Some Robots

sivod's tf oc ramblings

[p-cinereus]

( ͡◉ ͜ʖ ͡◉)

@vantofnc

[vantofnc]

SCREAMS

[vantofnc]

Prompt Fill: Calx/Aether [NSFW]

more prompt fills from twitter, this one for @fiveboos and ft. mainly their OC Aether as well as @cocaptainrodimus‘ OC Nyx!!! tysm y’all 

The cables suspending Calx above the examination table creaked loudly in his audials as he rocked to and fro with the inertia of his own ministrations. Without the spark to raise it, his helm hung low in front of him. But his optics still smoked with a nearly indignant yearning, quiet, azure coals in the shadow of the golden crown that wreathed his helm.

Aether kept a careful eye on Calx while Nyx's back was turned, observing him with the triumphant indifference Aether always tended to affect in his presence. But his optics betrayed something otherwise. Aether trode and retrode the colorful crossing lines that held Calx with only his optics, noting the eye-catching contrast of the vibrant red and blue against the dark of the mech's rich black and blue solar panels and lustrous gold plating. His optics traced over and behind, to where they tied down the long elegant fins of his sensory dish, which quivered and twitched as the mech rocked against the series of knots that ran across his open interface panels.

He wasn't particularly keen to turn away when Nyx demanded his attention with a nudge.

"Take a look at this."

Aether tore his optics away to look at what Nyx was examining. It appeared to be a part of a shoulder assembly, a rounded piece with a regular array of silver fixtures. The arm it had come from sat nearby, set aside from the other three limbs. They almost seemed fake, Aether had thought to himself after watching Nyx remove them earlier, like those from a manikin or surgical model. Aether peered over Nyx's shoulder, trying to get a better look at the open shoulder.

Nyx exchanged the head of his tool to a thin screwdriver, pointing to a series of small clamps that ran in concentric rings around the center of the joint. "These are similar to the clamps I've placed on the rest of his arm— you see, these are shut at the moment to prevent the fuselage from leaking after removal. The hidden feature of the piece, however, is…" Nyx placed the joint back down and reached to a small electromagnet on the table, connecting the circuitry to activate it. As he swept the magnet over the joint, one by one, each of the clamps opened with a gentle noise, then slammed back shut without exposure to the polarity. Nyx seemed pleased with the demonstration. "Quite unique."

From the operating table, Calx pushed and tugged against his bonds— as much as he could, with neither arms nor legs. His strong abdominal and back struts allowed him to move against the restraints, but only with effort— and not nearly enough to relieve the frustration. Static climbed audibly up the front of his chassis.

The flash caught Aether's eye. He looked over— only half intentionally —and ended up staring again— rather unintentionally. Calx's backstrut was arched in what was nearly a U-shape, the rising puffs of steam from his vents obscuring the low glow of his optics.

The chuckle from his side reclaimed Aether's attention.

"Distracted, Aether?"

"Hardly." Aether replied, too hurriedly for it to be true.

"You shouldn't feel obligated to stand around, darling," Nyx's optics creased, as if in an unseen smile. "Go ahead, amuse yourself. That is why both of you are here, after all."

Aether hesitated, until Nyx turned back to his work, before pacing towards where Calx swayed in his bonds. He strode around the golden mech, servos clasped under his wings behind his back, drumming on the back of one block. Calx's gaze trailed him, longing. He still swung gently as he caught his breath in the spotlight of the surgical lamps, broad golden plates gleaming and sending a yellow cast over the room. His struggling fins still sparked at their tips with the charge of the energy he had spent over the course of fatiguing himself with the promise of an overload— only to be exhaustingly edged to the brink, exacerbated by each progressive push.

He had been so unruly and undisciplined at the start, Aether recalled, while Nyx removed his limbs and hooked in the diagnostic wiring— first jabbering away about the reformulation of the high-end polish he used, then flirtatiously guiding Nyx's servos up the length of each leg before releasing the hip joint. But Calx's responsiveness thereafter caught Aether's attention. Calx kept the flirtation high even as he was being hitched, but no sooner had Nyx taken the gag in hand then Calx had quieted, tilting his helm up and opening his intake on command. Nyx strung the final diagnostic connection to the port under Calx's glossa and set to work. But observing left an indelible impression on the onlooker in the room— he watched and waited, Calx clearly aware of the optics on him. But he was in no position to make any comment. He still was in no such position, only very obviously growing more desperate for Aether's attention— for him to make a move.

Aether wanted to savor the chance.

"Open your spike housing." he demanded.

Calx didn't so much as hesitate. With a deep ex-vent and the sound of retracting plating, Calx's spike pressurized, leaking a thread of lubricant under him. Calx's biolights pulsed, and a long shiver crawled visibly up his backstrut. But otherwise he waited, still, for the next command.

As he crossed to Calx's front, Aether leisurely trailed the tips of his servos over the joint of Calx's hip, up past the seams of Calx's abdomen, faintly scratching over the reflective surface of the well-polished gold chest plating. Calx writhed beneath him, upsetting their path, only stopping as soon as he recognized the perturbed look on Aether's faceplates. He stopped immediately without Aether even having to make a sound, staring back desperately as if in a silent plea for Aether to forgive the slight. His intakes were labored, as if he'd beg if able to.

"You seem to like my attention," Aether purred, entertained by the display.

Calx's optics widened, but he made no effort to avert his gaze. Calx was so much more demure, more tempting when unable to mouth off. He nodded, at length, optics dimming, fluttering shut.

"I wonder— you know how I conduct my business." Aether continued, holding Calx's chin in one hand while the other grazed along his side, down toward the seam of his pelvic plating. Calx shuddered beneath him, optics half lidded and vocalizer clicking against the manual mute. "You wouldn't be jealous of that. You have better things to be jealous of."

Aether traced the edge of his pelvic plate, teasing the idea of dipping into the seam. Calx's optic shutters opened a fraction in what might have been recognition, allowing him to gaze back at Aether.

"But regardless, you’ve thought about this, haven’t you?"

The reaction was immediate. Calx's optics shone brightly beneath his shutters, and he sighed raggedly, pushing himself as best he could towards Aether's touch, as if he could wantonly cry his assent with the whole of his frame.

Satisfied, Aether felt for the housing of Calx's spike and curled his servos around its head, pushing a mess of lubricant down the shaft with a long, strong stroke. Calx hissed a breath, and he struggled to keep his helm held high.

