Odd little bit of personal lore/world-building I thought you might enjoy: certain frame types and outliers/sigma abilities are dependent on failed split sparks.
What I mean by that is would-be twins crash back into each other, and one consumes the other. This can happen at any point, really, before nanites properly begin to solidify. The earlier it occurs, the less complications occur for the carrier and the surviving twin. Yet the outcome is always a permanently changed sparklet.
This chimerism shows up in a few different ways.
Unusually strong, overly stable, or unstable sparks or EM fields
Duplicates of code, with the most common being for secondary or tertiary systems, as well as broadly overactive sensory and processing nets
Additional body parts in the form of optics, limbs, and organs. In some rather horrific cases, it can show up as a spark quite literally pulled or suspended between two different spark chambers.
Altered fuel processing
(Adding onto this, inexpiable resource hoarding or inability to process certain resources)
Discoloration, or natural fractal gradients and asymmetrical patterning within natural color nanites lines
Disproportionate or "unusual" limb to body ratio
Disproportionate or "unusual" weight to height ratio
A decent swathe of the war-forged or poly-changers would likely have this form of chimerism and not even know it. Certain outliers may be entirely dependent on such an event happening -- and the sparklet surviving the process -- in order to even have a chance to appear.
Nature doesn't like being put in a box. This might be one of the few ways cybertronian biology hasn't been completely upheaved by the Quintessons/Functionalists, and they despise it. The upper castes, however, would take immense pleasure in hunting down and bringing these individuals in line.
It's fun to toy with, is what I mean to say.
You're absolutely right! This is really fun concept to play with, especially on the last points going hard against Functionism (and the Quintessa's drive to standardize their acquired peons).
It would definitely explain why there's such a massive variety of sigma abilities, especially since such things are considered a rarity. This can go a further step to see if their CNA can be passed on. Either it's too unstable unless there's certain conditions or the offspring inherits a far more stable ability.
And then there's the question of whether or not said offspring inherits the same ability as the creator's. If Cybertronian medicine is postulating that outliers (and any mech with any kind of alteration) came from chimerism, then their spark carries at least two active CNA sets that managed to form a single functional frame-schematic. Now there are more questions about inheritance! Like, what if the bitlet inherits a radically different ability? (Example: Tarn has a kid that has total control of magnetism and the eletromagnetic spectum, aka Magneto. Or Soundwave's kid can warp other's perception of them.) Are there difference between the outliers that carry versus the ones that sire? If an outlier ignites a sparklet, then is the carriage more susceptible to destabilization or other health complications without the outlier-sire or can the carriage can be maintained with donors?
On a related note, it would be fascinating to explore another line of Cybertronian chimerism where unstable or weakened sparklets developing in a hotspot attempt to latch onto another stronger, stable sparklet, which will eventually cannibalize it and integrate the weaker sparklet's coding into their own, altering it as they become a mature spark.
Sadly I did NOT manage to write a word basically all week so I’m sorry to say the sparklet I promised u remains unfinished. BUT. Have this snippet for christmas:
To be feared is a power many underestimate. A power almost as great as magic itself, and in some situations even greater — a comparison he does not make lightly.
Fear is shield and sword at once, a spell with unlimited range, its only boundary the speed at which word-of-mouth can travel.
But fear, like any weapon, requires ammunition.
For a man like Valtor, there is certainly no lack of reasons to fear him. But he is intimately aware that to sustain his greatest ally, he needs to sustain his reputation.
To be untouchable, he has to seem untouchable.
To be feared, he has to look the part.
“That’s all very nice,” Solaria's Royal Seamstress comments, unamused. “But that still doesn’t tell me why I should accept your comission.”
He sighs, feigning irritation, and leans against the counter of her shop.
“Such indifference in the face of my plight!” he laments, before propping his chin up on his hand. “I knew I liked you for a reason, Telaseta.”
“Charm won’t help you this time, fiend. You have yet to pay me for the last time I fixed your wardrobe, and my kind has an excellent memory.”
