Hi revel! so i was rewatching Steven universe the movie and it made me have an idea. what if one of the bots had a partner that couldn't fight so they left them on a planet to keep them safe from the war.
It isn't until they leave the planet that they realize that the war has been over and they were forgotten about. for extra hurt what if their partner died during the war so nobody knew they existed.
Oooh the hurt… the angst…
Left Behind
Sixshot x Reader
• “I want to stay with you,” you say, desperate panic threading through the words. Grabbing onto his big servos as he tries to usher you into a hiding place, your ears are ringing from a klaxon going off, everything still slightly muffled from the last explosion. “Please,” you add and you think maybe he’s going to cave when he glides a massive servo under your eye to wipe away the tears. ‘You’ll be safe here,’ he says and he gives you a nudge that has you stumbling back. Falling to sit heavily on the ground and he’s gripping a massive piece of rubble to hide you. Trapping you in the dark as you yell his name. Yell at him to not leave you here alone.
• “It’s going to be okay,” he calls out, hands slowly lifting away from the debris hiding you as his spark hurts. “You’re going to be okay.” Can hear you screaming his name and he wants to immediately claw the rubble away. To gather you close. But you’re too small. Too fragile to survive in an active war zone. Making himself stand and back away, hurts. Tears him wide open. But he knows you won’t survive out there. And neither will he if his attention is divided between enemy combatants and you.
• Heart hammering in your chest so that you can barely breathe, you claw at the narrow gap of light you can see from your hiding place. Trying to dig yourself out. To widen the hole and escape. Can’t hear anything but the chaos out there. Explosions and screams. Putting your shoulder against the stone he’d trapped you with, it doesn’t budge as your feet slide on the rocky ground. You’re not sure how long you try to get free, but the noise eventually falls away except for an occasional explosion as the fighting moves on. That klaxon fell silent at some point, but there’s a light strobing somewhere off and on out there.
• He’ll come for you now. Skin crawling as you sink down to sit on the cold ground, you’re thirsty. Exhausted. And in the fitful, sporadic pulses of light, you realize how tattered your nails are. That you’re bleeding from clawing to get free. But if it’s over, he’ll be here soon. Wouldn’t leave you here. Shivering as it gets colder, you hunch into yourself, listening for the sound of his heavy peds. Waiting for him to come take you home.
• Venting raggedly, he’s disoriented as he comes online. Confused. Unsure where he is as his head turns and a hand lifts, servos brushing his chassis to find you. But coming up empty. You always sleep there. Get too cold otherwise and the memory of your laughter as you’d wedged yourself against his neck whispering that it’s too cold lifts through him. Can almost imagine he can feel your heartbeat, the steady rise and fall of your breathing. Where are you? Maybe you wandered off to find something to eat. Rumbling softly, he realizes he’s in an unfamiliar Medbay. And it all comes rushing back to fill him with a dread that shakes him to his core. How long was he out? Are you still waiting? Still there?
I’ve been so overly stressed out from exams lately and your fics have been such a nice joy so thanks for that 💙also absolutely adore your blog layout it’s so aesthetically pleasing🥹
If it’s not too much of a bother could I ask for something spicy for the warriors elite? + any mechs you like! They’re so painfully underrated ,I’m so down bad for them 💔💔 Thank you for feeding the community lol!
Warriors Elite [X Reader]
In which an old coworker now outranks you. While you're certain they want to kill you, they're making an awful attempt at trying to seduce you.
Reader is ── Gender Neutral | Cybertronian
Story is ── Romantic | Drabbles
Warnings ── Suggestive but reader doesn't recognize it
Blackshadow
A frame taller than you remember approached you from the direction you were headed, crimson optics dimmed to a relaxed hue that contradicted his imposing presence.
Blackshadow, once a rookie you trained at the flight academy. Now outranking everyone but the Decepticon Elites.
There was no way he would recognize you.
Bowing your head respectfully as you passed him, the last thing you expected was for a servo to catch your shoulder.