"How did I guess?"

—————————————————————————————————————————

Aether hitched the last of his belongings into the subspace container, checking the flexible cords with a forceful tug to each end. He set his dentae as he pulled the last with a grunt before minimizing the container and performing one last, feverish sweep of the habsuite he had been occupying for the bulk of his lifetime. The walls still bore the paint he had applied, the windows still trimmed with the expensive organic-made fabric he had fitted them with to block out Cybertron's bright sun. He claimed he wasn't attached to these trappings— he had taken what few gifts and practical items he truly cared for already —but something about this final, anxious sweeping of the room turned his fuel lines into knots.

He opened and shut the drawers of one of the storage units along the wall, optics skimming over the unused tins of polish and associated cloths in one, parts of his extensive collection of professional tools in the next two (nothing more exciting than the personal favorites he had already recovered in his subspace), invoices, records, other bureaucratic documents now reduced to a state of irrelevancy— Cybertron's bureaucracy wouldn't be finding him, not anytime soon at the very least.

He was tempted to slam the last cabinet door, as if to give a sense of finality to this last check, but thought better of it. It was late, even for the hours this kind of house kept, and it had already been hard enough for Aether to bid Fable alone farewell.

Aether put the container in his subspace. The lights went dark as the door to the suite closed behind him.

Aether headed straight for the foyer without looking back, optics on his pedes to avoid the sections of the floor he knew had the tendency to creak and groan. He couldn't remember how many times he had picked his way through these halls over the years, off to some off-hour amorous rendezvous or discussion with their weary purveyor over the books. Remembering it was enough to make his optics mist with condensation and throat close with the effort not to drown the warmth of his memories in another fresh round of tears.

He stopped at the door to take a deep breath and tried to still his racing pulse. It was his choice to leave this one-time home as much as it had been to come there so long ago. He wiped the covers of his optics and shuddered, rolling back his shoulders and lifting his chin with an effort to refresh his resolve.

Aether's servos were just above the release when he heard the locks on the door retract sharply. Aether recoiled, as if the pad had burned him, stumbling backward. Panic replaced his grief with a tightness throughout his chassis and a near-irresistible itch in his transformation cog. The door slipped aside, too quickly, pulling in a gust of fresh midnight air and the glow of the street lamps outside.

It was Calx looking back at him through the door, the fins of his dish splayed gently behind him and reflective frame lush with color under the glowing pink light of the brothel's flickering signboard. Aether was frozen in place, joints locked, unprepared and fearful. Calx seemed surprised, at first, then confused as Aether continued to stare back. He knitted his brow in a gentle frown at Aether and cocked his helm to one side as he took a casual, sweeping step inside.

"Oh— Aether, you scared me." He said, so normally that Aether had to repress a shudder. "Isn't it a bit late to be going out, dear?"

"I…" Aether cleared his vocalizer, concealing the wince that had entered his tone. "I suppose."

"The streets just aren't as safe as they used to be…" Calx trailed off with an aimlessly lamenting tone.

Aether nodded numbly, clenching one of his fists and trying to stem the torrent of words collecting behind his dentae. Calx leaned on the doorframe, observing him with careful attention. It was a cold, piercing glare, one that lingered heavily on Aether's spark. He found himself speechless and unable to look Calx in the optics, and with every passing second, more determined to rush past him. Calx was not about to crush his resolve.

Aether, still looking at the floor, took one step forward with a crack of his heel on the floor, a sound that overwhelmed his audials with a buzzing anxiousness. He took another, four steps to the door, until Calx was directly his way, still lounging on the exterior in what Aether cat-eyed scrutiny. Aether tried to muster his annoyance to glare back, shooting Calx a sharp look. But when he saw Calx, he couldn't hold it. The younger mech's expression was wide and anguished, as though in the few moments of silence he had realised something terrible.

"Where are you going?" Calx asked, the fear clear behind his words.

"…Out." Aether forced himself to reply, biting back an objection to being asked at all.

"To where?"

Aether couldn't reply, casting his gaze down the stairway and towards the empty street as if it would fib for him.

"When are you coming back?"

They stood in silence there for a moment, unmoving, Calx staring at Aether emptily.

"You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?" he asked in a whisper.

Aether snapped back to Calx, who was despondently staring at him, hugging his forearms to his chest. He looked genuinely pained, not as tearful as he was resigned.

"For a while now." Aether confessed.

Calx nodded and turned past Aether to the darkened foyer, hugging himself tighter in an inaudible shift. He pulled himself from the doorpost to stand straight again, slipping out of Aether's path and stepping inside. His fins were held flat against his back, shoulders hunched, and frame bowed and tense. Aether wished he could reach out to him— but the sun was due to rise over Iacon, and he had no time left to wait.

He only turned back when he heard Calx call his name, voice clarion like the daybreak.

"Aether…"

Aether took a gulp of the pale night air and turned back. Calx was standing in the doorway, biting his lip with his fists harshly clenched at his sides.

"Good luck." Calx struggled to say. "I hope we'll meet again."

He quickly turned from the door, which slammed between them with a click of the locks, leaving Aether cold under the moonlit sky.

[vantofnc]

i hardly ever use anything here but for the record i finished outlining the entirety of my story and am excited to try to write it, if i can manage!

[p-cinereus]

there was one of those may mays goin’ round on twitter lmao

the twitter handles are under their respective oc :0

[vantofnc]

Prompt fill: Flashsteel

The best lies that Flashsteel could tell were always half-truths. He had no talent for masking his feelings, especially his desire to be honest. He had struggled to keep a straight face for all the years of his professional career and never mastered it. The best he could do was to evoke the earnest face of a mech who cared passionately, the gently pursed lips of one under too much pressure to do so less. He always carried the desperate mark of an optimist between his brows, the pinches and creases of one who squinted at rusted gears to find the bright, weathered edges at their teeth.

There was nothing dishonest about the practice— the simplest statement of a fact covered up for all the difficulty of a situation.

"What is the greatest challenge to policing in Rodion?" Flashsteel remembered that a reporter had once asked him at a press conference. "It's simple, and I can answer you in one word: trust," Flashsteel had said. Rodion's citizens had no trust in their police to fulfil the mission to protect and serve. "That's why our project here in 78th is so vital; we are here to restore that trust." He carried himself with the gentle, prophetic confidence that assured all listeners that, indeed, they had nothing to worry about. He had seen to the depths of the Great Rust Sea. There was nothing more complicated about Cybertron's city-state best known for its brutal, unforgiving underground than a lack of trust between individuals and state authorities.

