#auntopossum

[auntopossum]

Day 1: Snow @montereybayaquarium

Some deep sea shrimp for Day 1 of Deep Sea December!

[auntopossum]

Wife....

[auntopossum]

Decadence

Starscream x Gender Neutral! Reader, Shockwave x GN! Reader, and Soundwave x GN! Reader

Chapter 15: The Opposite of Love is Indifference

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 16

Author's Note:

I let out one, single, bloodcurdling scream before collapsing. A rumpled letter falls from my limp hands to the ground. Handwritten in glittery red gel pen and haloed by hearts, the addressed recipients read as follows: 'All my Love to my Readers and Starscream'

Story's Content Warnings:

Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm

Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing

Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold

Depression and Suicidal thoughts

Depictions of animal death and rendering

Politics

———

Hate.

It has to be Hate.

It can only be Hate.

Murky, deep sea water drains slowly down the pipes with a sickening glug. glug. glug. The airlock whirrrs lazily, finishing its standard decontamination protocol. A chunk of slick kelp slides off hyper-sensitive wing tips, landing on the wet floor with a schlap. Steam rises from the seeker's form, who taps his heeled pedes in annoyance with several distinct click. click. clicks. Red optics burn at the ticking timer above the door, impatiently waiting for the end.

Starscream Hates Megatron. Starscream Hates tardiness. Starscream Hates flying in acid rain.

Starscream Hates Megatron. Starscream Hates rust sticks. Starscream Hates the color neon green.

Starscream Hates Megatron. Starscream Hates sloppy reports. Starscream Hates having sand in his gears.

Starscream Hates and Hates and Hates.

It's the only way to rationalize the frenzied misery that surges up and latches onto Everything. Starscream Hates Megatron. Only way to rationalize the frustrated rage towards his own submissiveness. Starscream Hates Megatron. Only way to rationalize the familiar, choking fear of abandonment. Starscream Hates Megatron. Only way to rationalize the full spark-and-frame emptiness that now chills the halls of the Nemesis, and all Starscream can think of is how much he Hates Megatron as he stomps out of the airlock, heading towards the elevators.

Inputting a code to access the restricted floor, the second in command flexes his talons and rolls his shoulder joint. Sharp dentae gnash together at the rough, gritty grind of lingering ocean residue. The seeker checks the time and itinerary on his HUD while he travels down, down, down into the center depths of the ship. Any hopes for the washracks are quashed as he gets an incoming notification about another schedule adjustment. The very important meeting-to-plan-another-meeting-so-they-can-discuss-when-their-next-meeting-will-be meeting has been bumped up on the schedule. His wires itch, and the moisture on his sensitive lines fizzles beneath rapidly heating plating. This whole meeting debacle could easily be a memo to the troops after one, maybe two, reviews at everyone's leisure.

What is there to even discuss? The losses they still have yet to recover from? The complete lack of progress from any of the other commanders? It's not like Megatron or the other members of high command enjoy talking about their dwindling rations, loss of communications with the other battlefronts and colonies, or refugee status on a world that mirrors Cybertron in all the wrong ways.

Red optics burn at the changing floors above the door, impatiently waiting for the end.

No, the True reason for these endless meetings is to maintain troop morale. To appear to the foot-soldiers as if high command has it all under control. To seem like every action and attack is carefully thought through and planned, rather than how their glorious leader truly navigates through warfare.

Starscream Hates Megatron.

The Decepticon's imposing 'Lord' is nothing but a glorified figurehead. The silver mech is nothing but an ex-gladiator with a viscous narcissism streak and a penchant for letting his obsession with Optimus Prime supersede any true chances at victory. He is nothing but an inept fool, who can only focus on the Now and never put aside even a modicum of his pride to engage in ceasefire talks.

Starscream Hates Megatron.

The second in command's wings flare in annoyance, and the elevator still isn't even halfway there yet.

Oh, how Starscream hungers to be in the spotlight like that. To sit on top of it all, soaking in the glory, the fame, the adoration, the respect, and the fear of all those below him. To bear the mantel of blame, but to be in full control of his Destiny. To be free from the monotonous, miserable drudgery that makes up a majority of wartime. To become blind with power, never needing to look up to or be failed by anyone ever again.

Their glorious leader has never once had to write a galaxies-spanning letter to inform yet another colony that their brave volunteer perished for nothing. Their glorious leader has never once had to sit down and truly portion out the exact number of rations each of his troops needs, never needing to take into account the specific size classes and frame types. Their glorious leader has never once had to catalog and sign off on the thousands upon thousands of injury and death reports for every battle fought.

Starscream Hates Megatron.

The easily defined feeling stings like corrosive rust from a wound that hasn't been allowed to heal. It eats away at the seeker's plating, flake by small flake, particle by small particle, strand by small strand, until the inevitable Time will come for it to reach the hollow metal that makes up his sparkcasing, exposing his inner circuitry to Everything he Hates and to Nothing he Loves.

Ding!

The lift chimes, finally reaching the miserable mech's destination. Stepping out into the dimly lit hall, the seeker stretches his wings, trying to shake off any lingering water, sand, and penitence. He clenches his servos and stalks in the direction of the conference room. Ugh. This wretchedly wet world isn't helping his already fraying sanity. This horrible, haunting habitat exists almost in mockery of the lost Cybertronians' plight. This painful, punishing planet feels nostalgic in all the worst ways possible. This beautiful blue ball ceaselessly serves unpleasant reminder after unpleasant reminder.

They've been at war for so long; They've forgotten how to do anything else. They've forgotten there was anything else.

Red optics burn with ill recollection, processor working overtime to quantify the exact amount of Time until they finally run out of munition. Until they eventually use up all their remaining energon. Until the ship goes dark. Until the very last mech who remembers life on pre-war Cybertron falls. Until the end is in his sight.

With a frustrated ex-vent that jostles the loose grit further into his innermost meshwork, the sleek bot raises his wicked talons and gestures for the door of the conference room to open. Nobody moves to greet him, and his engines growl as he double checks the time.

"S-S-lag." The winged mech groans with a glitch in his voicebox, striding across the nearly empty room. He distractedly drags a claw up to scratch at the sensitive indents in the metal of his throat. The shallow depressions are the exact shape and size of a certain someone's silver digits. "I'm early, aren't I?"

Soundwave barely glances up from their lounged position, hidden and camped out in the shadows of the far corner. They've dragged several chairs over to sit across in a way that makes the seeker's struts ache just by looking at them. Their mini encampment is littered with large, disorganized stacks of drives, dockets, and datapads. A small tower of empty cubes is stacked precariously between the mess.

"Megatron purposefully gave you the wrong start time again, now did he?" Shockwave inquires from behind, startling Starscream like they always do with their lack of a proper EM field.

The second in command spins on his heels to scowl at the faceless, purple bot. A sonic whine builds in the back of his throat, about to retort, but the scientist disregards the seeker's tantrum, marching past with detached disinterest. One of their lab assistants nervously follows, bowing slightly towards their winged commander before continuing on, pushing a large cart full of labeled containers and equipment.

"You can mark us as present, Soundwave. Apologies." Shockwave deposits a new cube of energon in front of the chief communications officer and another in front of Starscream. "Med-bay needed my assistance briefly, or else I would've been able to bring this to you sooner." The blocky mech then turns their back, shuffling through the items on the cart.

Starscream takes a long sip. His engines settle into a purr as the low tank level warnings on his HUD disappear. He nearly spits everything right back out when his red optics land on a minuscule Something in a see-through container. "Eugh, why'd you bring a dead organic in here?"

Shockwave replies emotionlessly, flicking their right finial. "I was hoping to speak on my current findings with regards to the dark energon research."

"Oh, thank Primus. Something actually worth my time this cycle." The seeker ex-vents harshly, settling into his seat. "I was worried we were going to have to suffer through another tediously boring meeting-inception."

"Do you have anything to report?" The scientist questions, activating a datapad and organizing their files.

"Just some general scouting updates." Starscream responds with a dismissive wave of his servo. "Luckily, no major news on the defensive front. The autobots have been keeping a suspiciously low profile."

"They could still be reeling from the shift in governmental power within the country they've seemed to ally themselves with." The purple bot forcefully taps at the bright screen before them, highlighting a line of text. "I heard the current elected leader is a bit of a loose canon with wartime politics."

The seeker scoffs. "That's what they get for exposing themselves to those volatile humans. I have no idea how they can stand to tolerate such fleshy creatures. You would never catch me working with those pests."

"Negative. Starscream's Statement: False." Soundwave cuts in, playing a recording on the main screen of the winged mech kneeling before one such organic.

"Oh, please. That underling is nothing but a lab rat. A mere servant." Starscream sneers, baring his sharp dentae and spreading his wings. "Unlike the autobots, my pet human is the one doing my bidding. Not the other way ar-ar-ar—!!" A painful screech breaks through the end of the seeker's sentence, and his engines rumble in irritation as only garbled static follows.

Shockwave ex-vents heavily, stepping closer to grip the top of the glitching mech's helm. "Let me see."

Starscream swings his talons through the air in protest while the scientist forces the winged bot back against the table with a deafening SLAM!. Pinned beneath the brute's mass, he's defenseless to stop the purple mech's servo from transforming. They reach into the fine wiring of his neck, quickly repairing the damaged circuits. The seeker tolerates the impromptu medical procedure for about 3 klicks before shoving Shockwave off his chassis the moment their soldering laser powers down.

As the second in command straightens, rubbing gently at his repaired voicebox, Soundwave wordlessly opens up another display screen on the meeting table. At a glance, it's a clip of their cassettes doing something foolish again.

"Ugh. No, Soundwave, for the last time, watching compilations of your cassettes goofing off is not going to make me feel any better. If anything, it'll put me in a worse mood. Only you would enjoy that. I personally don't care to hear about whatever silly human novelty they found this time." The winged mech purposefully looks away from the video feed. It obnoxiously loops back to the beginning every few nanokliks, only ceasing when the second in command finally faces forward.

"Hey, Boss." A recording of Rumble plays. "We were checking on some strange interference, and we came across this."

Something on the screen draws Starscream in, despite his earlier protests. On one side, fine, fanciful tiles line a dimly lit wall, and on the other, a shadowed crevice. The broadcasting cassette soldier leans in to peer further into the gap, revealing splotches of dark, black mold crawling up the side of old wood. From deep within the shadows, long, tube-like appendages crisscross between the small space, seeming to originate from the vents of the nearby, poorly kept machinery before crawling down towards a hole by the floor. The pale fibers seem to almost pulsate under everyone's gaze.

"Look at the readings coming from this thing." Frenzy says with awe. The angle of the view switches slightly to their twin's perspective, and a slew of metrics and numbers dance in the corners of the video feed.

Rumble briefly glances away from the creeping tendrils and to a small, human-sized doorframe which opens up into a vaguely familiar looking room. The seeker quietly finishes his cube of energon, extending more processing power to data match. Where has Starscream seen an interior like this before?

"Hang on." The winged bot's ruby optics stare at the numbered coordinates again, and an unsettled feeling of suspicion creeps into his voice. After a long moment, his records bring up a clip from Laserbeak's original feed, back when the mechanimal followed up on his pet's condition after a concerning lack of digital presence. "This is my human servant's habsuite, isn't it…"

The viewpoint switches again to look around the full of your kitchen, and the seeker's HUD pings to note the discrepancies. For one, there is no mess or evidence of sickness anywhere. Compared to how barren they used to be, the shelves and countertops are now fully stocked with neatly organized knickknacks and kitchen tools. Drying herbs and fresh, organic produce sit within their respectable displays for all to see.

The meeting room's temperature plunges with a frigid, sinking sensation, as chilling as the deep ocean around them. Starscream's fans whirr, struggling against the grime in his filters. He can nearly feel his paint peel as the saltwater dries under his rising ire.

"And this is a very recent timestamp…" A seething glare is directed towards Soundwave, and Starscream's voicebox pitches into higher tone, causing the lingering lab aide to flinch and cover their audials while Shockwave's finials tilt away. "I NEVER gave the approval for repeat scouting excursions! Besides—" With flared wings, the sleek mech throws a scathing glance at their top scientist. "Your experimental plans hasn't even crossed my desk, right? Or is this yet another thing you two are willing to go along with behind my back for the sake of Megatron's entertainment?"

The purple mech holds up a large, blocky servo, slowly lowering themselves into their designated, custom meeting chair. They gesture for their assistant to relax and to continue prepping the equipment, who gently places the small cube containing the dead rodent between the members of High Command on the table.

Shockwave takes a nanoklick to reset their optic, ensuring their next words are slow and calculated. "No. You are correct with the first assumption. I still haven't gotten around to coming up with a solid hypothesis. Truthfully, where am I even supposed to start with something so based in superstition?" The scientist flicks a finial, and Starscream's plating presses tight against his frame, knowing some smart remark is about to come next. "Besides, haven't you heard from your incompetent vehicons over at the excavation site? Your human apparently makes a great host."

The seeker takes a long moment to process Shockwave's words, before groaning out with a frustrated sigh. A clawed servo drags down the front of his face. "Great. So my men are slacking off again and have become parasites to my poor servant's good nature. Any other orders of mine you worthless bots want to defy? Since that's what seems to be trendy this solar cycle." He glowers as he clears another wave of error messages regarding his frame's high-strung condition. The wires in his neck itch again, and Starscream makes a mental note to aim right between a certain someone's shoulder platings in the next skirmish.

Scowling back at the video feed, he watches the two cassette soldiers shift the human's fridge slightly to get a better image. Rumble crosses into Frenzy's view, and the seeker scoffs as he gets a good look at the slew of novelty magnets stuck to the side of their blue plating. It's no secret what the two were likely up to prior to this discovery.

The winged bot's engines protest with another annoyed whine. "Soundwave, can you at least reign in your cassettes? There's no need to further stress the fragile psyche of my pet with their unruly, bothersome presence. I've seen how they tre— What in Primus' name is that?!"

Under the bright light of the two scout's optics, everyone's treated to a much clearer view of the pulsating cable system. It eerily glows in a similar manner to an active energon vein. The pale tubules seem to erupt from the rusted, exposed piping, criss-crossing in a chaotic network of roots before shoving itself into an electrical socket. By the linoleum floor, the wall is black with thick, sooty evidence of an electrical fire that never fully advanced higher than the countertops.

"Soundwave, connect them directly to us." Shockwave abruptly orders. "Those electromagnetic readings are nearly concurrent to those from what remains of Starscream's original, 'haunted' sample."

The seeker leans back in his seat, uneasy at their head scientist's sudden, animated interest. The chief communications officer throws a tired thumbs up in acknowledgement, and the timestamp rapidly counts up to the current nanoklick. A click! static. pause. click! later, and the members of high command are linked.

"Cassette officers, are you able to get any visual indications of the origins of this wiring?" The purple mech asks, tilting their helm to the side.

Rumble replies with minor audio feedback. "I-I-I think so. If we move the refrigeration unit some more…" They give the aged machinery a light jostle but make no noticeable progress. "OK, this'll probably involve ripping some of these connected strands from the wall." Their small servos grip the metal corners, and the quality of their livestream drops drastically. With a good shove, the object moves easily.

CRASH! CLANG!!

A little too easily.

"Slaggggg it!" The blue minicon groans, throwing their arms up in frustration.

"Scrap! The human's gonna be sooo pissed. I think dat was the stuff they were gonna bring to their party." Frenzy comments, glancing nervously towards the empty doorway.

Rumble steps closer to move the fridge some more, and Time seems to slow to a standstill. Starscream tap, tap, taps at the metal table with a pointed talon, watching with an ominous sense of foreboding. Rather than focusing on the strange anomaly, the seeker's optics latch onto the minor details shown in the very corners of the video. The brief glimpses of his servant's decorated room sours the energon in his tanks. The intricate patterns and personal effects cruelly remind him of a bar he used to frequent back on Vos, back when bots still had the luxury to care about appearances. The bitter nostalgia makes the wires in his neck and his spark chamber ache.

"Do you think dis is enough space?" Frenzy inquires. Their transmitted voice becomes thick with static when they lean in close.

Soundwave responds. "Negative. Lighting: Not sufficient for optimal analysis."

"I'm gonna try walking this hunk o' junk slowly out." thud. thud. thunk! "Yikesss. Let's hope the squishy didn't just hear all that."

"Uh… I think that's them coming down the hall." Rumble's audio wavers. "You go distract them; I've got this."

"On it." Frenzy nods.

Soundwave seamlessly splits the shared view into two parts as the officers separate and their objectives change. The second in command pinches the corner of his personal display, enhancing Frenzy's feed. Peeking across the table, he observes Shockwave doing the same for Rumble's livestream. The scientist's lab aide leans over their blocky shoulder with similar interest. The rapidly changing numbers reflect off the sheen of their polished faceplate.

"It looks like this cable system feeds in from the fridge and into the wall. I'll just—" Scraaaaaappppppppe. Thud. thunk. Thud. BANG! The blue minicon's video feed jolts as they flinch with the noise.

"Are you certain it's tied to the electrical system and not the water piping?" Shockwave questions, logging several metrics on their spare datapad and muttering something to their assistant.

The lab aide shakes their helm at the quiet comment, indicating to Something on screen with a polished digit. Starscream only catches the tail-end of their whispered remark. "—some kind of sapping device." They softly point out.

"Hm… You may be right." The purple mech's finials tilt forward in their zealous focus. "However, I've never seen one deployed in such a chaotic manner. Usually you can easily tell where it all connects to, but there doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason here."

"Slag. Slag. Slag. Please don't be mad." Frenzy mutters to themselves in Cybertronian. At the hushed explicatives, Starscream's attention jumps back to the red and black minicon's feed.

From the tall angle of their viewpoint, the winged mech watches through the cassette soldier's optics, looking down at the approaching form of his human servant. The red light from their sight casts strange shadows along the contours of the organic's elaborate bone structure. The surface of your intricately muscled face shimmers in the glow, like a wet tarp stretched tight across a mech's frame. The seeker resists the urge to shudder as your flesh moves with uncanny fluidity, shaping your pleasant visage into a displeased frown to match his own. Some form of plaster is smeared over your skin, and your fragile frame is draped in a loose, impossibly soft looking garment. The fine wires on your helm are still damp, held back with a particularly shaped accessory to keep them from blending with the cracking clay. The left shoulder of your attire slips down to reveal the delicate expanse of skin from your chassis to your supple neck as you cross your arms.

"What are you guys doing to my holy sanctuary?" The middle of your throat bobs eerily as your alien voice cuts through to its audience in your native tongue. It's notably more pleasant sounding compared to the raspy, death rattle that shook your words the previous cycles.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Squish." Frenzy cuts in swiftly. The livestream jostles in an erratic manner with their efforts to hide Rumble's investigation from view. The scout's tone is abnormally soft and so unlike how they usually speak that it grabs the attention of their fellow, currently docked soldiers. In the corner of the shared view, the active viewer number tics higher. The minicon reaches out to touch the seeker's pet, and as their servos make contact with your skin, the metal seems to near instantly dull, like the light is being sucked out of their digits. They shift their grip on your shoulders, and another wave of drying dust falls from your face.

Starscream briefly recoils at the thought of intentionally smearing mud over his plating before realizing that it's probably the similar to an oil bath. Ugh. Now Starscream is craving a nice, hot oil bath instead of merely hitting the washracks. Just another cruel reminder of something he hasn't had the pleasure to indulge in in a long, long time.

"If I find out you guys messed with my winter solstice offerings…" His human's intake peels back with frightening elasticity to reveal pearly white teeth. The crooked, angled appearance of their viscous smile makes all who are watching shudder; it's as if someone purposefully twisted, pulled, and carved each and every one of your formed dentae out of their symmetrical rows.

::Oh, you mechs are fragged:: A note pings in the corner, courtesy of one Laserbeak.

Frenzy snappily composes a response below for all to see in the small chat window. ::Reallyyyy don't need your commentary here, Beaky::

In the background, Rumble whispers in shrill Cybertronian through noticeable shuffling. Thud. "Shhhh! Please be quiet." thunk. "Stop making noise you oversized piece of scrap!" Thud. thunk. "Stop it!!!!!!!"

Their twin ignores the suspicious sounds behind them, soldiering on with gentle excuses in your native language. All the while, the black and red minicon continues to send rude symbols over the digital chat. "No. No! Nothing like that. Like I said, Nothing to worry about. You can go back to whatever you were doing. It's—" CRASH! A nasty snarl and accompanying rev blasts through the volume of the speakers as the cassette shrieks at Rumble. Meanwhile, Starscream is treated to a glimpse of the violent and near murderous level of concern that crosses his pet's face. "Slag it! Can you be any louder!?"

The blue minicon flares their plating and hisses out a burst of steam. Their shared view shows them focusing carefully on untwining and detangling the crazy tendril system in an attempt to gain some slack, so as to not rip anything further out. "I'm doing the best I can! They must've shoved a pyramid of scrap into this thing. I barely moved it a mechanometer!" Glancing up from the mess, they poke their head out to grin at Frenzy's fridge magnet covered backside, yelling out in American English with a semi-truthful excuse. "Everything's fine! We're good! Just dropped something behind the fridge that's all!" Several more of the cords snap, leaving a blinding arc of electricity in it's momentary wake with a loud crack!."Still good!"

A ping passes through Starscream's HUD, something about Megatron and the others being slightly delayed. The seeker distractedly waves it off, more focused on his glittery organic pet than anything else. He can almost see the appeal of Soundwave's home video edits. It's kind of refreshing, watching something so far removed from his daily wartime duties. Not that he'll ever admit it to the chief communications officer.

"Well, hurry it up!" Frenzy snarls in Cybertronian, throwing a glare behind their shoulder before swiveling their helm back to look down at his human, who has now begun tapping their foot. Light peeks through the thick curtains behind you, haloing you and your intense expression beautifully. Everyone can hear the minicon's internal fans kick up a notch. "I don't wanna to be on dis human's bad side a cycle before we give 'em dat energy blade that we promised."

Twitch. Twitch. The tips of Starscream's wings jitter with sudden, blazing heat, and the second in command slowly turns to glare with the strength of a thousand dying suns at Soundwave. "You mechs promised What?!" He can't stop the sonic whine that always sits in the back of his throat from leaking into his voice. "I never authorized such a thing!"

The chief communications officer is swift to respond, forwarding a datapacket his way. "Negative. Starscream Authorization: Received. See Requisition: 648XH04K39."

The winged bot slams a clawed servo down on the table in annoyance. "I gave that clearance with the intent that the delicate human could use their sharp implements while remotely supervised. That DID NOT mean that it would be OK to give them a physical piece of our technology!" Starscream's ruby optics burn within his helm as his processor churns with effort to catalog and denote all the possibilities and risks, of everything he now needs to consider and be aware of with this new element entering the field. The impulsivity of it all is much too like a certain leader of the Decepticon's, and with eons of honed practice, it's short work for him to immediately jump to the most serious hazards and likelihoods.

A sick sensation tingles in his chassis while his database helpfully pulls up your file, flipping to the beginning of the log. Against his will, your captured image from the very first night rises to the forefront of his HUD. Stooped in worship and covered in organic viscera, you remain, frozen in recorded Time, at his pedes. Your dark, watery eyes stare up at him while your tiny hands cling desperately to his plating. The ruby red of his optics burns in the unending depths of your dead, corpse-like gaze, reflecting back Nothing but his own, immortal visage. Associated data labels float by in a different form of unpleasant reminders.

Organic. Human. Short_lifespan.

Medic. Servant. Pet.

Highly_Sensitive_to_Social_Rejection. Willing_to_be_Anything. Nothing_but_a_Lab_Rat.

Primary_Control. Lonely. His.

Starscream is growing tired of losing. Losing respect. Losing his friends. Losing Vos. Losing Cybertron. Losing the war. Losing Everything.

For once, just once, can't he have Something to hold onto? Something for himself? Is that so wrong?

His circuits prickle with ungrounded charge while he tries to package these fervent, obsessive feelings into Something.

Into Anything.

Anything more palatable for his fellow high command. Anything but the starvation from that night. Anything but another Something to take away, to make him weak. Anything but a liability. Anything but the Truth. Anything that sounds reasonable. Anything to justify this level of distress over a mere, expendable human, over his human.

"Are you fools trying to render Shockwave's experiment obsolete before it can even start?!" He shouts pathetically. "The goal is to keep a non-cybertronian underling alive for longer than a solar cycle here. You know how fragile organics are! What if they hurt themselves?!"

At that, Soundwave flinches, pausing from their rapid typing to stare at Starscream. The seeker's wings flutter, and he purposefully avoids crossing optics with the telepath. Their already prickly EM field slams against his with a surge of uncontrolled emotions before swiftly reigning itself in. The seeker can hear their fans kick up a notch to cool their overtaxed frame.

Soundwave doesn't answer his question, instead opting to reach for their untouched energon cube.

Any further remarks are smothered by the oppressive, painfully sounding gagging noises coming from the twins' livestream. The second in command looks away from the blue bot and back to his datapad. Every spectator is treated to the fuzzy video feed of Rumble. The minicon carefully parts the nest of cords further and reaches into the oozing, black center. Slowly, they withdraw a minuscule orb, bringing it out into better lighting. Small, dark lumps protrude from it, and its surface is marred with open, weeping wounds from where the tendrils were sliced. Klick by klick, the concerning metrics on the side of the livestream drop in severity as the purple object's magnetic field ceases its relentless pulsating. As soon as the glow begins to fade from it, its skin rapidly dehydrates, inner workings collapsing in on itself with the slightest movement of Rumble's servo.

