Conversation starters and Fight Me!
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 32
Warning: Death
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1, TFP
Characters: Smokescreen, Prowl, Kup, Sludge, Optimus Prime, Megatron, Astrotrain, Sixshot, Terrorcons, Rumble, Black Shadow, Perceptor, Scavengers, Cliffjumper, Sunstreaker, Smokescreen, Jazz, Ratchet, Starscream, Primus, Tarn, Skywarp, Cyclonus, Fulcrum, Blurr, Trailbreaker, Overlord, D.J.D.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Acting Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things. (ง •̀_•́)งFight me.
[* * * * *]
"You're not looking too hot." + TFP Smokescreen
[* * * * *]
His fingers slipped through leaking fluids. "Oh frag, oh no, don't - don't say that - " It didn't matter what he looked like!
Fans rattled, a deeply unhealthy sound from somewhere far inside a torso smashed past repair. Optimus Prime coughed his throat clear of mixed fluids, catching it in his mouth before letting it dribble out. Resignation to the inevitable made even the splattered mess dripping off his chin strangely graceful. "It's alright, Smokescreen," he rumbled. The damaged fans chopped his voice into broken soundbites, wheezing between every syllable, but he still sounded impossibly gentle, distantly sad, past judgment as he looked up through clouded optics at the young mech frantically patching wounds too big to be mended.
"No, it's not," Smokescreen choked out. Words crowded to get out of his grief-tight throat, rushing to be heard, but too slow, Smokescreen. Too late.
Labored fans had already stopped, and Optimus Prime was gone.
[* * * * *]
"Can you hide me?" + Sludge
[* * * * *]
The use of proper grammar got more of a reaction than the actual request. Kup hoisted a vaguely impressed eye ridge, visibly thought it over, and grunted an affirmative. He jerked a thumb behind himself.
Sludge scampered behind him, at least as much as the Autobots' resident behemoth could scamper. Thunder, more like. Galumph, if he really scooted his wide load. There might have been galumphing going on in this case, since it was Prowl chasing his tail. None of the Dinobots respected or feared Prowl normally, but these were hardly normal circumstances. Prowl had been on the warpath since Grimlock decided 'Catch the Police Car' was the way to coerce him into playing tag with the Dinobots. 'Catch the Police Car' was a great game, with the only real downside being that police cars came equipped with brakes and Dinobots…did not.
Prowl had thought he was clever. The Dinobots had thought the floor suddenly lumpy. Both had been wrong.
Prowl wasn't exactly thinking straight, post-squashing. He'd evidently decided to go after the Dinobot who'd compressed his shock absorbers into giving up the ghost.
Hence Sludge hiding behind Kup.
It wasn't much of a hiding spot, and Kup didn't attempt to turn it into more of a poor attempt than it already was. He simply leaned back against the Dinobot's broad side and went back to sharpening the sword he'd been working on. When Prowl stormed around the corner, he didn't even look up.
"!" Prowl said, one optic offline and the other burning bright white in deranged thirst for vengeance. His chevron seemed to have been bent into bull horns aggressively pointing outward in sync with the forefinger pointed accusingly at the big Dinobot cowering behind Kup.
Who still didn't look up. "You don't need to see him," he said evenly, raising the hand holding his whetstone in a sweeping motion.
Prowl paused and blinked. "?!"
"This isn't the Dinobot you're looking for." Another sweep of Kup's hand.
Much suspicious squinting. Prowl blinked a few more times. "..?"
"You can go about your business."
Sludge barely dared vent. Prowl looked terribly confused. "…"
Kup finally looked up. He flicked a few fingers at Prowl. "Move along."
Prowl glared at the Dinobot for a second before giving a curt dismissive gesture. He spun on his heel and stomped back the way he'd come.
[* * * * *]
"How much was I supposed to add?" + RP Armada Megatron and G1 Astrotrain
[* * * * *]
"Not that much!" Astrotrain hissed, hands nearly shaking as he tried very, very gently to push on the human's…chest. Sternum. Airbag storage area.
Megatron would have helped, but he was being territorial-cat hissed at by a shuttle-train having a panic attack. Besides, the universe would be a better place if Silas didn't make it. Oh, he hadn't drowned the man on purpose, but he wasn't going to mourn if Astrotrain couldn't manage to manually empty Silas' lungs. Or if he accidentally pushed too hard. In fact, Megatron would record the sound of breaking ribs to replay for his own personal, vicious satisfaction for years to come.