"Not even a greeting? Long time no see, 'Captain.'" The Phase Sixer tilted his head down to meet your optics, though you could have sworn you used to be the same height.
"I hardly hold that title to the likes of you, Blackshadow, sir. Congratulations on your recent promotion." The respectful bow you attempted was interrupted. Instead, you were pushed back against the wall when he forced himself into your space.
"Been dreaming of the day we'd cross paths again, you know? Prove myself to my instructor." The smirk on his faceplate grew when you gave no resistance to his digit lifting your chin to look back up at him.
His optics were now a blazing red, their glow reflected off your paint from the proximity.
"Got time for a private word?"
Heretech
"Leaving so soon?" The imposing voice of the warrior elite nearly had you jumping out of your armour, already on edge, trying to escape the conference as soon as possible.
He was exactly the reason you were trying to get out quickly.
"Plenty to get done! You know, for the cause." Averting your optics from his, you looked longingly out the window to see the shuttle you were hoping to board had taken off without you.
"I've been trying to get in touch. I was beginning to think you might have been ignoring me." He was leaning over you, broad frame blocking you from any escape.
If you could melt into the cracks of the floor below you right now, you would have been.
"I sincerely apologize, Heretech. It was never my intention to—"
"I figured. You were never the type to be disloyal. I do ponder if that's changed." Finally stepping out of your space, he turned his back to you and began to move back into the halls of the ship.
Your hidden relief that the encounter was finally over was quickly ruined.
"Well? Hurry up and come with me. We'll talk more somewhere secluded."
Killmaster
A low growl stopped you dead in your tracks.
Slowly turning, you had to tilt your helm up till you nearly broke your neck cables to meet the optics of the weapons engineer you once oversaw the projects of.
You were—and still are-apart of the ethics committee on the research vessel he made most of his early discoveries in bidirectional weaponry on. You'd heard he was apart of the Warriors Elite now.
Didn't think that came with an entire frame remodelling. He was huge.
"You, committee member." His frame rumbled when he spoke. The fact that he had uttered anything was already unexpected.
You'd also heard he was a violent mastermind. A complete psychopath. At least more than before.
"Yes?" Your voice box glitched. You'd have been flustered if you weren't terrified that he was about to unleash years of rage from your constant nagging about his work back when you outranked him.
"Follow me." This time you could feel your spark tremble with his words. Killmaster left no room for argument, already heading into the halls leading to his new lab.
Overlord
"There you are!"
It wasn't the familiar road of a jet engine or the rotating clicks of tank treads. Nothing you could have heard from miles away and prepared to outrun.
He was right there beside you, throwing an arm around your waist and pulling you into the bulk of his frame.
"I was looking all over the galaxy for you. I appreciate the game of chase." His voice purred into your audials, his helm far too close to yours for comfort.
You knew from experience he bites.
"Just keeping you on your toes, you know?" Forcing a sense of familiarity into your words, you did your best to seem amused.
If you could go back in time and decide against becoming a paramedic, you would have. That, or tell yourself picking the purple badge meant tending to Overlord for years and still not escaping him.
"You know, you're the only person who knew about my losing streak with Big Bad. Isn't that interesting?" He was forcing you to walk with him, pulling at your waist and taking you away from the safety of the Medibay. "I'd hate for that to get out."
"I promise I would never tell a spark—"
"Promises are cute. But I have a more permanent solution in mind."
Sixshot
The silence was threatening to drown you.
Sixshot, somehow the biggest threat in the room, blended it perfectly when he wanted to. He'd gone unnoticed right up until he stepped beside you, joining you in the navigation room of a small cargo ship.
What little crew the ship had was scattered elsewhere. You were alone with him, the Decepticon who'd hailed for a ride.
"This is what you do now?" His voice was low, and though he'd intended for it to meet you in a casual manner, you'd taken it entirely judgementally.
Your trainee was now a Phase Sixer. Warrior Elite. Far beyond you. And you'd become a cargo ship captain.