Madame Telaseta, master of her craft and champion of holding grudges, clatters past him on her eight spindly legs. He looks after her with a hearty shrug, turning to inspect her latest handiwork instead.
“I would have gladly done so,” he insists over his shoulder. “Your work is without equal, and I was more than satisfied when I received that coat of yours. Unfortunately, I took a quite involuntary detour to Omega shortly after, and did not have the opportunity to compensate you until now.”
There's noise coming from the clothing racks to his right, and when he looks over, he sees Telaseta gut an expensive looking gown with even more expensive looking shears, emerging victoriously with a blue silk ribbon.
“Pah! Did not have the necessity to, you mean! I know you wizards, with your tricks and flatteries. You only come crawling when you want something from Old Telaseta. If only I were still young, ah, still that handsome linphean debutante…”
She sniffles theatrically, and he rolls his eyes before dutifully patting her hand in comfort.
“But Madame Telaseta,” he chides her, appalled. “In all the years I have known you, you have only ever grown more beautiful. No one in their right mind would disagree with me, I know it!”
She sniffles once more, the colorful jewelry she's draped all over herself clinking.
“I have, haven’t I? Well, I suppose we can’t all be ageless like you, fiend.”
Deciding she's had enough sweet talk for the day, she drops his hand to climb vertically up the wall and grab another roll of fabric, comparing the color to her newly cut ribbon. He follows her on her crusade through the labyrinth of clothing on display, all the way into the entrance of her opulent atelier.
“Let's say I were inclined to forgive you your negligence, young man,” she titters, seemingly satisfied with her choice. “What would my payment look like, this time? I’m afraid I’ll have to demand it upfront.”
“My generous, benevolent Telaseta,” he proclaims humbly, before opening his hand and summoning a little velvet satchel to his palm. “I thought you might say that.”
She drops from the wall after a moment, her arachnid lower body catching her fall with ease.
“Gemstones from Isis,” she purrs with an impressed look inside. “You always did know how to make the right friends.”
“What can I say? I have many talents.”
“As do I. Now, show me that poor coat of yours.”
A snap of his fingers summons the garment in question, in all its tattered glory.
“There were a good few dozen protection spells woven into those seams,” his tailor of trust mutters under her breath as she inspects the damage. “Gotta redo all of that. And the singe marks, dah! What kind of dastardly devil did you tangle with this time, to ruin all that hard work?”
He would answer with a friendly quip. Something charming, undoubtedly. But before he can even think to do so, there's a warm, familiar tingle at the back of his head, and then the door to the main room swings open with a ring of the bell.
“Hello?” a voice, that voice, calls into the shop, and he feels his hackles rise at the sheer presence filtering into the room, feels every fiber of his being seize with anticipation. “I'm here to pick up an order for…”
Her gaze meets his.
Lovely, dazzling blue eyes wide with surprise as she stands there, frozen mid-movement. He feels transported, moved all the way back to the last time he'd seen her in person. When her lips had been swollen and her hair disheveled, when his touch had been etched into her skin with pale red marks. When he had been ecstatic at simply holding her; already reeling with the loss of her, knowing she'd slip through his fingers yet again.
But here she is, here they are.
Reunited, the two of them. As it always should have been.
“Ah,” Telaseta chirps. “A customer!”
And then Bloom's eyes shift to her and she jumps, squealing like a child in a horror house.
“Never heard that before,” the seamstress deadpans, rolling her eyes. “Children these days. In my youth we had some respect for our elders, or we'd be spun in silk and digested!”
Valid as her point may be, she uses two of her spindly black spider legs to underline it with gesturing, and Bloom's entire scalp catches on fire in response.
Telaseta looks from her to his coat.
“Huh,” she says.
Then she scrambles on to find a fire blanket, leaving him and Bloom alone.
The latter is still staring shell-shocked after the arachne by the time he reaches her, though that might in part be due to his speed: he is unwilling to bear even an inch of distance between them, now that she's here.
