My Library

I'm literally only creating this so i can keep and reread the stories i enjoy

[library-of-random]

Master post for myself and whomever else may wish to use it.

DP x DC

DPxDC fic, prompt, ect. Compilation

Dead Man's Diner, link to master post.

Green Works robots, Danny's eco clean up crew

Danny Has Batwings, Batboy; Nightwing's Robin

Ghosts Tell Me, apollo's little helper

The Joker Is Dead, self explanatory

Dead Serious, Dr. Danny M.D., Not Batman's Sidekick and To Babysit a Mafia Boss, masterpost

Transformers

Odds of Survival, Jazzprowl, Mecha Pilot AU

[ephermalnexus]

Writing request option! :D

Why not something with Artful & Pursuer?

Go, Fetch - Artful + Pursuer (DOD)

CW: gore

Sephora concealer do NOT fail him now.

Artful approaches the feeding beast with the precaution of a tightrope dancer. He is an artist of the arcane, not some unhinged daredevil that sticks his heads into lion’s jaws. Even lions held more etiquette than this… thing.

He’d seen Pursuer prowling amongst the killers, sometimes unfortunately pairing with the apex predator during rounds. He’s seen what makes the beast tick: hunger and bloodlust. But it’s no mere animal acting on its primal urges- it’s cunning, playing their cards right to lure its unsuspecting prey straight into its claws. Clearly, it’s more than intelligent.

So when Artful watched Pursuer dig through the rubbles of ruined city, an undeniable scowl on his face, letting out a frustrated huff before leaving the scene- something definitely troubled it and that can’t go ignored.

Artful averts his gaze as he intrudes on Pursuer’s lunch. A civilian, a second too late, with a chunk of her neck ripped out. He tries not to look, but the sound of wet bones snapping as teeth tear through tissue forces him to stomach a gag. Pursuer notices, spines on his back quivering with a deep growl, jagged body crouching over his catch.

“It’s all your’s, mon ami. Not like you’d finish it anyways…” Artful’s hands hold up in surrender, no wand or music box in either.

Bloodied teeth snarled at him, snapping loudly with a clear warning when Artful made the mistake of stepping closer. Believe him, neither of them were in their comfort zones. Artful points to the sky, dilated pupils briefly glancing at his finger. With the sleight flick of his wrist, a harmonica appears in his hand.

“I believe this is your’s, correct?”

Pursuer’s eyelids deepen to a squint, whole body unfurling to the towering horror as it stands up. Artful wondered if he’ll be in the front gates of enfer as it approaches. But instead of ripping off his head, a claw gently pinches the tiny instrument and pockets it into its spines. Its piercing gazes stared right through Artful’s anatomy, he could feel the paint drain from his skin.

“HOUGHFK!” Pursuer hacks into his face with a splatter of spit and blood. It promptly turns around, stepping over the body and disappearing without a trace,

“Va te faire foutre, connard…” Artful grumbles, wiping his face off.

[willow-and-her-blog]

Dcxdp prompt: Ghost Tax Evasion

Jason Todd, since he woke up from his dirt nap and moved back to gotham, has been placing random items on a small table he has in his living room. It started small with candles he thought would help with stress (to calm the Pit), then incense, then flowers that he puts in old glass bottles (cuz he doesn't want to bother shopping for a vase), rocks he thought looked nice, a dagger he's been meaning to fix, and a bunch of trinkets and mini statues he found that made him happy to collect.

He trys to make it look nicer with a fruit bowl, but sometimes he would put spare change in the bowl so it would still look messy.

He eventually stopped trying to fix it, plus looking at the messy pile kind of made him happier and relaxed, he would even playfully offer the mini statues some of the food he made that day.

He'd never live it down if his siblings found out.

All in all Jason thought it was a good coping mechanism for his messed up life and kept it up.

Which leads us to today.

Ra's Al Ghul trys to summon the Ghost King to destroy/ rule the world (Jason wasn't paying too much attention) and succeeded, but instead of Ghost King Pariah Dark they get another guy named Phantom, who proceeds to tell him that he is wanted for Ghost Tax Evasion and was looking for him.

King Phantom then steps out of the summoning circle, rips a hole in reality that looks like the pits (but cleaner, Jason absently notes), then throws all the assassins and Ra's into the portal.

With a satisfied look King Phantom comes over to Jason and unties him. Jason nervously asks if he owes taxes too, since he died and all, but King Phantom just smiles and says "You've been paying your taxes for years now, me and a few other God's really appreciate it. Oh and before I forget, could you make that pasta dish again, the one with the pesto, it was super tasty last time."

With that said Phantom leaves through the portal and it disappears like it was never there.

Jason, after getting over the initial shock, Jason starts to head home to cook some pesto pasta and starts to wonder if he can get the Joker arrested for Ghost Tax Evasion too.

[sightseertrespasser]

Odds of Survival apart 7

Welcome aboard the Lost Light! Where nothing stressful ever happens.

Working back into longer chapters. Credit to @keferon for creating the AU. Enjoy!

———————————————————————

Spaceship spaceship spaceship that is a mother fucking spaceship.

Somewhere within the poor rattled jelly of his brain, eight year old Jazz was screaming and jumping and slapping his adult self’s shoulder to start doing the happy dance.

Instead, he reached out a hand to clasp Prowls shoulder. “Hoooly shit!”

Music.

He needed music. The Superman theme? No. Interstellar? Nah, something more energetic. Star Wars? Closer. Jurassic Park? Yes.

As Jazz began playing the introductory notes to the Jurassic Park theme, he had the presence of mind to take a screen capture to show Hot Rod later. Jazz was mech-crazy but Roddy was all about spaceships and this was something straight out of a comic book brought to life.

The Lost Light, as best Jazz could translate, was a thing of beauty. Mango sherbet sunlight spilling over the horizon painted the ships white exterior peach and cream. It had these spine? Thingy’s? Rising from the back. Jazz had no idea what for but they looked awesome. Massive thrusters slowed its decent onto the moons surface, kicking up enough glittery dust to make everything around it sparkle like a goddamn anime filter.

Bluestreak was saying something in his native language again. Clearly shocked and ranting at his brother.

“Blue, if you’re gonna talk about someone in the room, it’s polite to do it in a language they understand. Ya know? ‘Specially so they don’t make any assumptions when they hear Prowl, Jazz, and Frag in that order.” He inclined his head towards the mecha in question but didn’t look away from the ship.

“I am so sorry!” Jazz gave it fifty-fifty he was also talking to Prowl.

“It was just! You grabbed Prowl and trust me no one actually gets away with that if he does not want to be touched by someone. Which is almost everyone. I mean, even {Smokey} and I can only get away with it on a good day. Or if I blackmail him about the time he blew me up. Even then we’ve known each other for vorns and he met you like a cycle ago?! And I’m also kinda loosing my mind right now because you are SO weird and oh Primus I didn’t mean to call you that, you’re a really cool mech I just think you’ve got a really messed up home life and that just sounds like another insult doesn’t it? Did I tell you I talk a lot when I’m nervous because I talk a lot normally so you’d think I’m nervous all the time but really I’m not nervous all the time it’s just that when I actually get nervous I really really start talking a lot and are you flirting with Prowl because I think you’re flirting with Prowl even though he said you weren’t but I think he’s just in denial since he keeps letting you do stuff like touching him without warning.”

“BLUESTREAK.” Prowl ground out a shout through clenched teeth.

The sniper snapped a hand over his mouth. Eyes wide and wings pinned low. In stark contrast to Prowl, who had his own wings flared high and wide. Both brothers were wide eyed in utter mortification.

“Go.” He paused, lightly removing Jazz’s hand. “Go to the ship. That is an order.”

Bluestreak skedaddled, keeping one hand firmly over his mouth and giving a firm thumbs up with the other.

Jazz knew there was no way that would actually stop him from talking, but he really appreciated it when a pilot could commit to the bit. He snort chuckled.

“I apologize greatly on behalf of my brother. He meant no offense. And please disregard anything he might have..” Prowl looked like he wanted to cough discreetly. “Implied.”

They walked together towards the airlock outside. Waiting for Bluestreak to exit before they could go next.

“Do you mean when he implied I have a slaggy home life or the bit about you liking me?”

He watched Prowls face twitch a bit. He was standing military inspection straight, hands tightly clasped behind his back and pointedly not looking at Jazz.

“Cause I wasn’t flirting on purpose.” Prowl did not break eye contact with the wall, but Jazz caught his wings dip imperceptibly.

“When I grabbed your shoulder.” Jazz hummed.

Ope. Made ya look.

Prowl glanced back to the wall, before apparently deciding there wasn’t much point in ignoring Jazz. Smart man.

He turned more fully back to Jazz, face focused but a hint more open then before.

“Slaggy isn’t really a- that’s not how the grammar is used for-“ Prowl rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Jazz, do like how you are treated where you are from?”

Oh, well shit. He silenced the movie soundtrack, thinking. Felt the horns pin back.

“When you joined your group, how much did it hurt?”

Prowl didn’t immediately respond. Considering his question for a long breath.

When he finally spoke, it was quieter than before. “Pain is relative, and I believe certain aspects of the process are idiotic and pointless, but to try and answer your question; it hurt less than what it was worth.”

Jazz watched the lights cycle on the door as it re-pressurized.

“Same.”

They stood together before the way out.

“Though, from the looks of it, you guys are in much better shape than us. I kinda thought we were the best of the best. But I’m starting to think there’s a lot they weren’t telling us.”

The airlock hissed open, and the two stepped inside.

“You can stay. If you choose.” Prowl shuffled back into a parade rest, hiding behind formality. “You do not have to go back to those people.”

Jazz smiled deep within his mech, and lightly bumped his unwitting guide to the galaxy. “Prowler! Really now, flirting at a time like this? How unprofessional.”

Goddamn it was mean, but holy hell it was just too much fun to fluster a man like Prowl.

“You are completely insufferable.” Points to Bluestreak, when Jazz asked him for a bunch of keywords Prowl would probably use, unprofessional and insufferable were some of the first he taught him.

“I am trying to help you. I have been trying to help you this entire time and you have constantly managed to find entirely new ways of making my head hurt.” Prowl had finally dropped the act and was waving his arms emphatically.

“M’kay.” Jazz nodded along. “Would you like my number?”

Prowl made a face like he was mentally blue-screening again. “I… Yes. Yes that would actually be very helpful.”

“I’m happy to help!” And Jazz rattled off his personal phone number for the burner cell he wasn’t necessarily supposed to have.

“Thank you?” Prowl said with an entirely new flavor of confusion. “Jazz what is-“ Prowl was cut off by the airlock’s depressurization.

He could not wait to get that man to a rec room. His mecha was built shorter than Jazz’s, but he had this weird total confidence that Prowl was somehow taller than him.

Jazz stepped out onto the moons surface, letting the last notes to the Jurassic Park theme finally play out, stopping briefly to once again admire the insanity of the situation. He liked to focus on the good when it was front and center, because he had a pretty clear idea of how bad the bad could be.

A dull stone of dread settled in his stomach.

Disconnecting was gonna suck. Pretty sure he didn’t have a full blown concussion at least. Hard to tell with the drift link suppressing most of the “oh fuck ow stop that” signals his body was almost certainly sending him. He felt basically fine though, so he could get away with pushing it back just a little further.

Probably.

The medics here didn’t know his rep either, so even on an unfamiliar base, Jazz gave it two minutes max before he’d be in their walls.

Prowl appeared in his peripheral vision and motioned for Jazz to follow.

The closer they got to the Lost Light, the more the feelings of Awe transitioned into Vertigo. This thing was fucking massive up close. Upon reaching the outer airlock door, Jazz found he couldn’t touch the molding at the top. Maybe if he climbed onto Prowls shoulders though?

Before he could poke that particular bear, the door opened and Jazz was ushered in. As soon as the atmosphere returned, Prowl was on his case.

“Jazz it is of the utmost importance that you behave yourself. I will handle your introduction to my immediate superior. Please refrain from any overly familiar behavior.” Prowl wasn’t doing the no eye contact-parade rest pose but actually looking at him properly.

“Don’t embarrass you in front of your boss, I got you boo.” He clapped Prowl on the shoulder for emphasis and watched his wing things do a little dance.

Oh those things definitely got hard wired into his neural net by accident didn’t they? Wonder how he deals with the phantom limb syndrome.

Jazz himself walked like a, quote “new born deer that just took a shot of fireball” per Rico, every time he disconnected from his mecha after too long.

“Please refrain from touching me until further notice.” Prowl tacked on as the doors slid open.

—————

Something was off.

It started in the hallway but the sensation didn’t fade. Like when you get home and vaguely smelled something had gone bad, but it was so faint you could barely remember it was there. So you search the fridge, the trash, yadda yadda yadda because you know it’s there. Even if you’ve gotten used to the smell and can only imagine what’s wrong based off of a poorly informed memory of the thing.

The interior of the ship looked off. But in a way he just couldn’t put his finger on.

Jazz was vaguely aware he’d been getting a little loopier ever since him and Prowl went tumbling down Crash Mountain.

Truth be told, he’s been off his game ever since Prowl found him.

Shit, how long had he been piloting actually?

Let’s see.

He woke up this morning on the mecha program space station, got to piloting, ran maybe a couple hours of tests? Then space tore itself a new one, Jazz tore that alien a new one, got teleported, scared the fuck out of Tentacle Monster Mission Control, got teleported again for much longer, passed out, woke up, spent the better part of a day traveling with Prowl and oh fuck me I haven’t eaten or drunk anything in at least 14 hours.

Now that he was thinking about it, the dull ache in his skull felt more like dehydration than blunt force trauma.

Wait. No. Concentrate.

Something about this place was off. It wasn’t just in his head. He just needed to focus for more than - woah that’s a lot of mecha.

Mechanical forms hurried along massive hallways. Vehicles abounded as well and Jazz had to make and effort not to trip on any. Prowl had gotten a hold of his arm at some point and was half supporting half guiding Jazz through the hall.

“You said no touching.” Jazz crooned in a singsong voice.

“You’re going to fall on someone.” Prowl was making a face that had every passing mecha pointedly not make eye contact.

“Am not.” And Jazz went a little limp just to fuck with him.

Prowl left little space for Jazz to wander or wonder. He’d catch a glimpse of a rooms interior or another fantastic mecha only to be pulled along before his gaze could linger.

Jesus this place was huge. And detailed. Lots of GNDN lookin’ pipes, wires and greebles across every surface. After what felt like walking through every spaceship movie set at once, Prowl pulled him into a room with red cross markings on the doors.

Inside, the room hosted a number of high tech (pillowed?) tables and a truly ridiculous number of tools. Half of them looked suited for body shop work, welders and wrenches and the like. While the other half resembled supersized computer repair kits.

Why is everything huge? They don’t. They don’t seriously have the pilots handle the repairs while in their mecha do they?

Sure Prowl did some basic repair stuff earlier, but that was mid battle support. It made sense.

Speak of the distracting devil, Prowl was addressing somebody while Jazz was ogling a 30ft tall filing cabinet.

Two mecha were at the other end of the room.

One was teal and standing, tapping away at a super-sized tablet. They had a face -something is off- that turned to them warmly, taking in their battered mecha.

The other one was neon alien blood green. Sat on a table, they were wiping their face off with a cloth, revealing a hot pink paint job. Their other hand rested on a severed and charred alien head missing most of the fleshy bits. They tossed the cloth in a bin and locked onto Jazz with a face that promised fucking death.