"Just...Needed a change of pace. Everyone has a place in the cause." It sounded more like you were convincing yourself. The mech let out a mellow vent.
"You were supposed to become one of our best combatants. Fight alongside us Elite." He decided against saying himself. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think the cause meant nothing to you."
A shiver made its way through your plating, rising from the sharp edge of his voice. The muffle from the mask barely helped.
"You aren't here just for the ride, are you?" Your spark trembled, trying to remain steady as you battled the paranoia. Paranoia that had eaten you alive and forced you to step away from your old position.
"No. I'm here to sort this out."
Author's Note ── I assume you meant the Warriors Rlite fr and not the Phase Sixers but DAMN I am just realizing how little Killmaster or Heretech show up or talk at all in IDW.
I'm also in exams rn, so I get the stress! Reading TF fanfic gets me through it. I hope this helped, too! Also THANK YOU!!! Glad you like my layout 🖤💥
SUMMARY – you feel the need to take responsibility for him, whether he likes it or not . Or he knows there's no way he can survive without you, and maybe he prefers it that way. (au ish)
PAIRING – sixshot x reader
NOTE – rawwh. And here he is 🫂💗my bbb, I don't care if it's 4 am and I have less than 4 hours of sleep before my shift. I love him too much (edit: add a lil more at the end)
“I won’t do it again.”
The words left you like a flare in the storm
Small, defiant, and bright enough to sear through the biting wind that tore across the ridge. Your cooling fans spun with uneven rhythm, betraying the anxiety clawing at your core, but your feet stayed planted in the rust-colored soil. You stood your ground. A fragile shape against the immensity of him.
The Phase Sixer, the weapon of myth and horror, whose very shadow seemed to hum with restrained violence. The glow of your toolkit bled weakly across the dust, trembling in your grasp like a heartbeat too frightened to be steady.
Sixshot turned, the motion slow and heavy an avalanche given form. The faint gleam of starlight caught on his armor’s jagged scars, painting him in cold fire. Even the ridge beneath seemed to groan, metal against metal, as if the very land recoiled from his wrath. He was exhaustion forged into fury, power fraying at the edges, pride bleeding into something darker. To have been forced to stop, to need repair was humiliation enough.
To be defied by you, the one who kept him alive, was near blasphemy.
“You will do what is necessary, Specialist”
He growled, voice crackling through your audials like static born from the void. Each syllable was heavy, deliberate. The weight of command pressed into sound. His optics flared, molten red behind the frost, and you could feel the heat of his anger as a physical thing, like radiation licking against your plating.
“That is your function. That is why you exist. To maintain the integrity of my primary protocols.”
“Your protocols are killing you.”
The words broke from you before you could stop them: raw, trembling, finally honest. Two vorns of buried guilt tore free, sharp as shrapnel. “You think I only rerouted your energy conduits? The strain on your Spark chamber is beyond repair. You’re burning yourself from the inside out. One more engagement like the last, and you won’t be Sixshot anymore. You’ll just be fragments! ash scattered over this pitiful ridge.”
You stepped forward reckless, desperate, closing the gap as the wind lashed your faceplate and screamed through the broken metal around you. The smell of ionized air filled your vents, bitter and electric.
“I– I know your schematics better than Shockwave does.. Let me write you a patch. I can stabilize the T-Cog, dampen the feedback, save you. You don’t have to keep killing yourself to prove what you already are” you said, voice trembling but resolute.
For a moment, the world held still, two frames caught between destruction and salvation, the night crackling like a live wire around them.
Then Sixshot moved.
Not a deliberate motion, but a sharp, instinctive lurch.
The kind that belonged to predators, not soldiers. The air itself seemed to recoil as his frame loomed forward, blotting out what little light the ridge still offered. His shadow engulfed you whole, a living thing that wrapped around your smaller form until the world narrowed to the sound of your own cooling fans stuttering in fear.
You tilted your helm upward, forced to look into the red glow that seared through the darkness like the unblinking eye of judgment.
