For a second, Swerve is so surprised that all he can think of are stupid jokes.
Has he lost himself? Himself?
__________________
__________
He continues his investigation. Partly because he wants to help. Partly so that his presence on Earth has a purpose. A reason. Or rather, an excuse. It doesn't really matter. What matters is not letting Shockwave win over the sponsors, and to do that, he needs to somehow...
He finds a name. Or rather, a whole case. His attention is drawn to the size of the file assigned to this particular person in the system. It's not just physical data and a track record, no. It's requests for materials and reports on development. No pilot does that. This is not an ordinary file, it's documentation more similar to his own... engineering... department?
He digs deeper.
An impressive number of valuable tests. Surprisingly extensive experience in customizing both mechs and implants. More than a hundred successful tests aimed at optimizing drift connections.
And then...
Nothing? "Redirected to military service in the Wreckers division. Demoted to ordinary pilot. Denied access to main laboratories. All projects frozen or transferred to Shockwave.
This can't be right.
Swerve looks at the blueprints and reports and thinks. What the hell, Swindle. You had someone incredible at your disposal and you just threw him to the Quints?
He frowns and flips through the pages of the file. He doesn't know how to fix people, but finding someone who can is within his power.
Blurr frowns suspiciously. He reaches out to scratch the scar on his face but pulls his hand back at the last moment. Then he reaches for the tablet in Swerve's hands. It's... actually a little obvious how screwed up his perception of depth is. His gestures continue to have this strange, indecisive tempo. His hand reaches for the screen with this awkward “I'm not sure when I'm going to bump into it” speed.
“You found... who exactly?”
Swerve dramatically taps his finger on the tablet screen.
“This one.”
“127? A pilot??”
"Exactly! He's not a pilot though...., well, I mean, he wasn't a pilot originally.
"This guy is a scientist! And incredibly talented, as far as I can tell."
Blurr reaches for his face again. Again, he pulls his hand away as soon as his fingers touch the damaged skin.
“Really? Then why isn't his genius being put to use?”
Oh, that's the interesting part, thinks Swerve.
“Because he crossed paths with Shockwave. And I think you know what happens to people who do that.”
Shockwave is smart. As a scientist, yes, but also as a politician. He understands, perhaps even too well, which buttons to push to corner people. How to push and corner them until they find nothing but a solid wall behind them. Some end up destroyed. Others give up, dig themselves into a hole, and hide in it forever.
Some Shockwave buries himself. This is exactly the case Swerve has in his hands.
"As far as I could tell, his projects were rejected because they were too expensive. Which is..Okay, that alone is enough of a reason for our sponsors, but I still have to mention that Shockwave's fingerprints were all over this case. This guy was on his way to becoming a department head, and I'm sure he would have gone even higher from there. If you want my opinion, Shockwave got rid of the competition.
Blurr has a mixture of hope and distrust on his face. And the distrust is much greater.
“What's this pilot's name?”
Swerve scrolls through the images on the tablet and stares at the photo again.
“Perceptor.”
“And is he as good as Shockwave?”
“Not sure. But he's familiar with the concept of medical ethics...”
Blurr falls silent and just sits there for a while, drumming his fingers on his knee.
“You know,” says Swerve, “he may not be able to undo all the damage, but he can definitely help with what you have now. And looks are a social construct imposed by society. Learning to love yourself the way you are is an option.”
“Oh, please. This has nothing to do with my problem,” says Blurr, “I love myself!”
...
“I noticed,” sighs Swerve.
_
“Is it him?”
“No.”
“Yeah... is it him?”
“No.”
“Hmm. And this one...”
Swindle adjusts his cap with the calmness of the most enlightened monk in the world. He and Blurr have been standing in the main hangar for twenty minutes, and Blurr has asked the same question about the same number of times.
He's not angry. He knows that it's a specific Blurr joke to point at obviously incorrect objects and ask, “Is it this one?”
For example, the tool cart is definitely “not him.”
“It's not him either. He's 127.”
“Right.”
“Can you tell me how you found out about this guy?”
Blurr shrugs lazily.
“My friend has a friend. ‘Found out’ is too strong a word, though. I only vaguely know that he's smart.”
“Perceptor is..something,” Swindle rubs his nose. “You'll see.”
“If he's so impressive, why is he sitting in the far corner of your great program?”
Swindle sighs deeply and slowly. Like someone who has just climbed a steep mountain and now has to pretend it was no harder than getting up from the couch.