Your words break through the suffocating static, naming the enigma before anyone can unmute their voicebox. "Where in the pits of hell did you find that potato?!"

"This is a potato?!" Rumble parrots back with a shout.

Lunging for the manual controls, Soundwave cuts off your shrill shrieking before the mystery can finish unfolding. The blue mech nearly trips over themselves in their sudden rush to clear their mess, subspacing all the loose junk and empty cubes. Hurriedly, they kick the extra chairs around them with several violent clangs!, shoving them back into their respective spots. By the time they finish, the conference room doors whoosh open, and in steps the leader of the Decepticons, Lord Megatron.

Red optics burn with Hate while the seeker watches the silver mech saunter in like he has all the Time in the universe. Starscream only rises to attention when Megatron passes by his spot near the head of the table. The room fills with the soft buzz of EM fields and quiet chatter as more and more members of Decepticon command file into their respective seats.

With an offhanded gesture, their leader motions for Soundwave to kick-start the meeting. When the chief communications officer doesn't move, visor unfocused in a daze, Megatron turns to direct a questioning look at his most trusted bot. In response, Laserbeak ejects themselves from their docking station, swooping down with a thrust of their turrets and landing onto the center of the table. The polished bird speaks on behalf of their distracted carrier, reciting in a deadpan the usual opening, and everyone moves to get comfortable.

Starscream leans forward in his chair, resting his chin on a servo in anticipated boredom. His other servo fiddles with his datapad, pulling up the continuation of Frenzy's livestream. Flexing his wings to hide the angle of his screen from a certain silver someone, he gets right to work on tuning out the bureaucratic beginning. With the first of many harsh ex-vents, his red optics burn at the ticking clock in the small corner, impatiently waiting for the end.

———

Slam!

The lone sound of your car door closing echoes down the silent street. Snow twirls in a slow dance to the ground, and you heft the large, art portfolio bag higher onto your shoulder. The winter wind rustles through the rows of young pines and bare maples that line the heavily salted road. Somewhere on the mountain, a church bell rings out. Twelve tolls echo through the frozen woodlands. It's the start of the afternoon, and already, the sun has moved more than halfway across the sky. A chilled breeze catches against the awkwardly wide shape of your bag like a sail, hustling you along before you can pass the point of being fashionably late.

The walk to the community center is a frigid one. Passing the array of cars parked in the ditches, you rub your freezing, bare hands together, blowing hot air into them while you hike down the paved corridor. If it wasn't for the many footprints leading up to a small parting in the foliage, you might've missed the shoveled out path. Rubber, textured mats spring up at odd angles from the icy ground to give your boots some grip. After what feels like a mile of walking, you round a massive snow embankment to be greeted by the tinkling sounds of wind chimes and children's laughter.

A small army of tents, ranging from elaborate yurts to cheap plastic, folding canopies, sprawls across the limited lawnscape in front of the imposing, historical building. Families and tourists linger by the various artist and antique booths. The savory smell of burning charcoal and meat fills your nostrils, and your mouth waters when you shuffle past the crowd by the barbecue stand. You're blinded by the bright clouds as you stare up at the massive, intricately carved oak doors. Marching on past the herd of strangers and acquaintances, you make your way up to the steps of the wooden building.

What was once a hunting lodge turned gentleman's club turned prohibition-era distillery¹ turned community center now looms before you, tall and proud with its sturdy lumber and elaborate trophies. Under the thick logs of the awning, covering the fanciful front porch, a vast collection of deer antlers hang in an elaborate arrangement. A small door, cut discreetly from within the larger double doors, sits propped open. As you approach, a warm lick of heat caresses your frozen face, enticing you further in. An engraved plaque, with an embossed symbol from the state's government, rests on the side of the wall, announcing to any keen eyed readers the original year of establishment and the building's cultural significance.

Making your way inside with unhurried steps, your gaze travels up, up, up to the decorated, chapel-height ceiling. Ornate chandlers made of animal bone, skulls, and more antlers are strung up high above you. Candles, real and battery-powered, maintain their brightly lit vigils on the sill of every window. The air smells of wood smoke, pine-sol, aged carpet, the lingering syntheticness of melted duct tape, warm casseroles, and something stale from eons ago. Hung on the walls, in various levels of sunfading, fraying, and decay, are all the local school achievements, framed newspaper clippings dating all the way back to the mid-1800s with notable town events, honorary veteran names and their corresponding purple hearts, and several generations worth of community quilts depicting scenes of nature and friendship. You pause at one to search for the square you made back when you were young. Despite the shoddy stitchwork on your felt appliqués, someone still took the effort to weave it neatly in with the rest of the town's, ensuring its ability to withstand the test of Time as a whole. Continuing down the line, the quilts grow smaller and smaller in size as the embroidered years on the bindings count up to the present.

Stained glass, elaborate cast iron bars, and decorated wooden panels separate the lobby from the main chamber. A cluster of mismatched tables block your direct path, and a group of older folk scurry about with clipboards, judging the craftsmanship and food spread out before them. You cling to the wall, hoping to slip by unnoticed, but lacking the natural camouflage of the snow, your all-white, winter getup draws the eye of one of the ladies.

You blink. She blinks.

Standing tall and proud, the last remaining matriarch of the local Cook family leaves the group of critics to make a beeline straight for you. Ms. Miller and Ms. Taylor dog her heels, whispering betwixt themselves.

Pretending you didn't just make eye contact, your coat whips behind you, rustling like the flapping of wings with the force of your turn. You quickly stride into the other room, only to slow down in awe at the realistic scenes of nature, stuffed, posed, and frozen in a moment of Time. Rows upon rows upon rows of taxidermy animals stare down at you in quiet greeting. A narrow, spiraling staircase leads up to the second floor loft, which overlooks the main hall. Crammed in the back of the room, is a small stage, with several rows of old church pews, plastic folding chairs, mismatched wooden seats, and soft rugs sitting by the front, waiting patiently for their audience to fill them. The most elaborate of the displays hide behind thick, dusty panes of glass. Informative, scientific posters are taped up next to them, identifying the species and their environmental niches. Rumor has it that some of the bones and specimens are older than the town itself, having been unearthed by early colonial settlers during farmland expansion.

A loose cord on the floor nearly sends you flying into a protruding bison head. A rolling cart stuffed full of miscellaneous wires and outdated technology stands innocently out of the way by the wall. The blinking LEDs from the various equipment wink at you, and you find yourself helplessly trapped as Ms. Cook makes her way towards you. The only other people in the room, several tech-savvy volunteers and the local school's music teacher, are ignorant to your desperate glances, fully focused on the setup for the holiday performance.

In a matter of moments, the three women corner you, and you try not to balk when you exchange greetings. Regardless of your social anxiety, Ms. Cook plows through the pleasantries to get straight to the point, eyeing your large, square bag.

"Did you bring the fancy checks?"

"Mhm." You nod awkwardly, swallowing down a thick lump of spittle. "I thought it'd be cool to do a giant one, like you see on TV, so I printed it out and glued it onto some poster board." Reaching into the inner pocket of your coat, you withdraw an envelope. The back is sealed with shimmering wax, and a dried flower is stamped in the middle. "I have the actual ones here though."

Rough, calloused hands delicately pluck the paper from you, and you shrug the straps of the bag off, handing it to the expectant Ms. Miller. She juggles its awkward bulk carefully, clutching it to her chest. Leaning in, the gray-haired lady adjusts her impressively thick, bifocal glasses to give you a good once over.

"You look positively lovely, my dear! Saintly, even, with that darling winter jacket." The town elder hums with a tilt of her head to hear you with her good ear. "Are you sure you can't stay for the speeches? Or at least have a slice of pie?"

"I—" You begin, fiddling with the zipper by your neck.

"Come now, Trudy, don't guilt the poor thing. Don'tcha know they've got a honeymoon date lined up?" Ms. Taylor tuts, whapping her friend lightly on the head with her clipboard. "Who are we to get in the way of True Love?"

"Actually, I—"

"Hmph. True Love, my ass." Ms. Cook stares down at your bare left hand with her single eye; the other sits dead and milk-white in its marred socket. "Until there's a ring, it's just a fling."

"…I don't wear rings because of work." You look to your toes as you mumble out a truthful excuse. At the same time, the skin of your fingers itches from the unpleasant reminder. "Seen too many de-gloving instances."²

The metal tab bends easily over the curve of your thumb, and your mouth feels dry. Do you really want to stay for speeches and pie? Your gut twists nervously, and your teeth gnaw at the dead skin of your lip. It's simple. Yes or no? If you leave now, then you can go home and hide in your room. Maybe Soundwave's problem will clear up by then, and you could still go out together. At the very least, crying in your bathroom at home is much more pleasant than crying in the bathroom here. Even just the thought of being all by yourself, all by your lonesome in such a large, moving crowd makes the space between your ribs feel cold and hollow. The joints of your jaw ache from the force with which you have to hold back tears and keep your mouth neutral. Before you can bite through the meat of your tongue, kind laughter soothes some of the tension in your cheeks.

"Oh, don't mind her. She's just bitter because she lost the bet." Ms. Miller quips.

"Bet?" You parrot back slowly in an attempt to prolong the seconds, trying and fumbling in your efforts to gather your wits.

"Congratulations, by the way!" The older woman cheers. She sets your bag down by her feet to clap her hands together. When your carefully blank looks warps with confusion, Ms. Miller's grin grows wider, and the wrinkles by her eyes crinkle with delight. "Oh, don't play coy!~ We all know the Truth now. You can't hide these types of things in this small town. I have it on good authority from the mailman, Bob, Bob's wife, the roofer and his whole contractor team, the recycling crew, the kid at the truck stop, and if anyone had any lingering doubts, Miranda just confirmed it too when I asked her if she knew if you'd be coming or not today."

"I, for one, am happy that you're happy." Ms. Taylor nods, breaking her smile for just a moment. "Even if it means losing another contestant for today's competition. Will say though, good on you! From what I've heard, you certainly nabbed a cash cow. Have you taken on a new name?"

"N-No…?" You stutter, feeling like you're getting swept away by the conversation before you can even break through to the surface of your own spiraling thoughts. Turtling into your coat collar, your next sentence is slightly muffled. "My name is still my own."

"You can always hyphenate your surnames if you don't want to lose yours." Ms. Cook points out pragmatically.

"Bah. Don't listen to her. It's a recipe for disaster." Ms. Miller scolds. "A lot of things don't allow for special characters, and stuff like digital records needs to be exact. My granddaughter is stuck dealing with such an insurance headache right now because of that."

"Wait…" The ringing in your ears morphs into a dial tone as your brain churns, stutters, and reboots. Surname? Bet? Congratulations? "…You guys had a wager on my relationship status?"

"Honey, we gamble on everyone's love life. Not much else to do when you're retired." Ms. Cook scoffs. "You lost me $60 by the way. I had money on a spring wedding, but you went and blew it by getting married in the dead of winter."

"Heh, sorry." You automatically apologize, scratching the back of your neck. Your fingers catch against the metal links of your jewelry, and the skin of your collarbone seems to almost burn with blooming blood. Heat radiates from the tips of your frostbitten ears, and your teeth bare themselves in a blushing grimace. The weight of the dark stones jostles against the curvature of your swallowing throat. Like a needle punching holes through paper tape³, the dots in this confusing conversation start to form a picture. Your ribcage expands with a slow, conscious inhale.

They think you're married.

The air leaves your throat with a tense squeeze, and the warm lining of your jacket tickles your irritated flesh like a spurned lover. A discomforting tingle rises like a thick, mucusy bubble from your lungs, escaping your mouth in a wet, gasping laugh. Ghostly fingertips walk themselves up the center of your spine, leaving an icy chill in their wake. You don't know what kind of face you're making. Anxiously, you fiddle with the chain around your gulping windpipe, drawing in the length of the handcrafted material until the pretty, shimmering rocks press into the soft flesh of your neck. The women before you bicker amongst themselves, cross-comparing data to further shape this morsel of juicy gossip into a full blown falsehood. Like a choking collar, your fingers fidget with the warming metal while your mind races.

Who do they think you are? What a cosmic joke! There's no way that's True! Another painful shudder possesses your body, and your teeth ache from the force with which you gnash down, politely subduing your involuntary giggles. Sweat begins to bead across your brow as all five senses become hyper-aware of the hum of technology around you. You should be humbled by the mere association to your mythical, metal titans. How could you ever compare to such perfect, mechanical beings? You're expendable. A liability. You're puny, mortal lifespan isn't even worth the Time to emotionally invest in.

MARRIED?

The embarrassing Truth is that they don't know you. You're Nothing. You're Nothing but a lab rat to them. During the infiltration into your home, they've made it abundantly clear that you exist as a mere specimen, like the rest of the taxidermy in this room, to be observed at any given moment, surveyed to establish baseline behavior and health. A white-knuckled fist tugs at your jewelry like a leash, and you find yourself swaying from a lack of oxygen. You're intimately aware of the drastic changes in your demeanor and wallet as of late, and apparently, so is the rest of the town. Regardless of the persona you try and put on, after such repeat encounters with heaven-sent beings— Who are older than your entire species' formation!— how can you expect anyone to act normal? Your teeth ache as you wiggle yet another loose molar with your probing tongue, unable to stay completely still.

MARRIED?!

Like a well-trained dog, you've been docile and compliant this whole time for them, never asking for more than a reversal or repair of incurred damages. You're thankful for every chance they give you, but you're no fool. You have no expectations of further affection or favors. Your Love is simple. It is one-sided, all encompassing, and starved. Intimately familiar with the feeling of being watched, Something very wrong wells up from inside you, perverting the shame and embarrassment that heats your body. Just look at you now! All alone, on the darkest day of the solar cycle, abandoned like a betrayed betrothed at the alter. How could anyone who truly knows you believe in such a silly fallacy?

MARRIED!

Dressed in saintly white, a tight, sad smile graces your twitching face, and your stomach churns with impatient frustration. The Truth is the Decepticons had tried impressively hard to stop you from attending this winter solstice event, to keep you from sharing their divine blessings with other mortals. They told lies. They told truths. They damaged your kitchen, your holy sanctuary. They ripped into and destroyed any tangible offerings you had conceived. They broke your fridge and dumped its dead weight directly in front of your car. They hid every key but the one buried in the soft earth of a flowerpot. They blocked your outgoing calls. They cut your internet. They riled up your appetite with sweet promises and then left you isolated, cold, and wanting on a day so significant.

With another steadying breath, the savory aroma of the room fills your mind. The envisioned buttery crust of pie prickles the flesh of your tongue, sparking your ravenous delight. Do you really want to go home and hide in your room? To be like the obedient little mutt they expect you to be, content to wait behind closed doors. Content to wait for owners who may never come home. Content to wait for salvation while you suffer some pitiful end. You've been patient with your cravings, satisfied with fasting, in anticipation for another chance, another taste, another nibble, of something great and beautiful and divine. The world seems to hold it's breath, looking down at your shivering form with voyeuristic anticipation. Do you really want to be alone?

You've already defied your mechs by being here. At the very least, crying in front of a plate of food here is much more pleasant than crying in front of a plate of food at home. Even just the thought of being all by yourself, all by your lonesome, in such an empty, chilled house makes the space between your ribs feel cold and hollow. Your withheld giggles burst out from your chest, and you release your death-grip on the shining, vibrant necklace. The candles in the windows shudder, and the lights above flicker as a sense of power overtakes you.

Every advantage gained must be earned, stolen, and hidden. You're only human. Your survival is a numbers game, and the more people who know you, who know you're alive at the end of the day, the better the chances of sticking it out until the very, absolute end.

It's the holidays! And there's Nothing wrong with indulging in the generosity of others.

It's the winter solstice! And there's Nothing wrong with not wanting to be cold and lonely.

It's the darkest day of the year! And there's Nothing your Lords can do to stop you, not in a moving crowd like this.

At this moment in Time, the very Decepticons who deserted you would only be capable of watching as you spin thread after thread, lie after lie, weaving an intricate web of falsehoods to cover up the monstrous mass of your obsession. You can be the one to define this divine relationship. You can be the one to nurture this Love. It'd be like a treat, a reward, for your very diligent and docile behavior. It'd be like a spiteful punishment for them after they broke their promise. It's simple. The words form on your tongue with ease, and the hibernating nature outside seems to rumble in satisfaction.

Adding another myth to the tapestry of your Destiny, you feed into the chittering, older women's misconceptions. Breaking through the noise and chatter, your joyous voice coons like a siren as you compose an enticing story for the three elderly spinsters and all who may be eavesdropping.

"Yes." You utter in barely a whisper, relinquishing your strained hold on your zipper. The piece of broken metal falls to the floor silently, and you give a name to your recent, erratic behavior. "It was Love at first sight."

The gossipy women cackle with quiet glee, eager to have Something new to chew on. They latch on willing— Hook. Line. Sinker.— ignorant of the danger they may expose themselves to, now that they know a lick of the Truth.

"I got greedy, and I couldn't wait a moment longer." The story escapes past your lips like a rushing tidal wave. "We actually eloped." The burning sensation that loops around your tight throat eases, retreating back to the hot blush on your grinning cheeks, and the lies spill out easier and easier. "Considering the benefits, we thought it best to do the paperwork first. This way I can focus on planning the ceremony without the additional stress of managing my personal finances, especially considering the tax nightmare tonight's gift could've caused me."

"Speaking of ceremony!" Ms. Taylor leans forward with delight. "You know I'm ordained. I certainly hope you don't cheat on me with that bastard of a pastor. I better be on the guest list when you do have your lavish wedding."

"Are you looking into a summer one?" Ms. Miller questions with an innocent smile.

Ms. Cook plucks the bifocals from her friend's face it retaliation, resting them atop her own head and sneering down at her. "Don't go warping the odds. If they haven't hosted anything public yet, that means the other bet is still on. The rules still apply."

Despite Ms. Miller's poor vision, she manages to expertly send a seething glare at the taller woman, wrinkling her nose at the accusation. Turning back to you, her face splits with a wide grin, and she tilts her head apologetically.

"Oh!" Ms. Taylor interrupts, squinting at her clipboard. "Did you already submit your entrée to be voted on? We still have time to look over it, if you're willing to stick around for the awards soon."

"Mm, no…" You pout, lips pulled down in a dramatic frown. "I didn't have anything to bring. My fridge finally kicked the bucket last night, and all my stuff spoiled."

"Aw, what rotten luck. We saw hope in you too." Ms. Taylor motions to wipe away a fake tear. "But I guess Mr. Gibson's reign of tyranny will continue on for another season."

"Before you actually leave, you truly do have to try a slice, or two. or three! of Becky's work." Ms. Miller gestures back to the doorway of the lobby. "We misjudged the number of attendees, and now there's too much for even the pie-eating contest later."

"Pie-eating contest?" You perk up like a dog hearing the word 'treat'.

Ms. Cook hums in response, plucking a loose red thread from your shoulder. "Yes. Would you and your little lover like to participate?" She rolls the piece of string into a ball, bringing it up to her sole eye to inspect. "Half the folks in the knitting group would kill to know how you met. Morrigan spun up some Hallmark-bullshit theory, but I know you're more down-to-earth than that. I also know I can't trust your word for it, because you'll absolutely downplay the drama. You should bring your spouse inside to enjoy the festivities too. We'd love to see what they look like at the very least."

"Truthfully…" You begin with a frown. "I'm alone today."

Your tragic response earns several scandalized gasps from the ladies and eavesdroppers behind you. A sudden movement flashes in the corner of your eye, and you glance to the mounted bison head nearby. It simply blinks at you, remaining mute. Ignoring the rising murmurs, you rest the back of your hand on your forehead continuing on to complain about your plight.

"Imagine my surprise too! I got all dolled up—" Slinking a hand to the front of your chest, your fingers grip the slippery, broken zipper, pulling it down to slowly reveal the entirety of your gorgeous date outfit. "For Nothing! Apparently, Something very very wrong happened back at their work, and they were needed to assist. Downside of those city dwellers, you know, always so busy, busy, busy with stuff. Unfortunately, they don't earn those big bucks for no reason, and when you're married to someone who's on call 24/7, these tragedies can happen."

The three women click their tongues in placation, patting the top of your head as if you were still a child. You shake off a final, discomforting shudder, resolving yourself to have a good time while your here.

"But, I guess that means more pie for me, eh? Where can I sign up, and what's the reward for the contest?" Your voice almost cracks as you laugh dryly.

Ms. Cook flips a paper on her clipboard and hands it to you. You borrow a pen from one of the other two women and add your name and contact info to the list.

"Perfect timing too." She says. "You've got a couple of hours before it starts, so why don't you go off and enjoy the local artist booths and antique market? If you get too cold and need an excuse to come back in to warm up, we'll be announcing the fates of the foods and hobby crafts soon."

Ms. Miller giggles. "Just don't eat too much! We need that notorious, bottomless pit of a stomach of yours to help finish those pies. I don't want to take any back home with me, so do your best! First place is a cherry pie themed hat and a small, golden, pie themed trophy. Second place is a really, really, reallyyyy long, extendable fork, and third place is some fishing tackle."

One of the other judges pokes their head through the nearby doorway, calling the three women over. They wave you off with much enthusiasm, taking your bag and envelope with them to place by the other prizes and gifts.

Heaving out a big sigh, you stand in place for a long moment, trying to regain some semblance of control before going back out into the winter wild. Slowly, you look down at your trembling hands. Bringing them together with a finger-tingling clap!, you chase off the last of your lingering social anxiety. Best to go ride out this adrenaline high by blowing some cash on trinkets and shiny doodads before eating your feelings and weight's worth in pie. A solid plan for the day if you do say so yourself.

"Wait."

Just as you take a step, a robotic-sounding voice speaks up from behind.

"Before you leave!"

The shout fizzles out into quiet static, and your eyes close for a second, awaiting the divine, punishing strike to meet you. When Nothing happens, you slowly turn, fully expecting a hidden Decepticon. Someone like Rumble or Laserbeak to laugh and mock and beat you for daring to imply a married relationship between you and their boss. However, nobody is there. The space is empty, and only the mildly uncanny bison head greets you.

You blink. It blinks.

Icy sweat evaporates off your back as you stare at the inanimate, dead pelt stretched over a false frame. The two of you remain completely frozen, locked in direct eye contact. It blinks again, and an ear twitches.

"Before you go." The animals mouth open and closes with the audible grind of gears. "I have a gift for you."

"WHA—!" You cut of your shriek before it can be heard throughout the room. After a minute of hesitation, you lean in closer to speak with the beast, hushing your voice to not look like you're crazy. "What kind of gift?"

Something inside the bison laughs.

Something inside the bison laughs, kindly.

It echoes in your ears. It echoes in the throat of the animal. It echoes from the nearby cart of electronics. It echoes all around you. It echoes directly behind you.

You nearly leap a foot in the air when Something laughs and taps you on the shoulder. Spinning with raised fists, you nearly swing an instinctive punch at your two coworkers, Jayden and Miranda. The duo stand just out of range, with large, michevious grins plastered on their faces. They're both double-fisting large drink glasses, filled to the absolute brim with mulled, red wine.

Jayden holds one out in offering to you, and you automatically take it. With a shaky hand, you bring it up to your lips for a long sip. Under your sharp gaze, the firefighter pulls at the collar of their shirt with their now free hand, speaking into a tiny, fuzzy microphone clipped to the fabric.

"Ha! Do you like the new Steer?" The bison and your coworkers laugh simultaneously.

"Seer?" You repeat incorrect, a little too unnerved and breathy with relief that they weren't who you feared they were. Tipping your goblet back to hide the shivering frown, you glance towards Miranda for help.

"The animatronic." She claries in a deadpan, gesturing to the stiffly moving taxidermy head, before knocking back a whole glass like it's water.

"Oh my god." The alcohol burns the flesh of your throat with each twitchy swallow. You look between the bovine and the two before folding over with a hysterical, cackling laugh. "I thought I was finally having a psychotic break or something! Here I was thinking like, 'The animal is talkinggggg~. I'm losing my marbleesssss~'." You rest a hand on your knee while you stoop in a squat, taking a swig of your own drink to douse the discomfort. "What the actual fuck by the way."

"Yeah, one of the guys—" Jayden gestures with their glass in the direction of the tech set-up crew. "Went and bought several of those used taxidermy animatronics after that themed chain restaurant closed. Bugboo Stream or something like that?⁴ The big guys, basically any bison— and I think like four stags and one moose— are all mixed in with the other mounts. The small ones we placed wherever we could fit the wiring basically."

"That's…" The absurdity nearly sends you into howling tears. "That's terrifying! But also, so so funny at the same time."

"I knowwww. I've been scaring people all day. It's great." The firefighter's smile twists with evil intent. "You should see the stage setup behind the curtains. We got our hands on like… 80 of those singing fish—"

"And twelve lobsters." Miranda butts in with a stone-faced nod.

"And the twelve lobsters." The bison spits out a loud ringing feedback sound when Jayden accidentally bumps their glass a little too close to their collar bone. Blindly, they flick the mic off with an uncoordinated hand. "We programed all of them to dance in time with the performances today. It'll be awesome."