Simple problems have simple solutions, according to the common logic, and the full burden of truth was far beyond the ability of many to bear. It was a responsibility of those in charge to make things simple. Uncomplicated fact never choked anyone he had ever met. Sometimes he wondered it was for this demonstration of Flashsteel's belief in the rallying power of simplicity that Rictus had never discouraged him, never cut the strings that bound them.

"Flashsteel," Ready once said to him, bearing a recognisably concerned expression. "Who is the Captain to you?" By this ocassion that Flashsteel had been sitting in the medbay, Ready had already saved his spark fourteen times and stood at his side against their Captain dozens more. Flashsteel had been upset, when he came in— Rictus had berated him once again over the latest morale issue, and Flashsteel had been finding it difficult to cope. He was calm now, but had let on more than he had intended to Ready. He folded his hands in his lap, looking down as if he could find some consolation there for the lie he knew he would have to give. He knew he shouldn't wait too long to answer. "It's really not that complicated," he would begin with well-practiced casualness, accompanied with a laugh— the kind of laugh that came from a can as opposed from the spark. "He's my superior officer."

But in his mind's eye, all Flashsteel could see was Rictus, standing beside him at the podium during that press conference so long ago. His optics twinkled with the dark amusement of one who knew better, as if to haunt him with a lofty, elegiac whisper— Oh, if only.

[p-cinereus]

*KICKS DOWN YOUR DOOR* HI I LOVE MY FRIEND @vantofnc‘S TFOCS, ESPECIALLY RICTUS HE’S AWFUL AND HOT!!

[p-cinereus]

dicho’s_new_groove.jpg

feat. @fiveboos‘ Morel and @vantofnc‘s Ready!

[vantofnc]

Vandal hadn’t been forced to sleep on the floor in a few long nights, and he hadn’t missed it either. 

First, it was always cold and damp, no matter where you went in the Dead End.  Second, there was no way he could ever truly find a comfortable position to lie in. That is, not unless he had a couple dozen more pillows— not something Vandal would risk arrest for. A rap sheet consisting of habitual vandalism, serial domestic terrorism, a few counts of assault on enforcers of the law, obstruction of justice, resistance of arrest, and a one time theft of twenty seven pillows would only be entertaining to the pilots of the Garrus-1 dropship, who could guffaw at the tragedy of being arrested for the sake of comfort. Third, nothing recharged faster than a real cycle on a real slab. He always woke up sore these days, but Vandal vastly preferred the throb of a night well-spent to the uneven aching and stiffness in his joints from hours spent in stasis against the wall. Fourth— well, there was no fourth. But too many things came in threes or fives, and why should they, anyway? Thinking on it, fourth could be… it was… Fourth was that there was no reason he should have to sleep on the floor besides being too wary to have a home address. And, besides, that a berth would have cost more money than even the racket demanded. There was only one major benefit to this little room after all, and that was its seclusion and privacy. 

If those were lost, he might as well have left the Dead End for any other ditch off the beaten track.

Vandal had finally settled himself in his makeshift nest in the backroom that night when there came an insistent rapping from the window at the front of the body shop. He groaned and curled up further against the few lumpy, thin pillows he possessed, gritting his teeth.

He attempted to ignore it, trying to figure out why anyone would assume that he was even there, considering that all the lights were out and the grate locked down over the doors— Yeah, with a a grate— Wait a damned minute.

Vandal sprang to his pedes and took two steps over to a glitchy monitor on the other side of the room. “Oh come on, come on,” he murmured intermittently, slapping the hard edge of the broken screen to try to bring the dual-toned, staticky security camera image into display. It took a klik and him cursing at the ‘busted-aft-spark-fraggin’’ thing for the image to right itself. He squinted at the grainy image.

The grate was up and only seemingly undamaged. Vandal knew otherwise. In spite of the low resolution of the image, he could also make out just how the light refracted over some faint cracks in the glass of the window— had they always been there? He heard and, with a considerable lag, watched the persistent mech at the door try to jostle it open, pushing and pulling at the handle. More knocking then came, with an insistent call.

“Vandal, I know you’re in there! You ain’t recharging, open the damned door right now or you’ll get slagged the next time you poke your ugly red noseplate out of it!” Another banging set of knocks came from the front. “Open up!”

That was unmistakably Dealer’s voice— not the more famous Dealer of Nyon, nor Dealer of Polyhex, not to be confused with Doubledealer either, just an irritating small-timer who hardly deserved his own designation. Undoubtedly, the larger shadow behind him would be Grinder. 

Unexpected knocking after business hours couldn’t be good. Even expected knocking after business hours never was around here. And these two goons showing up again was trouble. —No. No, no. It was fine. Whatever. He’d deal with it, as he always did. Small price to pay for freedom.

Vandal scrambled in the dark towards the board that controlled his various failsafe measures, using only the light of his optics to find and then pull apart a few of the frayed, twisted wires that connected to the false switchboard. He was rushing, anxious of the beating his doorframe was taking. He looked towards the feed to find the glass cracked to hell and the frame bowed like an old miner’s backstrut, and worked his fingers faster, trying not to cry out at the prickle of electric feedback to his servos.

He exited the hidden door in the darkness of the back hallway, walking casually towards the door as if he hadn’t been menaced out of hiding. Waltzing over, calm but cautious of the tripwires, he undid the brutalised lock, which clicked twice as it disengaged the hammer from the now-disarmed firing mechanism above the door. He opened the bent door, and was about to greet Dealer when suddenly his vocaliser shorted and his feet found no purchase on the ground.

Vandal then realized that Grinder had him by the throat. Vandal crackled out a harsh sound of surprise, uselessly clutching at Grinder’s thick servos as they squeezed around his neck.

“You little…” said Grinder, visor glinting threateningly, “you made us wait.”

Vandal felt his tanks turn and his fuel pump’s tempo kick up as his lines struggled to deliver fuel to his brain module.

“Kuh,” he gasped out, “care to explain the visit? Suh…prised me.”

Dealer gestured to Grinder. “Put ‘im down, buddy.” Vandal kicked uselessly as the grip on his neck tightened further. Dealer then paused for a couple moments longer than necessary, then snapped, “I meant on the ground, don’t get all metaphysi— metaph—" “Metaphorical?!” Vandal winced. “Yeah, what the little tailpipe said. Quit it.”