He did not like the leader of M.E.C.H. Overlord's amorous reward for ridding them of the nuisance would likely make up for Astrotrain's misled but genuine rage during the grieving process. Their mutual object of affection made a habit of growing attached to inappropriate creatures.
He sighed and dumped the half-full cube of water. "I know humans require large amounts of water to survive. You told me to give him water. Those were your instructions."
Astrotrain hissed at him again.
[* * * * *]
"And that's why I'm scared." - Starscream
[* * * * *]
Four Autobots, three neutrals, six Constructicons, and a handful of random Decepticons stared at him. Scrapper's hands were shaking. Perceptor's optics flickered rapidly as he ran and reran and prayed the numbers would come out different this time, but his mouth shaped blasphemous curses in sharp motions as lips and tongue turned against whatever god had turned against them first. Optimus Prime seemed torn between reaching out and drawing away, distress in every line of his body, and Onslaught absently put a hand on his upper arm to restrain him when he took a step toward the Air Commander.
Starscream stared at absolutely nothing, optics seeing but not registering. He was at peace shattering the blindness all around him. He'd seen too much to care if nobody else had noticed.
When he smiled, it was the most frightening expression anyone in the room had seen for all the fear it shared.
[* * * * *]
"I found you're diary" + Sixshot
[* * * * *]
"I, um. How'd you know it was mine?" There was no writing. No commentary. It didn't even look like a diary of any kind. The box in Sixshot's hand was full of scraps of, well, scraps. Organic rags, micromesh, metal springs, slabs of armor, dried vegetation, even dirt. Not a single glyph in sight to incriminate him.
Sixshot gave him a greatly pained look. "My sense of smell is extremely acute. I can smell what each of these," his mask worked in visible discomfort, "mementos are meant to record, and who the other mechs involved are."
"Oh." Yeah, that - that was pretty incriminating. Aside from other Terrorcons, the vast majority of those scentmarkers were of Sixshot and him. Interfacing, mostly, but there was at least one awesome make-out session he remembered by -
Burning heat swept under his armor as he snatched the box from Sixshot's hands. "Thank you," he squeaked, and then he turned to flee, because oh dear Primus, Sixshot could smell his private moments wafting out from under the lid, and he was going to die of embarrassment.
[* * * * *]
"I guess you did know what you were doing." + Sixshot
[* * * * *]
Dumbfounded silence met Hun-Grrr's babbled explanation. He didn't actually explain much of anything, but the flood of panicked words did temporarily derail the wrath that had been about to descend on his helm. Cutthroat's mouth hung open, too many indignant words fighting to get out at once. Rippersnapper kept starting to say something and losing his train of thought. Sinnertwin was holding a debate with himself.
"He really didn't mind?" Blot asked at last.
Hun-Grrr shrugged, helpless confusion plastered across his face. "No? I mean, of course he minded! I bit his," he shut his mouth and swallowed hard. His mouth still tasted like severed spike. "That. I did that. But he didn't seem surprised, y'know? You'd expect screaming, gunfire, immediate death, but he just," he shrugged, completely baffled, "said it like he'd been expecting worse."
"Wait, worse? How bad are you are blowjobs?" Rippersnapper asked.
"Has anyone actually given him one yet?" Sinnertwin asked before Hun-Grrr could start punching. "'Cause you know what he was like when we were just feeling him up to overload."
They thought that over. Prior to the Terrorcons, they'd collectively gotten the impression that Sixshot had zilch experience in any form of interfacing that didn't involve explosions, bodily harm, and at least one period of unconsciousness. Coaxing him to enjoy fragging for the fun and pleasure of it instead of the violence and gore had been an exercise in time and creative methodology. So for Sixshot to consider someone biting his spike off to be standard during a blowjob - urk.
Hun-Grrr looked sort of queasy. "Did I just live up to his expectations?"
Cutthroat slapped a hand over his visor. "Oh, Primus, how're we gonna fix this one…"
[* * * * *]
"I blame Black Shadow" + Cutthroat
[* * * * *]
Sixshot grunted. It was a neutral sound, neither confirming or denying where he'd gotten his negotiable standards from.
The Terrorcons flashed smug looks at each other. They knew they'd find the right bribe eventually if they just kept trying.