Hot Pink said something formal and clipped in Prowls native language. Standing from the table and casually swinging the skull in one hand.

“Elita One,” Prowl dipped his head and wings. “This is Jazz. He has significant experience in batting quintesson forces. I have seen his capabilities firsthand and they are highly impressive. Currently, he is in need of medical treatment.”

The bloody one, Elita One, stalked up to Jazz. Raking over him with a critical eye. The pilot got a tingly sense of deja vu, like he got pushed back in time to when he first applied to the mecha program.

The lights hummed at a B flat pitch.

Onslaught, one of the first pilots and one of the few to live to retirement stood like a demon guarding the gates to Hell.

Jazz straightened up, squaring his shoulders.

“Sir, Striker one zero six one, {Pacific} Rim Defense, Callsign: Jazz, sir.”

Elita paused in her circling, however briefly, before returning to face him and Prowl once more.

“At ease.” She considered Jazz for only a moment longer, something like curiosity flickering before turning to Prowl, “Officer, I expect a full report from you on the bridge. Jazz is to not go anywhere on this ship without accompaniment. And I expect you to justify this situation to Red Alert.”

If Jazz hadn’t specifically been watching for it, anyone else would have missed the ever so slight way Prowl cringed at the order.

“Yes Captain. I volunteer to keep watch of Jazz and assume responsibility until a shift change can be approved.” D’awww. The machine has a heart.

“Request granted. Now, you have until I finish cleaning this skull to take care of any personal matters.” Elita hefted the thing for emphasis.

She locked onto Jazz once more, “Velocity will see to your injuries. You will comply with whatever treatment she deems appropriate. If you cause harm to her or any other member of my crew, I will rip off what’s left of your arm and beat you to death with it. Otherwise, remain here until Prowl comes to collect you. Is all that understood?”

I’m sorry can you repeat that middle bit? You said it so casually and in the same tone as everything else that I kinda blanked for a sec.

Instead, Jazz said, “Yes sir.”

Velocity stepped up, -their medic is a pilot- “If you’ll follow me, I can get you situated on the medical {berth} over here.”

Velocity paused as she was about to leave, like she’d just heard something. She turned and nodded to Prowl who returned the gesture, releasing Jazz in the process.

Velocity clasped her hands together and spoke to Jazz.

“I understand you might have a, ah, unique medical history. Would you be able to discuss any of that with me so I can better treat your injuries?”

Jazz hesitated.

Something is off.

“A moment in private, if you both would allow.” Prowl looked between the two other mecha. Elita was pretty much out the door and Velocity graciously left to gather the needed supplies. Prowl came closer to speak quietly.

“Jazz. You said some concerning things before regarding your previous experiences with medical treatment. Can you handle allowing Velocity to treat you?” He was doing the serious face again, one hand resting on Jazz’s working shoulder.

“Yeah. I mean, worst case scenario and I start freaking out you’ve got my permission to use force.” Prowls eyes got very wide at that.

“Which I won’t! I won’t!” He held up a hand placatingly. “I’m…not great with doctors, but it’s less the medical stuff itself and more..” Jazz made a so-so gesture.

“Feeling trapped?” He felt his horns pin down again.

Before he left the program, Ratchet had a whole system worked out. He did as much light treatment as he could with Jazz in public places like the cafeteria or in his apartment. Usually bringing in someone trusted like Rico around to distract and talk to him while Ratchet worked.

For full on surgery though, there wasn’t a lot of alternatives to turn to. White lights, white walls, dark shadows. The actual operating theater was the only option.

Ratchet, to his credit, never used restraints, which was usually enough to avoid triggering an episode if he worked fast. As far as drugs went, Jazz had a twighlight stage between Fully Conscious and Out Cold called Fuck Where’d He Go that no one enjoyed playing.

He sighed.

“Look, I’m not hurt that bad. Just..” Jazz rubbed the back of his mechas head out of habit, “Give me a dim room and something cold for my head and I’ll be fine after I get something to drink.”

Prowl furrowed his brow, “Jazz, one of your arms is non functional. I implore you to let us help. You are concerned with feeling trapped, yes? If the door out of the room is left open, would that alleviate some of your fears?”

His visor twitched towards Prowl. Jazz stood very, very still.

Focus. Something is off. Focus.

“Yeah. I… I don’t want to be strapped down either. Or put to sleep.” Jazz focused on Prowl’s face. His mecha that had a face. The face that Prowl could chose not to use but is. Prowl looked like he was actively having to school his expression.

“No restraints. No sedatives. I will comm Velocity your requests and you may reiterate them at any time.” He let go of Jazz, who stepped back slightly.

Jazz watched him from within his mecha, only showing what he wanted to show. Prowl was watching him just as closely, but couldn’t hide that he was. Why can’t he hide it?

Something is off.

“Got it Prowler. See you soon!” Jazz left him with a cheery wave.

He needed to get his head on straight. It was starting to feel like he was high or something with the way everyone was talking about his mecha. There was the language barrier sure, but it didn’t account for whatever visual weirdness that was tickling his sense of uncanny valley.

With the specter of possible legitimate brain damage haunting his steps, Jazz walked towards where Velocity had gone, knocking on the doorway to get her attention. “Ready to go when you are doc.”

Velocity, who Jazz caught peeking around the corner during his little heart to heart with Prowl, at least had the gumption to not even pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping. He could at least appreciate when a doctor was honest about their bad habits.

“Right this way. I’ll be leaving just the interior door open for the sake of privacy if that’s alright. Prowl also noted you did not have a negative reaction to localized {anesthetic}.” She gestured to the chrome duct tape still on his shoulder.

Velocity led them back into the room with all the tables and the huge central computer terminal. “Lay down here, and I’ll get started. I’ll talk you through every step of what I’ll be doing.”

Jazz walked up to the table, and stared.

And stared.

“Uh.” He circled around the mecha cradle table thing. “How do I get down?”

Horizontal style cradles were a thing in like, New Zealand? But for the life of him Jazz couldn’t see where he was supposed to go.

Velocity raised an eyebrow. Speaking slowly she gestured to the table, “You sit in the middle, and then turn 90 degrees to set your upper and lower body on the berth. Laying down.”

Jazz looked between her and the “berth”, his brain skirting the very edge of the sink drain.

“Right, but after that is there a ladder or something? Do stairs pop out? Or are you actually going to lift me out of here?” Jazz squatted down, inspecting for some kind or catch or compartment or..

Or..

Something was off because there weren’t any.

Jazz felt every hair stand up on his body.

His brain fell down the drain.

He stood.

Carefully.

Nothing on this ship has been built to human proportions. Nothing.

“Jazz? Are you alright?”

The human turned to the giant robot.

“Hmm? I’m fine.” He hopped onto the berth with ease, looking relaxed. “Still learning Common. Just a little confused was all.”

Velocity blinked, “Oh well that’s understandable. It’s designed for communicating with organic alien life forms so the terminology can be a little strange sometimes.”

“Hah. Right.” Jazz stared at the ceiling.

Every drop of his blood was cold.

“Aliens.”

———————————————————————

It is truly a Jazz fic if he isn’t lying for his life and bouncing off the walls like a squirrel in a plastic bucket?

Next time, Prowl has a completely relaxing chapter all about petting Green. Yep.

Definitely.

- SSTP

[niiwa-angel]

"Optimus doesn't take time off because he's too self sacrificing"

Wrong!

Optimus can't take time off because he knows the second he isn't white knuckling the riens, Elita-One, Ironhide, Jazz, and Prowl are going scorched Earth on the Decepticons. It will end the war but it may also classify as a total annihilation.

Optimus, sleeping slightly deeper than he usually would: 😴

Prowl: Optimus is out of commission, I am now in charge. Elita, break out those plans we told him we didn't make, Ironhide, ready the acid bombs, Jazz, grab us a jet. We're ending this war tonight.

Elita "the ends can justify the means" One: You know, I don't think we've properly considered the elegance of germ warfare. We wouldn't even have to get our hands dirty.

Ironhide "I'm just showing him my cannons" the Weapons expert: That'll take too long. Nukes, that's the best way to go.

Jazz "I lead the most lethal fighters on this team" the Spy: We've got one shot, I can sneak in and stash some explosives in their barracks, they'll never catch me. Blow their whole base sky high.

Optimus, waking up in just the nick of time: I am begging you to stand down!