"Yeah, the hardest part was making sure all their little hats stayed on during the Maria Carey song. I'll make sure to grab a video for you, since I know you gotta go head out to your date~. " The paramedic teases.

"Oh." You finish off your own drink with the same vigor as Miranda did. "Actually, there was a change of plans. Something came up last minute, and now, uh, here I am!" Your arms gesture wildly to your dressed up appearance. Laughing tightly, you tilt your head and struggle to pretend like your unbothered. "All by my lonesome!"

"Awwww, that sucks." Miranda pats your back roughly in condolence. "I know you were looking forward to it. You look phenomenal by the way. Really dig that necklace or whatever. The stark color contrast with the white really makes it Pop!"

"Well..." Jayden gives you a good once over and crosses their arms, nearly spilling wine all over the floor. "If you're gonna stick around until the show and need a friendly face, I'll be here to watch my niece perform her recorder song with the rest of the second graders."

Miranda and you both make a face at that.

"Bullshit." She calls them out. "Who are you and what have you done with our engineer? You're just here for the free food and drinks like the rest of us. Don't try and pull the responsible adult card now."

The firefighter turns to you for a defense. The banter and alcohol warm your saddened soul, and it's hard to keep the dramatic sneer curling your lips from ticking up with entertainment.

"Fineeee." They wriggle their torso dramatically, arms flopping by their sides. Miranda dives for their glass before it falls to the floor, handing it off to you to finish. "I'm here for the free food and drink AND to watch my brother and sister-in-law suffer through their youngest's first public performance. He's been complaining non-stop about her loud practicing, and he told me this morning how relieved he was that this will be the 'last' time he has to suffer through this— Since the third graders use xylophones and all." Their plastered smirk turns nefarious, and they lean in to stage whisper like they're about to tell you a secret. "I got her a refurbished trombone for the holidays. It's in my car, and I'm going to give it to her right after her show ends. Ooooo! I can't wait to see the look on his face."

The whole room shakes with laughter and the ugly grind of metal on metal. As your own shoulders tremble, heat fills your body. The wine seeps into your gut, quieting your nerves and the loud world heartbeat by slowing heartbeat.

After a good moment together with your coworkers, you instinctively reach into your pockets to check the time, only for them to be empty. Your heart lurches, and before you know it, you're moving your hands in the 'where-the-hell-is-the-thing' macarena. When the realization hits you, you freeze. At their questioning stares, you dramatically slap a palm over your face and let out a groan. "Damn it. I think I left my phone at home."

"Oh, do you need to send a text to your date?" Miranda asks with a sly smile, saying the word 'date' like it feels strange in her mouth.

"Nah." You place your finished second glass somewhere safe. "If they really need me, they'll find a way to contact me. Plus, I'm a little pissed off that they left last minute like that." You link arms with her, leaving Jayden to trail behind. The two of you make your way to the drinks table for more. "What's this rumor about my marriage, by the way?"

"Oh, yeah. I needed an escape, some kind of bait, to get out of the conversation, because they would NOT stop talking about your spending habits. Also Morris and Sheriff Richard were nearby, and I'd knew it would really piss them off to hear." She chuckles to herself, arms stretching for a far mug. When you stay quiet for a beat too long, she freezes, before lurching up and swiveling away from the buffet, mouth agape. "Wait!— I know things move fast in a small town and all, but don't tell me you actually did it?!"

You grin coyly and bite you lips to stop any words from spilling out accidentally. Taking hold of a wine glass stem, you only break eye contact when the drink blocks your view as it pours down your throat. Pulling away with a gasp, you bare your red-stained teeth and wink. "No comment."

Your remark earns you a heavy dose of side eye from both Miranda and Jayden. Together you shuffle past people and towards the front door. They listen with great interest while you rant briefly about your romance problems.

Keeping the details to an absolute minimal, you huff and gesture wildly with your glass. "I get that work comes first and all, but it still hurts when they rush out on the drop of a dime." You almost slip as you step out into the cold. A splash of wine spills, leaving red drops in the snow like a trail of blood. You sniffle and bend your neck to make sure nothing got on your arm. Straightening once you're in the clear, you shrug. "Oh well. C'est la vie. More pie for me now."

"Damn right. That's the spirit." Jayden hits you between the shoulder blades affirmingly. "I'm sure you'll win first place by a mile. No doubt about it, knowing you and your gluttonous appetite. Still haven't forgiven you for eating my extra sandwich by the way, and I never will."

You rub your hollow belly in comfort. "Speaking of my boundless greed, I think I'm going to go back inside to grab a plate of lil' snackies and then check out the booths. I've got what, like an hour or so before anything starts?"

"Yeah." Miranda checks the time for you on her watch. "Go have some fun. I'm sure the ol' hags will hunt you down for sport if you're still missing or late."

In response, you take her now-empty mug, waving them both off and heading back towards the unmanned buffet spread.

"Don't call 'em hags, even if they are super old…. and super scary." You hear Jayden chastising behind you. "Just because you got a C-rank on your green beans doesn't mean you can be rude like that." ———

References:

Prohibition: An Interactive History. (2024, February 28). Bootleggers and Bathtub Gin - Prohibition: An Interactive history. https://prohibition.themobmuseum.org/the-history/the-prohibition-underworld/bootleggers-and-bathtub-gin/

Ring Avulsion. (2025, June 2). Cleveland Clinic. https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/22368-ring-avulsion

Wikipedia contributors. (2026, February 5). Punched tape. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Punched_tape

yvettegr. (2007, September 23). The irritating bugaboo creek steer [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_cNlM-xK2HM

Wikipedia contributors. (2025b, November 12). Bugaboo Creek Steakhouse. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bugaboo_Creek_Steakhouse

[auntopossum]

Decadence

Starscream x Gender Neutral! Reader, Shockwave x GN! Reader, and Soundwave x GN! Reader

Chapter 13: The Biggest Hazard to the Self is You

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 14, Chapter 15

Author's Note: Woe, big ass chapter upon ye. Please take head of the warnings before continuing on with this story. Let me know if you think I missed something.

Story's Content Warnings:

Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm

Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing

Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold

Depression and Suicidal thoughts

Depictions of animal death and rendering

Politics

———

The following is a transcript of report #CD473533I

Members present include Chief Communications Officer Soundwave, Principle Investigator Shockwave, High Commander Starscream, and the Primary Control Human Organic

27th Cycle Bahneon 4120

18:20 Terrain Time

{Transcript Begins}

PRIMARY CONTROL: ( human noises of distress ) [American English] Please… 

STARSCREAM: [American English] Please what?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Make it stop…

SHOCKWAVE: Your little pet is almost as dramatic as you are Starscream.

SOUNDWAVE: Observation: Organic optics lubricating. Shockwave’s Statement: In agreement.

STARSCREAM: Will you two shut up? You’re not helping here.

PRIMARY CONTROL: ( human screaming ) [American English] It feels like it’s been 600 years! What more could you want from me?!

SOUNDWAVE: [American English] Organic’s Query: Response: 12 more pages.

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] 12 human sized pages? 8 by 11?

SOUNDWAVE: [American English] Negative. Page Size: Cybertronian standard.

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] If we’re using your planet’s standard, then why is the font so small?! ( human shriek ) This is torture! Bureaucratic torture! 

SHOCKWAVE: [American English] This is your own doing, you know. If you weren’t so insistent on being difficult at the start, we wouldn’t still be here right now.

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] There wasn’t even a 401k match! It’s not my fault that you guys live forever. Some of us short-lived species over here want to take a break from it all before dying. 

SHOCKWAVE: [American English] We’ve been at war for longer than your species existed. We’ve never had a need for such a thing. 

[American English] The changes to the basic will, I can understand. The post-mortem implementation of local STEM scholarships, I commend. But was it really necessary to add in such convoluted retirement plans? Do you truly believe you’ll survive long enough to act on them?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Ha! No. Not really, but I like to cover all my bases. Just to be safe. Murphy’s law and all. ‘Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.’

SOUNDWAVE: Organic’s Attention to Fine Detail: Preferred. Alternative: Much higher risk of potential liability.

SHOCKWAVE: Of course, you, the most paranoid mech on the Nemesis, would side with the human on this. How many edits have we allowed so far? 

SOUNDWAVE: Number of Revisions to Employment Agreement: 617. Observation: Starscream exceptionally lenient with the Primary Control. 

SHOCKWAVE: I’m not surprised. Given how easily he bent a knee on their request, it almost makes you wonder who’s the pet and who’s the master.

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Ok. Ok. Three more pages to go. You’ve got this. You can do it. Fuck. My hand itches soooo bad.

SOUNDWAVE: Affirmative. Admission: Will enjoy reviewing footage of prior discussion. Query: Does Shockwave desire a copy of the video log?

SHOCKWAVE: Hm, I wouldn’t mind adding another clip to my collection. 

STARSCREAM: Oh, don’t you two start. I saw how you were with the human, Soundwave. What was with—

[American English] HEY! Do not get your organic blood all over the datapad!

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Sorry! I’ll fix it!

STARSCREAM: [American English] Your oral lubricant is not any better!

SHOCKWAVE: [American English] It matters not, Starscream. I’ll be decontaminating the tablet regardless, due to the corrosive and bacterial nature of their servos’ oily surface.

STARSCREAM: [American English] Fine, fine. Are you nearly finished?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] I’ve got about a page and a half to go!

SHOCKWAVE: [American English] And you do not have any further changes you wish to make, correct?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Correct. This version looks good so far.

SHOCKWAVE: Finally, the end is in sight. What a waste of our Time. We’ve done absolutely Nothing today.

SOUNDWAVE: Negative. Shockwave’s Statement: False. Observation: Starscream blackmail obtained, missing rodent located, and human’s motivations uncovered.

SHOCKWAVE: True. I’ll admit having the dark energon specimen returned so swiftly prevented what would have likely been an entire upheaval of my lab.

STARSCREAM: Speaking of that last one, Soundwave. I thought our plan was to have you look into their pathetic neural pathways to find any weaknesses or desires we could use against them. What the frag was with that ‘worm’ question? 

SHOCKWAVE: According to the human databases, that inquiry is usually reserved for romantic partners. 

…Anything you wish to tell us in regards to your growing relation with the Primary Control?

SOUNDWAVE: 

SHOCKWAVE: You have met with them more times than Starscream has now. Best tread carefully less you incur a certain seeker’s ire.

STARSCREAM: Ugh, shut up. I’m not going to get jealous of Soundwave, of all mechs, stealing my pet’s attention. You, on the other hand? Yes, if only because I don’t want a repeat incident. I never again want to come out of recharge just to find you’ve dissected another of my underlings when I wasn’t looking. 

SHOCKWAVE: In my defense, that techno-organic tried to break into my lab. It was already mutilated when I discovered it. 

STARSCREAM: Well, in my offense, it took far too many resources to furnish a proper living space for them on the Nemesis, only for them to die at your hand. But we can argue over that another cycle. Soundwave, what did you think of the human’s nonsensical questions?

SOUNDWAVE: Human’s Queries: Simple but Honest. Observation: Primary Control highly sensitive to any forms of social rejection. 

SHOCKWAVE: Given how isolated they already are and their species’ sociable tendencies… Hmm… 

Do you believe they were being truthful when they admitted they were ‘lonely’, with regards to Starscream’s initial introduction?

SOUNDWAVE: Affirmative. 

STARSCREAM: Excellent. That makes this whole thing simple. We can keep the organic insulated from their peers and shower them in attention from time to time while staying mindful of any potential interactions with the autobots. Easy enough to get done while checking in on the [REDACTED] mining site.

SHOCKWAVE: ‘Easy’ says you, but the organic’s six hundred and seventeen edits on their starting paperwork leads me to consider otherwise. You’ve picked up a weird one, Starscream.

STARSCREAM: Tell me about it. I was nearly worried I broke them on the ride in, given how unnaturally quiet they were. 

Considering the, yet-another, suicidal mission Megatron wants me to lead later in this cycle, I won’t be available to take them back. We’ll need a cassette and a vehicon to escort them home via groundbridge. Here’s to hoping they don’t do anything stupid and expire on us within a single solar cycle. I’d hate to have a repeat of the techno-organic incident. 

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Yes! Yes! I’m finally done! 

STARSCREAM: [American English] For certain this time? Your designation and information were added to the bottom as well?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Yup! It’s official now. I’ve signed my soul away and everything.

SHOCKWAVE: [American English] I am curious. Do humans genuinely even have souls?

PRIMARY CONTROL: [American English] Honestly? Dunno. But hey! If I did, it’s your guys’ problem now! 

( human ‘throat clearing’ ) [American English] Let me formally state for the record! [REDACTED] [REDACTED], delighted to be in your eternal service o’ Lords of the Heavens and Stars Above.

STARSCREAM: [American English] Welcome aboard, Decepticon [REDACTED] [REDACTED]. May your brief existence assist us with uncovering the Truths of Earth’s energon deposits. 

{end of audio transcript}

———

Chop. Chop. Chop.

The skin of your face burns in irritation while your hands move rhythmically over the cutting board. The hearty scents of spices, meat, and rich, juicy onions fill the cold air of your kitchen. Something soft and savory bubbles away on the stove behind you. The heat of the oven brushes up against the side of your body as you pass by to grab another bowl. 

The television in the living room finally ceases its garbled, flickering chatter, landing and remaining on a national news channel. You glance up from your hunched position by the counter, wiping at your face with a clean rag and peering into the next room. The dramatic opening animation plays, accompanied by its signature, cheery jingle, before fading out to reveal a brightly dressed woman straightening a stack of papers on screen. 

“Well, Jim,” the anchor woman starts. “We’re now back from the short break. Why don’t you tell us a bit more about the current administration’s plans regarding their recent budget cuts.”

“I’m glad you asked, Sandy.” a man sweating in an ill-tailored suit replies. “For the past 11 months since the inauguration, multiple departments have been slashed down to nearly 1/8th of their resources and staff. Many more employees have been furloughed, and as of right now, we don’t see any move to reinstate critical researchers or office administrators.”

Chop. Grab. Chop. Chew. Chop. Swallow.

Filched from a cooling tray, the flavorful sample slides down your throat. Your tongue scrapes over contorting teeth, savoring the lingering taste. Rinsing your hands under the frigid sink water, your blood vessels shunt in protest, leaving the tips of your fingers tingly and raw. Methodically, you position the other half of your onion onto your cutting board.

Snow continues to fall heavily outside, piling up thick against your windows and doors. The glittering white robs sound of its bounding distance and suffocates all but the evergreen. Your living room couch groans in objection when a large, humanoid figure adjusts their position. Eyes glued to your latest guest, the kitchen blade blindly mashes down with brute force in a heavy-handed attempt to break through the vegetable’s membrane. Juice splatters over the bridge of your nose, and several fat tears fall down onto the counter below.

“Jim, word on the street is that they are looking to move a majority of the remaining public health and education funding into our military. Can you confirm if this is truly happening?”

“The people are correct. During last Monday’s announcement, the Press Secretary confirmed that around 25 billion dollars from the planned budget will be moved to the Department of Defense— Apologies— moved to the Department of War. That’s around a 3% increase from the previous term’s budget.”

“Citizens have reported concerns about the sudden uptick in military spending. Our country has not participated in a war in nearly half a decade, and yet America, already known for having one of the highest military budgets in the world, sits on a budget of about 880 billion dollars for this fiscal year. Compared to the world’s second highest spender, China, at nearly 310 billion, what incentive is there for this additional increase?1”

“Well, Sandy, it’s hard to know for certain. Our team requested for several comments from various sources to try and gain insight on this current move, but we have yet to receive an official response. Remember, this summer, thanks to leaked intel by a whistleblower, receipts were found to have shown several, multi million dollar purchases of petrochemicals and munition supplies. The current theory is that our administration fears the oil and gas market may crash without this decisive move. We’ve already seen efforts to fund our crippled mining towns, now that a majority of the states have moved onto relying on renewable energy sources. In addition, the situation in the Middle East is still volatile, and it never hurts to have a solid stockpile in case something drastic happens.”

“Thanks for that insight, Jim. Hopefully the American people will learn more as the time comes. For now though, another short ad break, and then we’ll move onto our next segment.” 

You turn your back to your guest for a brief moment to stir a pot. They nestle deeper into your sofa, whistling low and commenting loud enough for the whole house to hear. “Whewww~ They’re dumpin’ alotta of cash into the autobots, huh.”  

Buried in your living room, the cassette officer’s polished, black and red plating barely peaks out from beneath a suffocating mountain of blankets, pillows, stuffed animals, and handmade quilts. The winter temperatures outside are in the single digits, and about an hour ago, two mechanical guests arrived at your residence, seeking shelter from the thick snowfall. It’s the fifth time in twelve days since signing your contract, in which one member or another of Soundwave’s entourage has graced your frozen doorsteps, always accompanied by a disguised vehicon. 

This particular minicon, with their sharp teeth, sharper attitude, and snickering laugh, has become one of your favorite guests as of late. Unlike their nosy mechanimal counterparts, Frenzy is content with just chilling on your couch, always somewhere in your line of sight. In contrast to the other night, Laserbeak had given you quite the fright when you startled awake to the shiny bird rummaging through your closet. Needless to say, there were stern words had with regards to respectable visiting hours and the integrity of your wardrobe. 

An oppressively in-your-face Christmas tune plays from the TV, advertising the latest holiday offerings for a steakhouse-style chain restaurant. There’s only one location in your state, hours away from your rural town. The screen switches to show a pink, raw meat patty sizzling audibly on the grill. Numbers, names, and words pass by in a flash, all loudly declaring with an overabundance of red how ‘cheap’ the prices are. 

This season’s always been bad, but lately this year, the pressure on consumers to buy! buy! buy! and spend! spend! spend! has been at an all time high. The belts of the working class have tightened over the months, and greedy, money-hungry companies become all the more aggressive for what little there is left. Thanks to your divine Lords however, you can now get anything you’ve ever Wanted. The fushigi orb2, sitting in a bowl on your coffee table like some kind of ornate decor, is testament to that. The fully stocked fridge is testament to that. The new tires, repaired gutters, and de-icing, heated cables for your roof are all testaments to that. 

There used to be a game you would play with your friends at school. With your college classmates. With your coworkers and the emergency room staff. ‘What would be the signs that you just won the lottery?’

With your friends, it would be the pet you’ve always dreamed of. The cereal you could never have. The bright and colorful toys from the TV. 

With your classmates, it would be the house you’ve always dreamed of. The drinks you could never have. The bright and colorful cars from the TV.

With your coworkers, it would be the debt free life you’ve always dreamed of. The vacations you could never have. The bright and colorful prescriptions from the TV.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Reality is different from dreams, however, and in Truth, after repairing all that has broken and rotted, the very beginning omens of a changing Destiny, of winning at life’s lottery, can be found from deep within the Self. 

The first sign, like the weight of a car pressing into your chest, would be more Time. Time to heal. Time to rest. Time to embrace the everyday.

The second sign, like a fallen tree held up by sparking powerlines, would be Love. Euphoric, distracting, obsessive Love. Fervent, haunting, starving Love.

The third sign, like the heady, breathless sensation of Nothing in your lungs, would be learning how to have fun. 

Mortality is your species’ one true bane, and if everyday is truly all you have, then you want your Time together with your Lords to be a damned good one. 

They asked you what you Wanted, and as a reward for your honesty, unintentionally or not, they have given you the means to feed any and all of your desires. 

You have never known to lack an appetite. It’s entwined with your very nature.

You can’t help it.

You’re only human.

The dark, viscous red blood surging within your body is testament to that. The fatty reserves, insulating your organs and storing energy are testaments to that. The rapid cellular growth, repairing all that has broken and rotten, is testament to that.

How far will your Lords underestimate their own generosity? 

The wind outside shifts, rushing through the cheap insulation of your quaint home in a successful attempt to drop the room’s temperature by 5 degrees. Tonight’s storm is bad, and the forecast said it’ll just get worse from here on out. In order to make space for your other, larger guest, in case they wanted to switch to their bipedal form, your personal vehicle had to be moved outside to brave the harsh elements alone. You’re sure the tarp covered vehicon resting in your heated garage is thankful for your hospitality. 

Glancing between your disastrous, mashed mess on the cutting board and a cozy, bundled up Frenzy, you make the careless mistake of rubbing at your nose with your juice covered hands. Frustration and mucus surge forge while a warm flush fills your face. A displeased hissing noise involuntarily leaves your throat when you lean down closer to inspect the blade of your favorite kitchen knife, eyelashes fluttering with the accumulating tears. A bright, streaking, ruby star shimmers in your living room; the light from Frenzy’s glance dances in your watery peripheral. 

In the background, ignorant to the Decepticon’s growing concern, an ad for a brand name medication blares for all to hear. On screen, an uncannily well lit, smiling, elderly couple walks the shores of a beach. Microscopic font scrolls by, faster than you can process it, and the commercial’s narrator rapidly reads through the billions of dangerous side effects, ending with the classic, ‘increased risk of suicide, heart failure, and death. Talk to your doctor before taking this medication.’ It closes with a captivating, coupon voucher offer, before moving onto the next televised promotion.

Carefully, like you’re laying a beast to rest, you set your knife down in the sink. A frown pulls at your face, causing the top layer of skin to fold with each tug of muscle. You twist your torso away from the cassette officer, reaching into the wooden block on your counter and withdrawing another blade. Immediately, in the warm glow of your kitchen, your gaze falls over the obvious chunks taken out of the fine metal. The surface remains as polished as ever. The handle is worn from years of use. You just got this sharpened a month ago. Gently, this tool joins its brother in the stainless steel basin.    

With a jerky, full body pivot, you grab the whole knife block and move down the counter, closer to the doorway. Pulling out a third one, you say nothing, lips flattening and discoloring. When you peek in the direction of the small mech buried on your couch, a blinding red fills your vision. Your bloodshot eyes futilely try to make out their expression, but after a long, shaky exhale, you turn your attention back to your damaged culinary tools. 

“Frenzy.” You stoically announce to anyone listening. 

The cassettacon twitches, optics remaining pinned on your mortal form. You hold still for a moment, counting to ten and reminiscing on your missing scissors. 

“Frenzy.” Your throat squeezes over the stressed name. Winning their complete attention, they sit up to fully face you. The hairs on the back of your neck stand while the world quietly watches. Burning, bubbling, acrid fury rises up your esophagus. The pungent, stinging vegetable juice mixes with the chilly air, and your tears fall freely. Like a bated breath, the wind ceases all activity. The sound of the storm fades beneath the ringing in your ears. 

The mech twitches again, rising to full height when you slowly step into the doorway. They take in your flushed, pained expression. Your mouth pulls into a deep scowl while your stomach rubbles with gnawing forebodings.

“Did you guys dull my cutlery?” The question is spit from your lips like an accusatory fact, blunt, just like your poor knives.

Their optics roam up and down your tiny form, and they kick off all their plush layers, heading over in your direction. Your skin prickles as they rest the jut of their arm against the doorframe above you. Your shadows mingle with the new lightsource. 

“Yeahhh.” Frenzy drawls out with an air of cocky nonchalance, almost like they’re explaining, for the six hundredth time, to a very demented, but fiercely independent grandparent that, ‘no, you’re no longer allowed to touch the stove’. As if you exist as such a danger to your own well being, that you can not be trusted with the means to enjoy the simple pleasures of everyday life. As if this is something you forget every time your memory lapses. As if this is just another standard precaution against your frail mortality. “Boss thinks you can be a bit impulsive and reckless. Look what ‘ya did to poor ol’ Ravage. A mech’s gotta do what they can to protect themselves.”

Your mouth parts in a sneer at the obvious fib, and you jerk away from the door frame to face the sink. After taking a moment to wash your hands, one by one, you slowly withdraw each and every blade in your arsenal. Dumping them into the cool sink with a thunk, thunk, thunk. Your eyelashes hang heavy, sparkling with fat tears.

“You and I both know that my dear kitchen utensils wouldn’t be able to do jack shit against your metal platings. Be honest with me here. Why did you dull every. single. one. of my nice knives?”

“Do you really want me to?— Ah, what’s that human phrase that Boss likes ‘cause of da’ animal…” They tilt their helm down, towering over your huffing form with inhuman height. Their vision unfocuses, and they hesitate for longer than it would normally take to run a search query. “Do you really want me to identify the elephant in the room?”

Your stomach growls audibly like a beast snarling, and they take a semi-threatening step closer. You take a step back, passively dropping into a stoop under your faucet. Rinsing your eyes, you buy yourself a minute to contemplate if you actually do Want to know or not. Ignorance is bliss, but curiosity can also bring back a life. Your innate hunger to know the world’s Truths is quick to override any social hesitation. 

Drying  your face off with a clean dish towel, you pout placidly, like a dog rolling over to incite their owner. “You messed with my meal, man…” A puppy-like whine fills the hollow of your throat. “My teeth finally stopped hurting, and I was so excited to eat something that wasn’t mush…” Dramatically taking the final knife from its wooden organizer, you violently stab it into your cutting board. The muscles in your hand flex, knuckles blanching, as it sinks deeper into the material. “Can’t cut for shit with this.”