Grinder dropped him, and Vandal collapsed to his knees over the threshold. He felt one hand over his throat, intakes harsh and rasping, self repair already trying to work on the crimped wiring of his intake. Vandal heard Grinder chortling. Short-statured Dealer stood just above his eye level, and although Vandal’s visual feed was unfocused from the energon rushing back to his head, he swore he saw the cruel tilt of a smile across Dealer’s faceplate.

“Did you practice that?” Vandal muttered contemptuously.

Either Dealer hadn’t heard or pretended not to. 

“You’re late,” Dealer said flatly. “Late enough that we got posted to watch you all damn day to make sure you’d be here when we collected. Y’know how boring that was?”

“Can’t help that,” Vandal said, still catching his breath, “you’ve got shorter attention spans than, hah, me.”

“Yeah, they’re short all right,” Dealer said, pausing as he screwed up his faceplate to think about whether he’d insulted himself or not. But not for long enough to be offended. Dealer charged on ahead: “‘bout as short as Slackjaw’s fuse, I’d say. Where’s his cut, Vandal?”

Vandal frowned, rubbing his throat cables, “Gave it to you a few orns ago.”

Dealer clicked his glossa, annoyed. “Wasn’t all there, mech.”

“You better look for it then.” Vandal smiled toothily. “What, boss-mech seem mad when you saw him?”

“Yeah,” Grinder said, full of bluster. “He said you had it coming. Don’t you think?”

“Nah, really I just gotta assume, y’know, for the sake of sanity? Some people might think this is the Dead End version of a friendly greeting, but mechs don’t get choked for nothing. Unless they do, and if that’s the case, uh-oh, some good citizen better call in an enforcer.” Vandal said, standing up. Grinder stiffened, and Vandal laughed at him, grin widening. “Awh, Grinder, good ol’ Grind-‘em-up-smash-a-bug, you think I’d go do that to you? You know it can’t be me, I’m such a model citizen that they’ve got my name all in searchlights now! But anyway, you two must’ve had a reason to break down my door, right?” He put a hand on his hip and tapped a servo, looking off pensively. “Although now that I’m thinking about it… Hm, what could a local small business owner like me have done to make the big scary racketeer boss mad in the past couple orns…”

Dealer cut in then with a nasty growl, fangs glinting in the light of the street lamps. “Primus, shut up! Can’t keep your damned voice out of my audials for more than a minute! You already know why we’re here— just tell us where the money is!”

“Oh, that why you had him greet me like that, half-pint? Keep me quiet?” Vandal cackled, giving Dealer a shove too hard to be playful. “And here I was bragging to the boss about how good the customer service was around here.”

Grinder backed up a step. Alarmed, he asked, “Was he here?”

Vandal cocked his head playfully, laughing. “Sure was. Didn’t notice the fresh coat? Or did you just lie about seeing him? —Ya done fragged up, if you didn’t compliment him. That was all me, Grind-bug. Thought you might recognize it since I did yours that one time, and gave you those sweet, sweet rims to boot. Doesn’t surprise me that Itty-Bitty Daft-aft here didn’t though, he’s not as sharp as you. I think you need a better partner, ‘bug—“

Dealer tried to hit Vandal, but Vandal just caught him easily and kicked him backwards with a pede to the panels. It slammed the smaller mech into Grinder, who stumbled in surprise.

“Vandal, where’s the money?” Dealer hissed.

“I gave it to you.” Vandal crossed his arms. “Told the boss he could expect you to have it. Guessin’ you really didn’t bother seeing him before trying to squeeze me.” “—Is this going the way you planned? Just wanna keep up with you two, I feel like we’ve really bonded over the circuit-fried job you’re doing here. You two trying to take off and ditch the boss or something?” Vandal asked as he raised a brow plate. “Oh, you in love or some sick slag like that? Bet you two fragged once and now think you’re predestined sparkmates! I’m surprised! Grind get you that worked up, Deal? —Hehe, takes three rites to conjunx and only one to get your spark snuffed y’know.” He glanced over their shocked faceplates, then smacking his palm onto his tall helm crest with a laugh. "…No, no, no, wait a klik, what am I saying, Dealer’s a filthy shanix-scanner and Grinder’s too romantic for him anyway. It’s just not meant to be— I’m tellin’ you, Grind, you need a better partner! —Hm, did you waste a bunch of cash betting on petrorabbit fights? On races? Always bet on Blurr, that’s a beginner’s mistake, Daft Deal.” Vandal patted Dealer on the shoulder, only to then make a show of wiping his hand off on the doorframe. Vandal then clapped his hands together. “Oh, I know! Some fiesty buymech made off with the cash, didn’t they? Serves you right, you bastards probably don’t even tip, like how Grind didn’t even thank the mech at the desk that one time we got a room at that—“

“—Stop. Speculating.” Dealer’s faceplate was contorted in anger, optics flaring.

“Sure, sure.” Vandal said, grinning devilishly. “Can I ask you one more thing though? What’s the best address to send the repair bill to, you or boss-mech? —Boss-mech, right? I mean, it’s his shop, technically, and your aft is probably gonna get terminated for stealing his shanix, and besides you don’t have cash anyway, so…”

Dealer pushed past his partner angrily and shouted for Grinder to follow. Grinder waved goodbye quickly to Vandal and then followed, leaving Vandal alone in the dark street, rolling his optics in disgust. 

Some slagging night-cycle he was having. Getting choked out by big-spike-soft-aft Grinder and having half-pint-less-sense Dealer try to use him for a mistake that they made, after wrecking his storefront? And Vandal knew he wouldn’t let himself recharge unless he repaired it.

Well, all the same, he wasn’t expecting to get much in the first place.

[vantofnc]

Fallstreak: Tupolev Tu-160

Redtail: Rockwell B-1B Lancer

[vantofnc]

Their hab was quiet except for their breathing. Dark, too. During the night, the room was only ever faintly lit by a soft glow from the ventilation unit on the wall, which cast a dreamlike lavender hue across the room.

Perate laid with his back on the berth. The white and gold of his plates glowed in this light, whereas Vant's sucked it up, plain silver and black hands clasped gently in and around one of Perate's.