Ironhide: Told you we should have slipped a sedative in his high grade.

~~~~

Optimus, literally fighting to get out of the Medbay: You don't understand! They're plotting!

Ratchet: You have a broken leg and a head injury, sit your ass down!!

First Aid, who's been secretly trying to help the four of them end this thing: I'll grab a sedative. He may need a week of bedrest.

Meanwhile

Elita-one: Now, I did some research and did you know that half of our war crimes aren't considered war crimes on this planet?

Jazz: Fascinating. What a creative group.

Prowl: Indeed. And Optimus does want us abiding by the laws of this planet.

Ironhide, nodding along: He does.

Prowl: Whelp! Gotta follow orders obey the laws of this planet. It's not a war crime here, Jazz, get the rust bombs.

[keferon]

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

___________________

Magical Golem Prowl anyone? ‘,:) This story exists in the same universe as Spellbound au. and Monster hunter au and ties them together so I highly recommend you read all of them.

The fic under the cut⤵️

He seemed to be nothing.

The emptiness that infinitely defined his nonexistent self bounced off the metal plates and glinted in the droplets of still-warm energon. He was nothing, but there was so much around him that the space was like an infinite buzz of cluttered noise. The voices above him sounded excited. The metal slab beneath him was cold and hard.

“Good. Now you need to put a piece of your armor on this. Somewhere it will be in plain sight and easily reachable.”

“Oh...wouldn't it make more sense to hide it under the armor? I mean, it's an obvious weak point.”

He idly thought, his hands felt numb.

“No no, that's the whole point. You're using an artifact you haven't fully studied and you don't know exactly how it's going to turn out. If it goes crazy and becomes dangerous, you should have an easy way to destroy it. Where's the artifact by the way?”

The tinkling of metal.

The sound of a crystal clattering against armor.

Warm hands on his head.

“Here.”

“Excellent. Now. This will be the base on which the entire spell will be held, so you want to hide this artifact very well and secure it carefully so it doesn't break by mistake.”

Did he have hands too? He was nothing, why did he have hands? It didn't make sense.

Orion took a couple steps away from the table and stood pensively.

“I've done something wrong again. It's not moving.”

There was a lot of stuff spread out in front of him. Old spare parts, pieces of armor, tools. Lots of warped plates.

And his creation. A real golem. An entity woven of metal and magic.

Shockwave, hitherto distracted by an almost invisible spot on his shoulderplate, glanced leisurely over Orion's shoulder

“Golems don't need much to function. You made a good shell. The magical structure is strong as well, I see.”

Orion hesitantly pointed to the golem's forehead, decorated with a neat sharp chevron.

“I added some things that weren't in your instructions and I think I made a mistake somewhere.”

“Golem making is a complex skill, don't give up if it doesn't work right awa...you know what, actually no, you did everything right.”

Orion shrugged in frustration.

“Then why won't it move?”

Shockwave walked around the table and stopped right above the head of the figure lying on it

“ Golems exist to serve, my friend. It won't move unless you ask it to.”

Orion walked back over to the table with a quiet “oh” and nervously clutched his servos. The figure remained stone still. There was no ventilation noise, no engine sound, not even the barely audible spinning of a spark. It could just as easily have been a long-cooled dead body lying in front of him.

“Wake up.”

The emptiness that forever defined his nonexistent self stammered. He wasn't nothing. He had a purpose and that purpose shaped him, put strength into his numb limbs and molded his lack of thought into naked intent.

He wasn't nothing. He was a void, but suddenly that void had a direction, no matter how meaningless it sounded.

He stopped being just nothing. He became his purpose. And it felt so right that it was unclear how he could ever have been anything else before.

He opened his optics.

Orion, who apparently hadn't expected that the thing he'd made specifically for it to move would move, jerked back with a funny sound.

On the opposite side, Shockwave nodded proudly, returning to the spot on his armor that even in the bright lights of the workshop only he could see.

“I believed in you.”

_________

“Oh my god! How do you sneak up on me so quietly every time?”

He wasn't nothing anymore. He was a whole long list of instructions and rules. His creator sat him down at a table and meticulously listed everything he could and could not do. Handed him many books and ordered him to attend a huge number of lectures. He now knew who to bow to if he passed them in the hallway and who to avoid. He had learned hundreds of names and thousands of titles. Learned how to pretend to be a real Mech, even though he wasn't.

The world around him was complex and confusing, but he found that this complexity had its own patterns, linked together in a bizarre web of systems and sequences. It was worth pulling on the right end, and the meaningless facts organized themselves into something much more manageable.

Everything made sense. The planet revolved around a star. Mechs rejoiced when they got something that improved their quality of life. Energon burned, producing energy. Big things tended to be heavier than small things.

The world was divided into Mechs and monsters...and him.

He was inclined to be...quiet.

His creator - he'd asked to be called Orion - twitched when he found his creation standing right behind him.

He was very talented at finding Orion wherever he was. And very light compared to most things his size. Like everything else it made sense. He wasn't a Mech, he was just an empty shell. An armor summoned to life by magic. His footsteps were as quiet as a mini bot's. Whatever Orion called it, he wasn't 'sneaking' on purpose.

A few cycles later, Orion accidentally bent one of its finals when he turned around too quickly, startled by the quiet footsteps behind him.

He named him Prowl. It was...not exactly logical, but there was a certain sense to it. Prowl nodded and agreed. He always agreed with everything Orion said, even if it didn't make sense at all. Orion's opinion took a higher priority than anything else.

Until it didn't.

Until Orion gave him a focused look and told him that he should argue if he thought it was necessary.

Until Orion put the servo on his shoulder and said something along the lines of....

“You can disagree with me if you think my opinion is wrong. I'm not asking you to go against me. I'm not perfect and I can't be the one absolute point of reference for everything. You can and I'm sure will be smarter than me about many things. I want you to tell me if I'm wrong and what I should do about it.”

Like…well….like an absolute fool.

This concept was new. Prowl wasn't built to argue. He was made to obey orders and to serve a function.

Orion smiled slyly. At least it was probably a smile behind his mask that made the corners of his optics lift.

“It wouldn't be considered a disobedience of my order if I ordered you to disobey it. Don't you think?”

Prowl opened his mouth to agree out of habit, but then changed his mind mid-motion and closed it back. It...it didn't make sense. It made sense that was breaking under its own weight. It was mercilessly mixing up all of his pre-learned patterns for talking to Orion. If he agreed with that logic now, it would mean accepting its use. If he protested, it would also mean accepting it, but in a bit more embarrassing way. Just when he was thinking of simply retreating silently to the nearest shadow and banging his head against the wall, he heard a quiet chuckle and realized that Orion had been amusing himself for some time now, watching him struggle.

Prowl decided that verbal responses might be overrated and frowned his face in the most believable expression of displeasure he could portray.

Orion broke out into laughter.

________

“What exactly is my goal?”

Orion looks. Curious. He stops talking to Shockwave and leans back on the bench.

“Right now, to study these journals. I already told you.”

Prowl nods to indicate he heard him and continues

“Studying serves a future purpose. Studying for the sake of studying would be meaningless to me. What is my final goal?”

“To assist me” Orion says slightly confused. ”Within the best of your ability of course.“”

“Аh. Assist in the fulfillment of your goal.”

“Well. I'd say so, yes.”

Prowl nods

“And what is your goal?”

Shockwave, who has been sitting next to them the whole time looks like they're a couple of previously unknown to science species he's just personally discovered.

Prowl ignores him.

“I...you remember the separation between Mechs and monsters, right?” asks Orion cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Mechs...are unfair to monsters. Monsters are cruel to Mechs. It's a needlessly violent situation that I want to...try to. Fix.”

Prowl frowns to indicate that the information isn't completely clear.

“You're a member of the order of hunters. And...” he shakes his head toward the nearest window ”...you have a considerable number of hunters under your command. Your job involves destroying monsters.”

Shockwave makes some sort of quiet amused sound and props his chin up with his hand.

Prowl ignores him harder.

“My job is to bring peace.” says Orion “You don't have to kill monsters to do that. You can negotiate with them. Find a compromise. Coexist. I...I guess basically, I'm trying to make the world a little better?”

Prowl doesn't look impressed. He's actually making a special effort to not let Orion think in any way that he might be intrigued by the whole endeavor.

“You do realize that's a disproportionately large goal for just one Mech, right?”

Orion shrugs awkwardly

“That's why I made you.”

__________

Ratchet puts aside his tools and critically examines his work.

“Don't touch that and it will heal normally.”

Orion smiles gratefully

“Thank you.”

Ratchet is important to Orion. They are close and very valuable friends to each other. The two of them look peaceful now, despite the fact that Ratchet threatened Orion when he first showed up in Sick Bay, so Prowl decides it would be a socially acceptable moment to start talking

“Orion, you're wanted at the Council.”

The second half of his line is drowned helplessly in two startled exclamations at once. Orion, to his honor, calms down almost immediately, but Ratchet continues cursing for a while.

Prowl doesn't wait for him to finish. The Council meeting is earlier than usual today and Orion has already had a few occasions of misbehavior. It's in his best interest to at least show up on time this time.

“Shockwave asked me to tell you to hurry. I will add that showing up at the last minute will not be good for your reputation if you are still hoping to convince the council to let you take more units.”

Ratchet .....stares.

“Primus' rusty hinges, Orion, who's that? Did they assign a nanny to you?”

Orion twitches his finals playfully and immediately crinkles in pain, remembering that one of them should have been left to heal.

“Remember when I wanted to find an assistant? Well...”

Ratchet casts an increasingly more suspicious look at Prowl. Prowl decides that friendliness is overrated and limits his expression to a barely perceptible tilt of his head in response.

“...Shockwave recently helped me figure out how to create golems and I figured if I couldn't find anyone I could trust, I might as well...make one. So. Ratchet meet Prowl.” finishes Orion awkwardly.

Ratchet glares at Prowl for a while longer. Then he turns away and starts tidying up Sick Bay.

“I'm not buying it. I don't know where you found this guy, but you're not playing me. Nice poker face by the way.”

One of Prowl's wings twitches

“He wasn't lying.”

Ratchet snorts grumpily.

“Those...” he waves toward the next room ”...are golems.

There, behind the wall, several golems scurry around. They have medical staff symbols painted on their shoulders, and there is not a trace of thought in their eyes. Two are scrubbing the floors, another wiping the shelves and window sills clean of dust. They occasionally mumble softly under their noses or utter an inane “excuse me” every time they accidentally bump into each other. Prowl knows that if you ask any of them a question with more than one variable, they start babbling guiltily and shrugging their shoulders. They're stupid, but they themselves don't seem to care about that at all. They are their purpose. And their purpose is to keep things clean. They are pride because they are good at their job.

Prowl frowns. He's a headache. Because his "purpose" has been distracted by his conversation with Ratchet and will probably add another tardy to his list in the near future.

Orion begins (thank goodness) to move toward the door

“I've made improvements. There might have been...some not exactly allowed artifacts.”

Ratchet rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly. Prowl can see that his face is already starting to wrinkle in that spot. Patient antics probably age Ratchet far more effectively than the passage of time itself.

“I...you know what...go before the Council sends a search party to look for you.”

Orion sighs and without further distraction finally walks out the door.

Prowl decides that Ratchet might be a good ally when it comes to managing Orion.

He nods politely goodbye before leaving.

______________

“I am different from them. Why?”

Orion puts down the document he's been working on and looks first at Prowl and then, over his head, at the other golems scurrying down the hallway with brooms and rags. He doesn't need to interject exactly who he thinks Prowl is different from.

“Do you want a philosophical answer or a technical one?”

Prowl reaches out and pokes somewhere in Orion's document

“ You missed a comma. Both.”

Orion obediently puts the comma in and folds up the document. His finals are twitching faintly. It could be a sign of concentration as well as distraction. Prowl has already figured out that Orion's body language is a double-bottom trap. For a Mech with this level of expressiveness, Orion is surprisingly difficult to read.

“Sometime quite a while ago during one of my expeditions, I found a unique artifact. A fascinating item, granting wisdom to anyone brave enough to use it.”

“I have a feeling a ‘but’ is coming.”

“You're right. The artifact's unique gift was also its curse. It fed so much information through the Mech's heads that it literally caused the processors of its owners to melt.”

“Oh. Good thing I don't have a processor then.”

Orion laughs quietly

“Indeed. You won't have that problem. And about the other part....Think of all the Mechs you know who are savvy enough about politics and available to work together at the moment.”

Orion gives him a moment before continuing.

“ What is the likelihood that the most trustworthy of them would betray me, for their own gain or out of fear?”

“ Twenty-eight percent,” Prowl informs.

And then hesitates a moment.

Orion is obviously a smart Mech. Not smart enough to single-handedly dominate the political arena, definitely not with his ideals and ideas of what's right. But smart enough to realize it. He knows what he wants and he also knows he can't achieve it alone.

Prowl looks at Orion, who just stands there, eyeing him, without in any way trying to continue the conversation.

Orion is idealistic, and therefore often mistaken for stupid. He isn't. Orion doesn't just know that he can't succeed alone, he knows that everyone else knows it too. He thinks this knowledge will be used against him when the opportunity arises. He's right. By Prowl's count, at least three suspiciously clever Mechs were going to sweet-talk their way into becoming Orion's assistant one way or another before... he appeared.

One of the janitor golems runs past them down the corridor. He doesn't turn around, doesn't even slow down or cast a curious glance. His only goal, his only interest is cleaning. The rest of the world might as well not exist at all.

Prowl thinks he's not that different.

Orion apparently reads the understanding from his face, because he nods contentedly and starts walking further down the hall.

“You didn't take yourself into account when you made the statistics, did you?”

Prowl follows him silently on his heels. Not close enough to be familiar, but not so far away that the conversation stops being private.

“The sampling condition was all mechs. I am not one.”

“That's true” Orion shrugs “You have no loved ones that the Council could use to influence you. You have no desires to be bought by their fulfillment. And while I cannot say with absolute certainty that you will never be capable of going against me...” Prowl starts to open his mouth to object but Orion gestures him to stop, “...no no no no, let me finish. And while I can't be sure you'll never betray me, I at least know for sure that before you met me you had no reason to do so. Do you understand?”

Prowl understands. It makes sense. He still feels the need to argue back, because it is part of his function to do that.

“I would never betray you. I'm not capable of it.”

Orion twitches his finals. Without seeing his face Prowl assumes it is a sign of doubt.

“You are a creature of intellect, Prowl. I am a Mech of ideals. Those two things don't always combine well.”

______

“Foolish and presumptuous.”

Prowl ponders that his function could be much easier if he didn't have to constantly try to balance what is right and what is right in Orion's eyes.

“If you were spotted, the Council would have good reason to assume this isn't the first time you've done something like this.”

“No one noticed,” Orion tries, but Prowl doesn't let him finish that thought

“No one has seen you, because you're lucky. You can't count on it being a permanent occurrence! You undermine your own position by giving the Council grounds for suspicion, you...”

Prowl stops, still pointing his finger accusingly somewhere on Orion's chin. Shockwave, who has witnessed the scene, makes an impressed face and steps closer.

“I swear, you're probably the most capable golem maker I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, Orion. If I hadn't seen that guy on your assembly table, I would never know.”

Prowl takes the statement as a compliment, but doesn't feel the need to show it outwardly. Shockwave, as one of the few who knows about him not being a real Mech, doesn't take offense to it in any way.

“Did I interrupt something dramatic?”

Prowl snorts, because the gesture maintains just the right amount of judgment for his situation.

“Orion is once again harboring a monster instead of killing it or letting it escape.”

This news immediately enlivens Shockwave's posture. Prowl knows he's an even bigger fan of collecting suspicious side projects than Orion. Their friendship, frankly, will one day bury either one or both of them. Prowl just hopes his presence will be enough to sway the percentages when that happens.

Orion doesn't try to deny anything.

“One of my squads encountered a ghost near the northern border. I couldn't... listen Shockwave, he's a good guy. He just needs to be given a chance to show it.”

“Can he talk?” there's almost visible stars in Shockwave's eyes..

Prowl slumps his shoulders helplessly, already knowing what's coming next. These two have done this dance a hundred times before. One of Shockwave's favorite side projects was a school for, as they called them, magically gifted and extraordinary Mechs. In fact, it was the largest den of various monsters that Prowl had ever seen. Every time Orion's hunting squads found a monster that could even remotely resemble a normal Mech, Orion would rush with happy optics to hand it over to Shockwave for care. There, the monsters were taught everything they needed to fit into the society of normal Mechs, but more importantly, they were given documents. Precious pieces of paper that granted their holders rights, freedoms, and protections as Shockwave's apprentices.

Prowl could appreciate the noble endeavor. He could also see clearly that with each addition, this school would become more and more of an inconvenient thorn in the Council's side. Just like Orion, Shockwave was happy to paint a brighter and brighter target on his own back for many cycles.

Orion, insensitive to danger that is not immediate, cheerfully begins to recite

“Can read, write, speak, even makes music.”

Shockwave nods happily

“Introduce us?”

Prowl wonders how far Shockwave can stretch the definition of “magically gifted Mech”. One day Orion will pick up a Kraken on the street and then they'll both probably have to do a lot of mental gymnastics to make it's documents. Ugh.

When Orion had asked him to calculate the probability of betrayal, the most reliable mech he was evaluating at the time was Shockwave.

Twenty-eight percent...

Prowl wonders how many students must be on the opposite side of the scale from Orion for Shockwave to choose in their favor. Speculation is actually useless. If the Council decides to nail Shockwave, they will of course use his entire school at once.

In fact, they probably won't even have to force Shockwave to choose between the school and Orion, because Orion himself will choose a bunch of monsters over himself.

This ridiculously dangerous social construct they call friendship rests entirely on their reputation as honest and honorable mechs. Prowl stares at Shockwave's back and wonders how one mech could have so much charisma, that he gets away with keeping a huge number of Council enemies right under the noses of that same Council.

_________________

Orion gently lifts the now graying shell of what was once a monster from the ground

He doesn't even turn toward Prowl.

"Did you kill him?"