“You should consider to stop staring, little fairy,” he tells her, guiding her eyes back to himself. Cannot help but smile when he brings his hand to her forehead and brushes her hair back over her scalp, stifling the flames below his palm as he goes. “It's quite rude.”
She has just enough time to open her mouth in indignation before his own descends on her, swallowing her no doubt outraged reply.
He cannot wrap his head around it.
That she is here, as if the Stars themselves wanted to drop her in his lap once more, and that he could have gone so long without her. His fingers are splayed out against the side of her jaw, preventing her from pulling away, her own hands grasping the collar of his shirt for balance, and he can’t believe it’s been almost an entire month since the catacombs.
Bloom's lips are softer than silk as she gasps into his mouth, presses back against him with a tentative little shove. When he pulls back to look at her, glassy eyed and out of breath, he's all but drunk on affection. For his elusive, coat-burning, dastardly little devil.
“Hello,” he smiles against her forehead, pulling her against him.
“You're here,” is here stunned reply, and he all but preens at the happiness coloring her voice.
Cannot believe it is here, in the brightly-painted shop of a solarian tailor, that he finally meets her again, when he expected some grand battle or a scandalous, secret encounter, hidden from prying eyes. No, when they should have never been separated in the first place. He buries his face in her hair and breathes in the fire and magic still clinging to her, the floral scent of her shampoo and the electric, prickling traces of a recent teleportation.
He should have kept her with him like a pocket watch on a chain; tied to him, never out of reach. To feel her with him at every small movement, every step he took. Now, with her spell-heated little body in his arms and her breath fanning out against his neck, he cannot fathom how he ever let her leave.
Before remembering that he did not have his powers, that day, after so narrowly evading his death.
He cannot help but notice that he does have them now. His grip on her tightens, just marginally, a nearly imperceptible tension seeping into his hands.
But something about that idea must have translated through their traitorous tether, happily spilling all his thoughts for her, because he blinks and she is gone, almost across the entire room.
Bloom raises her chin. A clear, obvious challenge.
“Try it,” she says. “See what happens.”
Oh. Oh how he yearns to.
Hungers to bare his teeth and answer her demand in determination and raw magic, wants to see her eyes spark with the thrill of a fight. But he's painfully aware that Madame Telaseta's shop is very, very flammable, and not likely to survive their little sparring match.
And he really wants that coat back.
“Try what?”, he asks, innocently folding his hands behind his back. “Always so suspicious, Bloom. I thought you knew me better by now.”
I’ve just started a florilegium and I’m in love with this practice.
Basically, it’s where you write down any words/phrases/sentences that really sparkle at you as you’re reading. And then reading those phrases next to each other gives them new meaning.
I’d always dogeared the pages where I’ve found a phrase I love, but now that I’m writing them in a journal, I can actually read them all together.
I’m excited. And I want to start Harry Potter from the beginning again just so I can have a whole journal for this series of Sparklets. (What a great name.. seriously there’s a florilegium called the Book of Sparklets.) but I’m in he middle of a discworld book (Mort) and I’m sure Terry Pratchett will provide many a sparklet.
Thanks to Harry Potter and the sacred text for introducing me to this practice! ✨
“Life isn’t near as bad as we think it is. We need to remember that life is always good. There are always positives and it depends on our perspective.”
Fluff prompts for sparxshipping - #18 "I love you." "You shouldn't." (sounds like Sparked), Soft-ish dialogue prompts - #19 “Can I play with your hair?” (appreciate Valtor’s hair)
Oh my, I've been HOPING someone would do #19! I'm checking off a prompt on my list AND publishing the first sparklet, officially. (My first written sparklet. Not the chronologically first.)
Read on AO3
-
“Can I braid your hair?”
The request is so unexpected he has to look at her, just to make sure it was really her who asked. Despite the room being empty save for them, and her laying quite comfortably in his lap.
She returns his gaze with curious eyes, the sleepiness of earlier almost entirely gone.
A shame. Bloom is quite cuddly when tired, and less inclined to argue with him too. A victory on both accounts.