“And render me useless?” he hissed, the words spilling like hot shrapnel, jagged and metallic. “Reduce me from a Phase Sixer to a common trooper? That is your proposal, creator. To strip the only meaning from my existence?”
The title was spat rather than spoken, each syllable dripping with venomous irony. Creator. A word that should have meant reverence, yet here it felt like a curse carved between his teeth.
“Your meaning is not in the killing!”
You burst out, voice cracking under the strain of guilt that had been festering for vorns. “They programmed that into you! I saw it! I was there when they wrote your code, when they bound your Spark to their idea of perfection. You call it function, Sixshot, but it’s just a prison made of logic circuits and lies!”
You took a step closer, your vents flaring, desperation bleeding into every word.
“I won’t calibrate you for another massacre. I’ll repair you, yes. But only if you let me remove the Six-Changer protocol. You could live, Sixshot. You could stop being their weapon.”
The plea hung between you, fragile and impossible, life at the cost of identity, peace in exchange for purpose.
Sixshot’s optics glowed like a sealed furnace, expression unreadable, and yet something dark coiled behind it. To him, you no longer looked like the detached specialist who tuned his systems with precision; you were a trembling penitent, begging absolution for your own sin. And that, somehow, enraged him more than any enemy’s strike could.
He remembered the first time he opened his optics.
It wasn’t a battlefield that greeted him, but a laboratory. White light flooded every surface until it became impossible to tell metal from mirror, pain from purpose. The hum of energy filled the air, constant and consuming. He had thought it was the sound of his own Spark: confused, trying to synchronize with the foreign rhythm of his altered frame.
He remembered the weight. The heaviness of existence when your body was built for six forms but your mind could only comprehend one at a time. Every transformation felt like being torn apart and reassembled with different blueprints. Every shift a rebirth through agony.
And then he remembered you.
You weren’t the trembling creature he had seen today. No. The one who had stood over him then was composed of confidence and razor-edged brilliance. You moved with the precision of a scalpel, every motion deliberate, every glance impersonal. You didn’t flinch when his first transformation sequence went wrong, when the feedback tore through the lab and scorched the walls. You had only sighed, muttered something about “stabilization thresholds” and pressed your hands into the panels of his chest, rerouting conduits as if he were no more than a prototype on the verge of refinement.
He remembered your voice steady, detached, oddly melodic despite the clinical tone.
“Don’t resist it,” you had said, not even looking him in the eye. “You’ll burn through your energy reserves faster if you fight the synchronization. Just follow the protocol.”
Protocol.
That was all you saw him as then. The embodiment of a function, the experiment that would prove your theories right. When he had asked: “What am I?” because the question was too heavy to contain. You had only smiled faintly, the sort of smile that belonged to someone admiring a completed machine.
“You’re potential” you’d said. “Unrealized yet. But you will be the pinnacle of what we can create.”
You hadn’t meant it as cruelty. But it had been.
He had lain there, half-alive, half-machine, the weight of six alternate selves humming in the dark corners of his frame, and realized that his life had been written before it began. Every movement, every transformation, every kill he would one day commit. It all traced back to your steady hands, your unflinching logic, your refusal to see him as anything beyond your success.
That was before the guilt. Before you looked at him and saw tragedy instead of triumph.
Back then, you had been untouchable. Cold light in a sterile room. The one who never trembled, who never questioned the morality of the project. You didn’t beg him to live differently then. You only demanded efficiency.
And he had delivered it.
Now, standing on that windswept ridge, with your voice still trembling in his audials, Sixshot realized that what unsettled him wasn’t your defiance. It was your remorse.
You had changed. He had not.
And perhaps that was the true cruelty of it.
The memory faded like smoke, leaving only the cold wind to fill the space it had occupied. Then, slowly, a smirk curved across his faceplate thin and utterly humorless. The movement was mechanical, almost deliberate, and it sent a current of cold terror down your neural lines.
“The code is not in the T-Cog, Specialist”
“It is in the Spark. And I will not have my Spark rewritten by a guilty conscience.” he said, his voice lowering to something quiet, final, and absolute.