He raises his finger.
“Officially, his presence created unnecessary and harmful drama in the science department.”
“...”.
"Unofficially, his developments were expensive. And I mean absurdly expensive. The budget isn't infinite. It was either him or Shockwave.“ Swindle frowns and adjusts his glasses before continuing.
”And as much as I hate to admit it, Shockwave isn't someone we can afford to lose. He's a psychopath, but without him, the results drop."
“And when the results drop, cities collapse along with them?”
“Poetic. Did you come up with that yourself?”
“No,” laughs Blurr. “One of your advertising agents did. For the documentary.”
“Mmm.”
“And... hey, what is THIS junk?? Swindler, since when do you keep school projects next to combat equipment?”
“This junk,” Swindler snaps his fingers, “is Perceptor.
On the opposite side of the hangar, a ...mech docks...
Although it's difficult to call this marvel of craftsmanship a full-fledged mech. The frame vaguely resembles a standard training mech. One of those used to instruct rookie pilots.
It's also obvious that the entire design has been modified many times, then disassembled and reassembled. Broken. Repaired. Broken again. Repaired. again.
Blurr's mech could compete for the title of the most beautiful and famous mech in the country.
Perceptor's mech... well, this thing is desperately struggling to even be considered a mech.
Its paint is patchy, its dents have not been completely smoothed out anywhere, its head...
The head is missing. The usual head, at least.
Instead, the mech's shoulders are topped by a hefty laser setup that eerily resembles Shockwave's mask.
If Shockwave was a robot from a junkyard, of course.
“Why does every scientist here have to have some percentage of creepiness... is that a requirement for employment?”
“No,” sighs Swindle, grabbing Blurr by the arm. “They become like that afterwards. Come on, let's say hello.”
Perceptor. Surprisingly normal in places where Shockwave inspires terror. And at the same time strange in completely new ones.
“Don't worry. I wouldn't do anything to you that I wouldn't do to myself.”
“That's not a very high bar,” whispers Swindle. “He tests his inventions on himself.”
Blurr, sitting on a chair, smiles briefly, trying not to move much while his head is being examined.
“I can't give you your eye back,” says Perceptor, “but I can give you your vision. Do you still have the implant in place?”
“Yes. I didn't get rid of it.”
“Good. In that case.” Perceptor takes a couple of steps back and leans his hip on the table. “I can make a smaller version of the main camera to transfer the image directly to your brain.”
“And when you're piloting, you see the world through the eyes of your mech. Your brain thinks the cameras are your eyes.”
“Yeah,” laughs Blurr, “it took some time to get used to."
Perceptor makes a slow “come on” gesture toward him.
“Imagine you have one of those cameras in place of your eye.”
“Oh,” says Blurr, “......OH, I never thought of that. That’s genius.”
“If, of course, you're willing to spend the money on it,” Perceptor raises one finger.
“DUDE! You got me thinking... it is actually INSANE HOLD ON..could this technology help blind people see and deaf people hear?? Or am I missing something?”
Swindle slowly leans on the back of the same chair.
“You're forgetting that even without a full mech, it's still piloting. An abstract deaf person would have to synchronize their brain with a hearing aid just like pilots connect to mechs. It's dangerous.”
“It could be safe if you sponsor my research,” Perceptor adds blandly.
“What I'm trying to say,” Swindle grits his teeth, barely audibly, “is that the technology is very destructive to the brain if used without constant qualified supervision and monitoring of vital signs.”
“I can develop a harmless alternative if you fund me” Perceptor points out.
“Besides,” Swindle shrugs, “a very small percentage of people are actually compatible with drift technology.”
“Give me money,” Perceptor says.
“I WON'T GIVE YOU MONEY,” Swindle explodes, “Not when your projects require more investment than Shockwave's. And that's not how negotiations are conducted.”
Perceptor instantly loses interest and returns to examining Blurr's head.
“It was worth a try.”
Swindle adjusts his glasses. Raises his eyebrows questioningly.
“Well. If we're done here.”
Smiles.
Not a bright, commercial smile, but something much more cunning and restrained. And tired. He pats Blurr on the shoulder.
“Should I give the order to have your bird repaired?
Perceptor raises his hand.
“No, I won’t give you the money.”
Perceptor raises his other hand. Towards Blurr.
“One question. Do you really need it that much? Missing one eye doesn’t prevent you from piloting.
