always on the move. The odds were very, very low that he'd ever even hear about her again, let alone see her.
... But there was no harm in hoping.
Chapter one is complete. Please, let me know what you thought.
See you soon.
See you soon.