The words struck harder than any weapon. Before you could answer, his fist came down against the boulder beside him. The impact cracked the air itself a thunderclap of metal against stone and the ridge quivered under the force. Splinters of rock skittered across the ground like startled insects, their clatter echoing into the frozen silence that followed. It wasn’t a threat. It was a declaration.
He activated his comm, the sharp click slicing through the wind.
“Our time here is finished. Adjust my coordinates. We are moving now.”
His optics locked onto you. Unwavering, merciless. “Your function remains: maintenance and silence. Fail in either, and you will become obsolete long before I do.”
The line cut. The world felt unbearably still.
You stood there, staring at the cracks spiderwebbing across the stone, feeling the weight of his refusal settle over you like a shroud of cold lead. He would rather die a Phase Sixer than live as anything less than the perfect instrument of ruin you helped create. The glow of your toolkit dimmed in your grasp before you let it fall. The dull clatter of metal meeting dust was a small, final sound. The punctuation to your defeat.
You had built him to destroy.
And now, he was fulfilling his purpose by destroying himself.
The wind had died down, leaving the ridge in a brittle, frozen quiet. Sixshot’s fists still trembled slightly from the tension of refusal, but now his optics flickered unevenly, a subtle tremor betraying exhaustion he would never admit aloud. You exhaled slowly, the metallic rasp of your breath catching in your chest, and realized there was only one way forward: you would save him, even if it meant defying every principle he had forced into you.
“Sixshot…” you murmured, voice low, careful. No accusation, no pleading this time just fact. “You can’t keep burning yourself like this. I won’t let you.”
The words barely landed before he sagged, unresisting, the rigid armor of command folding into fatigue. You didn’t hesitate. You stepped closer, and almost instinctively, slid a knee behind his thigh as he lowered onto the ridge, easing him into a half-sitting, half-reclined posture. He was massive, but when he allowed it, there was a strange, intimate vulnerability there. The kind reserved for sparks and mechanics, for trust earned in silence.
You sank down, almost straddling him, your legs hovering over his, toolkit held close as you leaned forward. The air smelled of scorched metal and ozone. He didn’t move, but the subtle twitch of his sensors against your chestplate was enough to make your circuits hum in recognition of proximity.
Your hands were deft, but gentle, tracing along the conduits that ran across his torso. Each touch, each adjustment, carried more than precision. It was a promise, a lifeline. You could feel the faint heat of his systems radiating through the alloy, the way his frame shivered when you tightened a flux coil or rerouted a feedback loop. His frame, his massive, terrifying frame responded to you, and it was electric.
“Almost… there,” you whispered, leaning closer, careful to keep your optics away from his glare, but close enough that the brush of your shoulder against his chestplate was undeniable. “I’ve got you.”
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His usual growl, the cold certainty of command, was swallowed by the vulnerability of exhaustion. And you realized: the same hands that had once built the cage around him were now mending it, undoing the parts that would have killed him if left unchecked.
For a long moment, it was just you, the hum of your tools, and the slow, careful rhythm of Sixshot’s systems coming back online. The world narrowed to the faint warmth beneath your knees, the subtle tremor of his frame under your touch, the weight of metal and trust pressed so closely together that even the air between you felt charged.
Finally, a soft click a confirmation. His feedback stabilized, the T-Cog humming steadily, dangerously beautiful in its newfound equilibrium. You exhaled, leaning back slightly, letting your servos drop to your sides, but lingering close. He shifted slightly under you, just enough that you could feel the press of his armor against your thigh, a silent acknowledgment. His optics softened, though the heat never left, and you allowed yourself a small, private victory: he was alive. Whole. And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t burning himself apart.
He recalled the first time you have touched him, back in the lab when he had been raw, new, and unpredictable.