Vant, on his side, moved closer, curling around Perate’s arm. One bright yellow optic flickered and illuminated dimly, turning Perate's gaze on the little mech beside him. Visor retracted, Vant's optics were sleepily dim, lids heavy, though their faint blue glow still cast itself across the berth. Perate gripped Vant's hands a bit tighter with a tired smile. The light drew upwards. Vant squeezed back.

Sometimes he looked up to Perate and felt insignificant, as if his presence were not necessary in light of the genius and passion before him. Or as if one day should Perate stop wanting him, it would be no surprise for his world to abruptly end.

At others, he looked up and felt guilty: guilty for his luck, guilty for his own intellect having brought him here, guilty for the selfishness of being uplifted alone.

But in these peaceful moments, the ones where the world beyond this room did not exist, there was only one single feeling in his spark.

"Love you." Vant whispered reverently.

"C'mere." Perate replied, tugging Vant in closer. Vant scooted himself further along the berth with a blissful smile.

Perate leaned across his arm, pressing a gentle kiss on the top of Vant's helm. As if sharing a secret, Perate said, "I love you too."

———

"There's not much time." Perate's voice was always quiet with Vant. Even when he was stressed or frustrated, it never rose, never threatened. But his tone cut, the syllables digging sharply into Vant's sides, leaving him feeling weak and frail.

"What do you mean?" Vant reached for Perate, attempting to hold back the frantic pace at which he moved, stuffing various supplies into a subspace-worthy storage unit. He missed, narrowly, the tips of his fingertips glancing off of the gleaming plates of his arms.

"Perate, what's happening?" His voice quavered noticeably.

"It's easy to grasp. You," Perate declared, placing the case in front of Vant, "are leaving."

Vant had to play the words back a few times to process the statement. Perate's expression was hard. It frightened Vant. Perate usually was so casual; he only wore this look when they were faced with a challenge, and even then it was never so severe. It was the look of someone who made hard decisions, one who stood by them.

"You're not?" Vant's voice was small, crushed, and somewhat frantic. He found himself shaking.

Perate crouched, the well-practiced neutrality cracking as he did. Those yellow eyes swam about, a grimace stretching across his face.

"No, love," Perate responded, familiar gentleness undercut by unfamiliar resignation, "there's no time for me." He nudged the container over towards Vant.

Vant gasped, clamping his hands over his mouth as if it would stop up his vocaliser, shaking his head. He didn’t even reach for the item offered. Perate placed a hand on his diminutive shoulder, smiling, though it didn't meet his optics.

"Don’t look so upset, you know it’ll wrench my spark out," he said, trying to summon levity into his tone, "I might still make it out of this, who knows. But if I don't do something to protect you, no one else will."

Vant hiccuped, bringing down his shaking hands and launching himself into Perate's chest, clasping his arms around the golden glass panes. His field was fumbling, stretching, turmoil running in a buzz throughout, trying to tug at Perate's for one last touch, one more embrace. Perate hesitated at first, caught off guard by the suddenness of it. But then he held Vant— tighter than usual, almost uncomfortably tight —neither of them wanting to let go, neither knowing if it would happen again.

“I’d sacrifice my life,” Perate whispered, “but never you.”

[vantofnc]

To Rictus’ surprise, Flashsteel did return, although only after a stretch of glum, taciturn avoidance. The behavior was not a cause for concern. More importantly, the crew’s vigor blossomed with just the slightest bit more attention from their Lieutenant. The bridge was now all a hum of concentration, displacing the formerly panicked silence that was only percussively disrupted by the shrill and frantic sounds of The Prefect’s readouts.

What motivated the change in Flashsteel’s behaviour and how it came to pass, Rictus did not assume, beyond that Flashsteel had heeded his advice to some degree. It was enough. Rictus had already put aside thoughts of Flashsteel’s other offer. In the interests of their professional relationship, in light of the cold treatment Flashsteel had been giving Rictus lately, and because the only time it was even mildly appropriate to consider it was the middle of the night, unable to recharge, hating himself for even thinking to carry on with his former captain, his current subordinate, the one whose station was consistently marked by a haze of confusion. Rictus was calm about the matter. Of course, he thought little of it. And he didn’t expect anything to come of it, excepting an apology.

Flashsteel came to Rictus’ quarters a little more than a fortnight after their previous private conversation: not leaning on the frame of the hab door per the last few times, rather, standing stock straight with a nervous twitch in the EM impulses filling out the surrounding air.

Rictus felt something like apprehension settling into his frame. Flashsteel’s usual free rein on his field only served as a perturbation that reminded Rictus of his own— he clamped his signal tightly to himself, masking it, watching and waiting.

“Shouldn’t you be recharging?” Rictus asked with restraint, though trepidation clenched at his spark.

“Should be. Couldn’t manage.” Flashsteel said. His tone was soft, but the words were numb. “Had to talk with you.”

Under normal circumstances, perhaps Rictus would not have ushered Flashsteel in, or perhaps he would have upbraided his Lieutenant for calling so late. But, and perhaps only for the sake of the angry murk that Rictus had been plumbing the depths of for the past few nights, Rictus let him in.

Flashsteel stepped from the white of the hall into the dimmed night lighting of Rictus’ personal habsuite. The door closed with a tight compression of its seal, leaving Flashsteel standing with Rictus at the entrance, the dazzling chrome accents of his plating catching and flinging what light they caught across the room. Rictus could see the ebbing of the bright biolights on Flashsteel’s chest and pelvic plates, casting their own haze about him. 

Rictus took a deep breath, waiting for Flashsteel to speak. When it didn’t come immediately, he then attempted to encourage—

“Well—?” “I—“ Flashsteel interjected simultaneously, then stopping short.

A second clicked by in silence.

“Sorry.” Flashsteel laughed, clearly feeling uncomfortable.

“It’s nothing.” Rictus dismissed easily.

“I was only—“

“No excuse is necessary.” Rictus narrowed his optics. “Why are you here, Flashsteel?”

Flashsteel didn’t meet his gaze immediately, seemingly admiring the purple hue of the light as it reflected in his shimmering blue plates and cast shadows across his faceplate. Flashsteel stole glances to Rictus’ unyielding expression, gleaming optics like searchlights. Finding nothing there, he spoke hesitantly.

“I came here to tell you that you were right.” Flashsteel’s tone flagged shamefully. “I’ve been negligent.”

Rictus snorted. Understatement. “And?” he asked.

He expected anger from Flashsteel, but somehow the word seemed to only cut him down smaller. “And… acting out.”