“No. But it prevents me from racing. And I can't afford to be an example of how piloting destroys a career.” Blurr sighs.
“We still need to figure out what to do with your face,” mutters Swindle.
“It's a matter of presentation,” Blurr smiles slyly. “Set the lighting right, pick a good soundtrack and colors. And every viewer in the country will think scars are the coolest thing in the world. As long as it looks cool. We can make it look cool, right?.”
Perceptor adjusts his glasses.
“If you give me money.”
Swerve smiles so hard that his cheeks hurt. Metaphorically. He has no real cheeks, nor does he have pain receptors in them.
He bursts through the door to the dressing room with a loud “GUESS WHAT” and only a moment later belatedly thinks that he probably should have knocked first, otherwise it could have turned into one of those corny scenes where the main character catches his future girlfriend in her bra.
Blurr isn't his future girlfriend, of course. And Swerve isn't the main character. Blurr is just...
Blurr turns around to greet him and
Oh
Oh my
Swerve swallows and tries not to stare too hard. Or at least not too noticeably.
“That suit is new. Cool. I mean cool! Cool new suit!”
Blurr smiles smugly and strikes one of his famous “look how photogenic I am” poses. The suit really (ha) suits him. It's newer. It's fresher, brighter, bolder, and fits him so well that it's immediately clear that the uniform was tailor-made.
Swerve suddenly doesn't know what to do with his hands. He never associated pilot suits with anything revealing; after all, he sees them every day, but this...
He swallows.
“Are you sure they gave you the right size?”
Oh, those stripes remind him of the fashion trends in Cybertronian racing. Back before the war, when he spent all his shanix on good tickets near the exit area, hoping he could get an autograph if he got close enough.
(It never worked; he was too short for them to notice him in the frenzied crowd. )
(It also gave him a good view on a lot of beautiful legs with fashionable stripes and expensive tires.)
“Judging by the look on your face, no mistake was made," Blurr laughs.
Swerve shudders as if he has just woken up and quickly looks up.
And freezes again.
Blurr's face hasn't changed much. No. The scar is still there, but it has become smoother and its edges look much clearer. There are intricate curves that Swerve hadn't seen before. The eye is still missing, but in its place is no longer a crooked hole, but a neat dark eye patch.
It's like pirates and anime fell into a blender and got whipped into a delicate, shiny foam.
“Your face! What the hell did you do to it?”
Blurr smiles knowingly.
“Do you like it?”
“Blurr! What??”
Blurr elegantly turns so that the light falls from the right angle and winks at him. He doesn't even have two eyes to make a complete gesture, but Swerve is still convinced that it's a wink.
“I spent a lot of money on this~”
That makes sense, thinks Swerve. Blurr's scars haven't disappeared, but they look noticeably different. Honestly..It looks less like a real injury and more like...
“Now that's a picture,” mutters Swerve.
“I figured I couldn't get rid of the scars, but I could play around with them, you know. Make them look cool and epic.”
Cut a little here, move a little there. And Swerve has to admit, Blurr used to look like someone who scared children, but now he looks like he was exported from a sci-fi shooter. It's how he would draw a character if he wanted to make their scars artistic and beautiful. Blurr's fans will definitely like it. Swerve, as an expert, can tell in advance.
“It's, um... how? Is it drawn on? Swerve leans closer nervously.
Blurr finishes posing and goes back to looking at himself in the mirror.
“A neat combination of plastic surgery, tattoos, and makeup. And voila, not trauma, but aesthetics.”
“What's with the patch? Are you a pirate now?”
Blurr shrugs.
“The prosthetics didn't look natural enough to be unnoticeable. You know, when every journalist tries to get in your face with a camera, they usually notice quickly if one eye isn't moving the way it should. Plus...” he raises his hand and taps his head “...my eye socket is the ugliest part, so...” He straightens and fastens his collar. “...I decided. Hey. If I can't pretend I have two eyes, I need to double down on being a cool one-eyed guy.”
Swerve doesn't even know how to respond to that.
Maybe because he's trying to process the information.
Maybe because he's looking at those striped legs again.
Hmm.
“You wanted to say something,” Blurr reminds him.
“I. Oh! Yes! I found myself an apartment!” Swerve boasts.
It wasn't easy, considering that he's... not entirely tangible. But he managed to pull it off. The fact that his real body is now much closer to Earth helps immensely.
Blurr giggles.
“You're a ghost. Why do you need an apartment?”