Then, your servos had been clinical, detached. Now… now there was something different. Something desperate, protective, even affectionate, hidden beneath the precision of your work. And for a fraction of a cycle, he wondered if he could have been, if he could be anything more than a weapon in your optics. He swallowed the thought, grounding himself in the familiar rhythm of his T-Cog. Stabilized. Feedback normalized. Safe.
You done it — you saved him. Again
He didn’t know whether to be furious, grateful, or… something else entirely. A strange tension coiled in his chest unquantifiable, unprogrammable. He could not admit it. Could not move closer, could not reach out. But he felt it anyway, a quiet acknowledgment that, in that intimate space between them, the lines of function and protocol blurred.
The ridge was silent. The wind held its breath. And for the first time in cycles, Sixshot did nothing but endure the closeness, letting it settle like molten metal in a form finally allowed to cool.
Your servos withdrew at last, leaving a faint warmth that clung to the places her fingers had been. Sixshot didn’t move. He simply sat there, letting the silence stretch, the cold air sting against the plates you’d just sealed. His systems purred in reluctant equilibrium stable now, but only because you had forced it so. You stayed close, still half-seated on his thigh. Your field was steady now, resolved. When you spoke, your voice was softer, but unyielding. The kind of softness that could cut deeper than steel.
“I’ll keep you runningmnBut only on my terms..”
Sixshot’s optics flickered, a faint, warning flare. “You think you can dictate my—”
“I can” you interrupted, tone razor-sharp but low. “Because no one else will. You’ll keep fighting until your Spark burns itself out, and I’m not going to let that happen. I’ll repair you when you’re breaking, when you have to be fixed. But I won’t keep enabling this suicide loop you call purpose.”
Your words hung there like static in the air too soft to be called rebellion, too certain to be dismissed.
You exhaled slowly, optics locked on his, the defiance in your voice steady even as your servos trembled slightly from proximity.
“So here’s the deal, Sixshot. You go where you’re ordered, and I’ll follow. Every battlefield, every wasteland. I’ll keep you alive. But every time I touch a wire or patch a seam, I’ll remind you that you’re more than what they made you. Until you believe it—or until I break trying.”
For a moment, there was nothing. Just the faint hum of his power core, the soft whirr of your cooling fans brushing against the air between you. Sixshot didn’t answer immediately. His gaze traveled from your face to the hand still resting on his chestplate, unthinking, protective. He should have brushed it away, should have stood, should have reminded you that your role was maintenance and obedience.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he shifted slightly, just enough that your balance faltered and you leaned forward, your chest brushing against his as your optics met his directly. A breath, a pulse, a spark of something unfamiliar but alive crackled between the two of you.
You froze, realizing the closeness. He didn’t move away. His voice, when it came, was lower than before rough, but almost contemplative.
“Then you’ll waste your vorns on a lost cause” he murmured.
“Maybe. But at least it’ll be mine.” You whispered, meeting his gaze without flinching.
The ridge fell silent again, save for the hum of his systems and the wind that finally began to move through the metallic dust. For the first time since their argument began, there was no fury left. Only exhaustion, and a heavy, unspoken truce.
He let you stay there a moment longer, your body still balanced against his, until you finally pulled back. The loss of warmth felt sharper than he expected. When you stood, he followed slowly, silent but no longer defiant. You gathered your tools, checked the stabilizer once more, and without looking back, said simply
“Next time you break, Sixshot, I’ll be there. But don’t make me keep proving I can fix what you refuse to stop destroying.”
He didn’t respond. But as you walked past, his optics tracked you until the ridge swallowed your silhouette. And for a moment a brief, traitorous flicker of thought. He wondered what it would feel like to live long enough to hear you say his name without the weight of duty behind it
The black market of Cybertron sprawled beneath the grimy spires of an abandoned industrial sector, where the remnants of war and conquest had been shoved aside to decay in shadows. Towering structures—relics of past battles and conquests—cast long, harsh shadows over crowded rows of stalls where vendors hawked anything with a price. Stolen weapons, forbidden tech, scraps of Cybertronian armor, and unfortunate captives from distant planets—all of it littered the scene in a chaotic mixture of neon and rust. Each item was a trophy, a whisper of violence from a hundred other worlds, and Sixshot drifted through it with a growing, gnawing sense of restlessness.