“You said a great many things the last time you were in this room.” Rictus crossed his arms. “I’d call it ‘unprofesssional,’ but ‘insubordinate’ seems more appropriate in this arrangement. Wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes—“ The sound stopped in Flashsteel’s throat it seemed. He hissed around the sound of the word, “…sir.”

Rictus nodded, gaze peeling from where it threatened to bite holes in Flashsteel’s frame. “Good.” he said, trailing for a moment. And it was the truth. For that moment. Flashsteel relaxed too soon with a gentle, near-silent clinking of his armoured plates. Then the moment was over.

“Well. Good though it may be to hear you admit them, I was already well aware of your recent faults,” snapped Rictus, Flashsteel straightening his struts in response.  “Consider your apology accepted.” He pressed the lock to the pressurised door, and it flew open in response.

“Hold on, just—” Flashsteel pulled Rictus’ hand from the lock, a hint of desperation falling into his voice. His optics then went wide, nervous, in realisation of what he had done. Rictus found himself perplexed and hesitated to say anything whatsoever, merely glaring down at him. The Lieutenant gulped back his fear, and stammered, “I have more. More to say.”

“Then do so.” Rictus said with disdain.

The door shut again.

Flashsteel loosened his grip, though Rictus did not try to remove his hand from under Flashsteel’s. Flashsteel seemed frozen, optics swimming again over Rictus’ unmoving expression, his ill-disciplined field waving wildly between them and churning murkily.

Flashsteel recoiled and pulled his hand back. Rictus’ fell noncommittally by his side.

“I— The data. The other night. It was… it was damaged.” He stumbled over his words. “But I remember everything. —Or at least I think I do.” Flashsteel said, the shame reading heavily in his hurt expression.

“I kinda wish I hadn’t said a lot of the slag about…” Flashsteel gulped, another flare of unease pulsing through the surrounding air. “…Well, you know.” Flashsteel trailed, confidence crumbling.

“I’m sure I don’t.” Rictus said, voice remaining low, though impatient. “Be more specific.”

“You really want me to spell it out?” The shorter mech sighed, the light from his optics pooling across the crease of his cheeks as he briefly clenched shut their covers. Reopening them, he turned at an oblique to Rictus, gaze averted, and crossed his arms as if pressing his plates to his spark.

“You had a reputation in the force, Rictus.” Flashsteel said. “You knew it then and didn’t care much either way, but I cared and didn’t tolerate the gossip. Who cares what you do to blow off charge? —With anyone else, I might have worried about security, but you?” Flashsteel smiled shallowly. “No way.”

Rictus rubbed his servos into the strut connections at the back of his neck. Talking to Flashsteel had such a laborious, stalling quality at times— a sentimental one at that. Reputations were as unimportant then as now. There was nothing to this context. As with bringing up much of the past. He needed no more disquieting reminders of Flashsteel’s former position as compared to his own.

“The, uh, well, invitation,” Flashsteel said with some difficulty, finally catching Rictus’ attention again, “was… all that talk I heard back then catching up with me.” Flashsteel lifted his hands to cover his faceplate, groaning. “Or something. I guess. I don’t know where it came from, I’d never have said anything like that sober, even if maybe I still would have thought about— no, no. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know.”

Rictus processed for a moment, sifting for what was actually important out of it all. Flashsteel vented with a hiss in the seconds that passed, hands still plastered to his helm.

“…So.” Rictus said, at length, hand having returned to his side, field still leashed and tone still controlled. “You’re withdrawing it? Or not?”

“I…” Flashsteel tugged down his arms, slowly. “I guess I thought you’d want that.” He then turned to look Rictus in the optics. “Do you?”

The response was not what Rictus expected.  

It was on him now? How childish, he couldn’t help but think, to be unable to answer the easiest questions of desires, and so foist the onus of expectation on someone else. And so maudlin! To become so worked up over denial of wants, motivations, to dodge the point as a result of it.

Interfacing was easy. It was so easy, nothing like the muck Rictus had to tread through with anything else concerning Flashsteel. There was nothing complex in finding him attractive or in revealing it. Rictus always knew exactly what he wanted. Grimly, he was dead-set on having what he wanted. Even when it meant he would be seen as nothing more than those wants. They burnt white-hot above the cold depths of reason, and he couldn’t avoid any opportunity to satisfy both.

Rictus moved no closer, but loosened his expression, the usual smirk slipping over his face. “Not particularly.”

Flashsteel’s soft lips parted and the impulses surrounding him motioned to his surprise, those vivid turquoise optics wide and glowing, starlike. Hopeful. “Wasn’t really prepared for that.” Flashsteel mumbled.

Rictus shrugged, posture gradually becoming less wooden. “Weren’t very prepared in general.”

Flashsteel laughed quietly, looking around as if scouring for some kind of response. “So then…” he asked, “what happens now?”

“Stay and find out, leave and don’t, that depends on what you want. But if you do want it,” Rictus rumbled his engine, enjoying the shiver that rippled through Flashsteel’s field, “you’ll have to take it.”

Flashsteel stepped closer, their chestplates almost touching. Hesitantly, he lifted one hand to snake behind Rictus’ neck cables. Rictus felt his breath catch at the touch, grey-blue servotips feather-light, but still somehow searing into the grooves of his sensitive seams, down his struts.

Flashsteel pulled Rictus so tenderly, so softly, it was almost agonising, and began to unwind Rictus’ careful control. His field swept out bit by bit, washing over Flashsteel’s receptors in waves of delight and lust, anticipation and desire. They were optic to optic now, and Rictus could almost feel Flashsteel on him from the intensity of the impulses sending and receiving between them, like a buzz between their lips, the vents brushing Rictus’ maddeningly.

“Still unsure? Come on,” Rictus whispered against him, conspiratorial, “you’ve come this far.”

“Just thought you would’ve already taken the lead by now…” Flashsteel murmured, voice obscured by static.

“I wouldn’t force you.” Rictus softly replied, yet unmoving, though his pulse quickened to hear Flashsteel’s voice. “Either take for yourself, or tell me exactly what you want.”

“…Kiss me?”

Unresisted, Rictus lifted a hand to Flashsteel’s chin, tilting his face upward to admire his features. He hadn’t considered Flashsteel before in quite so much detail, the crease of his cheeks, the long, strong profile,  the yielding looks… he paused, infinitesimally. And then tugged to close the gap. It was chaste and brief, certainly worthy, but not anything more than a warm-up. When their lips parted, Flashsteel laced both arms behind Rictus’ helm and gave him the most sultry look that Rictus could never have imagined.