The other Decepticons on the station were terrified someday soon there'd be a mystery murder solved by everyone discovering it was Sixshot, in the main hall, with his bare hands. Meanwhile, the Terrorcons were bound and determined the mystery be Cutthroat left in a puddle of limp limbs in the middle of the armory, too exhausted to move, and everyone could just wonder how Sixshot did it.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง IDW Rumble
[* * * * *]
Adjusting to life as a Cassette after a lifetime as a miner required some compromises on both ends. Soundwave showed respect by not browsing his new symbiotes' thoughts on a whim. Rumble and Frenzy returned that respect by not peppering him with a nonstop obnoxious parade of lewd observations on their latest crush. Their thoughts could get pretty loud when intentionally projecting. Soundwave's core body temperature was a function somewhat beyond his control when under an internal assault, as it were. After the third time his fans kicked on, Soundwave withdrew from their minds, and they stopped dwelling on the way Megatron's caution paint was flaking.
Second compromise was made over sibling roughhousing. Soundwave agreed to let them out when they told him they needed out, and they agreed not to start fights while actually inside him anymore. There was a time and place for exerting control over the twins, and it was not when Rumble's piledriver was poised to punch through the front of the tapedeck.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง TFP Smokescreen
[* * * * *]
The part no one thought about when considering a post-war Cybertron was the lack of fighting.
Of course, there was no one left to fight. Just one young Autobot cadet wandering the surface, abandoned and forgotten, eternally searching for someone else.
No one else remained.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Black Shadow
[* * * * *]
They were all killers at this point in the war. Indirect murder or hands-on death, every single mech from Cybertron had dealt their share. Even the neutrals who'd fled hadn't left with clean hands. They touted themselves as free of faction, but Soundwave had targeted them. There wasn't a neutral left who hadn't fought himself free. Running and hiding hadn't been enough when the pogroms started.
It was slaughter or be slaughtered, no matter how it was dressed up. War stopped being a clean-cut argument of causes and principles about the time the first shot flew, and nobody gave a scrap what faction symbol they aimed at if the one wearing that symbol was between them and living. The rank and file of the Decepticons didn't care why they were fighting anymore. They just wanted to stay alive another day. The officers had a pretense of official reasoning plastered over their orders, but it all evened out into, "Do as you're told and try not to die."
"What are you in for?" the weary cargoloader at the airlock joked with the newest transfer to the muddy, muddled mess that was today's frontline.
The mech heaving his footlocker out from under the dropship's excuse for a seat paused to give him a bemused look. He was used to being unrecognized. Overlord and Sixshot had their distinctive overpowered and psychopathic auras, either distantly aloof or gleefully murderous around the grunts. Black Shadow tended to go out on assignment, come back, and find the nearest barrack's card game to join. By the time rumors and witnesses filtered back to base, nobody made the connection between Warrior Elite and cardshark in the center of the largest cluster of soldiers.
Why should he stand out? They were all killers, here.
So he just studied the unnamed mech assigned to help him get all his gear out of the ship, then smiled. "I'm in to get you out."
"That's what they all say," the cargoloader scoffed. He swung through the airlock and gave the strapped-down pile of armaments a jaundiced one-over. "How much of this is yours?"
"All of it."
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "Owl"
[* * * * *]
"Who?"
"Whom, actually," Perceptor corrected. "This method of connection was brought to the attention of the Autobots by the late Brightshift, upon whom it was practiced."
"Who?"
"The Decepticons, of course."
"Who?"
"Ah, forgive me, I speak in general terms. To be perfectly accurate, the technique was employed by Shockwave, someone I believe the majority of Decepticons would consider as somewhat set apart from their main ranks."
"Who?"
"There are, believe it or not, Decepticon scientists that refuse to compromise their professional ethics in the way Shockwave regularly persists in doing. While not a close personal acquaintance by any means, I grieved for Topshelf."
"Who?"
"Topshelf was famous within a limited circle for his stunning work in light manipulation."
"Who?"
"What, although I can easily see why a creature of Earth would be confused by the difference between a noun and a proper noun. Cybertronians do tend to favor names in a different manner than current standard English linguistics allows for."
"He does know it's not really talking, right?" Wheeljack whispered to Ratchet in passing.
The medic put a finger across his lips to hush him. "It's keeping him occupied while I weld his legs back together. That's all I care for."