Swerve looks away, embarrassed.
"Well. To live. Like I used to, but you know. More secretly this time."
“You weren't kidding about pretending to be human, huh?”
“You have no idea. First I had to buy a new SIM card and get a phone. Then I had to open new bank accounts with the new phone and get a new ID, and I'm already sick of paperwork.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly, ah,” nods Swerve. “You'll see.”
___
His wheels slide through the cold mud.
His wheels slide through the cold mud, and the wet wind blows around him from all sides, and dirty leaves get stuck in the gaps between his plates, and the light rain completes this cake of sensations like a cherry on top.
The weather is terrible. The temperature could be much more comfortable. The landscape is dreary and gray.
Swerve giggles like a madman. Swerve is happy.
He's back on earth? He's back on earth! He's surrounded by asphalt and trees and water and mud and bricks and a bunch of people who are huddling and shivering unhappily in the cold wind. This isn't metal! These aren't bare, hard corners and the cold clanking of mechanisms! This is organic! These are trees and birds and people and squirrels and the smell of fast food spilling out onto the street.
Was it worth it to run away so quickly, leaving Jazz alone to explain everything to the authorities? No, probably not. Should he have at least stopped by the party celebrating first contact with the Cybertronian race? Maybe.
Did he find the courage to stand before his colleagues in the flesh..erm..in metal, and explain to them that he had been an alien all this time, not a human? HELL NO.
So. He runs away. As soon as their ship lands, he grabs a supply of energon and a few cans of treats and souvenirs and disappears.
Is he a coward? It depends on how you look at it. Tactically, it would be... okay, he's a coward. As if... or... screw it all. “I'm scared” is also a reason.
He's not sure what his plan is.
Find a new alt? One that will run well on almost any road and at the same time won't be too eye-catching. Check.
Find a new place to live? Check. Create a new image for himself. Um... work in progress. Choose a new name. Phew... Get new documents. CHECK! Apply to the Mecha program. Hmm. They always need engineers. Rebuild his human life. Rebuild, restructure, strengthen, and make sure that this time he can stay. Can he stay? There is no naturally generated energon on Earth, but he can always buy it.
Fortunately, energon can be stored almost forever. Or even plant crystals here and see if he can make them grow?
He is in a state of excited confusion. It's like starting a new run in a game you've already played before. Only this time, you're a beginner with the knowledge of an experienced player.
That's great, he decides. This calls for a celebration with friends. And if his memory serves him right, Blurr's apartment isn't that far away...
___
Blurr opens the door and makes a very funny surprised face.
“You're not a ghost anymore!”
“I've never been a ghost,” sighs Swerve. “But if you mean that I'm not transparent, then thank you. Wanna go buy some pizza?”
“Sure,” says Blurr almost instantly. Then he looks out the window and says again, but a little less cheerfully, “Sure. I'll just grab my jacket.”
He must have been dying of boredom here if even such disgusting weather didn't stop him.
“Are you allowed to get up?” asks Swerve. “You're a little... um... shaky?”
“Eh The doctor said I can walk, which basically means yes.”
“Are you sure? Really sure?”
“Oh, relax,” Blurr shrugs. “The recovery time is much shorter if you have metal rods installed. And I have a lot of them, so I'm basically cured."
“That's NOT how metal rods work!”
Blurr just laughs.
“I know, you're just very funny when you're angry. Let's go.”
Wow, thinks Swerve as a handful of wet leaves hits him in the face, I missed this planet.
“Wow,” says Blurr as soon as they get outside, “You drove here??”
Ah. Um. Oh, that. ... Hmm. What... ah.
Swerve tries so hard to keep a straight face that he seems to forget to breathe and blink. It's funny. He didn't know how he would feel when he'll be back on Earth, but now that he's here? Being a secret alien is SO DAMN FUnny.
“... Yeah.”
“Dude, you're a terrible driver.”
Swerve forgets to keep a straight face.
“I WAS BORN TO BE A DRIVER, thank you very much.”
“If your driving in real life is anything like your driving in games, I would never have given you a license,” Blurr says, raising an eyebrow. “This thing has so many scratches, I bet you’ve rubbed every corner and tree with it.”
Oh, you... thinks Swerve. It's covered in scratches because this car went to a damn job and ran around asteroids from aliens!
“I take it you want to walk to the pizza place?” Swerve sighs dramatically.
A complex emotion appears on Blurr's face, the emotion of a man assessing his ability to walk with metal in his joints.