He whispered, “More like this.”

He pulled Rictus down, hard, and caught Rictus’ lips again. Rictus was surprised at the violence of it, then more delighted, feeling the sweep of Flashsteel’s glossa just at the edge of his lips, and parting the way for it. He could kiss, Rictus hadn’t expected that Flashsteel could kiss like this. He could feel his sparkpulse pounding up, against his chest, as one of Flashsteel’s hands clutched at the back of his helm, the other clawing downwards, to the armature of his wing, clinging at the sensitive joints. Rictus’ hands found Flashsteel’s abdomen, coming around it and down, servos pressing at the seams of his hips. It drew a groan from Flashsteel, the sound trembling on Rictus’ lips.

It was encouraging— the next time they parted, Flashsteel’s eyes half-lidded, Rictus placed his hands below, to hold around Flashsteel’s legs. Flashsteel leapt, somewhat inelegantly, held up by Rictus with his legs crossed behind the flier’s midsection.

“Is this a mistake?” Flashsteel suddenly asked with a shiver, Rictus kissing along his jawline. “Maybe we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“Do you want to stop?” Rictus asked, pausing. He certainly didn’t. But he was also more of an expert of ignoring his own logic. And the choice was not his to make.

“No, no,” Flashsteel breathed, “don’t want that, it’s been so long, I…”

Rictus returned to kiss his lips, gently, with the slightest teasing pull of his denta at the lower lip.

“Shhh,” he whispered, “then what are you worried about?”

“Will they know?” Flashsteel asked.

“Not unless you tell them.” The crew, of course, ridiculous. “I won’t.”

Flashsteel nodded along, then asking, “And us?”

“This doesn’t leave this room.” Rictus said, as boldly as he thought it.

“Then please,” Flashsteel kissed softly wherever he could reach, once, twice, three times, begging, “don’t stop, please, make it harder, keep going, I want you so bad and I don’t even know why, please, Rictus, please…”

Rictus was well past knowing why, and, at the moment, well past caring. He heard the sound and felt his engine rev as if it came from someone else— Flashsteel begging was enough to nearly crack his composure, but he was stronger than that, much stronger than that.

Rictus readjusted his grip and brought Flashsteel to the wall, not scraping the plates against it like the last time, but gently pressing him against it. Flashsteel’s modesty panel was against Rictus’ abdominal plates, rubbing against them with every step.

“Tell me what you want,” Rictus insisted, kissing him, an insistent peck on the lips that Flashsteel chased when they parted. “Spare no detail,” again, they kissed, Flashsteel scrambling to pull himself back towards Rictus. “And you’ll have it.”

Flashsteel was looking back at him, biting his own swollen lip, enough to bring a faint glow of energon to the surface, threatening to split. Rictus attempted to smooth at it with one thumb, holding up Flashsteel one-handed— mistake. It only prompted Flashsteel to open his mouth and sink the digit in. Rictus felt his vents click on to try to dissipate some of the rising heat in his frame. This suddenly felt almost dangerous. Flashsteel relinquished the finger back with a wet pop.

“You…” Rictus shook his head, quietly laughing in amazement.

Before he could even fully react to the situation, Flashsteel leaned himself in, the hot air from his cooling vents brushing along Rictus’ audial. All he could do to prevent from dropping Flashsteel was to rush to place his hand below the other leg again, shifting Flashsteel upwards and even closer.

“I want you.” Flashsteel whispered, vocaliser staticked and quiet. “I want you to pin me here and put your mouth over every inch of my frame. I want you in me, on me. You can have me on my knees, on the berth, in your lap, right here, still pinned here, anything, anything at all.” He sighed with pleasure, his modesty panels shifting against Rictus’ abdomen again as he adjusted to come closer still, struts shivering. “Anything, just let me have it. Leave me aching, wanting more.”

Flashsteel kissed the sensitive audial and Rictus’ steady vents caught again. The fresh wave of lust in Flashsteel’s field caught him and swept into his, electricity at their edges. He was so responsive, it was unbelievably tempting, arousing.

“You’ll have it.” Rictus replied, the static finally catching in the low, rumbling register of his vocaliser. “You’ll have it all.”

Flashsteel was curled up against Rictus, temperature stabilised, still coming down in the afterglow. Rictus had his arms around Flashsteel, one above and one below, languidly buffing out a swipe of white paint on Flashsteel’s back with a cleaning rag. When it didn’t appear to be budging, Rictus sighed and cast the cloth to the floor behind him, where the other stained and dirty ones lay piled neatly together.

“You should return to your hab.” Rictus said. Flashsteel looked up at him, dissatisfied. “Eventually.” Rictus clarified. Flashsteel nodded and tucked his head back in. “I could carry you.” Rictus joked. There was a clank when Flashsteel slapped a hand across Rictus’ aft. “Fine, fine.” Rictus hissed.

They laid there, scarcely stirring, for a while longer. Rictus didn’t take note of the time, unusually, only feeling himself begin to drift, before Flashsteel wriggled out towards the edge of the berth.

Rictus onlined his optics, not even realising he had cut the input.

“Is this going to be something regular?” Flashsteel asked, a serious look on his face. “You tell me,” Rictus replied. Flashsteel scoffed. “Thanks for the straight answer, Rictus.” “You came here.” Rictus said stoically. “It’s not my prerogative.” “Yes, but do you even—“ “Want you? Obviously.” “Then why?“ “I’m still your commanding officer. You know how this looks.” Rictus said. Flashsteel stiffened. “You realise how much protocol was violated by you even insinuating? Without any potential that I could have coerced you to?” “Guess I’m lucky you only care about protocol when it suits you.” “I never violate it without reason.” Rictus grimaced and rolled onto his back.

Flashsteel crawled back up against Rictus’ side, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better look at Rictus’ face, puzzled, trying to figure it out.

“If I came back…” he started. “You could.” Rictus replied, looking over at Flashsteel. “There would be… certain contingencies.” Flashsteel nodded, thinking. “Tell me.”

Rictus sat up, looking Flashsteel in the eye from above. “First,” he said, dead serious, “I will not initiate anything. Ever.” Flashsteel looked as if he were about to protest, but Rictus laid a finger to his lips, then lifted up Flashsteel’s chin to force the other to look at him. “Not because I can’t, but because it isn’t my place.” And because if they were ever caught, the blame could not fall on Rictus. Flashsteel nodded, Rictus withdrew his hand.