Ever desperate for consumers’ attention, the speakers of the TV break through the tension to trumpet an obnoxious jingle. The screen flashes with unanimous colors, showing off mascots in white-collar outfits. A talking animal assures you, alongside some flashy marketing gimmicks, that their life insurance is the best of the best, guaranteeing a full payout upon your death to all beneficiaries. You grimly doubt they fulfil their promises. The insurance company pays for so much ad time; it’s nearly oppressive. The profit has to be reaped from somewhere after all, and the dead aren’t as likely to sue.

With the cold, calculating look of a professional spy, Frenzy takes in your complaints, carefully inspecting the polish of their servo’s plating. A sadistic smile peels back to reveal shiny, sharp denta. Their sinister air gives the impression of a kid barely reigning back their delight, believing you are intimately fearful of whatever they have in their hands, and they’re seconds away from revealing it. “High command doesn’t want you dying on them.” 

Your fingers fiddle together as you process this. Time and fresh skin hide the scars from your many careless moments. You glance at the opened cookbook and double check your simmering foods. The warmth of the stovetop brings blood to bloom in the capillaries of your cheeks. Something instinctual wants to desperately embrace the confused flip-flopping of your heart, stubbornly determined to interpret this as another alien attempt at protection. 

“Awww, that’s sweet.” Your knees audibly pop when you crouch down to check in on the oven’s progress. “But I think you guys have forgotten something.”

“Oh yeah? Like what?”

“I’m only human.” You pause to fiddle with the timer on your phone, setting it to the appropriate time as per the recipe. “I’m a sentient race made up of trillions of organic cells. A walking, talking, collection of incredibly microscopic, incredibly fragile, membrane bound organelles. Everything can kill me. Our species’ survival is literally just a sheer numbers game. The fact that I’m alive today is the real miracle. My pathetic, mortal self just got lucky and won at Mother Nature’s lottery.”

Frenzy merely stares down at you, malicious grin dropping into a discomforted frown. A servo rubs at the back of their helm while they think of a response to the unfortunate Truth of your existence. You take the opportunity to grab a glass of icy water, chugging it down with several gasps. It doesn’t help cool the frustration that simmers in your gut.

“Are you going to seal up all my wall outlets and hide my forks too? Cover the sharp edges of my furniture in bubble wrap? Replace every breakable, glass object with indestructible plastic? There are at least 50 different liquids and chemicals around my house that would poison me if I drank them. Are you going to hide those too? What about the thousands of toxic plants growing in this area? The roads I drive on everyday? The pollutants in the air I breathe? The plastics in my food?”

Assertively, you shove past your mechanical guest, heading towards the couch. With a leap, you grumpily throw yourself onto the sprawl of plush comforts, settling across the expanse of your couch. The minicon soundlessly follows, walking around to stand between the TV and your propped up form. Neither of you moves, and you count the warm, slowing cycles of air billowing from their vents.

 It takes 40 silent seconds before they shrug their shoulder joints like they're trying to shake something off their back. They wordlessly clasp a servo over your calf, lifting it slightly, and return to their seat. When they finally release your limb, you shove your foot into the jut of their chin with playful aggression and a softening scowl. 

“From now on, don’t touch my nice cutlery. Also, give me my scissors back.” You demand, wriggling your toes in their face and enjoying how it makes their voicebox fritz. “You can help sharpen them to make it up to me.”

Their expression remains contemplatively neutral as they grip your ankle, giving the joint a squeeze until your small bones grind together. The television’s promotions continue to fill the space while they chirp and beep and whistle your request up to your Lords. After what feels like the world’s longest infomercial, the cassette officer nods. 

“High command finally gave the OK.” A sly smirk crawls across their visage. “You’re pretty self aware for a squishy.” They shift their other arm, flicking their wrist to shape their hand into a beautiful, glowing blade. “I’ll do you one better. I can check and see if Boss will let you have one of our knives. I saw Laserbeak’s footage of you with that deer, and you’ve got a way with daggers. That’s for sure.”

Your abdomen tenses as you perk up, pupils blowing wide open with glittering interest. “No way, really?” You whisper with a delighted squeal.

“Yeah, I think you’re right about alotta things bein’ able to kill ya’. It’d do you better to have something to defend yourself with than try to reduce every potential risk.” Their touch shifts upward, and their unyielding metal digits poke at the malleable flesh of your shin. “One of us can show you how to use it next Friday.”

Your excited smile wavers, and you squint up at the cassette officer. Settled against the soft stuffing of adorable plushies and blankets, they return your look with all the ruby red innocence of an angel. You blink. They do not. Contemplating your busy schedule, your front teeth gnaw at the peeling skin of your lip. “Next Friday is the big solstice feast… I told you guys last time; I really don’t want to miss it.”

The bot lowers your foot to rest it in their lap, entrapping it between their elbows and torso when they lean forward in your direction. “Aw, come on. Don’t be like dat. What if Boss came with us? We could all hang out together and do a drive around the mountain. Listen to some tunes together while out on patrol or some slag.”

Crossing your arms, you turn towards the TV just as the news announces its return from the offensively long ad break. Before the animation finishes, you huff out. “Fine. BUT! Only if we can swing by before it starts, so I can drop off the gifts I got everyone and my contribution to the potluck. I’ll have Miranda or Matt save me a serving or something, I guess.”

Frenzy glances off to the side, sending a quick ping with a pause, before turning back to give you a sharp nod and wickedly satisfied grin. Now in agreement, you both lean into the soft cushions, watching on as the scene cuts to the newswoman from before.

“Hi! Welcome back, everybody. I’m joined here with Rachel, an agricultural expert from the USDA. She has some news regarding the increasing tariffs and how they’ve been affecting our farms.”

“Hi Sandy, glad to be here. Yes, we can expect many American farmers to really feel the pinch as we roll into nearly a full year of constantly changing tariffs between our allies and large countries like China.”

The screen changes to show a clip of several large dump trucks unloading their haul on the sides of the road. Mounds of wasted produce line the edges of the highway for miles. The two women discuss the technicalities and consequences of a bountiful harvest in a poor economic market. Even in good economic markets, it’s still the same story every year. Your vision glazes over, and you drift off in a hypnotic state, splitting your focus between the show and some app on your phone. 

Frenzy drags your attention back to the TV when they gesture to a zoomed in look of worms, beetles, and maggots crawling between piles of purple and golden vegetables. “Isn’t that the plant you were cutting up earlier?”

“Onions?” You nod, uncertain of their direction.

“Your optics were leaking. Databases say that the liquid contained in it is an irritant to you?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why do humans go out of their way to eat things that cause them pain when you’re capable of consuming so many other food options?”

Your vocal chords vibrate with a long hum, and your eyes shift to watch condensation bead slightly on the glass, wracking your brain for the best explanation. “There’s a ton of actual science behind it all, but the short answer is: Eating the same old things gets miserably boring, and humans can derive pleasure from pain. We’re a bunch of ‘squishy’ masochists; Literal gluttons for punishment, if you will. You can get numb to anything with enough exposure. Our organic bodies maintain homeostasis with constantly running feedback loops. Both positive and negative. Sometimes you need to add in some painful variety to spice up life. Just so you can feel something. Humans can even develop physically debilitating aversions to once-loved flavors if you have too much of it. Something to do with nutrient balances. Do you guys experience anything equivalent?”

“Maybe during pre-war Cybertron, but now, there’s no room for complaint. Not when all we have is energon rations.” Ah, that. Yes. You frown, feeling a pang of sympathetic hunger while Frenzy reminisces. “Sometimes I liked to have a good rust stick now and then, but I’ve never gotten bored or sick from having the same fuel. It’s crazy how many combinations of things you squishies are willing to smush together and call ‘food’.”

“Eh. Eating unflavored, boring things is comparable to torture if you think about the sheer amount ingredients we can get our grubby little hands on. Ever since humanity was able to travel, we’ve been exchanging flavors. And now, thanks to globalized trade, the possibilities are endless.” So many new foods. New dishes. New delights. With all this Time on your hands, you’ve made it one of your life’s missions to try and create as many delicious meals as possible. The dog eared cookbooks and a tower of dirty dishes are testaments to that.

The conversation lulls as Frenzy’s attention is stolen by the TV. Mindlessly, you pop your hand in your mouth, massaging at the inner muscles of your cheek while your guest flips through other channels. Your finger curls to fit between the firm, slimy edge of your mandible and your newly acquired wisdom teeth. Crooking and pressing into the agonizingly stiff space, the knuckle of your hand bumps against a molar. The motion elicits a full-body shudder when you pull back, feeling the shoved tooth remain at an atypical angle. Your tongue drags over the enamel to confirm your queasy suspicions, easily moving it to its original position.  

With controlled breaths, you carefully rise from your spot. “Gotta go pee.” You throw a hand over your mouth and mutter, swiftly excusing yourself from the living room before the minicon can turn their shared sight back onto you. The black and red cassette simply waves you off, fully absorbed with some reality show about island survival.

Behind the door, you fearlessly stare your reflection down, leaning your full weight over the porcelain sink. Your maw gapes wide open, out on display before your mirror. A dark, almost bruised, gumline and a crooked smile greet your piercing observation. Several teeth twist in their fleshy sockets under your tactile scrutiny.

None of the cassettes have openly mentioned it, unlike their obvious, entrapping complaints about the impossibility of installing surveillance tech in your basement and bedroom— something about increased frequency interference when you sleep or at night, but you’re acutely aware of the lack of cameras in this particular part of the house. You’ve witnessed each and every one of them waste their Time in your bathroom, only to exit with poorly concealed frustration. After one such instance, Ravage asked, with grave seriousness, if ghosts were real or just another organic superstition. You kindly informed them about how the previous owners of this place used to claim it was haunted, citing the shifting cold spots, the flickering lights, the horrible night terrors, the dark, murky water that would occasionally pour out from the pipes without warning, and the unseen, whispering voices. 

Of course, after the squatter was evicted from the attic, most of the other problems disappeared when you got a new well dug, replaced your water heater, and had an electrician upgrade your fusebox and circuit breaker. Come spring, you hope to repair your house’s vent system and install better insulation. You’ve never been able to shake the nightmares, but that’s where the wonders of pharmaceutics come in. 

Unfortunately, despite all these efforts, your town’s infrastructure still remains poorly, and total power loss remains a frequent enough occurrence. The other night, when, nearly like clockwork with the accompanying weather, the power went out again, parts of your house still continued to hum with electrical energy, even while your fridge and lights remained dead to the world. So far, you’ve confirmed that your garage, kitchen, living room, hallway, bedroom, and front and back entranceways are all bugged. You’re unsure about your basement or pantry, having sensed a type of deep hum… but it was not of the same nature as the other rooms. 

It was that damned hum. The familiar, primitive, instinctually recognized hum that licks at the edge of your consciousness when you let your awareness dip. It croons something deep and rumbling into the membranes of your eardrums. It tells you when those two rooms are safe. It tells you that your bathroom is safe. When you finally reach out to click the lock, it slips away with the running water, content to give you the privacy you need to gather your thoughts. Gather your sense of Self. Gather your will to live.

After a long moment of self-examination, you gather a piece of toilet paper to blot at your now bleeding gums, having nicked the thin flesh with a floss pick during your inspection. When you remove the tissue, the red that seeps into the white is a dark, murky color, not unlike when large amounts of bleeding begins to clot over Time, inside or outside the body. 

With the lights dimmed, you go to use the toilet. When you finally rise, the fluid that remains in the bowl is stagnant and dull. Just like the blood saturating the wadded paper. It’s been like this ever since you signed the papers to join the Decepticons. You can only hope you didn’t catch the attention of some unknown deep sea parasite that had clung to your mechs’ wet plating or something equally as freaky and alien. Kneeing the handle, you flush all evidence of your bodily functions away down to your septic tank.

A sharp pain, like an exposed cavity, trails from the front of your mouth and up into your sinuses. Every cell within you demands you cull or remove the piece of your body that has been sending distress signals through your nervous system. Instead of giving in to the devil whispering on your shoulder, your fingers probe at the skin of your face, determined to pick at every hair and pore. Nails gouge into your flesh to sustain every dimple and divot. Nostalgia ekes into your consciousness, causing the fine motor function of your hand to waver. Like control slipping through your fingers, a familiar hum finds its way out of your throat. A cartoonish mental image of a red string tied to a doorknob, connected to the front of your face, obscures your focus. The voice of a past parental-figure rings in your ears. ‘Again! You’re at it again! If you don’t get your fingers out of your mouth right this instant, we’ll have to pull your wiggly tooth out using the old school method.’ With muscle memory honed in childhood, the trembling hum shapes into a seasonal tune.

All you want for Christmas is your two front teeth~ 

Yes, your two front teeth~

See your two front teeth~

Squelch! Pop! 

Something small and white slips from your bloody hold and clatters into the bowl of the sink below. Paralyzed with shock, but not surprise, you stare down at the dark drain, watching in a single breath as it’s swallowed by your plumbing. With guided, jerky movements you flick the lights to full brightness. Unthinking, your hand reaches back into your mouth to even out the look. Squelch! Squelch! Pop!

The water from the faucet is freezing, and the chill strikes the skin of your palm, triggering a parasympathetic response throughout your body. The forgotten memory superseding your voluntary nervous system darts away like a startled octopus. An inky, black haze overtakes your vision. The world falls quiet. One by one your senses rejoin your thoughts. 

You taste metal. You smell metal. You hear Nothing. Other than the stinging cold, you feel Nothing, fingertips turning numb under the constant stream. You see… You see… You see…

Your heart races, and your eyes remain closed. A trickle of snot dribbles down your lip, and your eyes remain closed. Mucus and saliva mix with each bloody swallow, and your eyes remain closed. Do you Want to know? 

What kind of Truth are you hoping to find? What kind of Truth do you want to confirm? Like self-replicating bacteria, there are trillions of thoughts breeding in your mortal mind. Your eyes remain closed. Do you really Want to know? 

Life has been really good lately. You’re learning how to have fun. You’re learning how to Love. You’re learning how to enjoy your Time on Earth. Your eyes remain closed. Do you really, actually Want to know? 

What if whatever you learn next makes you become a liability? What if whatever you learn next makes them hate you? What if whatever you learn next makes them scream at you? What if whatever you learn next kills you? Your eyes remain closed. Do you really, actually, truthfully Want to know?

It’s simple. You can do it. If you unclench your numb fist and tilt your palm, you can stay ignorant. You can claim an unfortunate fall. You can even stage it right here, right now, given how much blood continues to ooze down the back of your throat. You can let the evidence of your existence spill out over the countertop and win the loving concern and attention of your Lords. Your eyes remain closed. Do you really, actually, truthfully, literally Want to know?

It’s simple. It’s binary. Yes or No? 0 or 1? Eyes open or eyes closed?

Your taxed mind conjures up a horrifying mental image of a red string looped around your fingers like a knotted attempt at a cat’s cradle. One end is frayed, having snapped off some time ago. The other is tied around your evicted central incisor. The bloody twine digs into the flesh of your skin, depriving your cells of oxygen. The tips of your fingers have begun to necrotize, and the growing cord pins you in place like a bug, snaking across the bathroom in a web to tie itself to the doorknob. The rot travels further up your limbs, robbing you of all sensation while the dripping rope wriggles through a gap in your door like some kind of parasitic worm. Your eyes remain closed. 

The voices of past mother-figures ring in your ears. The lady fates pluck with hungry curiosity at the woven, ruby strands. They soothe the burning irritation, smoothing and twisting the string onto their loom. The warps and wefts are carefully set in place, and you feel the cool, sinking abyssal sensation of their collective sight turning to your mortal form.

Do you Want to know? They ask, voices echoing around the small space like whale song. What is it you Want to become?

Look at how it glimmers in the light of your Lords. One of them hisses, shadows shifting in a soundless dance. Bright blue light from something unseen shines on your heart strings. Like a strand of spider’s thread shimmering in the pits of hell.      

What do you want your Destiny to Look like? A captivating tale of a thief and their prey? A wondrous retelling of our oldest Love story? Another howls. The noise from the weaving shafts punches up and down like bone grinding on bone. Don’t you want to be part of something beautiful?

It’s OK, lamb. You can Look. A third coos with the passion of a fine, brooding hen, their sharp touch sends a tickle up your spine. Take in your very first nibble on divinity.

There’s Nothing wrong with Wanting to know the Truth. They sing in your head. 

You watch in your mind's eye as the primitive loom bends, and snaps, and cracks, and breaks, shaping from one form to the next until what crowds the tiled room is a horrific layout of computers and wires. Your very essence can feel the vibrations as the mother of all looms laughs. Their cackling cracks in your eardrums, like fists hammering a door.

You can’t help it.

You’re only human.

You open your eyes.

Tinted blue by the smothering snow, the sunlight shines through the panes of glass to illuminate your small bathroom. The lightbulbs have burnt out, and your sink threatens to overflow. Staring back in the mirror is You, in all your fleshy, organic glory. Blood spills out over your chin when you giggle with near hysterics, leaning closer to your reflection to feast in the Truth. Already, in the short span of time, both of your new teeth have shoved their way to the front of your gumline. A pinky red streaks across the pearly, unmarred enamel. Misaligned and not completely grown in, your latest revelation would’ve looked more at home on your chubby-cheeked childhood baby face, but now, with your sunken eye bags and gaunt expression, it comes across as a horrific wound. 

Before you can decide if you want to flush, swallow, or pocket your expelled tooth, the locked door splinters violently. Startled by the flying fragments, you lose hold of the small item, dropping it down the sink drain to join its brethren. A metal hand fully punches through the wood, undoing your lock and opening the handle with a twist. You can only blink stupidly, hand swiftly moving to cover your mouth as Frenzy pokes their head inside your bathroom, optics bright and terrifying in the pitch black of the hallway.

“Da power went out again, and you were real quiet. I thought something was wrong” The cassette tries to explain when your expression turns murderous at their intrusion. “Oh, scrap! Is that your organic fluid?”

“Yeah.” You shrug, failing at feigning nonchalance. Your free hand trembles, blindly reaching for your discarded toothbrush and mouthwash. “I should really listen to my dentist and floss more.”

Frenzy slowly shakes their head in astonishment. “Squish…” They touch your shoulder with a searing servo to steady you. “For a medic, you’re pretty slag at taking care of yourself.”

Chuckling around minty, pinky foam, you spit out a glob of fluoride and bloody saliva into the slow draining sink. “Heh, yeah.” Smiling up at your Lord’s soldier, you sigh with loving exhaustion. You’ll have to unclog the P trap when your guests finally leave, and cash in on some toothfairy money. You squeeze your fingers, shakily attempting to regain blood flow and sensation. “Ain’t that the Truth.”

——— References:

Wikipedia contributors. (2025, December 8). Military budget of the United States. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Military_budget_of_the_United_States

FushigiBall. (2010, May 13). Fushigi Ball commercial [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myIR__htBgc

[auntopossum]

Decadence

Chapter 16: Hope is Not the Same Thing as Optimism

Starscream x Gender Neutral! Reader, Shockwave x GN! Reader, and Soundwave x GN! Reader

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15

Author's Note:

Heh… Is it July already? That's crazyyyyyy. Uh, anyways. Here's Chapter 16! I had to split this one thrice, so hopefully it won't take me half a year again to post the next few. I dedicate this one to my favorite mech of all time, The Patron Saint of Boobs, Shockwave!

Story Content Warnings:

Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm

Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing

Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold

Depression and Suicidal thoughts

Depictions of animal death, rendering, and dissection

Politics

—

"Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out." ~ Vaclav Havel

———

To know the words of a song but not the tune.

To know the symbols of a language but not the intention.

To know the memory of an action but not the justification.

And the universe around you sings.

The universe speaks.

The universe moves.

Without them.

Senator Shockwave died a tragic death at the servos of the Institute.

They lost their face. They lost their emotions. They lost their virtue.

Their purpose. Their career. Their life.

The judge, jury, and executioners withheld any possible mercy when they chose to 'spare' the Senator, and so a colorful politician died that day, robbed of every identifying part, piece, and plating. Whoever awoke with a dead mech's spark in their new chassis was not Senator Shockwave. Whoever rose from that surgical slab found themselves missing in all memories but their own. Whoever stumbled through the clinic's exit and out onto the city streets couldn't even share in the populace's mourning horror that blanketed their mutilated corpse.

Their surviving existence was a sin in the optics of the people. A sign of Something so very, very wrong. Like screen-burn on a monitor, a living ghost now haunts the forefront of the narrative. On that wretched day, a deceased Senator's soul sparked against its distorted chamber, thrashing at the grooves and scars left by the final, miserable, Furious, VENGEFUL synapses that had melted every possible emotion into the pain of numb disconnect. With surgical precision, their conscious body was torn open and robbed of Everything.

Whoever survived a tragic event at the servos of the Institute had Nothing but a name and the inherited memories of its predecessor.

It's humorlessly cruel, how the Senate could steal a beloved bot, so famous for their affection and passion, and smother their universe with shadows, ensuring that the purple mech lacked the proper circuitry to feel Anything but pain. Shockwave finds themselves alive at the end of every day, but they are no longer living.

To be gutted without recourse. To be killed without dying.

'An example'. The surgeons had said when they plucked out Senator Shockwave's optics. An example to all those who oppose the rising tides of corruption. An example to anyone who dares to stand in the way of power-hungry politicians. An example to every mech foolish enough to believe that the worst thing that can happen to you is death.

The Truth is, the worst thing that can happen to you is loss. Loss with only pain. To remember who they were and to suffer with the knowledge that they'll never exist again. Senator Shockwave's Time was over, unreachable to Everything in every way except deep within their own memory banks.

They lost their social life. Their promising career. Their self-discovered purpose.

All thanks to the sick generosity from the Senate, the Institute, and that damned glitch, Proteus.

Ever since Shockwave learned of the existence of Functionalism, they have opposed it. Its core beliefs went against all that they've experienced and seen. In a universe so vast, with endless chances, possibilities, and opportunities, how could a bot exist solely for the role they receive at creation? Purpose is dictated by one's actions in life, not by the shape of their form. Cybertronians, as a superior species, should be beyond such simplistic mindsets.

Unfortunately, those who unwisely follow the corrupting words of fools do so because they are trapped within a bubble of ignorance. While their leaders distract themselves with petty conflicts, Time steadily continues tic, tic, ticking away for them all. The unenlightened can not comprehend how the corrosive, rotting thing known as Entropy, with its gentle, burning touch, guides their kind down the pathway to extinction.

Their species' Destiny is to Conquer. Virgin galaxies, rich with untapped ores, lay bare and open before them, and yet, instead, eons are wasted with War. A Senator was lost. Cybertron was lost. The Allspark was lost. The delayed response to the infection of ignorance cost them a Famine, and in the end, without a source of renewable fuel, Death will come to claim them all.

The Truth is, in Conquest, in War, in Famine, or in Death, Everything boils down to resources, and Nothing else.

Senator Shockwave had tried to teach them. Tried to use language and science. Presentation after presentation. Meeting after meeting. They had tried to correct the issue from the inside. They founded the Jhiaxian Academy. They worked themselves to the struts trying to educate the naive masses. They poured all they had into cultivating Cybertronians who could withstand the failures of their people. Billions of shanax was spent on off-world research. Outliers were saved from those who sought to reduce a person to a mere tool.

All that effort, and they were justly rewarded with change. But not the kind they were hoping for.

An Example.

Alive but not. Pained and lost. Altered in a way in which the old Senator Shockwave could never return. The old Senator Shockwave will never return. The old Senator Shockwave should never return. If this is what happens to mechs like them.

Even after all this Time to adjust to their new form, Shockwave still can't stop their Spark from twitching and sputtering with phantom pangs, trapped with no proper outlet. They've been able to mitigate the worst of the ghastly surges by replacing their limb with a plasma cannon, courtesy of one glorious leader of the Decepticons, to convert the free-roaming energy into a more practical use. However, ever since the Nemesis crash landed on this organic-infested rock, the intense flare-ups have become more and more frequent. They loathe the idea of seeking assistance from the quacks this ship calls doctors, but they may be forced to at this rate. The damage they sustained during the last skirmish has not been healing properly, and it's only a matter of Time before a rust infection settles in.

Ping!

Another warning shoves its way to the forefront of their visual feed.

Shockwave ignores the flashing notice to instead check their internal chronometer for the four-hundredth-and-sixty-seventh time since they've stepped into this chamber. Unfortunately, the meeting has only recently begun. Just like the rest of the bots in this conference room, the scientist finds themselves stuck in this monotonous meeting and stuck on Earth. As they roll their shoulder within its stiffened joint, their HUD denotes a continued drop in temperature.

Kuh-CRUNCH!

Another alert dismissed.

Somewhere in their blind spot, Starscream scoffs with an unnecessary, sympathetic 'Ugh'.

It takes several, failed, internal commands and two manual overrides before the mechanisms within their locked-up limb listen and release their tension. Unfazed, Shockwave taps at their datapad, adding another item to the ever-growing list of needed repairs. If only they were back at their main lab, then they'd have the proper tools and supplies for self-maintenance. Unfortunately, the moon it was stationed on has been lost. Now, it is Nothing more than a cluster of asteroids floating in a dead planet's orbit, galaxies away.

Ping! Ping!! Ping!!!

The noisy signals momentarily blind the scientist, forcing them to pause in their typing.

Everything is promptly banished from sight, sent to feed the shadows that drape over their processor.

The vibrant red lingers in their vision for a moment longer than it should, and the sensors of their plating tingle with ungrounded charge.