Killing...it's a stretch. Does the act of helping a murderer qualify as murder? Or the lack of action that could have saved the now murdered person? In most cultures and languages, “murder” refers to the act of ending someone else's life, but the context implies a physical act. Did you put a knife in his back? Did you push him off a cliff? Did you cut him with a sword?

By those criteria. Well. Prowl never killed anyone. Nor is he likely to, for he has neither the skill nor the strength to do so.

Did he cause death? Absolutely.

Orion's always had this heroic streak that wouldn't let him just pass by the distressed and disadvantaged. Orion has always had a great spark of kindness and principles as strong as titanium alloy as to what is right and what is wrong.

In Orion's world view, murder is wrong. And murder in conditions where it was possible to solve everything by peace is immoral and unacceptable.

Prowl's worldview tells him that Orion could do much better if he stopped wasting his potential on helping those who will only drag him down in the long run. Orion's life depends entirely on the Council's opinion of him. A Council that has been watching him closely lately. Even if Orion doesn't like it, it's Prowl's job to make sure they like what they see.

Orion turns to him, shaking him out of his thoughts.

"Prowl. That mech tried to escape. Past you. And now he's dead. Were you the one who killed him?"

"No," says Prowl, "he ran into one of the patrols."

That statement is missing a good half of the details. Like mentioning that the patrol wouldn't have been there in the first place if Prowl hadn't sent them an anonymous lead.

Orion doesn't need to know that. Orion lives under the idea that every life is precious and, even more inconveniently, equal.

Prowl sometimes feels like yelling at him for it. Because that shiny perfect picture is simply unsustainable outside of Orion's head. The monster, whose graying body now lies on the ground, would be of little use to society. Likely left free, he would have simply continued to attack and kill travelers.

Whereas Orion spends his life making the world a better place. This is an objective fact confirmed by numerous observations.

They are not equals. And they probably never will be. Orion's life is much. Much heavier on the imaginary scales of statistics.

Orion squints at him suspiciously. He's clearly hesitant.

"You could have just let him go instead of killing him."

The trap is honestly too obvious.

"I didn't kill him" Prowl repeats "he ran into a patrol. You can't blame the hunters for doing their job."

Orion places a hand on the dead creature's forehead in a respectful gesture of regret while simultaneously averting his gaze. It's a habit by now.

Look the other way, don't let the council know what you're doing. Sympathize but not in plain sight, help but in secret.

"They had no right to attack him.This is neutral territory. He has the right to run wherever he wants."

Prowl's mouth is twisting with the urge to argue. To say that according to existing information, this monster would have just continued the attacks if he'd stayed free.

He says nothing. Orion is clearly in no mood to argue right now, and he's already questioning Prowl's claim. It's not worth pushing any further.

Prowl only nods, showing that he's heard Orion's point of view.

__________________

He is surprisingly good at lying.

Of course the skill doesn't just come naturally, but he's been known for his straightforwardness. Mechs automatically expect him to either remain silent or tell the unpleasant truth.

All he has to do is give only certain bits and pieces instead of coherent information without changing his usual behavior in any way and the mechs won't be inclined to verify it, filling in the gaps themselves. As a golem, he can't lie, but he can get others to lie to themselves.

He exploits this a lot. Probably more often than Orion would approve, but Prowl doesn't ask him to confirm. Conversations with Orion tend to narrow down his list of options. Because Orion is a real living mech. With a spark. With feelings. And his complex moral code revolves entirely around what he feels to be right.

Prowl has no spark. Prowl has an empty armor that he considers his body and a wisdom artifact that he considers his worth. Both his and Orion's understandings of what is right...overlap...sometimes.

Not always.

______________

"I saw a demon in person for the first time today."

Prowl politely shifts his posture to show he's listening

"A …demon?"

"Demon" Orion repeats "When...when a mech commits especially terrible crimes against the will of Primus, the very magic of their spark rises up against them and turns them into a demon. And I just learned today what a...demon looks like."

Prowl remains silent, waiting for a continuation that never comes. Orion seems gone in his thoughts....

"And what does it look like?" prompts Prowl.

"Creepy. It looks creepy and unnatural and terrifying. Primus' wrath has a very ugly shape..."

"Ah...I see...what did that mech do to be met with such punishment?"

Orion frowns

"I'm not sure. But what we're doing can't go against Primus' will, right? I mean, all beings are his creations! He can't condemn us for trying to make peace between mechs and monsters..."

Prowl is familiar with the concept of punishment for wrongdoing. But something about the very idea...the idea that punishment will find you no matter how well you hide because you can’t run away from your own spark...he has to admit it's disturbing.

"I hope he doesn't."

——————————

Thoughts?👁

Ahsjfjfj

This is the first half of the fic btw because I don’t have enough time to translate the whole thing in one day. I’ll try to post the second half tomorrow🤞

[corkinavoid]

My favorite flavor of Danny Phantom in the dpxdc universes is the ordinary on the first glance teenager who stands before an unimaginable, indestructible threat and throws his hands up to yell BITCH DO I LOOK LIKE I GOT TIME FOR THIS I GOT FINALS NEXT WEEK FUCK OFF and the threat retreats and crawls back where it came from

[crystalshard]

The sky outside the coffee shop had been darkening for the last few minutes. Tim hadn't paid much attention; a cloudy day in Gotham was more common than not, and rain was usually a safe prediction. Wrapping his hands around his hot chocolate, he smiled and listened to his boyfriend.

". . . and honestly, ghosts just don't like change. They're kind of frozen at their deaths. Not to say that they can't change! Dora took over from her brother and now everyone's pretty okay, with it, but . . . oh. Great."

Tim blinked as Danny's back straightened. Without transforming, Danny changed before his eyes; the smart, goofy guy with the chocolate mustache became a tall, hard-eyed man who'd just been pushed one inch too far.

(He still had a chocolate mustache.)

Sliding out of the booth, Danny waved absently for Tim to stay in place. Patrons scattered as Danny strode towards the door, yanking it open so hard that a woman's receipt fluttered out of her hand in the sudden gust.

"VORTEX!" Danny bellowed up at the darkening sky. "I HAVE FINALS THIS WEEK, AND IF I MISS AN EXAM BECAUSE OF YOU I'M GOING TO GIVE YOU TO CLOCKWORK IN EXCHANGE FOR A RE-DO!"

The boiling clouds somehow paused.

"DON'T MAKE ME COME UP THERE!"

People shouted at the sky all the time in Gotham for one reason on another, but it was rare that the weather actually listened.

This time, it worked.

The clouds skidded away so fast that Bruce Wayne, in a meeting in Wayne Tower, suspected acts of supervillainy and quietly notified Oracle. Back at the coffee shop, an apologetic beam of sunlight shone down on Danny.

Danny raised an eyebrow.

The sun, freed from its cloudy oppression, spread its light to cover the street and beyond. Danny nodded sharply, then walked back indoors. People still moved aside, but the look on their faces was more awe than fear.

(Three miles away, the Signal squinted against the sudden brightness.)

Settling in opposite Tim, Danny grinned at Tim and finally wiped the still-damp chocolate from his upper lip. "Sorry about that. Where were we?"

[corkinavoid]

YES

[keferon]

Odds of Survival Part 4

Jazz thinks he’s starting to figure stuff out and finds entirely new ways to concern Prowl.

———————————————————————

The flashing visual feedback from the cracked visor felt like his brain was being used for target practice by a middle schooler with a BB gun and the school just canceled pizza day forever.

Jazz was feeling pretty grateful to Prowl right now. Between the glitching visual feed and the misshapen state of his feet, Jazz wasn’t totally confident he could get into the mecha cradle on his own.

At least not without stumbling around like he was completely plastered and trying to decipher a fancy ass hotels space age shower controls.

Seriously, seven different knobs and a touch screen.

Blurr. Dude. Why.

As Prowl walked him through the outpost, Jazz continually got snapshots of his surroundings. Doorway, hallway, door again, room. Another mecha was inside.

At a glance, they looked like the same class type as Prowl. Face, wing thingy’s, and wheels. All the same but with a slightly different color scheme of red and grey.

Jazz was slowly working out what class of mecha they were supposed to be. They couldn’t be Striker class. Not with attachments Prowl straight up specified were delicate.

What even were they? They weren’t thrusters. The wings took the place of where car doors were on a regular car. Which, holy shit, Prowls mecha can turn into a fucking car.

Prowl also flexed and twitched them around a bunch, kinda like how Jazz used his horns to emote. Not that Prowl needed wings to emote because holy FUCK that face. It had micro expressions!!

Okay. Prowl had three things that were cool as fuck going on. An expressive face, delicate wings and the ability to turn into a (fucking) car.

What does that mean? Why would someone build a mecha like that?

Ever since Jazz got spat out by the wormhole and woke up surrounded by aliens, he’s felt like his brain has been slowly circling the drain of a sink. There was some missing piece to all of this that he could feel himself just skirting by over and over again.

Oh fuck right. The other aliens. There was alien life other than tentacle monsters out there. They were dicks sure but at least you could share a train car without any murder attempts.

Ooooohhh. Jazz swayed backwards a little as the tilted his head back in realization. Prowl catching him.

Prowl’s mecha was built to work with other fighters in space. He clearly had a life support system to survive in a vacuum. He had a highly expressive face to help communicate with aliens. The wings must be satellites for communication. The car mode was for fast tracking across planet surfaces. Prowl was crazy smart, over and over again Jazz had watched him figure out exactly where they needed to go and how to get there. Of course there was a reason he was so easy to work with. It was his job.

Prowl wasn’t any kind of pre-existing class from Jazz’s mecha program. Prowl was every Strikers pipe dream that kept getting brought up and then thrown out for “not being cost effective”.

Prowl was a Support Class Mecha.

Live on the field, giving real time updates and backup.

Damn.

Whatever shadow government Prowl worked for must be insanely rich. Wonder if they’re taking applications.

Prowl unhooked Jazz’s remaining functional arm from over his shoulders. He maneuvered Jazz to sit on a bench height concrete extension from the floor.

The microphones in his horns were still working fine despite one of them sending many unhappy damage report messages.

“Sit here and don’t move.” From the glimpses Jazz could catch, Prowl looked concerned but focused. Jazz wanted to ask why they didn’t go to some kind of docking station but figured Prowl knew what was up and went along with it.

Jazz could hear the mystery mecha talking. A lot.

It was in that other language Prowl had initially tried talking to Jazz with, except speed up by a bajillion percent.

From the tone, the new mecha was asking Prowl a barrage of questions. Prowl, for his part, replied in short concise sentences or occasionally a silent glare. The other mecha didn’t seem put off by this and merrily continued talking as he lined up another shot through some kind of rail gun setup built into the slit window.

Eventually, the new mecha started directing his questions at him. Apparently stopping to breath wasn’t a thing with this guy.

Jazz did his best to shrug. “Sorry man. No idea what you’re saying.”

Prowl interceded in common, “Jazz, this is Bluestreak.” He waved in the direction of the sniper, who smiled and waved.

“Bluestreak, this is Jazz. He is only just learning Common.” Prowl turned to Bluestreak with a scolding look. “I need to focus on helping him while you focus on the remaining quintessons. Understood?”

“I got it! I got it. I can stop talking when I’m working you know.” Bluestreak nodded and turned back towards the view port, but not without calling over his shoulder, “So Jazz, my brothers face is emotion positive positive positive?”

Oh Jazz could hear the shit eating grin from the other side of the room.

“HAH!” Jazz accidentally knocked his head back against the wall and visor started glitching worse. “Eugh. Eh, worth it.”

“Both of you be quiet or I will separate you.” Prowl threatened.

Jazz, chuckled good naturally but otherwise quieted down. He watched the stop motion footage of Prowl opening some kind of crate and collecting what looked like a tube of glue, a pair of giant tweezers and some kind of mecha sized chrome-mesh duct tape.

His face was suddenly very close and Jazz did not startle. Nope. Who said that?

He felt the pressure of a hand settling on his good shoulder. Prowl was wearing that highly concentrated look again. And Jazz was so focused trying to work out what the internal mechanisms of his eyes were that he missed what Prowl was saying to him.

“Could you say that again? My…uh.”

M’kay, how to translate ‘I definitely have whiplash and maybe also sort of a Concussion’ into common. “Head function negative? Uh, too much motion. Broken but small negative?”

Yeaaaah Prowl did not seem reassured by Jazz’s attempt to downplay his condition. Which meant he nailed the translation! He was so getting at least a B+ in this language class.

Fuck his head hurt.

“I want to help you as much as I can. I am not a person-profession-help. Can I help you with what I have?” Prowl had a little furrow between his eyebrows.

“Sure, I won’t fight you.” Jazz stabilized himself best he could. The sentence must have translated weird, because Prowl looked kinda concerned before pulling out a strip of shiny duct tape.

The winged mecha paused, examining Jazz’s busted shoulder, and then doubled the length of tape.

When Prowl wrapped the mesh textured tape around and just above the breakage, something weird started happening to Jazz’s systems. The Severe Damage Warnings and big bright Error messages Jazz had been actively ignoring for the past half hour started to reduce in number. One by one they all quieted down. Checking his mechas systems, the arm was still marked as compromised, but the ai wasn’t actively screaming into his poor brain anymore.

The quiet was such an overwhelming balm Jazz audibly groaned in relief. “I owe you so, so, many drinks. What is that stuff?”

Prowl stilled, “It is-“ he paused, clearly trying to work out how to translate a complicated term into a common equivalent. “It is a kind of repair mesh. You…you don’t know what repair mesh is?”

Jazz got a snapshot of Prowl and even Bluestreak’s expressions. The sniper looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and mouth open in silent confusion. Prowl’s stare was boring into him, making Jazz squirm.

“Um. Yes? At least it’s not something I’ve ever seen before. I mean, I don’t actually need it if it’s too expensive.” Jazz turned owlishly between the two.

Jazz heard Bluestreak start to make a questioning noise before having his focus be pulled back to the winding down invasion outside. Prowl looked into the distance for a moment, then took up the tweezers. He schooled his expression like he was about to do brain surgery.

“I’m going to work on your helm and visor now. Please hold still.” Prowl placed his hand against the side of his head, stabilizing.

“M’kay. Go ahead.” And Jazz put his mecha into Maintenance Mode.

The lights inside the mecha dimmed down to a low glow. Like this, the engine dropped into an idle hum, and the mecha could only move very slowly. Jazz had to hold a position for a few seconds before anything would respond, giving plenty of time for engineers to move out of the way.

Jazz also shut off the incoming feed from the visor, since looking at a bright flashing screen was probably on the list of things you’re not supposed to do while concussed. As well as fall asleep. Or operate heavy machinery.

Two out of three ain’t bad. Call it another B+.

Jazz felt like he might be dropping a letter grade soon though. He usually associated Maintenance Mode with being bored out of his mind, but after the insane last few hour’s, the slow quiet was practically a spa session.

It didn’t hurt that Jazz could feel Prowls hand cradling the side of his head. Technically, the mechas could only sense pressure. No heat. No texture. Given a reference point though, the human brain was pretty fantastic at filling in the gaps.

It felt warm. And soft.

“Jazz?” Prowl stopped what he’d been doing.

Ah.

Jazz came back into full awareness from where he’d been drifting off. He was pressing into Prowls hand.

“Sorry, sorry.” He lethargically pulled away. How do you explain “Hey! Sorry about pushing against you like a stray cat! I’m just kinda super into piloting mecha and being held like that is kind of a novel experience.” in a completely foreign language you learned that morning?

Jazz dragged his ass back upright.

“I’m not, uh, familiar? With a hold like that. Touch-positive. Normally I only feel touch-fight or touch-medical.” Jazz meant to say touch-maintenance, but he was already rambling and for some reason the words were really similar in Common.

Prowl didn’t respond.

Jazz felt his chest tighten. “Prowl?”

“I’m here.” Prowl said quickly. There was an edge of static to his voice.

He didn’t remove his hand. “I’m still here.”

The rest of Jazz’s maintenance went by quietly. Prowl kept his hand where it was for the majority of it, only repositioning once to tilt his head back while working on the cracks of his visor.

Jazz wasn’t 100% sure why Prowl indulged him. Maybe got it? Or maybe he just thought Jazz was passing out and needed to be grounded. Okay yeah, that actually makes the most sense. Plus it was also what literally happened.

Eventually, the pilots heart finally slowed to a resting rate. Mostly. Jazz kept jerking awake.

If falling asleep with a concussion was bad, then falling asleep with a concussion while piloting a mecha would probably do very bad things to his lightly fried meatball of a brain.

He tried remembering what he could of his mandatory pilot safety course he took with Ratchet before the doctor left the program. He mostly remembered sneaking out.

It was fortunate then the pilot was just delirious enough that every time he almost conked out, the spiritual embodiment of Ratchet would scare the fuck out of him.

Thanks Ratchet.

See? I did learn something.

He heard a tarp rustling, and then his busted arm was being manipulated. Jazz brought his visor back online, pleased to see it wasn’t flashing anymore. His vision was a little distorted in the corner on the left side but he could deal with that.

When he looked around, Prowl was in the process of tying makeshift sling in place to keep his damaged bits from jostling around.

Jazz also got a good look at the emblem on his mecha’s chest. It kinda looked like an angular mecha face. Jazz didn’t recognize brand design though. Maybe he’d remember once he’d recovered from the bullshit of the day.

He was kinda too tired to think properly at the moment. That circling-the-sink-drain feeling hadn’t actually left, even with the Support Class revelation.

“That is the best I can do for now. Our ship should arrive in five breems.” Prowl hesitantly let go of Jazz.

“Thanks Prowler, you’re the best.” He wriggled now free horns at him. Incrementally, Jazz brought his systems back online, running through well practiced motions to ensure everything was working. Well, everything that was supposed to be working anyways.

He heard a raspberry being blown by Bluestreak, the mecha had his hands on his knees and he was looking from Jazz to Prowl.

“Prowler?”

Prowl frowned. “Yes?”

“Prow-ler.”

Prowl frowned harder, “I’m aware.”

Bluestreak straightened up, “Okay, you’ve delayed this long enough. I need to talk to this guy one on one. Go talk to the Big Boss and I’ll watch Jazz. Please mech. I gotta. I gotta talk to this guy or I’m going to explode. Like, where is he from? Why does he look like that? How’d he end up floating in space? What’s his native language? Does he know any other languages? Why has he never heard of Common before? Is he super young? How are the others gonna react? What are you going to say to Elita? Oh Elita says hi by the way. Or, not really, she said ‘contact me as soon as possible’ and then hung up on me. Which is fine. Oh but you should seriously respond to you-know-who first.”

Jazz was getting maybe every third word of that. Bluestreak was still going. Wow. Impressive breath control no lie.

Prowl visibly sighed, straightening his posture into something military grade. Immune to the conversation tornado.

“Jazz, I must speak with our factions leader. I will not mention you to him until you have a better understanding of our military structure and you are able to choose to engage.” Prowl kept his hands folded behind his back. The total shift in body language was jarring.

“Okay,” Jazz nodded slowly. “I’ll be here, thanks again.”