"You're not the one who's going to have to repair his neurocircuitry later if he's that rattled in the head." They glanced across the clearing to the makeshift repairberth the scientist had been laid on. Perceptor happily continued to talk to his late-night visitor in the tree above him.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "Run away"
[* * * * *]
"Our choices are fight - "
"Haha. Ha." Everyone looked at Fulcrum. "Ha. No."
Krok pointedly ignored the hollow laughter. " - or flee."
Five pairs of hands went up, the fifth because Misfire had Grimlock's hands in his own. "Flee."
Well, someone note down his lack of surprise on that one. "Flee it is."
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Cliffjumper
[* * * * *]
They were supposed to be fighting. One would think, given who was involved, that getting a fight going would be a simple thing.
However, Cliffjumper had endured so many talks since the thing with Mirage that starting a fight with him involved forms in triplicate. This was not an exaggeration. He had forms. He demanded three copies. By the time Autobots returned with the required forms filled out and duplicated, they'd already fought with Red Alert (personnel details were a security concern!) and the Dinobots (the only copier in the Ark was in their cave). Most of the fight had been fought out of them.
"I know what you're doing~" Jazz sing-songed, leaning over the couch and red minibot alike.
Cliffjumper smirked. "I've got a form for that."
Jazz stood up rather more quickly than he'd bent down. "No thanks."
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "White flag"
[* * * * *]
Six Decepticons in the unit, and not one of them was willing to take the shot.
"Out of ammo."
"Wrong ammo for the gun. What a shame."
"Gun's jammed."
"Blind! I've gone blind!"
"Oh, yeah, totally blind. Then how come your optics are bugging out like that?"
A hand hit the back of the smart mouth's helm. "What's your excuse?"
"Ouch. Helm injury. I'm seeing double."
The Decepticons paused to give that due consideration. Two of their current target?
"Lucky fragger." Their commander folded his arms across the piece of building they were lined up behind. "It'd be a crime to shoot that."
Halfway across the ruined city, Sunstreaker straightened into a stretch that turned him into liquid gold in the dim glints of sunlight. The Decepticon unit sighed their appreciation. They didn't even pretend to care that the famously beautiful Autobot was probably hunting their afts, not so long as they had a bead on his aft.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "Fighting words" (Playing the Long Odds Prowl/Smokescreen)
[* * * * *]
"Them's fightin' words," Jazz teased.
Prowl opened his mouth, considered, and surrendered with all the grace of a mech cuddled into complacency. "I cannot think of a decent response," he admitted. "You will have to imagine your own reason to be offended."
"Am I about to be fought over?" Smokescreen wondered from between the two black-and-whites.
"Winner takes all!" Jazz whooped irreverently.
"No," Prowl contradicted him simply. He didn't bother sitting forward. He just reached over, turned Smokescreen's face toward himself, and leaned in to claim a kiss. Smokescreen blinked once before melting into the gentle contact. Nobody would be taking him away any time soon.
Behind his helm, Prowl made a very specific gesture. Jazz choked on nothing.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "precious"
[* * * * *]
In another universe, at another time, if things had somehow gone differently, an old medic from an obsolete faction in a finished war knelt by one of the sparks glittering on the surface of a fertile moon, and he smiled. It was a stiff kindness fighting through eons of gruff defending of his own tender spark, but it was genuine. If anyone deserved open affection, it was this feisty beeper.
Little arms and legs wiggled fiercely up at him, barely grown enough to bend. A half-formed, tiny face scowled ferociously. In a still-open chest, the spark of a warrior flashed and spun. It had missed the war, and Ratchet was glad. This youngling would live to separate naturally, bubbling energy spent on stealing metal from the field around it until one day soon a mech would stand up and, surprised, find that he could carry the fight to his noisy neighbors. By then, his mind would have developed curiosity to go with the aggression, and he'd be ready to leave the field and learn.
For now, Ratchet gave the wriggling bit of protometal and spark his finger to chew. Across the field, the handful of crew on spark-sitting duty stopped and started, bending to check progress or sooth a restless crier. Whirl seemed to be telling his lot stories, which Ratchet objected to the topic of but gave a free pass for the moment. It'd do the hot spot no harm to hear a loud voice and harmless sound effects.
He'd just make sure Whirl was kept far away once this little squirmer grew cogent enough for memory retention.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Primus
[* * * * *]
The Decepticons stood around looking upward after Galvatron launched himself off to confront Unicron.