Shockwave is beginning to see why the seeker's patience has been so thin as of late. Logically, no Cybertronian would hold any Love for Earth. Lord Megatron was a fool for abandoning the main battlefront, instead chasing after a divine legend in hopes that the Decepticons could gain some kind of advantage over the Autobots. Now, look at where Destiny lead them.

This wretchedly wet world does Nothing to soothe Shockwave's constantly aching internals; the briny sea water refuses to evaporate cleanly, kissing a trail of pale, corrosive stains along the whole of their plating in a series of salty, lingering farewells. This horrible, haunting habitat exists as a trial to the purple mech's composed endurance; the immobilizing polar frost slip its violating hands through the thick of their wiring, parting the sensitive cords with the swell of its icy touch. This painful, punishing planet feels benevolent in all the worst ways possible; the beckoning, buzzing hum of trillions of uncataloged species spins their processor in a dizzying dance, promising to quench the unfeeling scientist's need for tangible, quantifiable results. This beautiful blue ball ceaselessly bestows generous burden after generous burden; the overpopulated, human metropolises crown the largest reserves of energon any mech has ever seen this side of the Centorian supercluster, taunting the starving Cybertronians with warped, fleshy reflections of what they've all lost. They are all trapped on a land so rich with the very resources that spurred this whole war, and yet Shockwave has Nothing to show for it since the rest of their kin seem to insist on dying in battle one by one until Everything is lost.

Ding!

The blocky, purple bot almost deletes the incoming nudge from Soundwave out of habit, mistaking it momentarily for another alert.

Instead of responding, the scientist adjusts the bulk of their weight with a heaving ex-vent, futilely attempting to lessen the burden on their aching struts. The metal of the seat beneath groannnns in protest, and the scout spouting off their meaningless report sputters into silence. All optics in the room turn towards the noisy Lead Investigator.

"Shockwave, I believe you're up next?" Megatron prompts, looking as miserably bored as the rest of the high command. The silver servo not propping up his helm up waves offhandedly in their direction. "Was there any progress made with your recent experiments?"

Carefully, Shockwave overrides the gummed up mechanisms in their servo joints, releasing their denting grip on the armrest of their chair. As each of their digits unfold, the accompanying warnings are dismissed in quick succession. Their voicebox unmutes with an audible click! click!, and the medics, sitting across the farthest point of the table, all flare their plating in itching agitation. It takes more effort than it should to rise to a standing position and walk a single step forward. The scraping thud of their mass hitting the edge of the table is ignored in favor of setting a reminder to recalibrate their depth perception. Prompts fill their sluggishly loading HUD, filing the note-to-Self alongside fourteen other duplicate variations.

"Correct, Lord Megatron. I've brought specimen samples to illustrate my findings." The scientist remains unmoving. A simple ping to their zoned-out assistant has the aide leaping to attention. The samples are swiftly prepared for viewing while Shockwave attaches an elongated needle to the corresponding fitting on their cannon limb.

Clink.

Before all the members of high command, a clear, blocky container is set down on the cool, metal surface of the conference table. Several curious mechs lean forward to get a better view of the incredibly small object, whilst others angle away in blatant disgust.

"For those unaware, or simply not paying attention, take it upon yourselves to read the attached memo about report #AL89450B before you pose any questions." Using the needle as a pointer, Shockwave begins, vaguely gesturing above the animal. "All scouting parties should be debriefed immediately after this session, or, at the very least, ensure that they are educated prior to their rounds."

Splayed out on its back, a white rodent rests, larger than typical for its species. Like an unwrapped ribbon on a present, the length of its internals is strung out on display. The membrane covered guts glimmer an inky, bruised color, catching rays of sparkling light from the Cybertronians encircling it. Every inch of tissue and flesh is pillowed by plush, yellow clouds of fatty reserves.

"I have been experimenting with organic intake and tolerance of energon. The intent behind this research was to establish a baseline understanding of the outcomes that occur during repeated exposure to the highly radioactive substance. With the end of this initial trial, I postulate that we have collected sufficient enough evidence to formulate a pattern to the symptoms presented. Using the data, I've—"

A frustrated engine rev cuts off the scientist mid-lecture, and one of the field surgeons speaks up from the other side of the room. "For the Love of Primus! Of all the things we could be doing, this is what we're doing? We're wasting our limited energon rations on these aliens now?"

A fellow medic growls before Shockwave can resume, adding, "That's right! We barely have enough for ourselves. Just last cycle, mid-surgery, I had to put a mech into medical-stasis because their tank levels fell to critical!"

"Not Everything has an answer that needs exploring." Their third colleague joins in. "There are Somethings in life that we'd be perfectly fine not knowing about. Honestly, sometimes I'd feel we'd all be safer off if you did Nothing."

Megatron holds up a servo to quell the rising volume. Immediately, all fall silent before the warlord. "Times are scarce, Shockwave." He sighs, leaning forward on his raised throne to level a long, piercing stare at his emotionless Lead Investigator. "The cost of your curiosity is high. I assume you have a perfectly good explanation that can satisfy the troops?"

Shockwave's voicebox clicks off, and the room rumbles with the quiet subharmonics of discontent whispers. As a murmur of intangible outrage sweeps through the soldiers, the scientist's plating seals closed, optic flickering from the brunt of their body's angry feedback. With their armor's shielding movement, coarse grit and sand kuh-crunches between the fine mechanisms. The blocky mech's internals hug the tiny shards of unyielding earth in a claustrophobic squeeze, shaping dimples and divots into the malleable insulation of their wiring. Somewhere within the gaping cavities of the purple bot's armor, ice begins to melt, dripping down onto warming metal with several quiet plink, plink, plinks.

Gently, Shockwave reaches out towards the center of the table to drag the vivisected display closer to them, servo enclosing over the top to shield the specimen from the group's hungry ire. Their other limb shifts slightly to pull up a picturesque hologram of a cityscape. Human-made skyscrapers sprout from the middle of the table, and dizzying, chaotic networks of roads wind around the buildings. The fabricated simulacrum runs through several day-night cycles, distracting the others long enough for the scientist to craft an appeasing explanation.

Click. Static. Pause to reset. Click!

"After Starscream's run-in with a 'haunted' energon sample— again, see referenced report #AL89450B." The purple bot pauses briefly to ensure the soldiers can access the transcript and associated memo. "It has come to my attention that silencing these humans may not be enough to hide our presence. Death does not always greet these organics swiftly."

The hologram in the center warps, revealing the intricate web of energon that rests just below the surface of the planet's crust.

"If the scouting reports are correct regarding the location of several major ore veins, then we are at greater risk of discovery than anticipated. We can not afford to ignore these mining sites; if we do not lay claim soon, then they will eventually fall into the servos of the Autobots. However, this planet is not one to be underestimated. We must be abundantly cautious to avoid gaining any attention from the natives."

"Oh, please!" A cruel laugh chills the room even further. "What's a bunch of squishy organics going to do against us?"

The echoing rumble of the Decepticon's sing-song snicker bounces around the room, mingling with the fizzling EM waves of their comrades.

"They crush beneath pedes so easily." Another bot chuckles, stomping their stabilizer for emphasis. "It makes a mech wonder how they're even able to survive for as long as they do."

"And yet." Shockwave tilts their helm in the protestors' direction. Their single optic struggles to focus, shutters adjusting indecisively. "No matter how many fleshy caricatures we cull, Earth factions like GHOST continue to cost us more and more. How many outposts have we had to abandon thus far? Rest assured, I am intimately aware the current state of our fuel supply." Shockwave pauses to flick their finial, ridding their sensors of the wet irritation that puddles against their plating. "Which is exactly why we are not in a position to gracefully lose these rich, energon mines, not without many causalities, either at the hands of these humans and their allied Autobots, or from slow starvation. It would not take many of these planet's natives to alert the rest of their kin to our presence. To put it succinctly, in the words of our newly recruited Primary Control, humanity is…"

At the scientist's prompting, Soundwave jolts slightly, scrambling away from whatever had stolen their interest to play the requested recording. The Chief Communications Officer briefly sets down their datapad in order to properly assist. Glancing towards the revealed screen, Shockwave is treated to a brief glimpse of Starscream's little organic, before the datapad is snatched back up by its owner. Silently, Soundwave returns to perch on their seat, focusing on their numerous side-duties. The human's voice rings out with a siren-like echo; the soft sound bounces off the unyielding, metal walls of the conference room.

After saving a copy of the audio for the inevitable retelling of their explanation, Shockwave's processor hesitates, drowning momentarily in another wave of red warnings. Something rises up from the depths of their coding to neatly categorize the file next to an untagged soundbite. In order to properly organize the mess within their shadowed mind, Shockwave privately plays the unnamed recording. Nothing happens for a moment, and then, rising in volume and cadence, a lonely whale call vibrates within their audials. It takes more effort than it should to still their trembling plating.

"A sentient race made up of trillions of organic cells." The words of Starscream's pet dance seamlessly alongside the marine chatter.

Those across the room fall completely silent, subduing their loud, internal fans while they strain to hear. Lacking the emotional wavelengths of EM fields and subharmonics, the Primary Control's words mirror Shockwave's manner of speaking.

"A walking, talking, collection of incredibly microscopic, incredibly fragile, membrane bound organelles— Our species' survival is literally just a sheer numbers game."

The scientist nods their acknowledgement and continues. "Ignoring our shared similarities in appearance and mannerisms, humanity's entire existence is one shaped by attrition and death. The healing and regeneration abilities of these creatures are unparalleled. For example, by splicing two separate cellular makeups together into one cell, it takes less than a single solar cycle for a human to reproduce. The resulting offshoot then detaches itself from its host, forming its own identity and motivations. In just a span of eighteen solar cycles, they can become fully fledged members of their species, capable of fighting and pursuit."

Megatron leans forward in his throne, side-eyeing the way Starscream flutters his wings at the sound of his latest obsession. The silver ruler shutters his optics and tilts his helm in consideration, letting the presentation continue on without interruption.

"Whatever fails is lost, and whatever remains will continue this cellular replication pattern until the day it dies. Any surviving mutations, beneficial or not, are passed onto the next, ensuring a systematic means of adaptation to almost any environment. This process can be repeated until a resource cap is met, and in fact, a majority of this planet's biodiversity can be attributed to this manner of reproduction. Carving out new niches with each iteration of development, the organics of Earth continuously participate in an endless cycle of life and death."

If the universe moves, then Earth twirls in a dizzying, cosmic dance.

If the universe speaks, then Earth shouts to spite the quiet.

If the universe sings, then Earth soulfully screams.

Earth and its trillions of mammals, reptiles, and avians. Its untold number of insects, sea creatures, and microscopic parasites. Its billions of humans. All bound by the red cords of Destiny to die without purpose under the heat of their sun. These organics, that so closely mirror Cybertronians, futilely struggle to record their short-lived histories, desperate to not be forgotten by Time. They weave patterns upon patterns upon patterns, all stitched and tied by the bonds of carbon, scrambling to leave Something behind. In barely over a vorn, these desperate voices, much like the one that just echoed through the chamber, will be lost. Dooming their surviving kin to the inevitability of change, all that will remain are the inherited genetics and the memories of themselves and their predecessors.

These organics are only human.

They dance. They shout. They scream.

All for Nothing.

"At a glance, the natives of this planet may appear to be immune to the radiation of energon, considering the proximity of their infrastructure to the resource. However, correlating with human databases regarding repeat exposure to radioactive properties, this appears to be false. The Truth is, radioactive energon, or any radioactive substance for that matter, is incredibly fatal to the organisms. Their healing factor can only compensate the damage it sustains for so long, and in doing so, visual evidence can appear. The results of my recent experiment align with the expected stages of an organic body going from compensating to decompensating. Prominent indicators of illness, especially one that can cull or mutilate enough of a local population, are more apparent, not only to us, but also to the governing entities of this planet. Ever sensitive to their own mortality, the humans of Earth have various means of recording and reporting outbreaks of disease and signs of disaster. If a contagion, and a physically debilitating one at that, is suspected, they will mobilize swiftly to investigate the source and cause. With how abundantly wet Earth is, ground water runoff from our mining efforts are almost certainly mingling with local water supplies. If we do not take the appropriate steps to observe and contain, then it would only be a matter of Time before the mines are revealed and lost."

Starscream frowns, ruby opticed gaze piercing Shockwave in place. His sharp talons clack, clack, clack against the edge of the table while he runs his own calculations. He mutters darkly to himself, bio-lights flickering in quick succession amidst the gloom.

"I Hate when we agree with eachother, Shockwave." Starscream grumbles in reluctant approval, obviously conflicted with the satisfaction of his paranoia being justified and the severity of the news. Turning to the warlord, the seeker divines the worst case scenario. "Right now, a majority of our mines sit in the Northern American region. We haven't been able to track down the exact location of the Autobot's base, but my scouts have reported that Optimus Prime has preemptively aligned himself with the massive, aggressive sect that patrols those lands. Regardless of any Autobot involvement, in our current state, we would not be prepared to handle the force of such a large, fully hostile, human military."

"How large of a risk are we talking?" Megatron questions, face warping with a serious frown.

"The American military is by far the largest on this planet. With my own optics, I have seen on multiple occasions, the exchange of munitions and advanced techno-knowledge." The winged mech growls, and a puff of light blue smoke escapes from between sharp dentae. "After that catastrophic failure of an alliance with GHOST—"

"Something you foolishly attempted whilst I was in stasis, need I remind you?" Megatron's optics flare as he interrupts. "It's thanks to your cowardice that they've become a problem large enough to haunt our steps in the first place."

Wingtips twitch, and the seeker's voicebox glitches, silencing any retort. Holding his throat with a taloned servo, Starscream applies pressure to a specific area in an attempt to ease the level of static that smothers his words. Before he can regain his verbal clarity, a certain silver someone huffs out a wave of smog, shrouding the sleek, winged mech's inauspicious, ruby red sight. In favor of ignoring his second in command, Megatron turns to the Lead Investigator.

"Shockwave." The warlord grips the armrests of his seat hard enough to warp metal. Sinking deeply into his throne, he miserably groans. "Do you have any piece of decent news to report regarding this experiment, or will we be doomed to end this topic with another one of Starscream's depressing predictions?"

The purple bot pauses, remaining completely motionless while considering what their glorious leader may prefer to hear. "If you'd rather some good news, I recommend looking into the destruction these humans do to their own populace. When the income dries up, just like back on pre-war Cybertron, communities formed around mining zones are oft left to their own, starving devices."

Their glorious leader makes a face, one Shockwave can not read, and instead of trying to analyze the ex-gladiator's volatile mood, the scientist carries on.

"It's a tale as old as Time. Drones reduce the necessity of a sentient workforce. Poor wages ensure the residents are unable to migrate to better opportunities. And mineral processing companies will poison the local environment with their own careless methods. Luckily, there are simple solutions. We'd need only to follow the proper environmental protocols, set by humans themselves. In doing so, we can greatly reduce risk and contain any outbreaks before they balloon into Something much, much worse."

"Lord Megatron," Starscream takes the opportunity to jump in, ever desperate for the spotlight. An involuntary whine clings to the end of his words, and the damage to his neck remains apparent in hiccups and bursts. "We have already begun implementing these practices throughout several of our outposts."

"If you wish to dissuade any further doubts," Shockwave monotones dryly before the seeker can take further credit. "I recommend we begin regular testing of nearby water supplies for any and all toxic materials that could harm human settlements. If any are found, it would be of little effort and expense to set up periodic purifying stations to ensure the waterways are free of such detrimental contaminants."

Megatron considers the purple mech's words carefully, before humming his approval. "And this is why I keep you around, Shockwave."

Starscream sneers at that, saying Nothing, and raises a polished talon to scratch at a line of dents by his voicebox.

"Yes, and to bring us back to the original purpose of my report…" Shockwave pings for their lab aide to resume preparation. "The results of my experiments are notable and easily visualized. When providing samples of energon in its standard, activated form to the short-lived specimens, we have observed a pattern of decline. I decided on using these specific mammals, colloquially known as, 'Rat' or 'Rattus norvegicus', due to their prevalence as specimens in human research. They are easy to obtain in bulk, and much of their genome has already been sequenced."

Clink.

Another cube is placed.

"While there have been variations with the end results, the methods of decline have been nearly consistent throughout. Truthfully, however, due to the initial, small sample size, I can not say with confidence if these findings are totally relevant or not. Further research will be needed until we have enough conclusive evidence."

Within the second, clear container, nine, pure-white, lab rats lay in neat rows, all much smaller than their counterpart in the first cube. At varying levels of severity, each corpse has pronounced physical abnormalities, easily spotted, even from across the room. Large, discolored growths sprout from some, their limbs blackened and mangled, bent at odd angles as if reaching for some unseen afterlife. The remaining are extremely gaunt and malnourished. If it wasn't for the labeled needles pinning the fleshy collection in place, the rodents might've blown away with the deafening rush of air escaping from the whirrrrr whirrring internal fans of the gawking onlookers. Each and every one of the organics sport nearly identical collections of bloodied, gouged wounds. With closed eyes, the beasts seem almost peaceful, content with the reprieve from suffering that death has generously afforded them.

"These nine samples were given purified water, laced with energon, alongside a diet typical for their species. In a short span of Time, the radiation from their fuel brought on significant internal mutations." The scientist tilts their helm, golden optic shifting to enhance their view. With the needle, they point to the discolored lumps and ulcerated cavities on each. "We can see here and here. Cancerous tumors, or rather, uncontrolled cellular growth, would occur. What manner of cell that mutated would vary, but in all, there were disruptions to the rodent's normal homeostatic pathways which would have eventually lead to their death."

"Would have?" Someone mutters to their neighbor nearby.

"Oh yes! We had to cull the lot earlier than anticipated due to unforeseen damages." The lab aide suddenly speaks up with a disposition far too cheery for the current setting. "Apparently, rodents can be quite prone to cannibalism." They gesture with a smile and a free servo to the opened wounds and gory partings of fur.

"Yes… To start—" Shockwave brings out the first cube and its occupant from where it was hidden by their chassis and limb, setting it side by side with the second. "We had eleven rodent specimens in total. Originally ten were given energon, but we lost one to the unexpected appetite of the lone control group here in my servo."

With their other limb, the end of their pointed needle digs into the soft surface of one of the many cancerous lumps growing from a smaller corpse. With the same amount of pressure spared for the human Primary Control, force is applied to demonstrate the shifting of organs, muscles, and tissues. Shockwave's digits, still covering the top of the first cube, flex briefly with the associated memory of that silken touch. Internally, they set another reminder for after the meeting. Starscream's little pet is due for their very first checkup now that the rodent experiment is concluded.

"Obviously, the results thus far are clearly visible, so it was not a meaningless end to this trial, despite the early cessation. I have noted the prominent symptoms in the document I've attached to the agenda, and I advise all scouting parties to be on alert for these changes, should they be seen on any native life."

Ping!

The room buzzes with fluctuating charge, and the diligent members of the Decepticon command remain silent as they review the material while the rest gossip in this brief window of quiet. The purple scientist takes a moment to mute any persistent notifications before grabbing everyone's attention again with a loud CLINK, lifting and slamming the first cube down onto the table. The metal surface shivers minutely, and all optics return to the noisy Lead Investigator.

"I'd prefer to conclude on that note… However, I have another finding to bring to everyone's attention. A rather remarkable discovery was unveiled during the process of dissection."

Ping! Ping! Ping!

Shockwave's HUD blurs with the sheer influx of warnings regarding overheating internals. The edges of their vision grow hazy, and they lock their lower limbs in place to keep balance. Both finials flick at the ghostly sensations tickling up their struts. Trapped energy rises within their chassis, and they emotionlessly unveil the main feature of their new discovery.

"Before anyone accuses me of misappropriating resources again, I will reaffirm. My original intention here was to analyze the effects of activated, locally sourced energon on organics. As I stated prior, these nine were given their respective doses and observed. And this one—" Shockwave turns the first cube, so everyone can get a better view. The shifting motion causes their servo to jerk, unintentionally flopping the rodent onto its side. Gears grind softly with unexpected resistance, shaping the settling dirt and grime into even smaller particulates. Like sand through an hourglass, the fine grit trickles down further into the unlit depths of their purple armor. "Was originally intended, as a control sample, to be kept separated from the rest and supplied an untampered, nutritious diet. Regardless, it appears solitude and confinement do not suit these highly metabolic creatures, and the control rodent proved difficult to contain. It had managed to escape its cage. Logically, I assumed I would find it starved to death in a corner somewhere, as, after all, these beasts can not survive for more than a chord without food or water, but unfortunately, this was not the case. Instead, this specimen continued to leave proof of life for a whole quartex, having left evidence of 'teething' on any and every surface coated with electrical insulation, including the wiring intended for one of my other projects. Ironically, if it wasn't for the Primary Control human, this rodent would have been presumed lost for good."

The purple bot gestures to the large rat. After nobody vocalizes any opinions on the information just shared, Shockwave reaches down to prod at the rodent with a digit, nudging the side of the animal's limp, malleable torso. They lock their servo and limb in place, so as to not shove the dissection away with an unsteady touch.

"Having left a trail of oily paw prints over the recently melded metal, I was aware that this specimen had likely tampered with my latest project involving dark energon, but I'm unable to say exactly how much they may hav—."

At the mention of dark energon, the conference room is thrown into a screeching cacophony.

The scientist lets the mayhem run free for a moment, internally checking their schedule. It seems that Starscream's depressing requisition reports are all that remain. At least, given his current grime covered appearance, the seeker will likely be eager to put an end to this, preferring not to waste any more Time today.

Ignorant to the way the group's EM fields fluctuate with charge and chatter, Shockwave resumes emotionlessly. "In light of this, I had anticipated the presence of the substance in its waste product or tissue. Unfortunately, this was not the case when we checked the contents of its postmortem stomach. We were able to successfully identify the remains of the tenth rodent, a gluten-based, jelly filled desert, and Nothing else. However, as anyone with working optics can see, there is a stark size difference between this specimen and the others. Not only is this one's overall mass greater, but their organs lack the typical coloring. In tandem with the notable physical changes of the other nine rodents, I believed it prudent to mention this, even with the lacking data. I advise you to relay this information to those on the ground, so that they keep an optic out for these differences as well."

The purple mech pauses, quickly glance towards their fellow High Command. Starscream is arguing with Megatron about Something through a private comms channel, and Soundwave remains helm-down in a datapad, swaying ever so slightly and skillfully ignoring the heavy silence that begins to grow. Any potential optic-contact with the resident telepath is blocked by a series of illegible alerts.

In contrast to the chilly depths of the Nemesis, Shockwave's HUD warns of rising internal temperatures. One by one, the blocky bot smothers the blinding annoyances, dragging a stiff digit down the control beast's back to feel the soft brush of silken fur for a final time. A tingling sensation, like a pinched wire, creeps up their rat-holding limb, and it becomes difficult to discern how much heat has begun to transfer from their overtaxed plating to the dead mammal. When the nervous noise dies down, the Lead Investigator turns their focus back to the crowd.

"Does anyone have any questions before we move onto the final agenda of the day?" Shockwave asks.

When silence is all that answers, they turn to hand the floor to Starscream. The blocky bot goes to withdraw their servo to begin cleanup, but Something within them refuses to override the locks they've put in place. Unable to fully move, their digit prods and pokes the vivisection, flipping its front to be face-down. The tingling sensation surges, likes a giant whale slipping by in the pitch-black, deep sea, sending a ripple running through the shadows of their mind. Distracting themselves from the sudden urge to glance behind them, they set another reminder to look into some form of repairs.

The weight of an unfeeling Something sits in their chassis at the mere thought of the medical team's presence. If they seek out help from the Decepticons, any procedure required will most certainly hurt. Their faction's medics are uncaring in the callousness needed to reach far enough into Shockwave's chassis to manually override their pain receptors, and Shockwave refuses to let anyone or Anything get that deep. The scientist would rather brave agonizing surgeries than lose the only sensation they have left. As their processor churns, fighting off the ever-encroaching shadows, to properly data tag and store the reminder, their golden optic unfocuses.

Distantly in Shockwave's awareness, Starscream chitters as fast as he can, beeping in a sing song, almost melodic manner. While the seeker drones on about the latest to-dos and fetch quests, the scientist requests the lab aide's assistance with collecting the other cube. They keep a single, purple digit over the control rat, sharing their warmth. The heat seems to almost rebound, and they make a mental note of the observation, attributing it to the abundance of insulating fat.

Just before the note is registered, it blends together with some unnamed and intangible emotion, corrupting the data and triggering a cascade of error messages. In response, uncontrolled charge from their Spark chamber shoots through their system, surging through whatever channel it can. The scientist quickly adjusts the settings of their cannon limb to accept the blunt of it, planning to release the excess energy as a slow, steady wave of heat. Instead, however, the jolt zips down and out of their chassis, through their other limb, transferring from the tips of their digits to the specimen. In turn, the beast below twitches and spasms in a series of seizure-like contractions.

Something seems to have woken up.

Swiftly, the purple bot fully overrides their glitching limb to withdraw their servo, bringing the digit up for inspection. Grabbing the container closer and standing slightly off to the side, they hold it in better view of their blurry vision, frustrated at their current disabilities limiting the array of scans they could've run.