Prowl nodded curtly once before shooting a warning look at Bluestreak, and then left the room.

The loss was weird in a way Jazz couldn’t properly describe. Prowl was so easy to click with that once he was gone, Jazz remembered he was stranded in deep space surrounded by what were effectively perfect strangers.

He didn’t get to dwell on it long though, as Bluestreak sidled up to him, propping his chin on one hand.

“So! I’ll let you go first. Ask me anything and I’ll tell you all about it!”

Jazz had a lot of questions but figured he’d start with something basic to help along his language acquisition.

“What,” he poked Bluestreak in his purple badge, “Are your cuss words?”

———————————————————————

Prowl: What do you mean you are actually capable of experiencing pain?

Prowl: What do you mean you don’t know what local anesthetic is?

Prowl: What do you mean no one has ever touched you when it didn’t involve medical treatment??

Prowl: WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’VE GONE THROUGH MEDICAL TREATMENT WITHOUT ANESTHETIC.

Man oh man, this is the end of this arc but there’s more I still want to write. Gonna start cataloguing and saving these as well.

-SSTP

OH MY GOD. OH NO. Oh my god

Yeah no that makes SO much sense khftugssujdsthdd. Without that one little important piece of information their understanding of each other. Oh man. It's not just bad. It's FANTASTICALLY wrong but somehow generally still in the vaguely right direction??

Like Jazz being regularly medically mistreated is kind of true BUT NOT IN THE WAY YOU THINK PROWL

And Prowl being that sweet sweet support class mecha?? FUKFDEY Y e ah.

Oh this is amazing. Oh thIS IS FUCKING GREAT SSTP I WILL DIE FOR YOU

[wistsandmagic]

No Way Out (Brother I Let You Down)

Welp. I finally caved in to one of the plot bunnies @keferon 's Mecha AU keeps putting in my brain. So here, have some Swindle and Vortex ANGST.

(under the cut because it's over 2k words)

It was the middle of the night. The lights in the hangar were dimmed, the sounds of the skeleton crew that worked as night shift far away in the mechanics’ sector, not on the hangar floor. The mecha stood still in their refuel bays, waiting on the next time the Quintessons attacked, when the alarms would blare and the hangar would become a frantic cacophony of activity.

For now though, things were quiet. Still.

Lonely.

Swindle walked silently across the catwalk strung between the mecha, the smell of oil and gear lubricant seeping into his nose like an old friend's aftershave. He didn't smell that often enough nowadays. Sometimes he missed it.

Sometimes, he thought, turning at a path junction to walk down to one particular mecha's bay, one that towered over everything else in the hangar. Sometimes he just missed the people that the smell accompanied.

No one would have ever guessed that he and Vortex had been close friends. They fought like cats and dogs, always sniping at each other, yelling and picking at each other until Onslaught had to break them up before things got too physical. They'd both ended up in medbay more than once after a fight hadn't been broken up quickly enough. They were the youngest of the group, after all, and so close in age that fights seemed almost inevitable.

Swindle had thought of Vortex as the closest thing he'd ever had to a brother. When he didn't come back from that ill-fated mission...

The former pilot stopped in front of the giant mecha in the bay, the faint hint of old blood adding itself to the scents mingling in his nose. Vortex's mecha always smelled vaguely bloody, though since that young medic-turned-pilot, First Aid, had taken over, things weren't as strong. Swindle thought that might be a good thing. Maybe.

He wasn't one to really believe in ghosts, not in the way people meant. A spirit that haunted the living? Seemed improbable. Ghosts were the memories that lingered when you stared at the things the dead had left behind. The scents that once followed them suddenly wafting through the air, the feel of a missing presence, an ache that never went away. That was a 'ghost'.

But when Swindle stared at the red visor of Vortex's mech – it would always be Vortex's mech to him, no matter who piloted it or for how long – it was all too easy to imagine the other kind of ghost. All too easy to give in to the superstitions surrounding this mecha, to believe that a malevolent spirit haunted it, for all it seemed toat least like First Aid. One pilot it didn't want to kill.  

The visor stared back blankly, and Swindle caught sight of his own reflection, warped and twisted by the thick, bullet-proof plexiglass. Somehow the warped reflection felt more like it was the real him than the him that existed in his own skin, at that moment. All of the stress, the heaviness, the days of lying through his teeth and pretending he cared less than he did, that all he was in things for was the money, that the pilots that came back to base maimed and traumatized didn't matter to him as long as the program got the money needed, that his best friend who couldn't even remember that he was Swindle's best friend was laying in a hospital bed, half of his body burned and his mind in tatters didn't matter beyond his ability to bring in investors...

It was too much. It was just...too much.

"H...hey," he managed, flinching at how much his own voice cracked. Where was the smarmy car-salesman he pretended at being? The smooth operator, the con man? "...Vortex, if...if you're in there, buddy, y'mind? I just..." Tears pricked at the corners of Swindle's eyes, startling him and making him put a hand to his face. Man, he was losing it, wasn't he? "I...I just needed..."

Before he knew it, Swindle found himself slumping to the catwalk floor, his back to Vortex's mech. Knew that if the ghost stories were true, that might not be a good idea, but he'd always trusted his friend. His brother. Saw no reason to stop now. "I miss you, y'know that?" He murmured, trying to stem the flow of tears without letting his voice hitch. "The entire...the entire program's shit. I know we knew that already, but...Vee, it's got so much worse. And here I am...actively promoting the damn thing 'cause we have no other choice. " ...he hadn't called Vortex 'Vee' in years. It was usually "Tex"; that was what Vortex had preferred. Swindle was the only one that could ever get away with calling him Vee without getting punched, even so. Swindle had reserved it for special occasions, knowing he held privilege. Now seemed like as good a time as any. Vortex wasn't there any longer to half-heartedly gripe at him for the affectionate diminutive.

That didn't make it better.

Swindle leaned his head back until it thunked against the catwalk railing, letting him stare up from behind his rose-tinted glasses toward the ceiling, heedless of the tears streaming down his face. "I dunno what to do to stop it, Vee. You were always the one c-coming up with the harebrained schemes that somehow worked. You always were smarter than I am, just damn crazy. We worked so good together, like brothers, you 'n me." He laughed mirthlessly, a shaking hand coming up to cover his face as he sobbed, unable to stop himself. "...though guess I'm probably the crazy one now, h-huh. Talkin' to your mech like somehow you c-can hear me through it. Like you're gonna act like my crazy older brother again and somehow tell me this's all gonna work out in the end, and I'm not a heartless monster for doin' this, goin' along with this shit."

He didn't pay attention to the faint nudging at his side at first, figuring it was just the edge of the railing digging into his ribs. When the touch became more insistant, however, he looked down, blinking away tears. Only to stare dumbly at the very large fingertip pressed ever so gently against his side. His breath caught, and for a moment Swindle couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, because that was the hand of Vortex's mech, his index finger pressed almost lovingly to Swindle's side, rubbing up and down very slightly now that Swindle was actively paying attention. Almost as if it were trying to comfort him.

Dashing tears from his eyes with the back of one hand, Swindle switched his attention from the massive finger at his side to the head of the mech beside him, expecting to see First Aid curled up inside the cockpit controlling things. But no, the cockpit was empty, the faint lights inside just enough to let him see through the visor before everything flared to life, the visor turning bright and opaque as the mech's head turned slowly to look directly at Swindle.

He'd spent years pretending there was no such thing as ghosts, hating that Vortex's mech killed pilots, but refusing to believe it was anything other than glitches. To say otherwise would be having to say that something of his friend, his brother, still lingered, and Swindle couldn't help him. Now, though, he couldn't deny it. He could feel Vortex there, staring at him through the mech, through that red visor so much like Vortex's own remembered helmet. He blinked as the sound of soft static filled the air, a mechanical text-to-speech voice whispering through the speakers embedded in the mech's head. "Swindler, c'mon now. You never were one for tears, little bro."

If...if Vortex intended that to stop Swindle from crying, it had the exact opposite effect. Sure, the voice was mechanical, it sounded off, but that was still, somehow, Vortex's voice, and Swindle hadn't heard it outside of old recordings for far too long. He shakily got to his feet, one hand covering his mouth to muffle himself while the other scrabbled frantically for Vortex's finger, any and all fears about the rogue mecha deciding to crush him into paste fleeing from his mind in his desperation to have some part of Vee touching him. Only Vortex ever called him "Swindler". Only Vortex ever called him little bro.

"A...are you really in there, Vee?" Even to Swindle's own ears he sounded pathetic. Not like himself at all. It was the stress. It had to be the stress. That was the only explanation.Maybe he was crazy. Maybe watching Blurr almost die was the final straw that broke him, and now he was headed for the looney bin as soon as someone found him. Damn. But hearingVortex's voice, even distorted by machinery, coming from his mech, broke something inside Swindle's soul, and grief came pouring out whether he wanted it to or not.

Again that soft static, again that voice. "In the figurative flesh, Swindler." Somehow it even managed to retain Vortex's characteristic croon, the way he only spoke to those he actually liked, not the bitten-off snark of those he tolerated, or the open hiss to those he actively hated. Vortex carefully raised his hand over the railing, making Swindle step back a pace, and lowered a couple of his fingers, beckoning carefully. "C'mere. Can't hug you, know you need it, but c'mere anyway." Swindle should have thought twice. Every protocol to do with Vortex – the mech, not the long-dead person – screamed abbout caution and wariness. But this was Vortex. The person, not the mech. Crazy, full of bloodlust, stay out of his way on the battlefield, don't make him hate you, sure, but above all else he was Swindle's mech partner, his brother, his friend closer than a brother. The one who always had his back on and off the battlefield, in ways Onslaught never could.

He stepped into Vortex's hand without hesitation, trembling hands coming down to help hold himself steady as Vortex's fingers and thumb gripped him in a hold too gentle to come from a mech's default pilotless programming. He saw the visor open, and before he knew it he was deposited gently inside, warm air that smelled vaguely of vanilla – had First Aid hung an air freshener somewhere? – already wafting through the cockpit.

The speakers crackled to life. "Find a seat, little bro." Cabling hissed out of hidden apertures, operating oddly like hands and arms as they found Swindle, pulled him in closer to the emergency jumpseat off to the side of the pilot's seat, designed for maintenance and a place to stretch if trapped in the cockpit for too long, pulling it out from the wall and ushering Swindle to sit. Like Vortex knew Swindle couldn't bring himself to sit in the pilot's seat of a mech that didn't belong to him, that still belonged to Vortex, even if First Aid was 'sharing' it now.

"Vee..." "Hush." The voice was rough, kindness having always been oddly difficult for Vortex to manage, always making him sound like he was angry at himself for daring to show any kind of humanity. That was the case now, of course. Death hadn't changed some things. A lot of things. Still, Vortex's cabling wrapped gently around Swindle once he sat, draping over his shoulders and snaking across his lap like one of Vortex's annoying full-body hugs that had always been so good simply because of their rarity, even if he had to be drunk to give them. The thought made Swindle want to tear up all over again, grief and stress radiating off of him even as he reached out to brush over one of the cables, feeling unseen eyes watching him as he did his best to gather himself, unable to feel any fear for the faint malevolent presence that surrounded him, because he knew that malevolence wasn't directed at him. It never had been."I...you didn't come back," Swindle whispered, swallowing to try and keep his voice steady. "You died, Vee, and everything else went to hell after. It's only gotten worse now, and I...I didn't...I didn't even know you were still in here. You died."

"Yeah, I died. But. Still here, little bro. Got me a good pilot now that I like, finally, but I'm still here." Vortex's voice softened a little, in ways that would make almost anyone who knew him before his death stare at him like he'd lost even more of his marbles. Nobody ever really got to see this side of him other than the one pilot in their group who was younger than him; Swindle had been the only one to deserve the softness he was capable of, and even then only in secret. "Can't get rid of me that easily. I still got your back, y'know?" The cables wrapped around Swindle tightened slightly, reiterating Vortex's point and enclosing him in just that little bit of security. A hug from his dead friend, who was not entirely dead, and always closer to being more than even a brother would have been.

"Okay Swindler. Let's talk, you'n me. Let's come up with a plan. I'm here, little bro." "Always will be."

[keferon]

WELL I GUESS TONIGHT ILL BE CRYING OVER SWINDLE HUH?? IS THIS WHAT YOU TRYING TO ACHIEVE??? BECAUSE IT IS FUCKING WORKING

[inkskinned]

you said you were stuck in a time loop, which was fine. i feel like late-stage capitalism has us all in a time loop, ammiright? you came barging in at 5:33. in the morning. i hadn't even processed the idea of coffee.

but you had this look of utter panic in your eyes. terror like the ocean. you grabbed my cheeks. im in a time loop.

i don't know why in movies the first reaction is to deny it. when someone is panicking like that, it's not appropriate to ask them to calm down. it didn't matter if i believed it, what mattered was that you believed it so much that it was consuming you.

so here we are. i pour you some of the dark roast. "you look like utter and entire hell," i say.

you push your fingers into your eyes. "you always say that."

i try to think of something funny to say that i wouldn't have said on previous time loops, but jokes don't land without the proper timing (lol). "remind me to think -"

"-yeah, of a joke that only works in the future. and before you say anything, i know you're pissed i just stole your punchline." you bolt the coffee, which is wild. it's very hot. you don't seem to notice.

i blow on mine to cool it down. i both am very pissed at you and also i can't see you in this amount of panic without wanting to help. but i'm also not really sure what we are, not since i saw you kiss her like that, no offense. it just was like, kind of rude when you knew i liked you.

and besides. i'm just like, barely a person. i write omegaverse fanfiction. i love the concept of a time loop, but what the fuck am i gonna do? send an alpha in there? i open my mouth.

you point at me. "you're about to ask why me. and then say some disparaging shit about yourself. i'm just a nerd who plays dnd or something. that self-own is slightly different each time." you sigh. "i know you think you can't really help me. i don't know who can help me. i only came to you because you fucking believe me." you check your watch, sigh, and throw your head back. you cover your eyes with one hand. "i've come here on 26 separate revolutions," you say. "you have believed me every time. and yeah, i have no idea how you fit into this but i just -" you sigh again. "i just like fucking talking to someone about it."

"do you need more cof-" i start, but you're already holding the empty cup out. i frown at it. "you're not getting any more until you promise not to bolt this one like an animal."

you laugh a little and sit up, pushing your hair out of your face. "okay, that's new dialogue. but to be fair to you, i'm not usually this rude. i'm still pretty new at all of this." you check your watch again. another sigh. i guess you're cruising for a personal best in the Sigh Olympics.

i almost tell you im not an NPC but i've played enough video games to know i'm very much an NPC. i pour you another cup. "so what happens in the loop?"

"really bad explosion." you mutter into the mug. you put your elbows on the table (rude) and bury your face in your arms like an angsty teenager. one hand floats up while you talk, because evidently you literally can't talk without your hands. "i have to save the day and there's this bomb and i have no bomb training and it keeps moving, you know."

"do i die?"

you peek up from your arms. "yeah. bigtime. you keep trying to run or stay or do anything and you always super die."

"oh."

"to be fair, like, everyone dies in it though.... so you're in good company."

i hate that you make me laugh. i hate that being around you always feels tingly and strange, this electric tension between us. something that is evidently (given how you stuck your tongue down a stranger's throat literally 3 days ago) (well. 3 for me) super one-sided. i take a sip of my coffee and close my eyes.

i die today, i guess. a little spark of panic starts at the top of my hands and starts whipping up my wrists.

"shit," you say. you look at your watch and jump to your feet. "i have to go. if i can come back, i will. i am still trying to figure out when is best to do everything, you know? the order of stuff. maybe morning isn't good for us."

i look up at you and think about how you keep kissing me in the back of my car and in alleyways and in the dark. and i can never fucking get a read on you. and i also think about how incredibly panicked you look. how broken. how long have you been doing this? "i don't want to die," i say.

you glance downwards. "well, you're not really dead, you'll come back in the loop."

"but i will have died." my hands are shaking. i am trying really hard to stay calm.

you push your hands through your hair again. "i really have to go. i will have this discussion with the next version of you, though. it is like, something i am thinking about."

"but i don't get a next version," i say. i don't really have the language for this, because i haven't had 26 tries with you. i only have my memories: you, a week ago. drunk and telling me you loved me in my ear. you, kissing her anyway. you, months ago, throwing up on my birthday, whispering to me i ruin everything i touch, always, over and over. please don't ask. i can't ever fucking have that be you.

i run my finger along the rim of the mug. "i don't want to die in this one."

you seem baffled by this. "i get that but - time will reset, you'll be fine, you won't even remember we talked about this."

"but i know now." i stand up too. "i have to live the rest of this day knowing i could die. knowing i probably am going to."

"you could always die, to be fair."

i feel my hands get out of control. "earlier, you said i always say a different insult about myself. what if you're just going through different parallel universes and those are all just different - but real - versions of myself? what if you're not in a time loop, you're in a fucking universe loop?"

"if it helps, i've wondered this too. also, you're hot in all of them. if that helps."

i point at you. "no flirting. i'm trying to figure out if i die today."

"who's flirting?" you catch my wild hands and give me that long, perfect smile. like we're in this together. "i won't let ya die." you check your watch and sigh again. "well. maybe not this time."

i grit my teeth. you are so not making quips at me while i try to explain the existential dread i'm having. "does the time loop reset if i fucking kill you?"

"honestly i don't know how long it continues after i die, because i just wake up. it could be that the loop goes until the explosion for everyone, and we're all in the loop, or it could be that when i die, the loop restarts. when i die i wake up, is all."

i pull away from you and stalk into the kitchen and start doing all 3 of my dishes. "okay, first, you know i was joking. and secondly, this is exactly my point. you don't know if this is just a parallel universe. maybe in the ones where you died, the explosion happened and nobody reset and it's just you travelling." i have to stop and push my heel into my eyeball. "... how often have you died?"

i look at you. you look at me. you give me this very sad, halfway smile and a little what can ya do shrug. something in that action seems so old and weary that i want to burst into tears.

"i have to go," you say. "really. for real. there's this family of five i save from getting into a car crash. and i know it's like oh but we're all gonna die in the explosion anyway, what's the point. and..." you shrug again. "it matters to me, is all. at least i saved them for now. at least i saved anything."