Megatron’s unexpected day off grated against his nature; idleness felt like rust forming on his circuits. A day without purpose felt like a day stripped of his essence. That's insulting. But the boredom had brought him here, among his fellow Phase Sixers. They were scattered across the market, each drifting toward different distractions like predators prowling in the dusk.
Overlord prowled through the stalls with his usual swagger, laughing off merchants' terrified glances with mock kindness that barely hid his violent intent. Sixshot had long ago come to understand Overlord’s twisted relish for bloodshed, a brutality that went beyond any sense of duty. There was something grotesque, almost obscene, about his joy in suffering, a sentiment that made Sixshot uneasy.
Black Shadow, on the other hand, drifted between stalls with a smooth confidence, a face that alternated between detached boredom and intrigue. Occasionally, he exchanged a few sly words with some of the merchants or put his arm around some of his deceptions colleagues and appear very friendly. But Sixshot knew better—he saw through the charade. Black Shadow wasn't here out of camaraderie. No, the only reason he is here: profit. Energizing his private stockpile was his real objective. Sixshot knew as soon as black shadow got a good enough price, he’d betray them without a second thought.
Putting thoughts about his colleague aside, sixshot adjusted his posture. He leaned back against a wall of rough, rusted steel, arms crossed, optics skimming the market with a disinterested glare. His gaze skimmed over the vendors and buyers, creatures of every shape and size, each chattering in grating voices over who or what might be worth a trade. The entire place was a crowded mess, littered with broken artifacts and miserable captives. Some were quiet, others despairing, a few shouting or growling in languages he didn’t bother to understand.
But then, his optics landed on "you."
It took him a second to recognize the figure—a tiny form crammed behind the energy bars of a cage, looking so out of place it was almost laughable. Among the clanking, bulkier species of aliens, among all the caged beasts and prisoners from dozens of battlefronts, you stood out: fragile, trembling, skin pale under the harsh Cybertronian lights.
A human.
The human's fear was almost palpable. Your breathing was quick, shallow, and you clung to the far side of the cage as if hoping it would dissolve into an escape. Your wide eyes darted around the market in search of something, anything, to save you from the towering titans that prowled the area. That look was one Sixshot knew well.
He couldn’t resist the pull of curiosity. What do you feel when you know your existence is utterly insignificant in a universe ruled by giants? he mused. Something about their terror was... different from what he usually saw. Battle gave him excitement, yes, but this? This was a glimpse into the helplessness he so rarely encountered.
He pushed off the wall, striding slowly toward your cage, his optics studying every detail. Your small form clung to the bars, eyes darting wildly around the market, your breath coming in quick, shallow gulps. From the trembling in your limbs, to the way you pressed yourself against the back of the cage, every fiber of your being screamed of fear, like an animal that knew it was cornered and hopelessly outmatched.
There was no bravery in you, no defiance, no hidden strength waiting to be unveiled. And yet…your fear was different from what he normally saw in battle. There was a desperation in it, a rawness that he rarely encountered. The beings he faced on the battlefield had a hardened kind of fear, a last-stand defiance, as though they had already accepted their fate before they ever laid optics on him. They were soldiers, warriors resigned to the end. You were none of those things. You were terrified in a way he hadn’t seen since his earliest days of combat, when his first foes had still been innocent enough to believe that fighting back would save them.
He leaned closer, his optics boring down on you, watching with an intensity that made the cage rattle as his presence loomed. You flinched violently, clutching the bars of the cage as though willing yourself to vanish. Your eyes met his briefly, wide and pleading, then darted away, too afraid to hold his gaze. The look on your face—it stirred something deep within him, a flicker of recognition that was more instinct than memory.
This was prey. True prey. The kind that knew only terror, the kind that understood its helplessness in the face of absolute power.