Under Shockwave's intense scrutiny, the rat's nose twitches ever so slightly, whiskers trembling with the minor movement. The mammal's arms shiver and twitch, blindly stretching down to its tail. As if feeling for Something, its tiny paws swipe at its slippery organs, pulling the viscera free from the minuscule pins holding it to the base of the cube. Their single optic watches as the rodent flips itself, in an almost involuntary spasm, onto its other side. When the beast then curls into a tight ball, a million questions begin to rise to the surface of their processor like bubbles rising from the unlit depths of Earth's ocean floor.

Clink. clack.

Just as Shockwave sets the cube down, Soundwave places their datapad at the edge of the scientist's peripheral. In one fluid movement, the telepath leaves their awkward perch to stand by the purple mech. The two bots look on in silence while the dead organs below flush with blood. Something causes the mound of flesh to suck back up into the chest cavity with a horrific squelch. The organic's intestines wriggle like parasitic worms, knitting themselves back together before sealing up any and all wounds left.

With the same digit as before, Shockwave prods at the animal's other side, poking into the newly healed stomach with a firm nudge. Under the emotionless bot's inhuman touch, the ribs of the beast begin to bend, cartilage warping under the pressure. The mech's fine-tuned sensors relay a rapid pulse from within the chest cavity. Beating at a rate of 500 per minute, the fluttery movement of the cardiac muscle is almost too infinitesimal to detect. A glance towards their glorious leader reveals Megatron lounging in his seat, scrolling with blatant disinterest at some other report, while Starscream drones on and on.

Shockwave removes their touch after four, full, Earth minutes, and immediately following, the specimen's chest expands with its first lungful of air. The movements appear more purposeful, rather than some muscle spasms triggered by the transferring shock. Prodding again, the scientist gently tries to turn the rodent over for better examination, but the animal remains tightly curled up. The small creature's panting breaths fog up the bottom of the clear container. With no change, the purple mech drags the container even closer and peers directly down into it.

Something once named Ratthew von Ratticus moves to rub their paws over their face, scratching in a manner the scientist recognizes as a grooming pattern. Aggressively, it itches its snout, capturing the full attention of Soundwave. The telepath steadies a servo on Shockwave's pauldron, leaning in close for a better view. Shaking its head as if its ridding itself of some clinging weight, the rat blinks furiously. With bright, ruby red eyes, it gazes up towards the skylight that illuminates the meeting room from above.

The blocky bot shifts their cannon-limb, creating a U-enclosure between their weapon and their chassis, so that the rest of the table is hidden from view. Carefully, the container is tipped, pouring the recently resurrected lab rat out onto the space created for it. The creature slides out, falling clumsily onto its back. The whole time, the two members of High Command observe with rising interest. The organic begins to seize again, and Shockwave's processor works overtime to run several branching logic trees, trying to make sense of Everything.

«Observation»: Something has changed.

«Hypothesis»: ?̸̟̐?̷͚̀?̵̝̅

With rising internal charge, the Lead Investigator looks towards the cart now holding the nine dissections, before returning back to observe the breathing, moving corpse. Vibrantly ruby red, watery eyes stare up at them in response, unfazed by the blinding intensity of the mech's golden optic. Shockwave does not blink. The resurrected mammal begins to blink again.

«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon.

«Hypothesis»: Could dark energon work in the same manner as it does with bots? Can it reanimate those who are deceased and sparkless?

If this miracle is the cause of dark energon, then who or what has control of its processes? What dictates this animal's motions? Their motives? What has become of this creature's soul, if there even is one?

A change has occurred here, and it's all Shockwave can do to pursue this loose thread, mentally tagging and cataloging every scan and action taken since the start of this meeting. As the Lead Investigator of the Decepticons, it's their responsibility to find a modicum of Hope in the efforts of their research. To reap the fruits of their scientific labor. To share the gift of knowledge with the rest of their kin. To uncover and define the divine. To find and confirm the Truths of the universe.

Shockwave sends a comm to the hovering Chief Communications Officer, requesting their input on the matter. Soundwave does not answer their question, instead lowering into a crouch by the edge of the table to be optic-level with the rat.

«Observation»: Something has changed. The control has been exposed to dark energon. The control has returned to the land of the living.

«Hypothesis»: Could this planet truly be haunted?

«Note-to-Self»: Need to establish baselines before any experiments on humans can begin. Requisition the immediately retrieval of Starscream's pet human. As the last sentient organic to interact with the rodent and as a medic, they may also be able to share additional insights.

«[[Reminder Set for 12:00 Terrian Time]]»

[auntopossum]

Decadence

Starscream x Gender Neutral! Reader, Shockwave x GN! Reader, and Soundwave x GN! Reader

Chapter 14: It's Always the Ones with Names that Die

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 15

Author's Note: Technically I finished this in 2025, so that means 2 chapters in December. Woohoo!! PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE take note of the chapter warnings as per always.

Story's Content Warnings:

Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm

Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing

Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold

Depression and Suicidal thoughts

Depictions of animal death and rendering

Politics

———

When you were a young child, you got your first chicken. It was a rescue from the local SPCA. It was the meanest, nastiest, son-of-a-bitch rooster you’ve ever met, with the prettiest of inky black and silver plumages. Saved from a cockfighting ring, it stood proudly, preening to its youthful audience at the summer fair. The moment it threatened to tear the baby fat from your playground arch nemesis’ fingers, was the moment you fell in Love. Your curious, wide eyes read its posted pedigree and history, sounding each unfamiliar word out slowly and carefully to the encouragement of your chaperone. Seeing the ‘free!’ notice, your heart filled with a giddy sense of hope, and after hours of crying and praying and promising and sobbing and pleading and begging and praying and promising, all the while clinging to your guardian’s leg, snot and tears streaking down your innocent, chubby cheeks, you were finally allowed to take it home. In exchange, you were to take over the whole coop’s worth of chores.

Its name was Doodle-Doo.

Doodle-Doo died a tragic death, plucked of all its fine feathers by the bully brood hens and half chewed on by the neighbor’s loose dog. All the other birds were OK, but you weren’t able to scare the canine away from your poor baby in time to do any good. It fought that damned mutt to its very last, feathers sticky with blood not of its own. To your enlightened despair, just like any other pretty bird, the small bones connecting its neck were hollow, and it was a simple thing for the dog to snap down in one good bite. Your banshee scream sent the beast running with its tail between its legs, and you watched your very first Love twitch and spasm until it went limp in your small arms.

The stock you made from the bones was heavily salted with tears, but it’s still one of the best things you’ve ever had. Knowing how well you took care of it, how healthy of a life it lived up until that point, made it taste miraculous, filled with all the fine nutrients a hungry, growing child needs. The liquid burnt your tongue on the first, greedy gulp down, and it taught your body a new flavor of Love. A new way to Love.

When you were a teenager, you tamed a feral cat. It had lived near the dumpster by your part-time job. The moment you saw it in the parking lot, staring back at you with hackles raised and a mute, pathetic meow leaving its scarred muzzle, you fell in Love. You had been feeding it scraps for months, and one day the local vet offered to neuter and vaccinate it for ‘free!’ if you were able to catch it. With Time, patience, and the finest wet food you could afford, you were able to trap the scruffy thing. According to its fully-formed molars, they were an older adult, but the paper-thin fat that clung to their bones left them sitting at barely 6 lbs. You cried and prayed and promised and sobbed and pleaded and begged and prayed and promised, but you ultimately lost the battle to keep the malnourished beast. As a compromise, you could officially name the cat if you helped find someone willing to adopt it.

Its name was Firestar.

Firestar died a tragic death, having escaped on the second night at its new owner’s house. Peering out from the bus window and squinting against the harsh morning sun, you saw your poor baby on the way to school. Its fur clung to parts of the road, and you whimpered in silent horror as a large truck drove by, smearing pieces of the still wet, shimmering gore further into the paved path as if it were any other form of unavoidable roadkill. When you finally finished crying and found the courage to wash your favorite blanket, dragged out from the bottom of the recently-used carrier, you discovered a single whisker, impossibly long and white. It still lives, framed with care in a handmade bookmark. The crafted trinket saw heavy use in your schooling years, granting your conscience a sense of peace whilst your overworked brain struggled through the study material. Even now, its luck continues to linger between the pages of your most difficult textbook like a charm in memory of Love.

In your earlier adult years, you got a 'free!' fish. The summer fair had a small lottery, and somehow, luck was on your side, winning you a glimmering, deep purple betta. First place was an 800 lb hog, but you rather enjoyed your smaller sized, fourth place reward. Instead of taking it straight home, you raced to the store to buy everything you needed that could reasonably fit in your small living space. This new addition to your family was unexpected but not unwanted. Never unwanted.

Before raising your first wet son, after you graduated, your sense of Self slowly had begun slip, slip, slipping away into the Nothing. Haunting nightmares ate at your fragile psyche as, day after day, night after night, you returned from a long, traumatizing work shift to a dark, cold, and empty home. Every day and night after calling in another Dead On Arrival. Every day and night after waiting for another patient, who refused to pay for an ambulance, to pass out, just so you could administer care. Every day and night after handing off another code blue to the nickle-and-dimed ER. Every day and night after you fought Destiny in the back of your truck. It was no way to live.

Having something to take care of and come home to, knowing something was dependent on you, helped shake off the desire to simply close your eyes forever and let the all accepting Nothing embrace you. This was exactly what you needed to stave off the rotting loneliness. You Loved your fish the moment it became yours. In a manic rush to the pet supply store, with foolish ignorance, you trusted what was advertised on the label, cobbling together what was essentially a doomed habitat.

Its name was Gillbert.

Gillbert died a tragic death, suffocated by stagnant, murky water. The minerals from your well system were too harsh, and the temperatures were too cool. The tank was never even cycled to begin with. Your desperate attempts at changing the water only stressed out the already on-edge fighting fish. It took only a matter of days, swimming in its own filth, before its doomed Destiny caught up to him. None of the aquarium kits at the store had come with a filter setup, never mind a thermometer, or even a heater.

It hurt, knowing your naivety and inexperience caused the death of your poor baby. It really hurt, feeling the throbbing ache of desperation claw at the walls of your heart. With Nothing to return home to once again, your sprouting hope shriveled back up into crippling despair. Your whole life's work was ripping terrible Destinies off their victims, and you had failed at your very first solo attempt.

You cried. You learned from your mistakes. You researched everything you could get your hungry hands on. You saved up enough money to buy and cycle a proper tank with some cute, novelty spaceship decor. You didn't want to be lonely. You got another fish.

Its name was Gillbert Jr.

Gillbert Jr. died a tragic death, startling at some unseen thing through the darkened glass and wedging itself into the smallest of holes in its set-up. The water that splashed out of the tank turned briny with your tears, but after 3 hours of careful, surgical extraction, you successfully removed your still-living fish from its entrapment. Unfortunately, due to its original poor health and exacerbated stress, it caught a horrific infection and declined slowly before your very eyes. White feathery cotton, like the down from an angel's wings, began to grow out of your poor baby's gills¹. Your shop didn't have anything in stock that could help, and you both suffered silently as the days passed by in sick agony. Destiny showed up on your doorstep two days before the shipped package of medication could.

You cried. You prayed. You learned from your mistakes. You researched everything you could get your starving hands on. You saved up enough money to buy and cycle a larger, proper tank with some cute, natural rocks and substrate. You stocked up on aquarium remedies. You only used real plants. You didn't want to be lonely. You got another fish.

It's name was Gillbert III, or Gillbert Jr. Jr.

Gillbert Jr. Jr. died a tragic death, suffocating in the open air before meeting a swift end beneath a crushing weight. One night when you were asleep, your brave, poor baby jumped out of its tank. In it's impatient greed for its meal, it cut through the crystal clear surface, leaping over the glass barrier. You found your son through tactile touch, cold and slimy between your toes first thing in the morning. The lights weren’t even on yet, having to fumble for the switch while hopping on one foot, hoping it isn't what you thought it was.

You cried. You prayed. You promised. You learned from your mistakes. You researched everything you could get your ravenous hands on. You got a lid. You got a hefty rock for the lid. You didn't want to be lonely. You got another fish.

It's name was Gillbert IV.

Gillbert IV died a tragic death, wasting away from the consequences of unlucky genetics and inbreeding. Your poor baby managed to successfully suffer through one full, sick, abhorrent, illness-filled, miserable year before Destiny came knocking like a chipper boy scout at your door.

You cried. You prayed. You promised. You sobbed. You tried to learn from your mistakes. You tried to accept your son's pre-written fate. You tried to swallow down the grim reality of being an aquarium hobbyist in an age of modern greed. You didn't want to be lonely. You got another fish.

You did not give it a name.

Falling back to an old, archaic tradition, you tried to spare your memory the pain of losing another poor baby. Just like what your ancestors did when childhood survival was difficult, you did not gift a name to the fifth son. Not until a full year and half. When you finally reached your first ever fishy milestone, you decided to throw a massive party. You invited your friends, your family, your neighbors, coworkers, and anyone who happened to pass by. Everyone had a blast at the aquatic-themed coming-of-age celebration. You finished the night with an extravagant naming ceremony.

It earned the name Gillbert V.

Gillbert V died a tragic death, when, in the following week, your house's climate control broke while you were out working in an oppressive heatwave. After an exhaustive, sweaty shift, you came home to find your poor baby floating on the surface of the water. The current from the filter spun its motionless body in a hypnotic circle while you struggled to breath through your suffocating emotions. The thermometer, pressed against the tank's glass, was the highest you'd ever seen it. Folks tried to console you by pointing out how it was the worst summer the state’s ever had. It only served to remind you of the records broken each and every year.

You cried. You prayed. You promised. You sobbed. You pleaded. You tried to learn. You tried to prevent any repeating incidents. You couldn't help it. You're only human. You didn't want to be lonely. You got another fish.

You don’t talk about Gillbert VI's tragic death.

CRASH! CLANG!!

A clamor from your kitchen startles you out of your depressive reminiscing, and the hand holding your tweezers flinches, letting the tool slip into the water below with a plunk. You shake the cobwebs of grief from your head, gently setting your container down next to the fish tank. Pulling out your phone to check the time, you begin a slow march over to the scene of the commotion.

Shuffling down the hall, you pass through your darkened living room. The windows are covered with thick blackout curtains, but brilliantly dazzling rays of daylight still manage to peek through the gaps. Before you can even get past the couch, the full form of Frenzy rushes out into the kitchen doorway to block your view. Behind them something large and heavy drags its mass loudly across the floor. The cassette officer quietly tilts their helm down when you approach closer. Stomping on up to them while in a plush bathrobe and slippers, you hold their gaze and cross your arms.

Scraaaaaappppppppe. Thud. thunk. Thud. BANG!

The drying mud on your face cracks as your lips purse into a displeased frown. Under the red glow of their visor, the freshly moisturized skin of your exposed neck and collarbones glimmers and shines, boasting of renewed health and hydration. You blink. They do not. Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you angle your stance to causally peer through the gaps of their polished form, trying to make out whatever noisy shenanigans are occurring in your home. The hairs on your limbs and neck stand alert when you step into Frenzy's personal bubble.

"What are you guys doing to my holy sanctuary?" Neither curious hopping nor blatant crouching reveals more than a brief glimpse of your clean countertops and floor.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Squish." The black and red minicon replies with a soft, mellow cadence instead of laughing it off with a sly grin like they normally would. It's immediately suspect. To further warrant your suspicion, they brace both servos over the full expanse of your shoulders. Your malleable neck bends with a hollow-sounding crack to adjust for the warm weight. Their digits flinch at the noise, and the sides of their thumbs brush against your face to try and keep you still and orderly, transferring some of the powered clay to their shiny surface.

"If I find out you guys messed with my winter solstice offerings…" You bare your crooked teeth out at them in a smiling threat, squinting against their supernatural light.

Thud. thunk. Thud. thunk.

"No. No! Nothing like that. Like I said, Nothing to worry about. You can go back to whatever you were doing. It's—" CRASH! "Slag it! Can you be any louder!?" Their unusually pleasant tone pitches back into the snarl you'd expect, looking away from you for a second to yell at your other guest.

"Everything's fine! We're good!" Frenzy's blue twin, Rumble, shouts from further in. "Just dropped something behind the fridge. That's all!" A crack! like arching electricity elicits a yelp from everyone. The dispersing charge rushes through your house, flickering the lights like a hiccup. "Still good!"

The imposing, impeding minicon before you grins with sharp nervousness. Neither of you says anything, too focused on moving side to side like you're on a basketball court. Their internal fans become audible with the exertion. The laugher between the two of you is sweet and playful, but the tension in the air is anything but. With each giggle, you suck in a cool, gasping breath.

Suddenly, your lungs cinch, choking on a noxious smell. Gagging, you hunch in on yourself to subdue your temperamental stomach. The bot is quick to scoop you up in their strong arms. Propped up in a bridal carry, the soft parts of your body settle against their unyielding metal, and your throat spasms again. Your skin immediately grows slick with sweat, and the blood in your body boils as every animal instinct screams at you to get away from this overwhelming scent of decay and earth. Before you can peer past the mech, Frenzy covers your face with their helm. They're barely able to take 2 steps in the other direction, until a frantic shout from their comrade has them spinning. You're hoisted up higher in the bend of the minicon's arm, freeing up their other hand, which they use to press your body against their chassis, forcing you to turn away from the scene of whatever crime is occurring in your house. The soldiers beep something back and forth, their alien body language unreadable.

Pinching your nose tight, you breathe heavily through your mouth. Your tongue drowns in the rotting air. The chambers of your heart race whiles the organs below collectively protest, leaving your senses on full alert. Something catches your primal attention in the reflective gleam of Frenzy's polished plating. Relaxing into their hold, you curl inwards, pressing the top of your head into their chest. Beneath the digits splayed across your back, the curve of your spine stretches and presses out into the taut of your skin. The minicon adjusts their grip to accommodate, crooking their arm to pin your mass more securely against them. Keeping your head down, your eyes focus in on the transparent portion of their chassis. You squint to make out the details in the reflection. An involuntary noise of disgust leaves your mouth before you can politely and discreetly swallow it down.

"Ewwwwww!" Cracks form across your visage as your whole face contorts with revulsion. Frenzy's servo flexes against your column of bending bone when you grab a part of their shoulder for support. "Where in the pits of hell did you find that potato?!"

"This is a potato?!" The blue mech shouts back, incredulous; at the same time, Frenzy bounces you in admonishment. The soft expanse of your body jiggles with the motion.

You don't clarify your outburst, instead keeping your eyes glued to Rumble's reflected form and your forehead pinned to the safe expanse of this immortal soldier's chassis. Standing in an odd kneel, the blue minicon grips what looks to be a purple spud in their servos. Branching out in all directions are disgustingly long, creepy, pale roots. Horrified, the hairs on the back of your neck prickle with ominous charge. When Rumble brings it closer for inspection, you flinch, squishing your torso further into their twin. Every muscle in your body squeezes as if it can sense the seeking tendrils collectively reaching out towards you.

When nothing happens, you slowly, abashedly open your eyes, twisting with flexible ease in Frenzy's grasp to fully face Rumble and the eerie potato. The two remain exactly as they were at first glance.

Rumble carefully stands to full height, nearly scraping the top of their helm against your kitchen ceiling. Pushing away from the newly created space between the wall and your recently moved refrigerator, they take a step closer, blocking the damage from view with their bulky shape, and you squirm aggressively in Frenzy's hold, slapping sweaty palms against their armor in a dramatic fit.

"Ew! Ew! Ew! Don't bring it closer! Get that thing away from me; I literally just showered!" You shriek, trying to hide your real discomfort with a playful grimace.

Frenzy gives your body a comforting squeeze, angling you away from Rumble and your kitchen while they twitter something in their bird-song speech to their twin, glancing and gesturing between you and the potato with their free hand. The two of them end their private conversation with a shared, simultaneous shudder and a nod, coming to some agreement. The freaky tuber is swiftly hidden somewhere out of sight and out of mind.

Feigning normalcy, Rumble tries to nonchalantly lean against an unseen object, only to jerk in shock as it moves with a groaning, scraping shriek from the sudden weight. The sound of something being uprooted, like thousands of ropes ripping from soft ground, accompanies the fumble, and the blue mech disappears from reflected view to catch it before it can fall completely to the ground. Metal on metal rings through your home. The cassette officer gripping your thighs presses a warm servo over your eyes before you can sneak in a full look at the damage.

"If that was my fridge…" The smell of wet dirt seeps into your sinuses, and you gather the slick saliva pooling in your mouth, swallowing it down with a displeased, tight smile. In truth, you're not too upset. It was old. It was dying. It needed replacing anyways. You were getting tired of battling the ever-persistent mold that would creep in from the corners. Now you have an excuse to get that double-doored, stainless steel one with the water filter feature that you'd been eyeing.

"Sorry…" Rumble mumbles out a strained apology some ways away.

Straightening your posture and resting a hand against the jut of Frenzy's armor, you clear your scratchy throat. The antibodies rushing around in your blood scream in white-hot frustration as they battle another siege of allergens and threats. With your covered vision and as much authority as you can muster, you give the two soldiers residing in your home their next marching orders.

"Please get the measurements for the newly cleared space between the walls and counters. And then move what's in the tupperware containers into the mini cooler in the garage. Everything else in the broken fridge can be tossed. Put the unit outside somewhere, so I can get the dump guys to haul it." You lick your dry lips and swallow down another glob of mucus. "Also, can you hand me a glass of water? Thank you." Blindly, you make grabby hand motions until a sealed plastic bottle is pressed into your sweaty palm, courtesy of a disciplined Decepticon.

Frenzy waits a long moment for you to twist the cap off, watching as you chug until you're gasping for air, before turning away with a spin fast enough to make the butterflies in your stomach startle. You passively allow yourself to be carried away from the rotting part of your house, opting to instead focus on the minicon's alien gait. Shifting your weight to ease the pressure on your pinched nerves and compressed blood vessels, you squeak in protest when your robe's tie get caught in a segment of their arm. You're brought back to your large-scale aquarium set up and gently set down, servos clutching at your midsection carefully until your feet fully meet the floor.

"Ugh." You allow yourself one full shudder, reaching in between the minicon's plating to untangle the strip of fabric. While you retie your garment, a mental note is made to check in on your other vegetables, hidden away from the sunlight, stored within the dark jars of your pantry. The black and red cassette officer crosses their arms, awkwardly standing at the very border of your personal bubble. They don't speak; instead, they observe you silently, shoulders held stiff and at attention like the top-class soldier they are.

If they want you to pretend nothing weird just happened, then you can pretend nothing weird has happened. That's basically how you got into this whole thing in the first place. Besides, tomorrow is the winter solstice party, and you don't want to toe any lines before you can get your greedy hands on your promised knife. Rather than inquire about the state of your kitchen tiles or fridge contents, you sniffle and reach for your bowl of peeled green peas. Unable to locate your other tool, your eyes dart around in growing concern while your wet son noisily demands their hand-fed meal by spitting water against the lid of their tank. The bowl is placed back down, and your hands flutter up and down your body in a memorized pattern like you're dancing the macarena.

"You OK, Squish?" Frenzy buzzes, hovering closer to scan your form for anomalies.

"Have you seen my little tweezers?" Your fingers slip into your robe's pockets to check in a third repeat of the pat-down.

"Ain't that them in the tank of water?"

You freeze, hands on the front of your chest as if that's somewhere they'd possibly be hiding. Crouching down to look closer, sure enough there they are at the bottom, resting on the substrate. With a huff, you roll up your sleeve and carefully reach into the warm water without hesitation. Your aquatic son circles your wrist in angry confusion. Before you even finish pulling your arm back out, the cassette officer hands you a soft towel, swiped from a neat, nearby pile. Once dry and armed with your baby's meal, one by one small bits of peas are hand fed to your elderly betta, their eyes clouded in a creamy haze with age.

"Why're doin' all dat for this tiny organic?" Your guest asks in an unsure voice. "Aren't they basically useless, all blind like that?"

Your throat swallows down a hum, and you tilt your head in askance of more clarification. The fish, satisfied with another round of managed feeding, goes back to building its biggest bubble nest yet.

"Wouldn't they be better off scrapped for parts? It's dying soon anyways. It's not like you can eat it, sized like that." They glance off to the side, tacking on a quiet "right?" at the end in uncertainty.

You scoff with distaste, ensuring the lid is closed properly, and the heavy rock is returned to it's rightful place. Glancing at your phone, you note the time, temperature, and other parameters in a worn workbook nearby, blindly handing Frenzy supplies to put away. "I'm not going to 'scrap' my little baby for 'parts'. I've done nearly everything under the sun to ensure their survival. From a highly regulated diet, to full water testing every three days." You gesture to the beat-up scrapbook, flipping to a past page to show a meticulous log of numbers and notes written with your totally illegible, healthcare worker handwriting. Clicking your pen repeatedly to give your hands something to do, you then direct the soldier's attention to the large, glass decoration hanging on the wall behind the aquarium display. The semi-transparent charm is circular, with a black spot in the center, ringed by a beautiful light blue, white, and a darker, almost murky, beautiful blue. It looks through the tank and down the hall. "Hell, I even paid a witch on etsy for a spell. I've done everything I can think of, everything I can learn, everything I can get my grubby little hands on. I'm going to make sure this one lives to the end of it's promised, golden year."