you pad over to me and wrap me in a tight hug. you always seem so tall against me. i feel your cheek rest against the top of my head for a moment. for a second, it's just us, and the space is warm, and my heart is a little broken hare.

you leave me there, and i stand in my stupid badly lit kitchen with my stupid mugs. i think about you. i start texting my mom that she needs to get out of the city, but it feels pointless.

i don't know what to do. tomorrow is the same day for you. but i have to prepare to die in my today.

[loverboybrightsideghost]

@cipher-fresh

[theghostkingisdead]

As a current college student I refuse to believe Danny as Ghost King doesn’t answer summons. As soon as people start summoning him he starts demanding home cooked meals and fat wads of unmarked cash.

That they started off summoning him with the blood of virgins was a bit distasteful, but once he told them to knock it off (threatened to take whatever harm they do to innocents out on their skin, tenfold) they seemed to get the message and started giving him offering of home decor and kitchen appliances instead.

All things being equal, they don’t even ask for much in return. For most of them, just the confirmation that he exists and is “”watching out“” for them is enough. Although lately he’s started giving his cultists random junk (a nice rock he found, a handful of marbles, a piece of scrap metal from his parents lab) and telling them they’re sacred artifacts of great power, as a joke.

[moss-covered-thoughts]

Crow Danny for the win

[deadsetobsessions]

Am back! For a bit!

-----

“Your eminence! We have offered you the blood of virgins! We honor your presence with our offerings! Please, descend!”

In the thundering roar of “High King” being chanted throughout the dank basement, the floor opens up with a screaming split of the earth. The awe-

"Ew, no. I want enchiladas, not blood. I'm not a vampire, weirdos."

"... Pardon?"

"Not a vampire," Danny repeated, frown as prominent as the ice crown around his temple. He lazily floated about the summoning circle, puttering here and there to check the sub-par offerings. "I don't drink blood or whatever. Knock it off."

Danny glared, eyes glowing toxic green and pointed slowly at every member of the cult. "You ever spill blood again, innocent and/or unwilling, I will make sure every wound you inflict will be returned tenfold on your loved ones."

"Yes, your majesty." They trembled. Danny nodded.

"Then... what would be an acceptable offering, your majesty?"

"I literally just told you. Enchiladas and make it spicy." Danny looked around, understanding that an enchilada for payment would make him an underpaid Ghost King. "And... cash." Danny nodded decisively, turning sharply to the leader of the cult in order to make his kingly cape billow out dramatically. "Yes. Cash. I want a lot."

Hopefully this'll deter them from summoning him too much. There's only so many excuses he could give to his parents about his disappearance before they caught on. Then again... it was his parents, the Drs. Fenton, so they're never gonna catch on.

The cultists remained silent, until a young voice tentatively piped up. "There's a really good food truck two streets down. I can go get something...?"

"Good thinking, Initiative! Keep it up and you'll be a Sworn Member in no time!" The woman on the left of the cult leader praised and shooed the brightly smiling Initiative away.

"...How much money do you require, your majesty?"

Danny held up his hand in a claw shape, gloves sparkling with the cosmos themselves. "This much. No, yeah, this much."

"Is it me or does the King have a midwestern acce-ow!" Another initiative hissed as his friend elbowed him in the gut.

The leader cleared his throat. "Yes, well. I shall promptly retrieve it."

Danny dismissed the leader, patting himself for a trick well played. If they didn't want to get scammed, maybe they should have thought of that before spilling people's blood. He turned to the woman, the second in command. "So... why have you summoned me?"

The second in command began to give him a well-practiced speech. She was quite convincing, if only she wasn't advocating for the end of the world. When the two people came back, Danny made grabby hands at the foil covered plate keeping him away from his (free!) dinner. He shoved the wad of money into his chest (and enjoyed the cultists gaping at the storage he had, that's right, be jealous) and took a giant bite out of the enchilada. Delicious.

"Yew know wha' I thin'?" Danny mumbled around his mouthful of enchilada. "I'm the king o' the dead. Why make the world end faster if you're all gonna come to me anyway?"

"But- but we gave you the sacrifice!"

"You think a plate of enchiladas. a wad of cash, and some blood is worth the end of the world? This is the consulting fee. I happen to like living food. I kill living people; ergo, no more living food. Comprende?"

"But-!"

"You paid the consulting fee. I'm giving you the wise council of maybe rub your two braincells together and stop being stupid. And you-" Danny pointed at the second in command. "Maybe consider being a lawyer. Or a politician. Thanks for the food!"

With that, Danny disrupted the circle and go the hell out of dodge, cackling all the while as he took another bite of his enchilada.

----

Word got around- cultists are notorious yappers- and suddenly Danny got bombarded with summonings that ranged from murder to test materials.

"If you cheat, your afterlife is going to suck."

The high-schooler sighed. "Life sucks now, though."

"Valid. Tell you what. I'll help you study-" Danny crammed a handful of M&M's into his mouth, a twenty dollar bill tucked securely into the savings jar he's kept to carrying around in his ghost chest. "And if you pass, I'll let you see your deceased dog..." Dany squinted. "Uh, your dog...Potato Man..? again."

The teen straightened. "Fucking deal."

"Why Potato Man?"

"If I pass, I'll show you."

----

"You summoned me on Thanksgiving. Seriously?"

"You celebrate Thanksgiving, your majesty?"

"More like I celebrate the food." Danny mumbled. "Your consulting fee is that."

"What? But we just made that!" The family screeched in despair as he floated closer to the fresh mac & cheese.

"Too bad, so sad. Now, what did you want?" Danny asked as he pulled the foil pan closer and began munching. Delicious. And it wasn't becoming sentient to attack him!

"My mac and cheeeeese," the dad sobbed. "Why is death so cruel?"

Danny shoveled another serving spoonful into his maw. Delicious

----

"I- uh, brought this as an offering?" The person held up their box full of neatly organized cat toys. "Cuz... someone said you mentioned something about a demon cat?"

Danny twitched but gratefully took the box. "Thanks. It's my sister's cat. What can I do for you?"

"Uh. So. Is it like," the person waved their hand around, gesturing to themselves hopelessly. "Is it okay if I'm... you know..."

"Having no fashion sense isn't actually a crime."

"Hah! No, I meant. That I'm not cis?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't it be?"

"So I'm not going to hell?"

"That depends. It depends on a lot of things, like murder or which religion you subscribe to, but it never depends on what gender you identify as. The gender dysphoria goes away when you're dead, by the way, because you're reverted back to your soul. Your identity is tied to your soul. Denying it is like denying your soul. Humans love to do that for some reason." Danny shrugged, idly playing with a toy bee.

"Oh." They look relieved. 'Thanks. For answering."

"You paid the consultant fee, right?" Danny shook the box, grinning as the box shook ominously with bells. The hell cat was going to hate him even more but Danny didn't give a fuck. "Any other life questions?"

"What's the meaning of life?"

"A different meaning than the meaning of death, duh." Danny grinned at their scowl.

"That's cheating!"

"Says the one who summoned the Ghost King to ask about the mysterious afterlife."

They flushed. "I had questions!"

"So do a lot of people, but you don't see them summoning the Ghost King about it, do you?"

"Okay, so I've got a bit of a dramatic flair..."

Danny pointedly looked down at the summoning circle drawn in glitter pen.

"...Just go."

"Yeah, I'm going, I'm going."

----

Danny was summoned into a pho shop. A good one. He knew, because there was a quiet kid doing homework in the booths and one manning the till.

"I want a train bowl, please. Extra lemons and coriander."

A bowl is silently handed to him.

"Thank you." He relished the soup.67 The summonings have been scarce lately, and he wanted to enjoy this giant ass bowl with no shame. "So, what's up?"

"Do you know Buddha?"

"Yes?"

"Does he watch over us?"

"Yes?"

The girl in the corner booth started praying. "Hi, Buddha. Could you make sure aunt Kathy minds her own business? I know you're all about virtue but-"

The presence of Buddha chuckled at the halfhearted plea.

Danny snorted. "Is that it?"

"Yes. Thank you."

[keferon]

I stand by the belief that Drift/Deadlock and Hot Rod would be friends in any universe. Much to the terror of everyone else.

———————————————————————

Deadlock was loosing his mind.

Deadlocks face plates were starting to hurt from the strain of manually stopping himself from reflexively smiling. And why did he have an overwhelming compulsion to smile?

Because: This. Tiny. Minuscule. Absolute Fragging SPECK of a human was somehow radiating more emotion out of his EM field than any other mech that Deadlock has ever met in his life.

And what was that emotion?

"THIS IS THE COOLEST SHIT IVE EVER SEEN IN MY FUCKING LIFE!"

Joy. Pure. Unfiltered. Unrestrained. And completely unreasonable levels of joy.

"RATCHET. RATCHET. HE'S SO COOL."

The mini nuclear reactor was currently shaking the medic by the shoulders, practically vibrating with unspent energy. Seconds ago, Hot Rod had seemingly slagging materialized next to him in an explosion of emotion that damn near knocked Deadlock on his aft. He was currently tempted to swat the little fragger halfway across the hangar to escape the onslaught of unexpected emotions except-

Ratchet had personally brought him in. Even now, the medics field remained calm and collected in the face of what to Deadlock felt like a fragging Sun. He kinda envied humans field numbness right now because it was definitely starting to screw with his processor.

Case in point, Deadlock had to take a click to refocus on what the squishes were talking about.

"No fucking way. Really?!"

“Yes, he really did take down those three quints near the wind farm by himself. Ate one of 'em too.”

"YOU EAT THEM?!?"

Deadlock was expecting disgust, but instead all he could feel was overwhelming awe. His resolve to remain aloof and detached was quickly beginning to crumble before the blast furnace of Hot Rods personality.

A manual override finally failed and Deadlock broke into a wide grin. At least he kept his fangs on prominent display. Equal parts smile and threat.

"Drink, actually."

Deadlock made a conscious effort to take on a more relaxed posture, one that would convey predatory pride and confidence.

"Dude. Dude. Dude."

Hot Rod held his hands to his face, leg rapidly bouncing up and down.

"YOU'RE A FREAKING ROBOT VAMPIRE FROM OUTER SPACE?!"

Before Deadlock could ask what a vampire was, Hot Rod had begun jogging away while screaming incoherently.

"What. What is happening?" Deadlock leaned towards his human, listening to Hot Rod get fainter as he rounded the corner of the hangar.

"About what I expected.” Ratchet grumbled, setting his hands on his hips.

“Roddy is intense as they come but he’s a damn good pilot and an even better friend."

Ratchet pointed a finger at Deadlock.

"Don't tell him I said that."

Hot Rod had become almost inaudible by now but was slowly gaining volume again.

"Right now kid, it's just been you and I. And trust me I enjoy the arrangement. But we can't fight every battle by ourselves. Sometimes you just need help. Sometimes,"

The screaming was quickly gaining decibels.

“You just need a friend.”

A friend.

Huh.

The scarred, defensive, self preserving part of Deadlock protested the thought of being pried open any further. Ratchet had started the process. But, c'mon. It's Ratchet. He scolded his inner self. Ratchet always left things stronger then before. So, maybe. Just a little bit. Deadlock could at least see what was so great about this squishy human.

The screaming returned to its initial volume as Hot Rod rounded the corner and mech. They were pretty sure humans normally breathed more often than that?

Hot Rod came to a stop before the two of them.

Finally gasping in fresh air. His field was absolutely roiling, pretty much all positive emotions but the screaming lap around the building had clearly vented a lot of energy.

"Can you turn into a bat?!"

Deadlock reset his optics, an idea spreading across his processor as he finally let his Em field reciprocate with giddiness and mischief.

Who cares if it's sparkling behavior? It’s fun. He told the Deadlock part of himself.

"Nope. But do you want to know what I can turn into?"

Hot Rod nodded so fast Ratchet looked concerned.

Che-che-chu-klunk.

Hot Rod started screaming again.

This time when when his EM field hit Deadlock he took it all in and reflected it right back. He revved his engine so loudly it shook the windows. Hot Rod was running and jumping in a tight circle around the two of them, radiating Joy Joy Joy Joy. Deadlock swore his field was even effecting Ratchet at this point from the way happy seemed to bounce between the three of them in various shades.

"Can we go for a ride?!"

Hot Rod had stopped by Deadlocks passenger side door. Rapidly looking between Ratchet and Deadlock, clearly uncertain who's permission to ask for.

"Well Doc, do you trust us not to get into trouble?" He wriggled his tires.

"You two? Staying out of trouble? Hell no."

Ratchet rubbed his chin the way he always did when he was trying to stop himself from smiling.

"But as long as you both come back in one piece and before dark... Well I don't see the harm."

Hot Rod gave his loudest "WOOP!" Yet. A feat in it of itself. A scrambled into Deadlocks cabin, forgoing the door entirely to throw himself bodily through the window.

They tore away from Ratchets hangar with a chorus of thanks and a spray of gravel.

———————

It was well after dark by the time the duo rolled into Ratchets hangar. Hot Rod stumbled out into a semi controlled summersault that left him spread eagle on the floor, laughing and panting. While Deadlock smoothly transformed and promptly rolled flat on his back in a similar state of delirium.

They had so much fun. He had so much fun.

When was the last time he'd ever felt like that?

When had he ever felt like that?

Ratchet was upside down frowning at him. No, wait. Smiling.

Happy. Fondness. Proud.

Love.

Deadlock cleared his vents and put a hand over his spark before his chest plates could do something very stupid.

Ratchet turned to the hot mess on the floor.

"I got the couch set up for you. Figured you're gonna stay the night."

Hot Rod stuck his arms straight up, palms open.

"Woo, sleepover!"

His field had finally simmered down to something like coals. A bone deep exhaustion that made Deadlock feel heavy by proxy.

They both gracelessly shuffled onto their respective resting arrangements, Ratchet taking the recliner after dimming all the lights.

Soon enough, all three were in recharge or asleep.

———————

Deadlock started out of recharge with tightly trained silence.

Something was wrong.

Threatened. Stressed. Afraid.

Deadlock seemed dead to the world still. But internally, his systems quickly synced to kill. A skill he had honed over many millennia of unsafe homes and attempted assassinations.

What surprised him was how he already mentally mapped out how to maneuver the humans into the safest location in a fight. Deadlock finally onlined his optics, casting the hangar in an amber glow. His processor clicked and Deadlock realized what was triggering his fight response.

Threatened. Stressed. Afraid.

Hot Rod.

Limbs twisted in fabric, face buried in the crook of the couch. Posture contorted. Breathing uneven. Field pulled in so tight it felt suffocating.

Deadlock loosely knew what a nightmare was.

Ratchet got them sometimes, though he wouldn't admit it until Deadlock made it clear the lack of context was freaking him out a little.

The way Ratchet explained it was that it was essentially a way for the brain to process excess information. Basically the same as defrag but with some weird human side effects because of course there were weird human side effects.

Like whatever was currently happening to Hot Rod.

From previous experience, nudging Ratchet awake usually resulted in a snort or other cut of vocalization. But if there was anything Deadlock had learned it was that Hot Rod did not do anything quietly.

Ratchet was still sleeping on his recliner, but there was a subtle shifting and a pinch to his face. Not a nightmare, Deadlock had learned the pattern, but something was bothering the medic and it threatened to wake him from his much needed rest.

Help.

The wave of desperate emotion spilled out like an overfilled cup.

Right, Hod Rods EM field was freakishly strong. It was restrained for now but Deadlock dreaded what it’d feel like if the dam broke.

He watched Ratchet stir again and. . . Wait.

Could humans pick up on EM fields?

Can’t a deaf mech still feel the vibrations of a song? Couldn’t a blind one still feel the warmth of the sun?

What if?

Deadlock moved as silently as death. Cupping a servo over the pilot. He stopped restricting his field and focused.

Calm.

Hot Rod made another almost vocalization. Like he was trying to yell without enough air.

Calm. Deadlock tried again. Comforting anyone was so, so far from his normal area of expertise. Did he even know what calm was supposed to feel like? What safe was supposed to be? He wracked his memories as Deadlock and abandoned that immediately.

Calm. Safe. Ratchet.

Okay. Deadlock didn’t know how to comfort someone, but Ratchet did. He focused his field again, this time on trying to mimic what he always felt from Ratchet as closely as possible.

Care. Fondness.

Deadlock vented slowly. It felt hollow coming from him. The new field was there but it was weak. Unsupported. Deadlock worried his lip with a fang. Hot Rod simmered.

He vented slowly. Deadlock opened the box at the back of his mind named Drift. He knew what he needed. Everything else could stay but he needed this one feeling. Just one.

The stars were out over Dead End. A brown out had swept the area, leaving everything in the dark. Drift didn’t know the sky could look like that.

The others were gathered around in silent awe. Nobody dared to break the spell. Tomorrow, everything would suck again. Scraping money for the next meal, the next hit, the next chance to live just a little longer.

But for a few fleeting moments, Drift was okay. They were all okay. Because the circles of light around Cybertron said so.

Peace.

Drift let the feeling fill his field. Calm and fondness meant something again.

He thought of his time with Ratchet and Hot Rod. Finding something new in himself.

Protect.

It was like smoke clearing all at once. Hot Rod exhaled deeply in his sleep, field going soft and gentle.

He kept it up, at some point his engine had started purring without him knowing. A pleasant white noise within the hangar. They were okay. Everyone he cared about was okay. He felt peace. Just for now. Just for them.

“Didn’t know you could do that.”

Ratchets voice was thick with sleep. One eye barely cracked to look at him.

“Me too.”

—————————

Part 1

This is long and it’s getting late. Deadlock has an emotional breakthrough and Hot Rod dreams about I dunno, pancakes or something.

-SSTP

Infinitely entertained by the mental image of Ratchet trying to pick someone who he can trust but who will also get along with Kid. And then looking at Hot Rod and being like Yep. That one.

ALSO. Hot Rod having an EM field equivalent of a nuclear fucking reactor is just so👌👌👌 YES HE WOULD. ABSOLUTELY YES HAHAHKFNGM

I never get tired of reading about Roddy and Lock losing their last brain cells when they are together. Anon. Anon look at me. I LOVE YOU ANON. I WILL CHERISH THIS PIECE FOREVER IT BROUGHT ME THE UNMEASURABLE AMOUNT OF JOY THANK YOU FOR SHARING IT

[nerdpoe]

Fake it till you make it, Star City Kitchen edition.

Danny, outed to the government as a ghostly entity, is not only wanted by the government but unable to find work because of that.

Sam gave him money to help him escape, but an unfortunate run in with more than one gang of meta traffickers blew through that in an instant.

He needs a job. He needs to find a place to sleep.

He decides to answer an ad in a newspaper, for a personal chef for an unnamed person. Is it sketchy? Yes. Is it very likely to be under the table with no government checks? Also yes.

Besides, if it turns out to be someone bad, he can just go invisible and disappear for a bit. It'll be...unfortunate, cuz he'll have to steal what he needs, but it's doable.

He arrives at the meeting place, and there's a car waiting to pick him up.

Okay.

He gets in the car. Secondary location, here he comes.

It drives to a mansion.

Oh no.

It's Oliver Queen.

Oliver Queen put up that ad.

Oliver Queen takes one look at him, hums, and says that Danny is absolutely what he was looking for. That Danny just looks like how a chef should look.

Five minutes later, Danny finds himself in a kitchen larger than his old house, internally panicking and scrolling as fast as he can through cooking lessons on youtube.

Turns out, Danny's got a knack for cooking.

Like, he's actually pretty phenomenal at it.

If the food isn't trying to come back to life and eat him, once he's got the basics down, it's pretty easy to throw together a meal.