He was aware of your every movement: the small tremors running through you, the quiver of your lip as you fought to stay silent, the shallow rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to control your breath. He could practically feel your pulse racing from where he stood, a tiny, frantic heartbeat in the face of a predator that could crush you with a single motion.
Something cold and calculating sparked in Sixshot’s optics as he observed you, an old, he hadn’t felt in cycles. It wasn’t the thrill of conquest, nor the satisfaction of a worthy opponent. It was simply a glimpse into something so small and insignificant that it gave him a reminder of what he truly was: a weapon, a machine of total annihilation, one that even other Decepticons viewed with unease. His power had made him a pariah, feared and isolated even among the monsters he called allies.
Yet, he respected the strong. He valued those who fought back, who met him on the battlefield with fire in their optics. This human was none of those things. But there was still something about them, something attractive.
An annoyed sigh came from him, like a roll of thunder. “Pathetic,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. But he didn’t move away. He stayed there, towering over the cage, optics fixed on you like a scientist inspecting a specimen.
The vendor, noticing Sixshot’s interest, sidled over eagerly, his voice a grating whine. “Quite a rare find, isn’t it? A rarity from that little backwater planet, Earth." The merchant gave a smug chuckle. “Not much of a fighter, but they cower in the most entertaining ways.”
The words barely registered to Sixshot. He continued to observe you, noting every subtle tremor, every desperate shift of your eyes. He saw the way your fingers gripped each other tightly, knuckles turning white under the strain, your breathing growing shallow as you tried to make yourself smaller, less visible.
“Interested?” the trader ventured, clearly hoping for a transaction.
Sixshot’s optics narrowed. “What would I do with something so fragile?” he replied, his tone dismissive, though his gaze hadn’t shifted.
The merchant chuckled, mistaking Sixshot's interest as mere curiosity . “A toy, perhaps. Or a pet to keep your quarters interesting. Some find it amusing, having one of these creatures cowering in the corner, watching you with those little eyes. It can be… satisfying.”
The idea of taking you as a “pet” was laughable to him. Amusing? No, that wasn’t it. He had no need for amusement. His life was not about leisure or indulgence—it was about the thrill of worthy combat, the satisfaction of watching an opponent meet their end with dignity or terror. You didn’t fit into that world; you were not a warrior, nor an enemy, nor anything remotely close to a combatant. And yet, your fear called to him.
It would be so easy to snuff out that fear. One flick of his finger could silence you, end your miserable terror in an instant. It would be a mercy—a quick death, a release from the agony of knowing you were powerless.
And yet, he didn’t.
“Do you understand what you are?” he asked quietly, his voice a deep, rumbling growl that filled the space around you. The question seemed almost rhetorical, but he was genuinely curious. What went on in a mind that knew it was nothing more than prey? A creature so weak it couldn’t even defend itself, forced to rely on hope or mercy—neither of which existed here.
Your head lifted, just barely, and you managed a timid nod, your eyes wide and glazed with tears. He could see the struggle in your face, the way you fought to keep some shred of composure in the face of absolute terror.
"Then you understand this is where you die," he continued, almost conversationally, as if discussing the weather. His tone held no malice, no cruelty; it was a simple statement of fact.
Your lips parted, a faint tremble to your voice. "Please…" The word slipped out, barely audible, a plea that you knew was pointless yet voiced out of desperation.
With a dismissive huff, he straightened, turning away from the cage, folding his arms and giving you a final, unreadable look. “I’ll take this one,” he said simply to the merchant, his voice devoid of any emotion but finality.
The merchant’s face brightened with greed. “A fine choice! You’ll enjoy having a creature so… malleable. They’re delightful to break.”
Sixshot didn’t respond. He didn’t take you because he wanted a pet. He didn’t take you becausehe found any joy in your terror. But perhaps, in his own way, he was giving you a purpose. A purpose in his world—a chance to exist, however briefly. Or it would simply be a way for him to kill time.
Whatever it is, then for you, it would be the beginning of a nightmare from which there was no escape.