"Look," one of the Constructicons said unsteadily after a suitable period of staring at the Unmaker devouring their planet's moon, "I'm not much of a religious mech, but it seems like a really bad idea to side with…that."
"Why?" Astrotrain asked. He sounded like he knew he was playing the part of straightmech.
The Constructicon still glanced at him like he was crazy. "When's the last time a mortal sided against Primus and fragging well came out the winner?"
The assembled Decepticons gave that their consideration. Some of the audience compared notes. Despite Starscream being a pile of charcoal and Galvatron being a herald of Unicronian power, the eventual conclusion of their collective knowledge of myth and legend was that it was better to be in Starscream's place than Galvatron's. Primus could afford to be patient. No matter how long a Cybertronian lived, after all, the afterlife stretched far, far longer.
And Primus' vengeance, the old tales all agreed, was far more terrible than Unicron.
[* * * * *]
(ง⊙_⊙)ง
[* * * * *]
They had been fighting for a very, very long time by the time they met in the midst of battle.
Not just in terms of a war. They'd been awake, on their feet, and fighting for two days and part of a third by this time, and it felt like even longer than it actually was. Ratchet was fairly convinced Optimus Prime was powered by stimulants alone at this point, and the toxic swill he was forcefeeding his leader between clashes was a mix of stimulants, superboosters, and a terrible slurry of acid-neutralizers meant to save the bottom of the poor mech's tank from just plain giving up the ghost and melting out. He had no idea what his counterpart over behind Decepticon lines was giving Megatron, but by the chaos following the Decepticon leader's charge, it had to be some good stuff.
So when Decepticon and Autobot leaders pulled out ahead of their respective factions to fight, their subordinates took it as a moment of relief. At least if those two were fighting each other, nobody else had to attempt to keep up with them.
The battle sort of petered out, tired soldiers taking potshots at the most obvious movement but otherwise just flopping down where they stood to stare in dull-opticked exhaustion at the smoke overhead. The longer nobody did anything, the more people slid into recharge. Whole battalions snoozed in buildings, a mere street between them and their enemies, who snored even louder.
At some point, Starscream appeared out of the dim haze of grit. It took a few minutes for Jazz to power up his visor and take notice.
"Gahh!"
The Air Commander was too worn-out to care that he'd just scared the tires off the resident SpecOps boogeymech. He squinted at the little Autobot sprawled at his feet and grunted once he I. Jazz. "You. C'mon." He sounded as though he'd gargled half the ash in the air right now.
"Uh…okay?" Jazz stared at the back blatantly turned on him. It'd be so easy to take the shot.
Except the Second-in-Command of the opposite faction didn't walk across the battlefield to snare the nearest officer for no good reason. Jazz wobbled to his feet and limped after the glitch.
Starscream led him to a building near the epicenter of the battle. He paused on the threshold and gave the Autobot following him the most long-suffering look seen on-planet since Kup transferred out. "I'm hoping you have some mystic Autobot solution to this problem."
Jazz blinked at him. He peered into the gloom-filled building.
That was indeed a problem.
"I got nothin', mech."
Starscream heaved a sigh. Dust flew out of his vents. "I was afraid of that."
The two officers stared wearily into the building. Inside, Megatron shifted, hiking his cheek up to lay more comfortably on Optimus Prime's shoulder. The Autobot leader's arm slid further down, upsetting the balance yet again, and the two mechs crumpled further together, propped up but collapsed. It was a little disturbing how well they fit against each other. Megatron's cannon arm wrapped around the Prime's waist in what might have been a grappling hold before he shut off. Optimus' hand at his neck had eased down until the Prime's whole arm was wedged on his shoulder, the back of the forearm now a rest for the Prime's forehelm. Even their vent fans ran in slow sync, one blowing out as the other breathed in, trading air in warm blasts back and forth.
Starscream turned to slide down the doorframe, wings scraping all the way down. Jazz put his back against the opposite side of the doorframe, crossing his arms loosely. It didn't seem to matter that he was standing slumped between Starscream's legs, or that the Air Commander was leaning back to rest, optics flickering offline. There wasn't anything to do here but wait. Jazz nodded off soon after.