~~~~~~

Oliver, sleep deprived and injured, meant to ask Stan to make him something to eat.

Somehow he failed step one of just texting the man, and ended up reaching out to and placing an ad in a local newspaper for a personal chef.

Naturally, when someone answers it, he decides to get them over to his place so he can apologize for his stupidity and pay them the money they lost wasting time going to him.

Except that's a kid.

A dirty, unkempt, homeless teenager.

And...fuck.

Look, Oliver isn't a complete and total jackass, and it's not like the kid can mess up much if he's in the kitchen, of all places.

So he pretends like the ad is legit. Throws the kid in the kitchen.

Accidentally finds out that the kid wasn't fucking lying about being a good chef that was out of practice, holy shit? This food is so good????

Looks into the kid's background, quietly.

...

And in true Green Arrow fashion, uncovers a government conspiracy.

[crystalshard]

The kid needs a shower.

And new clothes.

And somewhere to sleep.

Fortunately, Oliver is notably eccentric and very rich. It's easy to have a room in the mansion set up for the kid, with a fully stocked en-suite, because what if Oliver wants a snack at 3am? (Given his vigilante pursuits, that's actually more likely than not.)

It's equally easy to put together a chef's uniform and have it delivered. And if Danny wears the uniform while he's waiting for his first paycheck to come through, who does it hurt?

(The kid's getting an advance on his first month's pay. Danny clearly needs money; Oliver doesn't even care if the kid vanishes with his advance. Wait, no, that's not right. He cares, because that means the kid's left behind whatever support Oliver can sneak to him.)

The kid doesn't vanish, and the food only gets better. The first time Danny cooks for him and Dinah, she insists on meeting the chef. After dinner, she pins Oliver down and demands answers. She does not like said answers, especially when it comes to what Oliver's found about the secret government agency.

Danny becomes a familiar sight around the mansion. When Oliver calls in Roy about the staggering violations of the Meta Protection Act committed by the GIW, the two boys take to each other like slightly wary cats.

(Oliver expects to find them both curled up on the couch and purring at some point.)

Roy insists that they take the information to the Justice League, and Oliver agrees. He's got pull with the government, but not enough to shut down an entire pseudo-military branch.

After his presentation, most of the Justice League are incensed at the horrors that slipped intangibly through their nets. Batman, though? Batman's a father. And he's about to go nuclear on the GIW.

Oliver will be right there beside him.

[keferon]

Sorry in advance for the word vomit but. I love the whole Jazz-and-Prowl figuring out the language barrier but also consider:

They don't.

Prowl's been captured by Quintessons and is currently thinking of ways to completely scrape his processor so they can't get any useful data, only to get rescued by a random mech. They fight their way out (the mech is extremely proficient in combat). At first he thinks it's a drone- it looks at him when he asks questions but doesn't answer (responds to noise, not language), it is sparkless (not alive) and it makes random but entirely incoherent noises and doesn't even ping (not able to communicate). Prowl has no idea what's going on but he's too injured to make it back to base alone and it's helping him? So. He chalks it up to some waylaid stealth military asset and tries to think of ways to both get it back to base whilst also making sure it's not some sort of Quintesson Trojan-horse [10%].

Meanwhile, Jazz was sent to blow up a Quintesson command camp by his organisation but instead he got thrown through a weird portal, and found a pilot all tied down and probably being tortured so naturally he busted him out but uh. He has no idea what the other is saying. He's talking in total tonal gibberish. Not that he's judging, he's heard some stuff about how far other piloting programs are willing to go to advance neural technology. And his face! He has one! A handsome one. Must be some advanced shit because he's got micro expressions and he's using them to frown as him. Anyways, Jazz's got bigger fish to fry. The sky's a different colour, there are two suns and atmo is reading terribly low levels of O2. Maybe he and this pilot got thrown into an alien planet? Cool- well, actually pretty bad but hey they're in this together.

Prowl knows by models that they're bound to run into another Quintesson patrol eventually, and based on the drones alertness to its surroundings, his previous observations to its capacity to fight, and how it doesn't stray to far from him, if patrol numbers are favourable [1-8 range] they can survive [70, .5]% the route back to base. But the drone is reckless and abandons him to the melee (how can a drone be reckless?) and Prowl gets injured worse. Energon drips from wounds, and the angle makes it challenging for him to patch it. But the drone creeps closer, folds to its (knees? Its joints are in an odd but effective configuration) and gently (gently?) begins to mimic (clumsily) Prowl's motions of patching his wounds. Here is where Prowl falters, because drones are not so careful. Drones do not do not look up multiple times at his faceplates, and become more delicate when they see you in pain. Drones don't hold out a servo and help you to your pedes when your done. Which begs the question, if he's not a drone, so what has been done to this mech?

Jazz on the other hand is freaking the fuck out. Naturally. Because uh, he started slicing Quints, expecting Frowny to do the same because his mech was still clearly operational, only for the idiot to completely disregarded normal combat standards which can be summarised as 'fight hard or die' and instead get chewed on by some big ass teeth.

Only to see the glowing purple dripping from his torn sides, only to see that he's bleeding.

Machines don't bleed.

So Jazz figures out Frowny is an alien first. He starts pointing at himself and saying his name, insistently, until Frowny repeats it. He points at Frowny, and records and replays whatever sound bite Frowny makes until Frowny's also nodding in confirmation. He still calls him Frowny, because even though he has his name? Probably? He has no idea what it means and can't actually pronounce it (no idea how to get a mouth to move that way) but hey! Progress! He does this again and again with small things (rock, hand, cyber?animals, music (Frowny's confused at that one it's pretty adorable) ect.

Prowl has no idea what to make of this strange mech. Is he a failed experiment? A runaway from Cybertron following the Functionalists rise or power? Thennn Prowl finds out one fateful night that the mech is actually an alien organic (in a fit of misunderstandings, and squeezes him pretty hard for it ouch and feels SO guilty about it later) and suddenly the language/culture barrier makes way more sense.

Prowl's injuries degrade (a line splits). He has no way to communicate this except for the energon dripping out of his chassis. The organic is clearly worried (how did he think he was ever sparkless), and Prowl can't reach the injury himself. So he guides the mech's servos past armour and wiring, down to protoform (near his sparkchamber) to the split line. Gestures and hopes the mech can figure out what to do from his miming[#^%]. That'll he'll be careful, and won't hurt him [5%, 87%, #*%, *########%].

Frowny is later picking shrapnel stuck in his forearm that's too small for him to remove, so Jazz gets out of his mech to help with his small human hands. Jazz has no way to communicate to Frowny that if he moves, he'll sheer Jazz's limbs clean off, but he goes in anyway, because Frowny's hurt, and speckled in blood. Because he's clearly struggling and hurt and tired. Because Jazz has to trust that he won't.

Frowny's injures eventually make him collapse, and Jazz carries him the rest of the way. Jazz has no idea how they'll be received (especially considering how Frowny reacted when he found out Jazz was organic). Jazz knows he might be dissected. Knows he might be pulled apart (again) but.

He remembers all the little moments they had on their journey (Frowny shielding him from falling rubble when Jazz was out of his mech once, them getting to gesticulating arguments, Frowny's reaction to his music, how he fell asleep on Jazz once and it was fricken adorable).

It doesn't matter that Jazz can't say (barely understands) his actual name. That Frowny probably doesn't understand his. It doesn't matter that they talk in halting miming, in broken sound clips and touches and half-glares.

He's already gone out on all his limbs, might as well put his head on the chopping block. And if it causes him to lose the damn thing, well.

He's a pilot. Dying horribly is practically his job description.

OOOUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH DYING HORRIBLY IS PRACTICALLY HIS JOB DESCRIPTION,,,,,,,,,,,

[smokescreenimusprime]

not my usual but it was too perfect to pass up and the idea was NOT leaving my head. Decided to write a snippet for @keferon's IMMACULATE Mecha Pilot Jazz AU, though apologies if the charactization is a lil funky, this is my first time writing either of these characters and double apologies for the undoubted slew of grammar and spelling errors

but that aside, I hope you enjoy :)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Is It Self Sacrifice If It's Not Really You?

Despite the cacophany of the battlefield, Prowl's scream cut through it with with the ease of a freshly sharped blade through flesh and found it's home nestled into Jazz's ears.

He barely had a second to look up, hardly more than a glance, but it was all he needed to make out familiar white and black.

A Quintesson, one of the smaller but more freaky looking ones, was looming over his collapsed frame. He was pinned, his back to solid rocky walls and the Quint at his front, jamming it's tentacles into every crack of his armour they could.

He was putting up one hell of a fight, but something was wrong.

"PROWL!" he shouted, shifting his weight in preperation to bolt. "HOLD ON, I'M COMMIN-"

But the screech of the Quintesson he was currently grappling with forcefully stole his attention back, barely any warning given before it's gaping maw latched onto his mech's forearm.

