*IN DEBT / FREED FROM

' someone is singing you back to your birthplace ' private tf multimuse

[sparkchose]

hello  there!  you  can  call  me  cyrus,  i’m  24,  and  i’m  in  the  pacific  timezone.   i’m  a  full - time  student  working  towards  my  ba  and have a job so  my  activity  will  be  fairly  sporadic. if all else fails you can find me on my perceptor blog @rifleseye.

you  can  read  my  rules  and  muses  over  on  my  site  (here!)!

i don’t want anyone who rps/supports these things following me, out of both comfort for myself and the comfort of certain mutuals:

a.ttack  on  t.itan,  h.etalia,  k.illing  s.talking,  fictional  nazis  (h.ydra  agents,  f.irst  order)  anything  from  jk  rowling’s  writings,  genderbends,  rape,   actual  nazis,  pedophilia,  glorification  of  abuse,  a/b/o,  or  i.ncest

shouldn’t have to be said but i don’t tolerate bigotry of any sort.

Free Palestine. Donate for relief with UNRWA.

[sparkchose]

i must ignore the siren's call...

[sparkchose]

hmmm i might move idw ratch to primary. he's been speaking to me.

[sparkchose]

[wheerl]

[thelastpathfinder]

You stare at him owlishly, your optic one great well of cosmic ambience. "I'm not really in a position to receive standard healthcare," you mutter. "It missed my optic, anyway. I can live with that."

"You're here for Perceptor, aren't you? He hasn't said much about what happened." Alas, you can't see into the past; you can only glimpse what lays ahead. You've been lurking about Perceptor's apartment ever since he returned, figuring you can act as an early warning system if nothing else. "He's in his quarters."

[sparkchose]

"I wouldn't consider myself standard healthcare, personally," He says as he sets down his medical kit. He got the call from Prowl, a call one never really wants to get. Any questions he asked were rebuffed with a near-defensive snap. There's always something going on in Iacon.

"But yes, I am. I don't expect to learn what happened. Has he been consuming Energon regularly? Prowl hasn't been forthcoming about what happened either, as a result I don't know much about his injuries. What have you seen, if anything?"

[sparkchose]

@thelastpathfinder said.

You flinch, snapping your hand away from your face. You hadn't even realized you'd been picking at the edges of your scar again. "I, um—I'm sorry? It's just a bad habit."

Ratchet cringes as he stares at the scar. He's only here to see to Perceptor some sort of nonsense on Luna-1... He wasn't expecting to see a... what, Pathfinder? He's known those frame types were decommissioned years before the war. "Doesn't look like you ever got it properly looked at. Could've saved you a lot of grief if it was."

[sparkchose]

"Stop stop stop. You're gonna get yourself hurt like that."

[tendercherie]

forgive me lord for I have imagined a life far more soft and tender than the one you created for me

[tendercherie]

[hadalofhekaton-deactivated20241]

The mercenaries had executed the perfect ambush; dropping out of hyperspace directly in front of Hadal just as he was leaving the orbit of an inner system moon, they'd managed to misalign one of his rudders with a well-placed railcannon shot and punctured a cargo pod into the bargain.

While the damage is ultimately superficial, the presence of the mercenary cruisers is a rapidly intensifying concern. He banks the majority of his power to his thrusters and races for the edge of the system—if he can outpace them to the exit route, they won't be able to track his drive signature through the trade traffic as he warps away.

It's then that he notices the marooned Cybertronian vessel, and his spark runs cold. At his current rate, he'll pass them within moments, and then they'll be at the mercy of the hunters on his tail. Another mech might have left the stranger to their fate, seeing them as a potential diversion. Not Hadal.

He cuts burn, adjusting course so the waylaid ship is scooped straight into his open hangar. It's far from a gentle grab; the high gravity manoeuvre slams Drift's ship into the docking arm before it clamps down to secure it.

The impromptu rescue has cost him precious distance between himself and the pursuing cruisers. A fight it is, then. He keeps a number of sensors trained on their approach as he scans the ship, filtering the automated signals until—there. A comms signature. Whether or not he receives a reply, at least he can broadcast his message to his new passenger.

"This is Hadal of Hekaton," a stern voice reaches Drift's audials. "If you are hearing this message, brace for high-G. We are being targeted. Engaging CQB in five, four, three..."