Swerve smiles smugly.
“I thought so. Come on. I promise, I'm not that bad. NO, don't even look at the driver's seat. It's mine.”
“Just letting you know, if you crash us, my lawyer will eat you alive.”
Swerve isn't really listening to him very closely, too distracted by how human hands feel on his Cybertronian frame. He's standing on the street with the wind blowing in his face. But at the same time, he can feel the weight of Blurr in the passenger seat. Very. Very small weight. God, humans are so tiny...
“Yeah yeah. I understand.”
Blurr looks at the counter the way a person would look at someone offering them a drink from a puddle.
“And for that, I got into a stranger's car.”
Swerve is so busy enjoying the wind and the leaves that he forgets to be offended. The salesman recognizes him and smiles wearily. Oh yes. This is life. Earthly weather. Earthly sounds. An earthly store counter with earthly food.
“I love... yes, this one, please. ...The usual, yes. ...Thank you. I love this place."
He takes a bite and melts into the puddle for a few seconds, enjoying the taste and smell. This is it. Not energon. Not metal.
Look at him, an alien robot addicted to dough and cheese.
“Tastes like poverty.” Blurr removes a leaf from his slice of pizza.
Swerve kicks him in the ankle.
Right now, he thinks. Right now, I’ll finish this slice and tell him. Or after the next slice. Probably better to eat everything first and then start talking.
…Maybe. Or not.
Maybe.
Damn, how to even bring up this topic. Hey, want to see something fucked up? Should we talk somewhere private? Bella, I'm a vampire?
He thinks. He plans.
He keeps the conversation going on topics that interest Blurr. Something about Swindle and the new posters? He asks Blurr fifteen times to stop touching the buttons and opening the compartments in “his car”. Then he asks him three more times to stop putting things around the salon. (No, you can't put food here. Or here either. And take that wrapper out of there. And... your jacket? Okay, you can throw the jacket on the back seat. STOP touching the buttons!)
He's not...
He's a fucking coward.
It's one thing when there are no consequences. It's one thing when he's a hologram that can disappear into thin air at any moment and dissolve into the depths of space.
The physical body has... well... stakes.
As a “ghost”, Swerve can look and sound however he wants. As a Cybertronian... well... there is variety, of course, but he can't change his very essence. And he doesn't know what he would do if the reaction to the real him was “fire on command” rather than “wow, cool robot.”
Gaming experience or not. His real body comes with hardcore mode, where a mistake can actually cost him something.
He doesn't say anything. He walks Blurr back to the door, then just teleports to the nearest roof and stares at the clouds like a dramatic anime protagonist.
It's not a big deal. It's nothing. He has time.
He can go to his new apartment first and set everything up there, for example. He can check on Jazz. Although Jazz is probably being forced to write the longest and most tediously detailed report in the universe right now. Swerve doesn't want to participate in writing this monstrosity.
Yes, right. No one needs to know. Not right now.
It's easier and safer that way. More chill and everything.
He wipes the rainwater from his face, vaguely realizing that he probably looks like a wet stray dog, and teleports back to his...
His.
His... um...
The parking space is empty.
For a second, he is so surprised that all he can think of are stupid jokes.
Has he lost himself? Himself?
No.
Wait.
Or was he somewhere else?
He clearly remembers parking here. He remembers walking away with Blurr. And now he's gone.
Stupid? HA HA DAMN. God, how stupid. This will be such a funny story later. “Hey, I got towed while my holoform was pondering existential questions.” Hilarious.
He laughs nervously and scans the nearest couple of blocks just in case. Nothing? Nothing. Oh well. He just needs to find that stupid tow truck and...
And his holoform isn't dissipating.
It should be as easy as relaxing a clenched fist, and for fuck's sake, it's not working. He can't disappear. He can't go back. It's as if something in his brain has gone terribly wrong and his processor has forgotten that, in addition to his human body, he also has a Cybertronian one.
A Cybertronian body that is NOT HERE right now?
Oh. Thinks Swerve. I really....Lost myself?
He looks around in confusion.
Suddenly, separating from Jazz and Prowl and sneaking off to do his own thing doesn't seem like such a good idea anymore. Where can he find them now? Where did they go?
And if not them, then who else? He didn't say anything. To anyone! It seemed like caution at the time, but now it seems more like pure idiocy. He thought he was the smartest. Ha. HA! He genuinely thought he was clever!