It pulled, joints and plates creaking with the strain but still holding strong. It shook it's head and Jazz brought a hand up to brace against the outside of the monster, if only to stop the arm from being completely ripped out of the socket. He landed a few solid kick as it lifted him off the ground, but it's movements were still largey effortless, like his frame weighed as much as a tin can.

Prowl screamed again. This time it was louder.

Against all common (sane) sense, Jazz looked away from his enemy and toward Prowl

Some of his external plating was damaged, gouges in messy circle patterns with rivulets of blue energon sluggishly bleeding out. He seemed to be smoking too, thin curls of smoke wafting off his cables. His eyes were flickering wildly, something Jazz had grown to associate with too much damage and too little power.

All of the damage paled in comparison to where Jazz's focus was.

Now, Jazz didn't know how these guys had their mechs built, but they could hold up to some serious punishment. Their engineers seemed to keep an even more meticulous eye on any damage, and Prowler and the other's all had frames clealy meant to last.

But they were all still vulnerable at their cores.

And the Quintesson's tentacles, sparking with a terrifying yellow and red electricity, were pulling and prying right at the plating above that core.

It was starting to show some give too, a testimate to the true strength of the offending monster. Chest plating, no matter the make, didn't come off easily, intent to protect the most vulnerable parts of a pilot.

The electricity was already frying his frame, if it got a straight shot of that to his chest-

Jazz needed to do something.

Jazz needed to do something.

But what, what could he do, whatever it was it needed to be quick, he didn't have time to finish off this Quintesson, there wasn't time for finesse, he just needed to go to help to F I G H T -

Jazz readjusted the braced positioning of his legs, thanking for what was probably the thousandth time the engineers who'd made the adjustment to give him more flexibility and agility, and brought his free arm high above his head.

And brought it down.

His trapped arm creaked, the plating denting and squealing as the metal controted, sparks going flying and red error messages flashing in his vision.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

He made sure to keep his blows aimed at preciscely where he knew it was weakest and made sure to push with his legs as hard as he could, swaying side to side and focing the joint to bend in ways it had never been meant to. His movements became a dance to the orchestra of cables snapping and metal ripping and electricity cracking and his arm b r e a k i n g , the dance growing faster and more determined the louder the music played.

It felt like eternity, and the phantom sensation was disorienting. There was no pain, only uncomfortable pressure that built up and up and up, perfectly in time with the warning messages he forcefully dismissed. It was far from pleasant, but it was nothing compared to the cold burning terrified angry fight flight save him running full blast in his brain.

And with one final crack akin to lightning, he was free.

It was the furthest thing from a clean break, and to his mild surprise it didn't break at the elbow but rather a bit above it. In the second of freefall he had, he couldn't help but admire the shredded stump and mourn how he knew Ratchet was going to have his head for all the extra work.

He hit the ground in a roll and popped up running, stumbling and nearly falling face first into alien dirt at the sudden uneven weight distribution but he simply let his partial fall carry him forward until he was sprinting full speed.

With his remaining hand he grabbed the Quintesson and pulled, not letting go until it wasn't tearing into Prowl's front and instead embedded several feet in the ground. He dashed, not giving it even a moment, standing tall in front of Prowl.

The Quint got back up, enraged screeches and chitters coming out of it's mouth.

"Back off," Jazz growled back.

The Quintesson attacked, and everything became the hyperaware blur combat always became.

Dodge, dodge, punch, dodge, kick, kick, punch, dodge, jump, kick jump-

One of it's tentacles latched right onto the open stump and set a wave of electricity in.

His mech's vision went bright white, sparks exploding out even inside his cockpit and the smell of burning metal filling his nose. All the protective insulation was made useless from the direct route into the mech's systems.

Jazz jerked his arm stump back and headbutted it.

He got a tentacle to the face for his troubles, grabbers squeezing and cracking the visor. He planted his feet, one on solid ground the other on the slack of the tentacle, and pulled as hard as he could.

A decent chunk of the face came left it, not deep enough to affect any systems or his vision anymore than it was already damaged, but enough that it certainly wasn't pretty.

He kept more distance after that. Wouldn't do any good for him or Prowler if he got fried too. But the Quintesson was desperate, like a cornered animal, grabbing and clawing at anything it could gets it's tentacles on. The same gouges Prowl had began to litter his own armour as it kept making grabs, and the beastie even managing to get a few more much briefer electrical surges in.

It was obvious only one of them was going to walk away from this fight, and Jazz was not going to let it be the Quint. Prowl would kill him if he did

Finally he managed to get in a lucky shot, albeit at the cost of his feet. The Quintesson tried to get in a bite like it friend had, only to be met with the full force of Jazz's feet pressing them apart.

The teeth and other horrors might've torn through his feet but dammit if it wasn't satisfying to hear the crack as its jaw snapped and the body went limp.

The battle was still going on around them, but it was starting to wind down. A trio of bots had even started attacking the one Jazz had left behind.

The immediate area was clear, and there were more than enough bots he could shout out to for backup if he needed it.

"Prowler, you okay?" he said, though he noticed his voice had a bit of static lacing it. Maybe getting his face ripped off did more damage than he thought, or it could be lingering damage from the electricity. "Sorry it took me so long to come getcha, talk, dark and bitey kept me a bit occupied."

He wiggled his stump with a chuckle, leaning in closer. Kneeling down was difficult with the leaking hydraulic fluid and Quintesson salivia making it hard to get a solid grip, but with the current state of his visor he didn't want to risk missing anything on Prowl. To his relief, despite the extensive denting and electrical burns, Prowl's chest was thankfully uncompromised. Hopefully his mech was insulated

The electricity seemed to have done a number on his connection to the head though, the eyes were still glitching wildly and his normally expressive face seemed stuck.

"J-Jazz..." Prowl stuttered, and Jazz found himself frowning. Maybe Prowl got a bit more banged up on the inside than he thought. "You- your-"

His eyes were flickering wildly about Jazz's mech, and he could practically hear his friend's battle computer crunching away.

"Ah, don't worry bout that," he rapping his mech's chest with a fist. "This old frame's gone through worse. Nothing delicate got smashed, and I've barely got a scratch on me. Ratchet'll have me right as rain before you know it, so don't worry your pretty little head one bit."

"Speaking of, I'm gonna go find 'im," he stood back up, looking around the battlefield. "The fight's pretty much over, and I'm not sure if it's a great idea for you to be moving after all that zappy nonsense. Just sit tight and-"

"No!"

Jazz startled a bit at the sudden shout, looking back down at Prowl. The other man's mech suddenly lunged up, sitting straight and looking at him with wide eyes.

"Prowler? Is somethin wrong?"

"I will contact Ratchet," he says in a rush. "A comm message will be more efficient than searching on foot, not to mention I'll be able to tell him what to prepare for,"

Jazz raised a brow.

"Go right ahead, Prowl," he chirped despite his suspicion. He was fairly certain Prowl was hiding something from him, but prying would just make him clamp down tighter.

Prowl didn't seem like the sort to hide things from medics but...

He sat his mech down and leaned back against the wall. "You don't mind if I wait with ya, do you?"

Just to be safe.

Despite his initial assumptions, Prowl actually seemed to relax at his suggestion.

"Not at all."

[keferon]

OH THIS WA SUCH A JUICY AND COOL FIGHT SCENE OH MY GOD

[saltymarshmall0w]

beatdown buddies

(You always read fics where the pit is instantly calmed by Danny’s presence, but what if it didn’t?)

Now, you have to understand, that Jason was long past attacking strangers in a blind fury. The Bats? Sure, all the time--- but he was working on that.

This particular scrawny, possibly-homeless stranger hadn’t done anything more than simply exist in Jason’s proximity. If it was any other Crime Alley resident, Jason would be much more likely feel a surge of protectiveness.

This guy though– he was different.

Locking toxic-green eyes to toxic-green eyes made the pit in his skin violently react. Before he knew it, he was hitting the guy with everything he had, and the guy was hitting back.

The groceries Jason had left his apartment to get spilled all over the ground as the two rolled.

Pulled hair, split knuckles, and bruised bodies, the guy’s fist hit Jason’s jaw for the umpteenth time, cracking his head back and making him look at the gloomy sky.

They only used their fists. Jason could feel the familiar ghost of weapons hidden under the other guy’s hoodie, but neither pulled their hidden weapons.

Despite it all, Jason and the guy shared blood-tinged smiles. Blood boiled under his skin in an exciting trill. He was angry, and it was fantastic.

He’s pretty sure he just made a new best friend.

Someone hit Jason’s back with what could distinctly be identified as a broom. He vaguely heard the sound of yelling around him, but Jason’s only focus was getting his next hit in.

Eventually, they were stopped by a familiar shade of blue and black. Strong arms pulled him off the stranger and pinned his arms down, locking their arms over his chest to prevent Jason from getting free.

“You need to calm down!” Dickwing’s voice lectured in his ear. “You’re going to kill him!”

Surprisingly, Jason settled in Dick’s hold, fight and anger drained out of him in the space of a breath. The fire under his skin didn’t keep flaming and flaming and building it just– stopped.

“Oh, Please.” The stranger was grinning widely, despite the model of developing bruises and cuts across his face. A burly man who Jason vaguely recognized worked at the store they were standing right in front of was both holding up and holding back the guy. “We were just saying ‘Hi’.”

The guy made eye contact with Jason. Blue, no hints of green anywhere. The guy winked. “Danny.”

Frankly, Jason couldn’t quite explain his actions. He felt stupidly chastized by Nightwing’s patented older brother stare of disappointment. Apparently, the guy couldn’t explain his actions either, as he disappeared the instant no one’s eyes were on him.

-

Jason arrived an hour early to Wayne Sunday family dinner. He missed cooking alongside Alfred, and offered his help.

He let Dick wrap an arm around his shoulder for a few seconds as a welcome. He didn’t seethe at Bruce simply being there. He chose to sit between Tim and the Demon brat when it looked like new fratricide plans were being drawn up by the younger.

The pit didn’t scream under his skin to hurt. Little things didn’t set him off, making him have to leave early. He wasn’t tempted to throttle anyone for existing around him.

The pit was just… quiet. Peaceful even. Well, as peaceful as it could get in the Wayne household.

It was a massive improvement compared to six months ago— hell, compared to last month.

He shrugged off inquiries about his black eye, citing it would heal quickly anyway.

-

Jason should have known he wasn’t safe.

Sure, he was on a roof one could only grapple to, across the city from crime alley, and dressed up as Red Hood.

However, Danny always reappeared periodically like a well-timed extremely therapeutic punching bag.

One moment, Jason was looking down over the streets of Gotham the next, he was being flying-kicked by a lithe frame. Something instantly recognized Danny so, rather the putting a bullet in him, Jason picked himself back up into a crouch and lunged at Danny.

“Hood? Hood what’s going on?” Someone called in his ear— Oh, right he had connected comms with his family that night.

Danny stopped suddenly, straddling Jason’s stomach, one hand fisting his collar, the other posed to strike. He blinked. glowing green eyes turned blue. “You’re not like, busy doing vigilante stuff, are you?” He asked.

Every bruise and cut from their last fight was gone, his baby face appeared as though it had never been punched in his life, making him look all the more punchable.

“Nope.” Jason answered, driving an elbow into the kid’s stomach and in the same motion ripped the comm out of his ear to toss it to the side.

Minutes later Danny was pulled off him, and the fire under his skin died down.

He blinked back into his surroundings to find himself on a rooftop with half of Gotham’s vigilantes standing in a circle around him, an unease that he could only read because he was so familiar with them written in all of their body languages. Batman held Danny slightly behind himself, keeping a firm grasp on the guy so he couldn’t escape.

“You claimed the rage was getting better.” Bruce stated in the way that meant he was supposed to answer his unasked questions..

Jason waited for rage and indignance to rise up in him, but rather he just considered that Bruce saw glowing green eyes and a brutal beat down and made a logical leap.

“It has!” Jason argued anyway. He sniffed and ran a hand under his slightly bleeding nose. It didn’t sting enough to be broken. “I haven’t lost my cool in months.”

“That’s what he has me for!” Danny chimed happily. His nose was broken, but Danny didn’t seem to mind the twin streaks of blood running down his face. “We’re friends with Benefits. It’s always healthy to have a little dead-guy on dead-guy action. You guys should really fight with him more often, his ectoplasm is rank.”

[vengefulwings]

Megatron / Soundwave (Pre-War)

The Cybertronian coliseum pulsed with the roar of the crowd, a sea of metallic faces gleaming under the artificial lights. Energon-splattered sands bore the weight of countless battles, and tonight would be no different. Gladiators strode into the arena to test their mettle, each seeking victory, fame—or survival.

Among them was Megatronus, a towering ex-miner whose reputation had already begun to eclipse others. His movements were calculated and powerful, his crimson optics scanning the space like a predator. Yet, for all his notoriety, this was his first time facing an unfamiliar name: Soundwave.

The gate across from him groaned as it opened, and out stepped the enigmatic figure. Tall and leaner than most gladiators, Soundwave’s face was a blank visor reflecting the glaring lights. His posture was calm, almost eerily so, as if the jeers and cheers around him did not exist. The only sound from him was the faint whir of his systems, a symphony of mechanical hums that somehow harmonized with the chaos.

Megatronus found his optics lingering, intrigued. This gladiator was different—not just in appearance, but in the way he held himself, an aura that demanded attention without a single word.

---

The gong echoed. The battle began.

Soundwave moved like liquid, weaving through Megatronus’s thunderous strikes with grace that belied his size, tentacles always ready to strike. His movements were deliberate, a dance of precision and efficiency. It wasn’t long before the audience fell silent, enraptured by the duel.

“What are you?” Megatronus rumbled mid-battle, voice strained but laced with fascination.

Soundwave did not reply verbally. Instead, he dodged another swing and countered with a quick strike to Megatronus’s shoulder, forcing him back. The visor tilted slightly, a silent challenge.

Megatronus smirked, a rare expression for him. “Silent, yet so loud.”

The battle continued, but it was clear that neither fought to end the other. There was no overreach, no attempt to finish the duel. It was as if they were testing each other, learning.

---

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the gong rang again, signaling a draw. The crowd erupted in mixed reactions, but neither gladiator seemed to care. Megatronus approached Soundwave, his massive frame casting a shadow.

“You intrigue me,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “I’ve faced countless warriors, but none like you.”

Soundwave tilted his head, his visor flickering faintly as if considering the statement. Then, in a voice devoid of emotion yet somehow intimate, he replied, “Observation: you seek more than victory.”

Megatronus chuckled, a sound both dark and amused. “Perhaps. And what do you seek, Soundwave?”

There was a pause before Soundwave responded, his tone soft but firm. “Purpose.”

The single word struck Megatronus harder than any weapon. He saw a reflection of himself in it, an echo of the drive that had pushed him into the arena in the first place.

“You’ve found it,” Megatronus said, surprising even himself.

Soundwave didn’t answer immediately, but something shifted in the tilt of his head, a subtle acknowledgment. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the gate, his steps soundless despite his size.

Megatronus watched him go, an unfamiliar feeling stirring in his spark. For the first time in eons, he felt a connection—not of rivalry, but of understanding.

As Soundwave disappeared into the shadows, Megatronus knew this would not be their last meeting.

It was only the beginning.