"Oh." Frenzy distractedly replies, optics lost in the watchful pupil of the evil eye talisman. It takes a long moment for them to snap out of their unexpected trance, pulling themselves away like it physical pains them to do. They glance to where you stood, only to turn with a jolt, lengthening their strides to catch up to your retreating steps as you zig-zag a path through your house. The mech halts to a complete stop before they can pass through your still-broken, bathroom doorway, standing just outside the threshold as if there still was a physical barrier barring entry. Awkwardly, they rub the back of their helm, clearing their voice box with a burst of static, while you carefully count out the maximum dosage of Benadryl to assist with your out-of-sync sleep cycle. "The fish looks super old. How long have you had the organic animal?"

Beaming up at them, you pause to swallow the pills before announcing, always excited to brag about your aquatic children. "Six years!" Holding up three fingers on each hand and posing, you give a toothy grin, before a frown tugs faintly at your face as you recall the swift passage of time and an approaching set of dates. "His golden year will be seven, as I was promised."

The mech makes a half-hearted noise, interest suddenly getting pulled elsewhere. To compensate, their twin quickly pops into view, jostling the black and red minicon by their shoulders. With ease, they swap places in the doorway, like they're your personal body guards, trading off shifts.

"Whatcha all talking about?" Rumble smiles easily, revealing a gap in the front of their dentae, their visor gleaming with professional pleasantries.

"The human's fish." Frenzy responds, taking another step back to focus more on some remote call.

"Oh! The purple Betta splendens? With the cloudy eyes? What's up with dat by the way?"

"Oh, you know how it is. My poor son's got cataracts. I'm so proud that they've become a senior citizen, but aging isn't always a graceful thing." You scratch at the dried mud on your nose, scooping up handfuls of water from the warm spray of the sink to scrub the clay mask off your skin.

Rumble chuckles, glancing between you and their fellow soldier, unsure of how to respond. "Cool. Uh, what's their designation?"

Patting your face dry, you hum while icicles noisily crash down from the melting gutters outside the fogging window. You smile. Those new heating coils are just the best. "They don't have a name."

"Huh?" Rumble looks up from where they're picking at the splinters of the doorframe. Their optics jump around the small space while you sit on the lid of your toilet to lather more cream on your limbs.

"Yeah, I sold his name to someone's grandma down in Florida— Honestly, it took so many postal stamps; it was ridiculous— in exchange for the guarantee that he'll live." You pitch your voice in the same rough, gravely tone as the one who dealt you the deal, quoting their line directly. "'As many years as his name foretells in predecessors.' Sooo… Basically seven."

Rumble mumbles about the number of 'predecessors' like they're trying to decode a nonexistent puzzle, while Frenzy loudly asks, poking their head over their twin's shoulder. "Wait— Hold the comms. How do you sell a name?"

"Oh, the name was like, super cursed." You shrug, finishing your routine in the bathroom and walking up to the two bots, who part on either side to let you by. Yawning, you plod on over to your bedroom while continuing. "Yeah, after my sixth one— R.I.P my dear Gi—" A thick sheet of melting snow slides off your roof, and the burst of noise drowns out the end of your sentence. You pause, bending down to itch your calf briefly. "I may or may not have moved to more unconventional methods. I got desperate and looked everywhere for ideas. Spoke to a moderator on a fish forum who had an abuela who supposedly knows how to deal with things like this. Apparently, it's a more common occurrence than people think. Especially with hamsters." You pause in your rambling to turn to Rumble. Their fans kick on when you reach out to pick at a piece of loose thread stuck to the front of their chassis. "Got a lil' something on you."

"Thanks." The mech responds tightly. Two sets of visors hone in on your fingers as you rub the red string into a small wad, skillfully flicking it directly into the trashcan while you step into your bedroom.

"No problem. But, yeah, this lady helped take care of that. She also crafts some really cool jewelry. I just got a gorgeous neckline piece made of this almost pearlescent, midnight purple material from her. I'll wear it with tomorrow's outfit, so you can see." She mailed it to you first-class when you half-jokingly wrote about your updated marital status on your most recent letter. You're going to look so good when you swing by to hand off gifts to the town before going on your date with Soundwave. "Most of what she makes is normal. Only some of it is cursed or enchanted, and she won't sell any of those to you unless you're willing to play an elaborate game of snail mail or draw up a crossword puzzle that is at least advanced difficulty, containing specific words, and submit it to her town's Sunday newspaper. I'm no good with crafting riddles, so I chose to send over 2,500 unique postcards. It all worked out. I got a blessed token that's valid until the seven year mark, and she got more stamps for her collection and the blighted namesake."

The two cassettes look even more confused than ever. You take the moment of silence to reach into your closet, pulling out the main pieces for your outfit tomorrow.

"Blessed token?" Frenzy repeats with a different kind of interest than before, leaning against the wall by the lightswitch panel. "What makes you think somethin' like that would work? Sounds more like you got scammed out of your Time."

"Who's to say it's not working right now? The current evidence so far looks pretty in favor, what with my child being the seventh son and turning seven in just a few months. That's pretty impressive if you consider the average, well-kept betta fish's lifespan. Obviously, we could use proper scientific rigor to prove or disprove, but it'll be difficult to pinpoint what worked and what didn't until we can run a full autopsy and take into consideration the means of their death." Carefully, two articles of clothing are laid out on the end of your bed. Your fingers fiddle with the expensive material, playing with the notches of threads that make up the seam. "Do you guys think I should go with the black one or the white one?"

Rumble straightens from their spot rummaging through the various knickknacks and charms around the room, squinting to decipher which one would be more appropriate. Frenzy simply crosses their arms, staring at you like you're some kind of unsolved mystery.

"The white one." Both cassette officers announce at the exact same time after a long moment of contemplation.

"Hm…" Holding up the white article, it shines in the dimmed light of your room like the icy snow outside. "Yeah, you're right. It's not like we're going to a funeral; we're going out to have fun around town." Your hand covers your mouth as you yawn, feeling the weight of the world and the dose of allergy medicine suck all remaining energy from your mortal body. "Cool. That's decided. I think I'm gonna go to bed. Shoo shoo. Out you guys go."

The mechs make to move to leave you to your bedtime routine, but as Frenzy rises, the sudden movement causes the lights flicker off, having accidentally knocked the switches with their back. Simultaneously, they leap to military-honed attention, weapons charged and at the ready for an unseen attack. It takes an uncomfortably long moment for them to realize their mistake and forcibly relax. Poor guys. Always on edge like something's hunting them. Instead of acknowledging the war-time response that perverts your peaceful sanctuary, you go along with the burdened quiet, pretending like nothing happened, while you continue to shamble around your room.

The black and red bot frowns, elbowing their fellow mech in the side with a quiet clang to jolt them out of their heightened state. You can hear their tense ex-vents as you climb onto your mattress. With a shrug throw their way, you worm your way under the comfortable covers. Using the last of your waking willpower, the proper alarms are set on your phone, and the device is placed on the nightstand next to the bruxism² mouthpiece that no longer fits. Your eyelids feel heavy as the Benadryl finally kicks in, beating back your histamine response and slowing down your nervous system.

"Mhmg." You grumble into your soft, beckoning pillow. With a wave of a hand, you gesture for someone to get the lights, only to grumpily remember that it's technically daytime. "G'night or whatever. Don't let the bed buggies bite."

Your eyes remained closed as both mechs give their respective farewells, leaving you to peacefully recharge alone. With one last wriggle under your winter bedspread, you let your body fall head first into a deep slumber.

At some point or another, you wake, covered in a cold sweat from frustrated tossing and turning. True sleep evades you. Your heart keeps jolting into suffocating alertness like your body's struggling for oxygen in the last moments before you can fall into REM cycle. Your eyes are open, but your thoughts and vision blur. Dreams scutter from view as you fade in and out of consciousness. They nip in sharp protest, forcing you back into awareness whenever you attempt to snag one. With an unmoving gaze, hazy and out of focus, your pulse picks up, and your stomach tickles as something catches your primal attention in the dark doorway of your room. Every animal instinct screams at you. DANGER!! RUN AWAY!!! But you can't even seem to twitch a finger. Your spirit is locked in a prison of a mortal body. There's Something here. Something is standing in your doorway. Something is looking at you.

Your heart races, head pounds, and limbs lay limp and dead, but your connecting joints hold so tight, they refuse to listen to any rational part of your brain. You can feel a cool bead of sweat drip a trail down your armpit and into your sheets.

The small part of you that is aware, hopes that it's just one of the cassettes, but the shape is all wrong in a way that can not be defined. It’s dark, unquantifiable, and indescribable. Every time you try to hone in on it, the form slithers and shifts, your human pupils unable to fully capture the light illuminating the terrifying shape. It walks upright, and your wheezy breaths become audible as it creeps like a memory of something rather than anything with a sense of Self. It moves like liquid, like the gloom of murky cave water, illuminated only by the dimming daylight. It sweeps across your room in a dance towards you while the sun slowly sets beneath the treetops.

Something instinctive and familiar suggests, in a soft voice, that this impression of shadow is watching you like as if it had eyes of its own. Like the way fish eyes look back at you when you watch them slowly waste away, shiny, reflective, absorbing everything in every way it can. Until one day it can't.

By some adrenaline-induced miracle, you're able to sink hooks into the parts of your mind needed to control your muscles like a puppet. With the slivers of lucidity, you gather all your strength in one slow, heavy breath. Needing more effort than you expected, you manage to flip into a different position. Closing your eyes so tight, you can feel the pressure around your sinuses increase with the force. Air leaves your nostril in a shrill whistle, like a warning bell before a disaster.

Sleep. You need to sleep. This is all just in your head. Nothing bad will happen to you under your Lords' care, especially in your own bedroom. They promised. You exchanged vows. Everything is OK. It's simple. Try to think of nice things. Try to hope that the Something in your room is nice. Try to go back to sleep. You shoulder your blankets higher until they completely cover your head, giving off the impression of a child hiding under the covers, scared of monsters crawling out from the dark, unseen regions of your closet and under your bed.

You can’t move. You’re sweating. Your limbs are numb, and your lips are tingly. You must've opened your eyes again at some point because the edges of your vision begin to grow darker and darker. You can sense Something. You can sense Something. The hairs on every single part of your body stand on edge as Something stands RIGHT. NEXT. TO. YOU!!!, disturbing the smooth, electrical flow that was originally present. Your organs pump out an abundance of stress hormones, and your extremities sting with icy cold numbness. You can't move. You're trying and trying and trying, and you can't move anymore. Whatever magic you used to cover your head is now locked away again in a sedated, fearful state. But you're OK. Everything is OK. You have to trust that everything is OK. Your nose shrieks like a teakettle, and you suck in hot breaths, reaching for the crumbs of your mental willpower to stave off whatever horror awaits you on the other side of this blinding layer of fabric. Everything is OK. Everything is OK. It's simple. Think of something small and unnoticeable. Something small, like a mouse. Yes! You are a mouse. You are as quiet as a mouse. You are as harmless as a mouse. You are OK. You will be OK.

The sounds of the humming world tickle your ear canals, warping and distorting through the muffled layers of blankets. The white noise that used to always soothe you into a nightmarish sleep begins to sing to you. Your mind pricks in sharp, nervous pain while you struggle to make out words from the Nothing.

Something laughs.

Something laughs, kindly.

Something nice and kind laughs with a voice older than the sun and the stars.

Something nice and kind and very old laughs and laughs and shakes the world from the outside and within, all at the same time.

The Something's laughter rattles in your skull, and your jaw cracks! audibly from the force with which you grind down your teeth. The Something bends and blends and twists and mixes with the hum of electronics, the background sounds of nature, and the hundreds of living things whispering, skittering, scratching, and scuttling through the walls of your house.

You're no dorm mouse, little one. You’re a bit bigger than that.

Something very wrong laughs with a deep, cavernous sigh, directly into your barely aware psyche.

The Something is wrong. Your eyebrows scrunch together in discomfort and confusion. Something is wrong. You find yourself nuzzling deeper into your bedding. Something is wrong. You are a mouse, and that Something is wrong.

Something laughs again within the hum of your mind.

It's wrong! It's wrong!

…

Nothing happens.

Fine then. The Something is right. You will be Truthful. You are not a mouse. You're a bit bigger than one.

You're a rat.

A massive rat like your beautiful new child, Ratthew von Ratticus.

If you stay you quiet and unnoticed, they will never know you were anything but a rat. You are a rat. You are just a lab rat. Nothing is wrong. Everything is OK. This scary moment will drift past, and you fall into a deep slumber. With one last wriggle in your tight cocoon of sheets, you let your conscious drift through the void.

Your chest doesn't rise.

You sleep like the dead.

You dream.

Twitch. Flinch.

The tip of your nose itches.

You try to go back to sleep again, nuzzling into the firm pillow beneath you. It doesn't work. You try to go back to sleep, reaching with grabby fingers for your sheets, but you must have kicked them all off. You try to go back to sleep, rolling onto your other side and curling into a tight ball.

Something blunt digs into your soft flesh. The touch is electrifying, shocking you into a higher level of awareness. A second nudge to your delicate belly forces a lungful on air into your chest. By some miracle, your sinuses are crystal clear. Unfortunately, a vile and nauseating smell assaults your unusually heightened senses. Like those that lay with Hel in the watery Northern seas³, a stench of rotting kelp, machine metal, the stink of animal, and dying sea life oppresses any surfacing thoughts. There’s a tangible, inhuman tingle to the air above, and you slowly regain sensation in your arms and neck.

Your hand blindly rubs over your face, dragging your long, rapidly-growing nails down the length of your brow and nose. The moment your claws make contact with the tip of your snout, the agony morphs into sick, euphoric pleasure. Aghhhhhh. That itch had been bothering you for too long. One at a time, you peel your eyes open, blinking violently against the bright lights pointed your way. Even after your slow to wake efforts, your vision remains blurry and cloudy, and you lay still and dazed on your solid bed. The bright, beautiful blue, yellow, and golden rays from the heavens filters through the walls and roof of your room like it's passing through a clear membrane.

Your panting form remains paralyzed, chest heaving at a rate you’re unfamiliar with, but you're not in any noticeable or outward discomfort. Time passes or remains still. It’s difficult to tell how many seconds, minutes, or hours elapses. All you can do is focus on breathing and tolerate the ever-increasing nudges to your blind side.

Suddenly, your belly fills with all manner of nervous, tickling butterflies and moths. The ground beneath your spine trembles, and all light is hidden from view when a dark blue shadow overtakes your ceiling, completely blocking your line of sight to the heavens. Your room and bed suddenly shift, and the colors blur as the figure tips you out of your membranous cell and out onto a cold, silver, unforgiving, hard surface. Beeping and clicking noises, like the songs of your angel, Starscream, fill your tingling ears.

Twitch. Twitch. Ah. OW! Flinch. The painful, searing tingling travels further through your body, and you come to the freezing realization the moment a colossal cyclops stares down with an eye as golden and perfect as Ra⁴, himself. Flinch. Flinch. Twitch. You must be dreaming. Or something very horrible and wrong has happened. You want to be dreaming. You have to be dreaming. You can only be dreaming.

This is not another nightmare. This will not be another nightmare. This is a dream! Your Lords can be here with you in your dreams. You can dream up your knights and angels and big, beautifully well-endowed scientists and have fun in dreams. It's just a dream, after all.

All at once, after engulfing the hope hiding in your rapidly beating heart, the fear is chased from your small body and instead, invigorating Love rushes in to fill the gaps. In a lucid, but still somehow dissociative, state, you struggle to put one arm in front of the other, dragging your dead weight and unfeeling, heavy legs behind. Left. Right. Left. Right. Like a rhythm game or playing with a dancing puppet, you manipulate your muscles in time with the humming pulse of your very soul. Closer and closer, you drag your weight towards the illuminating sun hidden within a dark, beautifully blue set of armor. Looking up past the length of your tender nose, another massive face, with golden eyes and a black helm, stares down at you in disbelief. Nearly ten times the size you remember your angel being. Your heavenly titans have become True titans.

Something brushes, as delicate as an archeologist with soft bristles in hand, against your dreamy thoughts and meandering psyche. Your face scrunches at the extra intrusion, and your belly swoops with a sudden tilt in g-force. The world shifts once again, and the metal surface, that you were chained by gravity to, grows further and further distant. Unexpectedly, you’re grabbed by the heavy cord and dead weight that kept you pinned to the floor.

The pili on your skin rustle and rise, air growing much much colder as you're lifted up, up, up by something attached to your back. Hands punch and kick uselessly, and your exposed stomach flinches against the cool air. It takes great effort to drag your swimming gaze up to see the face of your captor. A shiny, polished gray face, with bright golden eyes, looms over you, larger than any life. Maybe not a god, but something close for certain. A prey part of your mind shrieks warnings at you, but the meandering part sluggishly takes in your dream-state surroundings. Your legs still remain useless, limp and dangling dead above your upside down, impossibly small form.

From your new vantage point, you can make out several titans, some familiar, most not, standing around a circular table. They are singing amongst themselves, with various bright lights flickering and flashing on their bodies in time with their tune. Not a lick, sniff, or hint of red and green exists amongst the group, and for a moment, your body burns in effort to correct this visual error. Your angel has red optics, and it's an absolutely tragedy that you're unable to observe that beauty in this weird dream.

Eyes stinging with familiar irritation and watering with tears in a way that this body has never known before, you paw miserably at your face. Curling in on yourself while you dangle in the air in front of your watching audience, your vision burns and burns and burns, like you're just now facing the consequences for staring at a sun directly. Something warm touches your spine, dragging a large digit up until it gets to a numb point at your lower hips, but you're slowly beginning to gain more sensation below your waistline.

Your body follows your instinctive urge to scramble forward away from the touch, despite being in the air. It takes painful, headache-inducing, constant effort to fight the compulsion to run and hide like some kind of cowardly rodent. Embarrassment fills you as a gentle breeze brushes against what feels like your exposed crotch, and you can’t hold back a loud squeak!

The hand dangling you above the table jostles, swinging you back and forth like a hypnotic pendulum. You hiss your complaints and snap your teeth in disapproval, several more sneers and squeaks follow in protest. Your hazy angel turns to the side, and you twist your spine to see what the mech is looking at.

…

…

OH MY GOD! IT’S YOUR WIFE! SOUNDWAVE!!!!

Best. Dream. Ever. Oh my! It’s your lovely, silent knight, here to save the day. This isn’t a nightmare anymore for sure; it’s a beautiful dream. Your stomach gurgles and twists, enraged at how empty it suddenly feels. Your front teeth, fingertips, and all joints in your body ache with a mind-numbing, near arthritic pain. The final tears fall from your throbbing sight, and after furiously squirming in your excitement, you lock eyes with their ruby red visor which shines blindingly above their expressionless, white mask. You cease all struggles when one of your favorite mechs of all Time returns your stare.

Soundwave…

Yes! Yes! It’s Soundwave!

You're dreaming about your Love. Yay! Yay! This has become a good dream! No more bad dreams for little ol' you. No more nightmares. So excited, you feel like your eyes are going to bulge out. This is great. Now, you can wish for your immortal champions, and they'll be here to fight off all the scary, dark thoughts and bad dreams from now on.

Presenting before you in a glorious shade of navy blue and white, with a tasteful, semi-transparent chest window, is your hypnotic siren. You’re barely capable of full, articulated thoughts, almost like you were drugged with some kind of sleep aid. You head swims, and it's like every light on your knight's body becomes supernova bright.

Soundwave slowly lowers their datapad, turning their full attention on you. You can hear the room quiet down, several people noticing the chief communications officer's sudden, guarded but alert, stance. Like a holy spotlight, like moments before rapture, every optic in the room turns onto you.

Weakly, you stretch a trembling arm out for your knight. When they continue to remain as still as a statue, despite your dreamy desires, your body starts to claw and scratch and scramble and squirm and wriggle out towards the quiet mech. From the bottom of your heart to the skin of your lips, you gather all your air and energy and Love to squeak out a tune that you’ve memorized to heart. The named mech before you jolts violently at the sound of their True designation, much to your sick delight, but then in a sudden, similarly shocked response, the bot, who was holding you upside down by the rope at your back, lets go. The knee-jerk response of theirs leaves you to a plummeting fate, no thanks to gravity. Shrieking with another gasping, punched squeak, you’re halfway through expelling a second shout of Soundwave’s native name when your back meets the cold surface of the table with a palpable Crunch!. The air in your lungs is knocked free from the strength of impact. Something in your back and neck makes an awful, grinding pop!, and as you rebound forward, following the bouncing force of motion, your vision snaps dark, like a TV clicking off. The moment momentum leaves, like a marionette with it's strings cut, your mortal body slumps back down, deathly still. One by one, each your dull, warped, and dizzy senses shiver into the darkness. Into the Nothing.

A high, pitched, animalistic panic is expelled with all the air in your body and then some. Your heavy, plantigrade legs kick aggressively against the weighty, smothering bedsheets. A crash! startles your brain into full awareness, just in time to witness Rumble throwing themselves full body into the room, fists raised, ready to fight your unseen horrors. It takes the cassette officer and you both a moment to meet each other’s gazes, snapping you free from your trance-like panic, and them out of their fight response

Their weapons stay exposed as they interrogate at a volume that pounds at your head. “Geez! Whatcha shrieking like that for?!” They wave a blue arm in your messy direction. “Thought we were under attack or somethin’!”

You blink slowly and stupidly at the minicon, making no attempt to calm your racing heart, leaving it to run itself weary. Your ribs ache, and the back of your neck has a crick in it like you broke the damned thing. All your pillows and thick blankets lay discarded on the floor, and the sheets below you are slick with sweat.

“Sorry.” You lick and gnaw at the peeling skin of your dehydrated, dry lips. The taste of acid lingers in the back of your mouth, and your teeth hold steady against the pulsating and pushing strength of your nervous tongue. “Had a nightmare again.”

That’s a good enough explanation to satisfy the blue bot, who squints at you like you’re pulling their leg, and with a clack! their weapon arms relax. A sharp frown on their face tries to force itself into a jovial smile. “Ah, slag.” They lean against the doorway, looking your gross mortal form up and down. “You certainly know how to scare a mech… And here I thought, ‘Oh, I’ll be fine with the lil' organic. I’ll take on Ravage’s easy assignment for him an' getta slack off with Frenzy. It's simple’. And yet… You organics are always soooo jumpy. Aren’t cha top of your organic food chain? What’s there to be scared of?”

You grunt in response, dragging a clammy palm across your brow, feeling the tangible, damp oil and sweat soaking through your scalp and down your face. Rumble's other half peeks around your open door with glowing red optics. Nobody says anything for a moment.

"Hey, hey, Squish. Look at me for a nano-klick?" Frenzy tries to ease you back into the waking world, dragging your harried focus towards him with the same weight that pulls down the bags below your eyes. "What kinda nightmare has you screamin' that loud?"

Scratching at your belly, you grunt again, slumping forward as exhaustion drags you down and down and down again. "The usual."

The black and red mech takes a step forward nervously, reaching out a shiny palm to slowly telegraph their movements. Bending down, they pick up and hand over a discarded pillow. Their servos do not let go when you grab it in return. They wait for clarification.

"Oh, you know." You get a good snort in and experience the blessing of having a single nostril free. "Saw the Benadryl hat man again. Saw my beautiful god-kin wives in a dream for the first time. Experienced another intense, tangibly felt, vision of my death. The usual." Suddenly feeling aggressive and defensive at their unreadable looks, you yank your pillow out from under the bot, throwing it back onto your bed with an audible whoomph!. Violently, you follow, tossing your achy body into your mattress.

Rumble holds their hands up in a placating motion. “In all honesty." They whisper through your newly acquired headache. "Maybe you should ease off with how many overnight shifts you work. That can’t be good for your frail, lil’, organic body. Why don’t you lay back down and get some nice, proper recharge? And we'll see you some time next week.”

You grunt for a third time, tugging the blankets up to your chin and wriggling in place until you’re slightly less uncomfortable. “I’ll sleep properly when I’m dead.” You respond, closing your eyes and sighing.

…

Wait a second.

Cracking a single eye open, you rise up again like a zombie from the grave. Frenzy’s engine stutters, and both their fans kick up a notch at the heat of your glare. Your ears pick up the subtle sound of them rubbing at the side of their helms.

"'Next week'? What happened to tomorrow's thing. Our Friday thing? The scouting date thing?" Overwhelmed by everyone and everything, tears spill forth with ease, and your chest shudders with a shaky breath. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" The twins both shout, waving their arms frantically before you can have a full-blown breakdown.

"We just got called away, dat's all." Rumble clarifies, not easing your disappointment in the slightest.

"Yeah! Somethin' very wrong happened on the Nemesis, and they want our help with some things." Frenzy grabs the corner of a blanket and tucks you in like a snug bug under a rug. "Soundwave got unexpectedly swamped with work because of this, and that's why none of us can attend tomorrow."

You sniffle and look down, commiserating with intense misery. "That makes sense… I guess." Twisting around, you press your face into the pillow, letting out a muffled, half-groaned scream of frustration, despite still having wary guests in your bedroom. After a moment of cathartic vocal release, one eye cracks back open, and you look up at the immortal twins, feeling mildly delirious. The world spins, and your voice cracks as you mumble exhaustively. “Guess I'll attend the solstice event in full… And get my knife later…”

Frenzy grimaces and takes a full step back before delivering another piece of bad news. "Heh, about that…"

You don't let them continue, instead reaching for a heavy knickknack nearby, you lunk it directly at their helm. It makes ringing contact, the vibrations causing the metal to sing. The attack awards you with a sharp hiss of steam and noisy ex-vents.