“Braid my hair?” he repeats, blinking. A little taken aback too, because, well. They could use their time in more entertaining ways.
But she's looking at him so hopefully that he cannot find it in himself to turn her down — even though he is confident he could make it up to her.
“Do I make a habit of refusing you?” he asks only, surrendering to his fate with a sigh. Bloom grins and jumps up in an instant, crawling behind him eagerly. For a moment she escapes his perception, and he almost assumes it was merely a diversion. So she can steal away again, disappear beyond his reach until they inevitably meet again.
A prickling sensation at the back of his neck calms that fear, however. And then gentle fingers are weaving through his hair, and…
Huh. This is… this is nice.
It’s not the first time he'd had his hair braided, of course. Infiltrating royal ceremonies sometimes required a variety of hairstyles, and he's been alive for long enough to witness firsthand how the art of braiding became more and more elaborate.
But he’d used spells, on these occasions. A quick flare of magic and it was done.
Now though…
He's under no illusion that Bloom is any good at this. Most mundane tasks elude her otherwise so legendary skill, and he can practically hear her bite her lip in concentration. So why does it feel so… so…
Something in his shoulders relaxes. Something he didn’t even know was tense, to be honest. The light seems to dim, and he suddenly becomes aware that he could fall asleep like this.
Which would be utterly humiliating. So he won’t do that.
“Why did you ask?” he says after a moment, more to keep his eyes from falling shut than out of actual curiosity. Which is awakened anyway when Bloom halts, as if at a loss for words.
“I…” she starts, then resumes her braiding. “I heard that the whole, you know, doing someone’s hair thing can be very… intimate in some cultures. Melody, for example! Just didn’t want to pounce on you with that.”
Quirking an eyebrow, he looks around, where most of their clothing is still strewn about the floor. Carelessly left where she had tossed it just hours earlier, in her haste to get it off of them. When personal space hadn’t been on her mind at all, evidently.
“I appreciate your concern,” he deadpans, “but I do think we are past that point.”
He enjoys letting her squirm for a while, looking for another excuse, before continuing.
“Either way, my question wasn’t why you felt the need to ask. I'd like to know why you would want to do this.”
Not that he is complaining. Her usually so fidgety hands are strangely calm in their movements, easily tugging the strands in place, weaving them together. His scalp is tingling with the sensation, his entire body seeming to melt into something softer.
He… likes this. Very much even.
Which just means another thing to miss when she insists on leaving once again.
Bloom has gone very quiet for a moment, so quiet that he almost forgot he had asked. But she answers, softly. Like she doesn’t want to say it too loudly, like someone else could hear.
“I like your hair.”
He blinks. Is tempted to look over his shoulder, before remembering that her hands are tangled in his hair and he would tear it.
She is not usually one to compliment him. For anything, least of all his appearance — which he knows she likes. Has dragged the confession out of her in between moans and pleas often enough.
But there's something else in her saying it so freely, voluntarily. Finding safety in the fact that he can’t look at her right now, most likely. She knows that anything she gives him — any weakness, no matter how small and innocent — he will use to lure her closer, to bind her to him.
That she chose to say it anyway is meaningful.
It moves something in him he'd rather not examine now.
“…that’s… good,” he manages to say, before regaining some composure and smirking. “You know, for the very low prize of lifelong commitment to me and my plans, you get to see it all day long.”
Her smile somehow translates all the way into her fingertips; he can feel it when she combs through his hair.
“If world dominion doesn’t work out, you'll have a bright future as a door to door salesman ahead of you,” she gives back, and his smirk widens into a self-satisfied grin.
“Oh, is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”
She laughs, loud and unrestrained, accidentally pulling at his hair a tad too close for comfort. She apologizes when he curses, but does not stop laughing.
It’s the kind of sound he dreamed about, for so long.
He drinks it in and let’s his eyes fall closed just a little, smiling to himself as she gets back to braiding with the occasional chuckle. If he falls asleep, she'll be gone when he wakes, no doubt.