[sparkchose]

— Drift's ship shakes, the hull hit by a high caliber railgun. He can't imagine that was aimed for him, caught in the crossfire of whatever's going on between the massive transport and the— what. Pirates? Mercenaries? Either way it's all trouble for him with a vessel dead in the vacuum of space. He kicks the console one more time, hoping, praying, it sputters to life.

Concussive maintenance, Perceptor had once said to him with that stifled amusement when he'd caught the Chief Scientist kicking the Lost Light's engines out of frustration. His spark aches for that ship briefly until he tamps it down, hard and forceful.

The unexpected save startles him at once, hands clutching onto the sides of the cockpit as he's scooped into a hangar. The slam sends him to the ground hard, grip slipping at the rough docking. The following voice is resounding, as though it's coming from everywhere in the ship. Oh.

He thinks he can feel the magnetic field of another pressing against his.

Oh.

It can't be a titan, it's too small, but there's that unmistakable weight of life he feels coursing through the ship.

Hekaton? He's not familiar with that Polity, either way he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, as humans say. Upon the warning, he pulls himself into his seat and straps himself in, prepared for the high-G transport, opening his own coms channel that, thankfully, mercifully still function.

"Set."

[kharonite-deactivated20250315]

The Predacon clones in their vats are barely-there suggestions of life, at their current stage of development; suspended in a translucent gel like specimens in resin. Shockwave stands watch over his newest creations, hand clasped over gun behind his back.

"I have an important responsibility for you." He turns as he hears Predaking enter, meeting his son's gaze. "You must choose the forms they are to take. Consider what I have taught you over the years—your decision must be based on logic, not matters of the spark." He inclines his head to one side. "When you are ready, everything you need is on that terminal."

[sparkchose]

Predaking regards Shockwave, listening close to his words. He hums in thought as he crouches to look at each specimen. He was like this, once. Naught but a protopod, form hardly even taken. He considers all he has learned, all he knows, all his studies and research into the field and predeology.

Once certain, he moves to the terminal, careful calculations are typed out delicately with the tips of his claws. Each CNA formula weighed against others before he settles on what logic dictates would be best for the new batch. At last, he will have brothers and sisters of his own. He considers his size, considers how early Predacons went extinct in part to their energy usage being too great, and he decides they will be closer in approximation to an average Cybertronian. Once complete, he steps away, "I have finished."

[ask-smokescreen]

Smokescreen stares, mouth agape, as the controller lodges itself right into the tv. So that's why they put that warning up...

"You might be right. I'll have to see about getting a you-sized controller for next time. You'll love this stuff, trust me. How about we watch cartoons instead. You wanna see some Looney Tunes?"

[sparkchose]

" Is it the one with the humorous bird and canine? I quite enjoy that one... With the walls being painted. Clever beasts. "

He would LOVE to watch Looney Tunes.

[rodismancave]

[Long, hard stare. ] I’m gettin’ the red one.

[sparkchose]

[Starts reaching for his tablet or whatever.] HEY. HEY. GIVE THAT TO ME.

[ask-smokescreen]

"You're a clever bot, you'll figure it out, don't worry, dude."

Smokescreen is already setting up the games, a jingle coming from a small projector, along with a warning about wrist straps that gets ignored.

"It will explain the game. It's super easy, and super fun! You just need to waggle this controller, and try to beat me!"

[sparkchose]

He is studying the peculiar controller between his claws. It seems to be much too small for him. " I do not believe this was built for a being of my stature. "

A pause as he swings it, without putting the wrist strap on, and watching as it flings directly into the TV.

[rodismancave]

Can’t do that right now. I’m too busy orderin’ some shit for you on Etsy. What’d you think resonates best, ‘Catholic moms against catbots’ or ‘party rockers in the house’? What’s your favorite color?

[sparkchose]

Dude come on. That's not how any of that works. And you know Etsy isn't sending the quality stuff. You're gonna get me a crystal and it's gonna... I don't know... Curse me or something.

[sparkchose]

astra inclinant, sed non obligant.

The stars incline us, they do not bind us!

[ask-smokescreen]

Wii! It's like... Our sports. It's got Tennis. You wanna play tennis? Or maybe bowling?

[sparkchose]

" I do not know what any of these are. They sound much too complex for my ancient mind. "