The wet wind hits his face and Swerve finds himself feeling more miserable than he has in a long time.
There's no chance that this is anything harmless. No.
Someone came. Someone came and... and... and did something to him while he was distracted. Someone came and did something to him, and now his holoform, his consciousness, is here, but where is he?
“Fuckkkk,” he says aloud for some reason. It sounds hysterical. “......fu...... Is this the chapter where Borlb is strapped to a metal table in a government basement?”
The Mecha AU from @keferon is still going strong! :D
I had the thought of “what if PROWL was the fish out of water” and I had to draw it. And then before I finished @siomnach had the SAME idea! Same brain cell over here fr check out their awesome fic :D
[The TacNet calculation map definitely took the longest. If you zoom in, there is an actual train of thought!]
I actually forgot the fact that Prowl’s spark was giving Jazz DEATH and genuinely started yelling at my own creation in a *WHAT HAVE I DONE* style
I just wanted to draw something genuine and heartwarming SSTP………….
Tanning Bed Boyfriend perfect size for put pilot in to ntap! inside very Soft and Comfort pilot
sleep soundly put pilot in Tanning Bed Boyfriend. Put Pilot In Tanning Bed Boyfriend. no problems ever in tanning bed boyfriend because good Shape and Support for pilot neck weak of big pilot head. Atanning bed boyfriend yes a place for a pilot put pilot in tanning bed boyfriend can trust tanning bed for giveing good love to pilot. friend tanning bed
Oh gawd I’m tired flvnv this is probably the end of this little uhhh what is it. A snippet? Chapter? You get the idea. I wanna switch to other storylines now hehe
From the prospective of Cybertronians, would Mecha Pilot Jazz now considered a cassette?
Dang. Maybe? Cassettes can't control other people's bodies but the concept of a tiny guy hiding in ones chest is definitely familiar to Cybertronians.
Actually. I think humans would be a lot weirder about that stuff than Cybertronians. Human characters would be the ones who makes saucy jokes about "being inside each other" and these 😏 faces
Cybertronians have a lot of similar concepts like cassettes and load bearers and titans and sentient spaceships and stuff. And you know. Yeah it would be really funny if they thought Jazz was a really weird cassette lmao Purely for comedic potential~
Blaster: You don’t understand it’s your responsibility!
Prowl: Listen if there was something wrong Jazz would simply tell me. And he is not a Cassette.
Blaster: Oh Primus you just don’t see it because you don’t have the right programming. And if he never had a proper host before then he doesn’t know either! Cassettes have their needs and it’s important for their health! Look at him! Look how thin and wobbly he is. He is obviously in stress.
I feel like it's a really common trope to have a non-biological entity disgusted by squishy bio things like secretions and flesh and stuff but. Wouldn't they utterly lack revulsion to those things? The reason we are repulsed by things like blood and shit and corpses is because they are intimately connected to our bodies, are uncomfortable reminders of our animal mortality, can be vectors of harm, or are a signal of danger. A being made of energy, metal, or plastic does not have the same sympathetic connections to these things that we do, except as a kind of intellectual sympathy for what people they care about fear. Disgust is repulsive, and you can only repel something if it's close to you. I think the things that viscerally repel a non-biological mind are not going to be biological.
Hmm... Maybe not as extreme as a corpse, but if you handed someone composed of mostly metal an extremely corroded piece of copper, I could see them reacting like you just handed them a very moldy orange.
To reach "handed a decomposing roadkill squirrel" level, maybe give them something with identifiable parts similar to what is in their body, like corroded circuit boards, batteries, wire connectors. That's a more direct reminder of mortality.
...for all those hotshot pilots who need to learn how to speak a conversational Mechtech in a hurry:
"Running diagnostics": taking a five-minute break.
"Checking that repairs settle": taking a ten-minute break.
"Sent the new guy to the quartermaster for the parts we need": taking a half-hour break.
"In five minutes": in ten minutes.
"In ten minutes": in half an hour.
"In half an hour": tomorrow.
"In an hour": actually, in forty-five minutes.
"Severe damage": functionally meaningless, they will say this about anything. Ignore it. It is small talk.
"Extensive damage": actually light damage but on the parts that are hard to work with, so try running a little cooler from now on.
"Moderate damage": sure, you nearly died, but shot-out cockpit glass is pretty easy to replace, stop being dramatic.
"Apprentice work": the most important parts of your 'mech are being left in the charge of the least experienced worker in the entire hangar.