They had been fighting for a very, very long time.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "Knuckle sandwich"
[* * * * *]
Decepticon flyers weren't brawlers. They weren't the heavyweights, the powerhouses when it got down and dirty on the ground, rolling out under an onslaught of fists and body blocks instead of shots traded in passing or sniping from above. They were the ones who hit and run, not the stayers and takers.
Which is why the Autobots were taken completely surprise when Astrotrain, Blitzwing, and Blast Off blew a crater in the ground as they landed, a loud whump of displaced air and earth. A cloud of dust billowed out from them, and when it cleared, every flyboy ever mocked by the groundpounders they faced stood waiting, hands curled into fists and smiles sharp as weapons.
They weren't the brawlers, but they were here to fight.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง "Rawr! (Very tiny. Much vicious. Wow.)" (Breeder AU Tarn)
[* * * * *]
It didn't seem physically possible to fit so much mech into so small an area, but Tarn wasn't about to let the laws of physics stop him now. He was a tank on a mission, and that mission was hiding his fat aft in the washrack.
Now, Misfire would have bet real money said fat aft couldn't have fit, but Tarn had had a long talk with physics and it was giving him a free pass for the day. It was the voice.
"Told you he got scary." The jet leaned against the washrack doorframe, preventing the door from closing.
"You didn't say he got homicidal," Tarn hissed back at him. Twin cannon barrels jerked, trying to aim at the annoying pest but coming up short against the wall of the rack itself. "Or suicidal. Overlord has far less self-control than I, and last I saw, that crazed bomb was set to blow up at him!"
Misfire shrugged. Didn't surprise him any. "Good job sticking up for him. Huuuuuge courage shown. Maybe you'll get a medal." He tipped his helm back and stared at the ceiling, smirking at nothing in particular as he dropped his voice. "And you call him a coward? Pfft."
"Misfire." Tarn was going to defy physics again if he had to. "Shut. Up."
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Skywarp
[* * * * *]
The annoying part of being considered the base prankster was that nobody took him seriously. Push Ramjet down an open shaft? Hilarious hijinks. Trip Starscream in front of Megatron? Momentary distraction. Backhand Motormaster? Ha, what a riot!
Skywarp sulked into his quarters at the end of the day, having sewn chaos, panic, disorder, and laughter throughout the base, and not one single person offered him a decent fight. If anything, he'd been a welcome diversion. The laughter had followed him the whole day as if mocking his best effort, and good-natured acceptance of every nasty trick he pulled had driven him half-mad. Argh!
Outside the room, a base full of Decepticons smirked congratulations at each other for having pulled off a prank on the base prankster.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Cyclonus
[* * * * *]
He would never defy the Tyrant of the Cosmos. What Lord Galvatron wished for, duty dictated Cyclonus provide. More than duty compelled him, however. It was an honor to serve his lord, an honor Cyclonus felt in a tightening deep in his workings.
What his master wanted today was a fight. The tension inside him creaked and burned, twisting in on itself as he dodged blows and desperately fought everything he was, everything he needed to be. Lord Galvatron wanted a fight. Cyclonus was duty and honor bound to provide it.
It physically hurt to lash out, but his lord's wild, unhinged laughter rewarded the unnatural action.
The pain felt so good.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Fulcrum
[* * * * *]
The Autobots weren't supposed to attack. They weren't even supposed to be here, but here they were, charging forward in a flurry of explosions and screams.
"Hold the line!" someone bellowed.
The line was made of technicians, construction works, and support staff. They were less of a battle line and more just accidentally present. As the head of the team, Fulcrum should have been right there in the center, yelling at his subordinates and rounding them up to repel the Autobots.
He stood up, chin set at a stubborn angle as he faced down the charging enemy.
…for about two seconds.
Then he turned to run, and the line collapsed around him.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง IDW Blurr
[* * * * *]
"…you're feisty today."
Blurr bounced on his heels and glowered in the direction of the pair of NAILs he'd just kicked out on their wheels. "People come into my bar to start slag? Frag yeah I'm going to be 'feisty.'" The bar counter was in dire need of a sudden attack of cleaning. He wiped it down furiously, muttering, "Think people forget who I fought with."
Swindle blinked at him, then at the rest of the bar. Not many patrons had noticed the minor kerfluffle, given that it'd lasted approximately nine rude comments and a shouted order to get the frag out. Decepticon bar conversations generally happened overtop of random screams and gunfire, after all. Since most of the patronage tonight was overwhelmingly of the Decepticon and ex-Decepticon variety, Swindle saw little reason anyone would have looked up.