"Get the fuck out of my sight before I maul the two of you in a fit of rage and despair." You sigh heavily through your one good nostril, laying back down and crossing your hands by your chest like a corpse at an open-casket funeral. "And don't even think about coming back unless it's with another date night offer with our darling Soundwave or a me-sized version of one of your weapons."

"Yep! Yes, Primary Control! Received! Departing now!" Rumble throws a human salute before grabbing their twin by a jut in their armor and dragging the dumbfounded, mildly pissed, potentially concussed mech out of the room.

From down the hall, you can hear Frenzy shout out. "Sorry! I'll try to bring back something even greater for you next time, I promise!"

They better.

You're not one for indulging in broken promises.

Words have power, after all, and people, immortal or not, should never underestimate how spiteful this world, or you, can truly be.

———

References:

1. Tourino, A. (2024, May 25). Columnaris in bettas (Cotton wool disease cure). Betta Care Fish Guide. https://www.bettacarefishguide.com/columnaris-in-bettas-cotton-wool-disease-cure/ 2. Teeth grinding (bruxism) - Symptoms and causes. (n.d.). Mayo Clinic. https://www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/bruxism/symptoms-causes/syc-20356095 3. Wikipedia contributors. (2025c, December 4). Hel (mythological being). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hel_(mythological_being)#Etymology Wikipedia contributors. (2025a, September 7). Hel (location). Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hel_(location) 4. Wikipedia contributors. (2025a, November 14). RA. Wikipedia. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ra

Chapter title is in niche reference to a saying you'll often hear in farming communities. Farm animals will die. It's unavoidable sometimes. But people will often joke that the one their child picked and named is of course the one that dies some horrible death or is the first death of a loved one their child ever experiences. In reality, there isn't a true, meaningful statistic; it's more just correlation. Children often don't remember unnamed farm animals, but they will remember the ones they paid special attention to.

[auntopossum]

Decadence

Starscream x Gender Neutral! Reader, Shockwave x GN! Reader, and Soundwave x GN! Reader

Chapter 11: A Thirst for Knowledge

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15

Author's Note: Same ol', same ol'. Please read the warnings before continuing on with the adventure. Let me know if you think I missed something. We're almost caught up champs.

Story's Content Warnings:

Medical and detailed descriptions of injury and bodily harm

Eating disorder regarding food overconsumption, vomiting, and bingeing

Germaphobes beware - heavy mention of rot, decay, bacteria, and mold

Depression and Suicidal thoughts

Depictions of animal death and rendering

———

“Every now and then, a cetacean carcass will sink to the sea-floor and draw scavengers from miles around to feed on the nutrient-rich carrion.” A soothing, masculine voice recites.

Clink! Clink!

The stemless wineglass sounds in protest when you gently place it back down onto your coffee table. Shadows flicker under the blue glow of the wide-screen tv. Several candles encircle the small space, enriching the air with soothing scents. You sway slightly as you reach for the fancy, alcoholic bottle once more. 

Glug! Glug! Glug! Glug!

After generously filling your glass to the brim, the decanter is vigorously shaken above your head until the final drops burn upon the flesh of your tongue. The television continues its ocean documentary while you lean back into the plush sofa, smothered under the weight of your new, incredibly soft blankets. Curling into an upright fetal position, you nurse your beverage with a content sigh.

“This is a whale fall, an event that creates complex localized ecosystems on the sea floor which can support life for decades.”

The drink weighs down your eyelids with each blink, and the tranquil audio eases your aching body into a hypnotic state. Minutes pass by easily while you sip, and sip, and sip, mindlessly letting the oceanic research nestle into the grooves of your brain. The alcohol tempers the angry throbbing of your mouth and jaw. Lulled into serenity, your heartbeat and breathing slow. 

It’s the start of your 4 day weekend, and you have Big Plans for it. The kind that involve numbing your anxious, scattered thoughts with intoxicating substances, listening to hours of educational science videos, making a dent in your latest craft project, and a thorough spa day. You’ve already seen to the final task. 

Skin scrubbed raw and lathered with pleasant smelling lotion. Face moisturized and massaged. Hair the healthiest it’s ever been. Feet adorned with the fuzziest of socks. 100% real silk pajamas draped over your lush form. Oh yeahhh. This is the Life.    

“Sharks are lured by the scent of death and swim from afar to consume the soft tissue and blubber.” The narrator tenderly expounds. You blearily pick at your skin and contemplate the beautiful sea creatures before you. “Hagfish use their dental plates to burrow deep into the carcass or bite off chunks of food. While they eat, they—”¹

Ding! Dong!

The doorbell startles your heart up your throat, and you nearly drop your wineglass, catching it at the last minute with a racing pulse. Resting a hand over your pounding chest and gripping your beverage tightly, you glare at the entrance way. 

Whoever graced your doorstep didn’t stick around long. By the time you finally clamber out of your plush nest and struggle with drunken coordination to shove open the warping wood, all that remains on the frozen welcome mat is a large shipping box and a trail of boot-prints. 

The package is addressed to you, and you nearly fall flat on your ass while carrying its heavy, damp weight inside. With a satisfying Whumph!, the load is placed onto your kitchen counter. Turning, you reach into your fridge to pull out another large decanter. A novelty bottle opener is easily located, but unfortunately, your scissors are not.

You’re five cabinets and four drawers deep, searching for the forever absent kitchen scissors, when you belatedly realize that you’ve left the front door open. The short distance to correct your error is traversed with a Bash!, a stumble, and a bruised shoulder as you catch on the edge of a doorway. 

Closing the cold wood is an ensuing, intoxicated struggle, but somehow you manage, fingers still burning from the slippery frost. As soon as the entrance is sealed and locked with a click!, you shuffle off to grab your beverage of choice from the living room table and find a sharp implement. 

It’s like someone toddler-proofed your house when you weren’t looking. After many minutes of searching, none of your scissors are in their rightful places, and so you resort to digging out your multitool from the scattered pile of your work gear, vowing to properly wash off the sticky residue sometime later. With a half-empty glass in hand, you plunge the blade into the layers of tape, reaching into the soggy cardboard to begin your disemboweling efforts. One by one, you pull out its inner contents, stacking several, heavily wrapped bricks into a tower. 

Fumbling one-handed while you snick! snick! snick! with the other, you flay open the top-most item’s protective plastic to reveal a small book. ‘Welcome to the Microbiome: Getting to Know the Trillions of Bacteria and Other Microbes In, On, and Around You’ the title reads. Another non-fiction publication for your ever-growing library. You’ve been diligently consuming scientific knowledge at a rate that would put your childhood bookworm-self to shame. Hardbacks, paperbacks, magazines, and stapled together printouts lay scattered around your house in a manner of organized chaos. Soon, you’ll need to go through your massive collection and sort out what needs to be donated to your local library and school.

Splitting the book’s spine open, you deeply inhale the lovely smell of paper and ink, flipping through the first few pages. Your neck bends with drunken flexibility, glass tilting in your hand while you lean your whole weight against the countertop. Scanning the paper, your lips move silently, committing the words to drunken memory.   

Humans like to name things. In so doing, we think in terms of splitting or bifurcating… Bifurcation is built into the basis of every way that organisms communicate with the outside world. The first and most basic bifurcation is, “Will the organism kill me or not?”. The next level of recognition or naming is “If it can’t kill me, then can I eat it?”. And the third level of communication is “If I can’t eat it, can I have sex with it?”. All other naming decisions are made after these three questions have been answered. (DeSalle & Perkins, 2015, p. 3-4)²

Something catches your primal attention in the reflective gleam of the sink faucet, and your eyes hone in on the sudden, minuscule movement. A rush of icy hot adrenaline shoots through you with a quiet gasp. Your heart flutters against your ribs. DANGER! Run away! Twitch. Flinch. A dark object. Two frontward-facing, glowing red eyes.

PREDATOR!!!

Before you can register what’s wrong on a cognitive level, your body moves, spinning and throwing your drink at the perceived beast. 

CRASH! 

The glass shatters against a metal snout, shards falling to the tile with a tink!, tink!. Air is drawn into your lungs with a sucking pressure, and your body raises with your hackles, growing to your full, stretched height in an instinctive intimidation tactic. As the shiny animal takes a single, threatening step forward, a hissing growl escapes from your bared teeth. 

The soft whirr of internal hydraulics registers itself in your mammalian brain as a non-threat, snapping your mortal body out of fight-or-flight mode. 

“Well…” The mechanical panther grumbles, resetting their optics with a subtle flicker. “I wasn’t expecting such a harsh welcome.”

Thudd! Thudd! Your angry heart cries out within your chest as it pumps stress hormones and oxygen into your overworked cells. Tears threaten to spring forth while you struggle tooth and nail to return to more civilized behavior. Easing the white-knuckled grip on your knife, you gently place the tool back down onto the counter. Stumbling backwards, your legs tremble, and you blow out a harsh breath when your ass hits the countertop. With a dizzying shake of your head, your blurred vision refocuses on the mess before you. 

The dark beast considers your flushed, wobbly state and chitters to itself. You clear your throat, embarrassed, and slideeeee yourself down to the ground. Scrubbing the side of your face with a sweaty hand, you frown up at your unexpected guest.

“Ughhh.” You grunt, bending your knees inwards to protect your soft belly. “Holy shit. You scared the crap out of me.”

The metal cat tilts their head to the side and settles onto their haunches. Raising a front limb, their mouth opens wide to reveal a row of polished, blade-like teeth. The lump in your throat moves to weigh down your gut while their sharp dentae work to pick fragmented shards from between their paw. Glancing at the decepticon logo on their shoulder, you bite back your nippy frustration at the unexpected guest.

“Hi there.” You acknowledge instead through a plastered, forced smile.

They spare you barely a glance, and the alcohol in your stomach churns. You swallow down another rush of rage at their nonchalant attitude. It’s been several, full weeks of radio silence, and only now, without warning, do they show up. Two measured breaths are exchanged in your lungs. Expendable first. Liability second. Why’d they have to show up on your nice day off? Your empty hands and dry tongue mourn the loss of your drink, the remains of which is currently seeping into your kitchen flooring. Why are they here? What do they want?

The mechanical being says nothing as you haul yourself up by the handles of your cabinets, the thin wood threatening to break under your shaky weight. Turning your back to the other-wordly predator, you twist on the kitchen sink faucet to wash your hands and dampen a towel. 

“Get your transportation’s ignition key.” A voice orders from behind.

 

Dutifully, you ignore them and instead carefully lumber over to clean the mess from the ground before it can stain. Your balance flounders, nearly falling forward into the broken glass, when you kneel before the bot to mop up the sticky liquid. 

“Get your transport’s key.” The big kitty repeats. 

Scrapeee! goes the trash can as it's hauled closer. One by one, your nimble fingers carefully pluck the large shards off the tile, eyes pointed to the floor. From above, the Decepticon leans in closer, and you struggle to keep a neutral expression, lips pressing tightly into a flat line.

“Can you hear me?” They growl out.

With an exaggerated sniffle, you remain squatting, slowly looking upwards at the mechanical feline. Eyes making contact with their ruby reds, you sluggishly blink. They do not. The tickling sensation of something creeping down your wrist draws you from your staring contest, and you glare down at the sharp piece of glass clenched tightly in your fist. Blood oozes from the new wound, and with an irked huff and a flick of the wrist, you discard it, rising and returning to the sink. 

Your thoughts float through the haze of your intoxication while you stare down, stupefied at the rapidly clotting cut. Somewhere in the distant reality, a bot beeps, chirrs, and whirrs in conversation to itself. Reaching for the unopened bottle when the last of your vibrant red washes down the drain, you expertly pop! the cork off and take a swig. The beverage burns as it travels down your throat. Swallow. Swallow. You should probably pad your stomach with carbs if you keep this up. Swallow. A surge of nausea washes over you like a wave, dousing any simmering emotions. Swallow. With a shrug, a sigh, and another swallow, you pivot to rest your elbows back onto the countertop, leaning at an angle to stare blankly at the metallic panther.

“Hi there.” You greet once more, lazily swishing the contents of the bottle in a circle. At the sound of their internal fans picking up speed, a feeling of sick satisfaction pulls at the skin of your face. While they calculate their next words, you go in for another satisfying chug, keeping eye contact all the while.

“We need to leave.” They declare after a loud ex-vent of hot air. “Go fetch your car keys.” 

“I’m not a dog.” Your state bluntly, teeth worrying the lip of the bottle. Batting your eyelashes, you open your mouth wide to avoid slurring your words. “Let’s ask a little more nicely. How about you introduce yourself first, hm?”

Another obnoxious cycle of air. “My designation is Ravage.”

A warm smile graces your face while you beam down at them. “Hi there Ravage. Nice to meet you! I’m sure you already know who I am. How can I help you today?”

“You can ‘help’ by getting the keys for your transportation’s barbaric starting system.” They start slowly, as if speaking to a child. “The Decepticon High Command wishes to speak with you personally regarding an update to your long-term role within our faction. I will navigate us to the space bridge rendezvous location.”

You blink, looking at Ravage like a deer in the headlights. A harsh gust of wind sneaks its way through your house. Your skin breaks out into goosebumps as it tickles the fine hairs on the back of your neck. Several of your candles in the neighboring room snuff out simultaneously, their final flickers of light drowned in a puddle of wax. Your head swims from the burning scent and the toxins coursing through your bloodstream while you process this new information. 

“You… want me to drive us?” Your numb lips struggle to enunciate the words. Bottle in hand, you incredulously jab a finger into your chest. 

“Yes. That is what I just said.”

“I can’t.”

The frigid air between you hangs heavy as the robotic cat’s optics whirr, whirr, zooming in on your flushed, chemically-relaxed form. Under their intense inspection, your toes curl within their socks, fighting to retain their warmth. Ravage tilts their head left and right like they’re considering if you’re worthy of the meat on your bones. 

“Why not?” They question tightly. Their judgement makes your sensibilities prickle. 

Hoisting your drink in the air before taking another swig, you shrug. “I’m not going to drive drunk.”

“Drunk.” They pause to compare the word against their databases. “You’re overcharged?” Their muzzle opens wide in shock, like they never considered that to be a possibility. At your slow blink in confusion, they clarify. “Intoxicated?”

A loosey-goosey nod confirms the worst, and while they beep softly to themselves, you languidly extend your arm out to let them sniff the bottle. Their glaring red eyes reflect off the surface of the glass, and they make no move to approach closer. With a rough throat clear, you knock the rest back and move to straighten. 

“Can someone pick us up instead?” You inquire, twisting your back and neck with several, moan-inducing cracks!. The big cat flinches at each sound, and your teeth ache, smiling down at their entertaining reactions. Stretching out onto your tile, they uncomfortably settle in for what will likely be a long conversation with their bosses. Just like a certain someone, they never answer your question.

Leaving the Decepticon to their own devices, you plod out of the kitchen to collect your phone from your nest in the living room. There’s no ride-shares, taxis, or buses out in the countryside here. If anyone is going to pick you both up, it’ll have to be another Decepticon. Punching in the password incorrectly the first few times, you glance to your device, revealing no new notifications. One by one, you blow out the remaining candles, shrouding the room in a cozy darkness. The video on the television ends, and the program rolls onwards into the next series in the playlist. Leaning over the back of your couch, your body stills, eyes glued to the screen. 

“The deep ocean is beautiful. Its scale defies understanding.” The same masculine voice from before starts anew. “More than 95% of planet Earth’s waters exist in near-perfect darkness, below the glimmering skin of the waves, in a place where no light can reach.”

click. click. click. 

The metal panther now paces your kitchen floor. Their curved claws tap against the tile with each prowling step. Seems like they're forced to listen to their superiors argue, if the swishing tail and flattened ears are anything to go by. They catch you staring and slink through the doorway to join you by the couch. Neither of you speak when the lighting in the room fades from a bright gold to a calming, dark blue, drawing both of your attentions back to the TV.

“It is not empty space down here. Down in the fathomless deep, in the veils of blue, in the cavernous trenches, and among all the strange and shifting rocks that build its floor, there is Life to be found. In every corner, there is Life.” While the mech is distracted, you quietly inch closer to them, fingers itching to touch their glossy frame. “The things that dwell down here may seem, to you and I, to play by strange and unfamiliar rules, and take on curious, perhaps otherworldly forms, but truthfully it is a matter of perception.”³

“Heh.” Ravage huffs audibly, jutting their snout out to gesture at the video. “We see organics like that from time to time through the viewports on the Nemesis.”

You look down as you silently sneak even closer. Your silk pajamas billow in the warm breeze brought on by their constantly whirr, whirr-ing internal fans. Despite your creeping, they remain parked near your side. With a burning swallow and still-aching teeth, you rest your sweaty palm on top of the flat part of the poor, stressed kitty’s head. Twitch. Flinch. They hold their plating tightly against their form, the warm metal rapidly heating under your touch. Your brain lags, replaying their comment over and over until it can finally process it into a thought. 

“Nemesis?” You ask, sinking your fingers into a small gap in their armor. In a soothing motion, your nails scratch at the rubber-like wire coverings. They shudder, rattling under your touch with a choked, purr-like engine noise, and then stiffen, as if embarrassed by their weak reaction. 

“Our ship.” They mutter nervously while you preoccupy yourself with the rough texture of their noggin. Fine specs of sand and salt are plucked from their residence beneath the bot’s plating. 

Swallow. Twitch. Flinch. Swallow. There are several thousand questions on your tongue, and several million more breeding in your mind. Ship? Under the deep sea? Why there? Why here? Where did they come from? Where did they go? Cotten-Eyed-Joe. Why are they here now? What do they expect from you? Also, can’t they literally fly and drive? Why are they wanting you to drive? Why do they even need a ship? Why is not being able to drive so stressful for this over-heating kitty-witty-cat? How did Ravage even get into your house? Oh wait— You left the door open for a bit. Yeahhh, that’s on you.

Instead of voicing any of these inner thoughts, your drunken tongue stumbles its way through a complement. “Nemesis? OK. That’s a sick-ass name for a ship.”

Your comment wins you a scathing side-eye, and they chirp a few times to themselves. Pinching a particularly filthy wire, you rub it clean of debris. Your eyes glaze over as you enter Monkey-Mode, repeating the grooming motions in another exposed crack like your picking fleas from their back. The frame beneath your hand trembles ever so slightly. 

And where are all your scissors? When was the last time you ate a meal and not snacks today? How much have you had to drink already? And why is Ravage here? Why’d they have to come on your day off? Is this going to take all day? What are they looking for? ‘Ship’ as in boat? Or ‘ship’ as in spaceship? Why under the sea? Are they hiding from that other faction? Honestly, not a bad hiding spot if they don’t need air to breathe. Or if they’re in a spaceship. Or both. Why are they here? Why is Ravage here? Why’d they have to pick today? What do they want this time? Where’s your Sugar Daddy Starscream?

As if on cue, your phone lights up in your other hand. Ravage immediately takes the opportunity to escape your fondling, ears completely flattened against their head as they hiss in your direction.

“Don’t answer that.” They command. Your vision blurs, trying to make out the caller ID in the serene darkness. The mechanimal hisses again when you bring the device up closer to your face, raising it above your head as if that’d help in any way. “Don’t—!” 

You don’t get a chance to anyway. The illusion of choice dissipates as the call automatically connects and places itself on speaker mode. Squinting at the brightness of your dark mode, you can finally make out the custom name you set for this particular caller. 

“Starscream!” You loudly gasp with excitement. Giddy butterflies dance in your stomach while you hurriedly adjust your pajamas and fix your hair. Your front camera clicks on, and you’re quick to position yourself at a more flattering angle. Blue light dances across your skin in hypnotic patterns while your stare unblinkingly at the seconds ticking up. “Yay!! Hi!! Are you a mind reader?”

“—What?” Your angel stops short of his self-important greeting. “What no. No, that’s Soundwave.”

“Starscream.” The metal panther growls out in warning. The noise rattles your windows and shivers the enamel of your teeth. “Starscream. We agreed that we—”

“Oh hush.” Your favorite bot interrupts. “Soundwave doesn’t want you exposed for that long, and Shockwave and I have better things to do than wait several groons for our little human here to sober up.”

“We don’t need any additional assistance. I’m fully able to continue this mission. Like I said, I can just cut the live feed and remain low for the duration.”

“Ha! Sure, I trust you’re capable enough. You’ll be alright, but, with the signals you keep sending your Carrier? You’re going to make the poor mech worry themselves into stasis. I don’t want to deal with a twitchy telepath on top of everything else today. Regardless, it’ll be far easier this way.”

“I’m fine.” They huff, more to themselves than anyone else listening. You rest your hips against the back of the sofa, bobbing your head back and forth in time with the euphoric rush of endorphins and alcohol.  

“Lord Starscream, are you coming to pick us up?” You slur glamorously into the receiver. Your fingers fondle the smooth texture of your silk fabric, tracing fine grain. 

“That’s right, pet.” He coos. Your gut twists at the fond nickname, and the wobbly smile on your face grows into an ecstatic grin. “I’ll be by soon to personally pick you up. And so, you sh—” 

You interrupt his next words with a drunken squeal. “The amazing, fantastical Lord Starscream, himself? What an honor!” Fanning yourself, your cheeks heat up while you feed into his hungry ego. Like hell you’re going to miss out on the chance to ride inside a living jet. That sounds so fun! Gnawing at the inside of your cheek, you wonder if he’ll let you push his buttons and jerk his handles. How many sweet words will you have to sing to get him to bend to your will? How cheap is the price of his abundant generosity? Will he let you touch him? Will he answer your questions? Will he tell you the Truth? 

Ravage ex-vents loudly to get your attention once the call ends. “Commander Starscream will be by in eight kliks to take us to the temporary lab. I advise you to collect your necessities now.”

“Is it cold in the lab?” You ask, plucking at your sleek pajamas.

“No. In fact, it is much more temperate than this hovel you call a habsuite.”

“Awesome. I’ll be right back.” Having said that, you dart to your bedroom to grab a bag. Expertly sliding around your house in socks, you fill a backpack with your phone, wallet, hand sanitizer, a pack of tissues, your jinx-deterring block of wood, a tall can of booze, seven of the most holiest of EMS snacks: uncrustables, a notepad and paper, hat, scarf, gloves, and a small, fragile model plane. Having just finished the delicate project the night before, you ensure it is carefully packed at the very top of your things. You’re shrugging on a jacket and stomping into your untied boots, when you hear the near-silent rustling of branches, announcing Starscream's arrival. 

The mechanical panther leaps from their lounge on your couch and prowls up to your front entrance way. In a mad dash, you ensure all your lights are turned off, your stove and oven are off, your fridge is closed, and your hands are washed. Your teeth continue to ache as you snap a mask over your face and reach for the door. A thick, pleasant fog muddles your thoughts, and the handle sticks as you sway and fumble. It fights against you as you press, and press, and press, until the wood finally rips open with a Bang! The door swings past where your railing once was and slams into the side of your house. Ravage is quick to escape your abode, meeting their High Commander out in the cold. 

Starscream is easy please. Starscream is protective. Starscream is possessive.

A drunken giggle bubbles from your throat as you clumsily stumble through the snow to join them.

Destiny is easier to control with your angel by your side.

Your freezing hand burns as it touches the deliciously warm wing. He waits patiently for you to clamber up to the open cockpit. As soon as you're settled, seatbelts crisscross over your body. The top lowers down, and you carefully store your bag. His interior smells cool and crisp, like polish and evergreen mint.

Running your hand over the weave of the straps, you swallow down any lingering nausea and ask. “On the way there, can we do a barrel roll? Pretty please with a cherry on top, oh Lord Starscream?”

The whine of engines nearly drowns out Starscream’s surprised laughter.

“Why, of course!” He replies smoothly. “Anything for my favorite pet.” 

You barely get time to say your thanks when a surge of g-force presses you into the plush pilot seat. Squeezing the center console between your thighs, the rumbling vibrations nearly makes you drool. You pant softly as he takes you up, and up, and up. Your angel fulfills your request with ease the moment you are above the cloudline. With every ragged breath, your vision begins to spot more and more until you’re nearly blind. Cackling with unrestrained delight, euphoria overtakes you.

“Again! Again! Again!” You demand with each exchange of oxygen. Your skin grows uncomfortably warm, and your scalp begins to itch violently. Clawing at your hair, you laugh and laugh and laugh with all the air left in your lungs. When he finally straightens out, you are literally breathless, slumped forward in your seat with large beads of sweat dripping down your brow. Your metabolism works overtime to keep you warm at this high of an altitude. The beds of your fingernails tingle, and a shooting pain strikes through your upper right abdomen. 

Oh how fun! 

Never in all your years have you ever felt more Alive.

———

References:

Natural World Facts. (2022, March 22). The stages of whale decomposition [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxSUsn8H2zs

DeSalle, R., & Perkins, S. L. (2015). Welcome to the microbiome: Getting to Know the Trillions of Bacteria and Other Microbes In, On, and Around You. Yale University Press.

Natural World Facts. (2025, August 30). The Abyss: Sanctuaries in the Dark | Deep Sea Documentary for Sleep (4K) [Video]. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SXWDW62h_QY

[auntopossum]

Did my nails ~💜💅🏻