"Armored up on vulnerable segments": an extra layer of tinfoil has been applied over your armor and fastened in place with hot glue.
"Extra armor stripped to save weight": your 'mech is now protected by about two sheets of corrugated metal plundered from a local hardware and landscaping store.
"Lunch break": a block of time that begins at the exact moment you return to the hangar with an engine on fire and one arm missing and ends just when they have to hand the job off to the night teams.
"Lighten up on the handling": treat this 'mech like a dainty lady of court who faints onto couches if slightly stressed and must not strain herself by strolling in the manor gardens too long.
"Push it all you like": if you bring this 'mech back in with all its limbs attached or the engine not exploded, they will assume you are denigrating the quality of their work.
"Get lunch some time at the mess": you have earned the Favor of the Mechtechs. Know you are blessed, and treat this gravely. Also, you are obliged to immediately counter-offer with getting command's permission to order in from a place in town. (Assuming it has not been blown up, the place or the town.)
after sunstorm breaks containment, there's a period of time where he only has foggy recollections of his former life. he crawls through the mantinence tunnels and ventilation shafts of the nemesis, feeding off any lone vehicons he finds in his path. and with shockwave... incapacitated. the whole ship thinks its a mindless experiment on the loose.
at least. until sunstorm runs into a face he actually remembers. somewhere along the line, his spark managed to cling onto the identity of the one mech on the ship who hasn't caused him unimaginable harm. and spares him.
knockout is left with a fragment of volatile information, and a crawling sense of dread.
so.. one of my mutuals (@dorianglowstick ) has an au with a techno-organic jetstorm. and I was feeling inspired by it. then my friend tuna made the mistake of letting me watch Alien again (9000th rewatch lol). and I ended up with yet another au.
here's a techno-organic/sparkeater sunstorm. basically a revision of my tfp sunstorm au.
something along the lines of, Starscream dies early into season three of tfp, and with his weird penchant for having an immortal spark in most continuities, winds up effectively possessing one of shockwaves half-finished predacon experiments.
its one of the weaker ones, and in its incomplete state wouldn't have survived long. but suddenly, to shockwaves optic anyway, it seems to be unkillable. so he takes the opportunity to experiment with mixing Predacon cna, organic dna, and uses nuclear fission as a catalyst.
needless to say, sunstorm comes out.. a little wrong.
the sheer number of vehicons vanishing from the barracks is.. concerning to say the least.
hey guys, what if op had his wings, but he wasn't his big, hot, robust self yet. yeah, that's about it
also uhhhh, animation👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼
made him flustered again cause like.. we love that around here HE'SDOINGTHEBUZZLIGHTYEARTHING
ehehghsjfkgh...ihadtoomuchfunwiththeexhausttoo,hopeitlooksgood
funny image cause i think im funnyimnot
also pLEASE tell me it looks like he's saying "wwow". thatwastheintention- sister and bf didn't see it at firstandimsecondguessingitnowhahahaghfjhfdgjcrying
My first time operating CCTV cameras I was handed control over what was essentially 50 independently moving eyes that collectively covered an area about the size of a football field and from that experience I now know that
Suddenly having 50 moving eyes can make you disoriented and barfy and the adjustment period sucks ass
It takes both more and less time than you’d think to figure out what the structure as a whole looks like and where those eyes ARE
After you get used to it the entirety of the structure itself and all of the eyes you can see from feels like an extension of your nervous system in a very bizarre way. Like I have dreams now from the perspective of A Building and I’m not sure how to describe that.
Once you are aware of an unreachable blind spot it nags at you constantly and you can feel it like a hard little lump under your skin you need to poke and scratch at and it’s ardghgguychgghhbhhhbhhh
And on top of that, having operated CCTV at multiple locations now- my favourite and most comfortable one having excess of 60 cameras- it can be REALLY hard to suddenly jump to a different operating interface and display configuration, because all the muscle memory is wrong
On my COMFORTABLE system, the one I spent the longest time on, I never had to think about what code I needed to punch in. If I needed to watch a specific person, I could follow them all over the site without thinking about it.
Now at a different location, all the manual equipment and codes and lag and resolution are different, and it feels like going from playing the piano to driving stick shift on the left side of the road with my feet
The closest I imagine I can equate it to is like. Getting really really good at painting with a pair of prosthetic hands, and then suddenly having them swapped out with someone else’s
romaincrisis
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