He looked at the bartender attempting to scrub a hole through the bartop. One lone Autobot (ex-Autobot?) in a bar full of 'Cons? Blurr probably had no idea how conscious everyone was of what side he'd been on. They were out to make sure he didn't close the bar doors on him. The NAILs who'd walked in had had no such compunction to behave, and who'd bristled to the Decepticons' defense? The Autobot. The insults had been ignored, and the problem had been taken care of before someone's temper snapped.
Something was going right in this bar. Starscream and his politics aside, the post-war world society growing on the streets had to start somewhere, and Swindle intended to be here watching it grow.
"You push the racer image more than the Autobot one, nowadays," he said tactfully.
Blurr threw him a glare that abruptly reminded Swindle of the other reason Decepticons didn't start slag at this bar. "Wrecker," Blurr spat.
Swindle paused, drink halfway to his mouth. "Bartender."
The glare disappeared. "Hmmph."
"Feisty bartender."
Blurr bounced on his heels.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Trailbreaker
[* * * * *]
Hunger crimped his tanks.
It was a living thing inside him, always demanding more. Always greedy, always needing, always guzzling every drop he scrounged for it, and never, ever satisfied. He pictured himself as a shell around a ravenous monster. He's the forcefield guy. That was his only use, his sole purpose for any mission, and that's the only reason the Autobots tolerated him for the yawning creature screaming in his gut. As long as he took risky missions and sacrificed himself for other people, more valuable people, Autobots who mattered, it was more cost efficient to fuel him than starve him. The monetary value was tipped marginally in his favor, so he had a cube of energon for the day, another right before he'd be sent out.
That's a cube and a half more than most mechs got these days. He was an oil-guzzler in the middle of an energy crisis, and keeping him fed was depriving other Autobots. He knew it, even if nobody ever said it to his face.
The hunger in his tanks growled, scenting fuel. Trailbreaker wanted to fight it.
It ate him from the inside out.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง Overlord
[* * * * *]
On the days Megatron chose not to leave him a scrap of dignity, the Decepticon warlord cut him down brutal and often.
Those were the days Overlord could look back at their previous matches and see, really see, how arrogance blinded him. Megatron accepted the smaller hits, allowed him his bragging, and gave him just enough rope to hang himself. Overlord's inherent confidence was the only thing that interpreted silence and dodging as weakness or surrender.
The days Megatron lost his patience, he went straight for the kill. "Get up," he said when he knocked Overlord down. "Get up and fight."
Overlord shook his head, dazed from the last blow, and bright energon dripped from split lips. "I…"
"Get up."
"Get up."
"Get up."
"Get up!" Megatron ordered, until Overlord's knees stayed down to the floor and the faltered half-words became a snarled surrender to the lord of the Pit, his better and master yet again.
[* * * * *]
(ง •̀_•́)ง (╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ ('White Lies' AU)
[* * * * *]
They understood that their days were stressful, and they knew that their boss - ex-boss - tried to give them extra consideration for the double-shifts and hard labor. Kaon and Vos faced their own problems on the job, either by discrimination or flat-out exclusion. Helex and Tesarus had been there for Tarn coaching their smaller teammates through the reams of filework necessary to apply for decent positions. After years of Decepticon bureaucracy, Tarn had some kind of mastery over the mysteries of filework in the opinion of the D.J.D.. He'd been the one to help Tesarus and Helex jump through legal flaming hoops to land them their semi-secure recycling plant jobs, wearily refreshing the page over and over as the too-small auto-correcting blanks timed out and erased all their information yet again. He did the research necessary to find out what legalities they'd have to skirt to get Vos a teaching certificate and Kaon an electrician cred.
They understood that Tarn didn't work like they did but knew how hard they labored. They'd watched him fold his pride into a little box and apply for job after job that fired him for ridiculous reasons. Stupid reasons. Reasons that did nothing but beat him down one position at a time while he swallowed everything that made him Tarn in order to be whom the managers wanted.
Helex and Tesarus stumped in after another long day to find Vos quietly studying on the windowsill. The flat's one rickety table was in pieces against the far wall. Kaon was reassembling it, but in the slow, regretful way of someone who knew it was a useless gesture. Tarn was nowhere to be seen, and neither of their smaller teammates brought up his absence.
They understood.
[* * * * *]