“Second, you can end this at any time. It’s not up to me when you seek me out for,” he laughed curtly, “physical comforts. As much as I have a right to postpone or reject, so do you. Your word is final, and you do not have to give me any reasoning.”

“Third, what happens here does not leave here.” Rictus leaned in. “This is not about ‘love.’ And nothing out there is affected by what goes on in here.”

Flashsteel nodded, processing, then nodded more vigorously. “Okay.” He said, then more confidently, “Okay, I can agree to that.” “Good.” Rictus slid back down to his elbow. “Glad you can understand.”

Flashsteel leaned across and kissed him again, slow and deep. “I’ll go.” he said when they parted. “I’ll be back again.” “Mm.” Was all that Rictus managed.

Flashsteel moved to the edge of the berth, experimentally stepping down, finding his footing cautiously. He managed to stand, and began to make his way towards the door before Rictus interrupted.

“One more thing.” Flashsteel turned back to look at Rictus, now sitting on the end of the berth, stern glare burning into Flashsteel. “If you touch a drop of engex before coming here and soliciting me,” Rictus said, “you’ll go empty-handed. Come clean or not at all.”

Flashsteel nodded, a frightened look in his eyes. He then walked to the door and was gone.

Rictus collapsed. His last thoughts before recharge were solemn, regretful, and, in an unfamiliar way, ashamed.

[lsleofskye]

The Milky Way

[vantofnc]

Flashsteel keyed in the passcode and entered the Captain's quarters, stepping over the threshold into the sanitised, blue-white light. Five megacycles had gone by since he had last been there. It was somewhat messier than Flashsteel remembered. And perhaps, that it felt colder than usual.

review data_pac371 [LOADING DATA_pac371] [ACCESS CODE] ********* [ACCESS GRANTED] . 10% . 15% . 35% . 67% . . 95% . 100% [FILE CORRUPTED, DEBUG Y/N] y [SCRUBBING] . . [STITCHING] . . [REVIEW PACKET Y/N] y . [date_unknown] [time_unknown]

—'Everyone wanted a piece of it,' Flashsteel sniffed, 'your genius, whatever… 'Cept for me.' All 'cept me.' 'This has to stop.' Rictus repeated, tone clipped. 'You're a senior officer, and your behaviour is unsightly.' 'Damn right,' Flashsteel vouched angrily, 'but not as unsightly as you were back when, kissing my aft. Prick.' He choked on the memory. Not really any particular one, just the glancing blow of years past. 'Y'like having people below you?' he asked shakily, regretting each word as it left his lips, but unable to stop. 'How's it feel, huh? I'd like to know.'

The wide berth, made to fit a warframe, took up much of the space within. It was covered over with a scattered set of pillows, all the dark standard issue sort, all made of regulation material. Coarse and not particularly comfortable. Serviceable, however, as Flashsteel recalled. Three were atop the slab, one amiss, lying in a haphazardly strewn stack of data-pads along the floor. Flashsteel knelt to retrieve it, also gathering the numerous half-read reports and placing both onto the berth.

'Wouldn't you, now,' Rictus murmured beneath a beating brow, lips barely moving.

Flashsteel felt his spark pulse quicken. Two beats. Four beats. Six beats.

Bracing, waiting for the strike to come? He'd pay for that statement. What did he feel? Fear? Foolishly. Anticipation? Incomprehensibly. Longing? Confusingly. Perhaps all three co-mingled, trapped as he felt under that piercing gaze.

Much was and much wasn't as Flashsteel remembered it. Rictus had usually kept himself and his quarters meticulously clean. It always was the case that he would glare at Flashsteel for even the slightest bit of dirt being tracked into his room, or chastise him for not putting empty rations into the sanitiser. Rictus said once that it would be overly familiar to consider any trash littered on his floor to be mutual, and that a good Second-in-Command would pull their weight. It was a joke, in a manner of speaking, but still one that was barbed. Yet Flashsteel had little idea of how to protest it at the time.

Rictus stood from where he had been sitting at the edge of the berth, magnificent and proud at full height, pristine armor clattering with a gentle and appealing noise.

And in what seemed quicker than a green ray at dusk, Rictus pushed him backward. Hard. His palm was flush with the branded plate over Flashsteel's spark, and it moved him until the flexible weave of his tires met the wall of the room. The uncomfortable screech of his own living metal on the numb wall sent a jolt up Flashsteel's struts.

A small table and set of two chairs occupied the back corner, empty cubes littered across it, more unread textpads stacked atop both. Before the war began winding down, they had reviewed their course and their missions together frequently there, formulating their plans, editing their briefings. More than once had they taken their meals there, something insubstantial out of the dispenser in the corner. They'd nearly broken it another time.

'Don't look so hopeful.' Rictus said. Though his voice was level, it betrayed a certain disgust. 'If you want to know so badly, you'll clean yourself up and look to the crew, Lieutenant.'

Flashsteel didn't know such look had even crossed his features. The truth was that he could barely feel his faceplate, except for his lips, which tingled as he spoke. He barely felt as if he would register the slap he had half-way expected. It didn't come.

One of the chairs had fallen, one evidently that had been used for storage. Numerous stacks of whetstones, dulled and useless, appeared to have toppled it.

Flashsteel gulped back a gasp, optics stinging. He remembered the blade Rictus had raised at his throat merely a metacycle ago. He had stood his ground, but mostly because he assumed that Rictus wouldn't have readied himself in such a way without the promise of battle. He should have known better. But Rictus hadn't harmed him, though he could well have before Flashsteel even had time to fire the cannon he had readied at his former Captain's beating spark.

There was a brief moment, a brief and wrenching moment, just as the other crew members had stormed onto the bridge behind Rictus, where Flashsteel thought he saw Rictus' expression betray a feeling of remorse. Before it contorted in newfound hatred, the expression was almost something Flashsteel could yet find mercy for. When Rictus attacked, Flashsteel had thrown him to the ground and levelled the cannon again. This time: at Rictus' head.

He didn't fire. He couldn't, remembering that lonely face, and the wide look that lingered in Rictus' unpitying gaze.

Rictus withdrew his hand and quite nearly slid away as easily as he had stood. But Flashsteel caught that strong hand before it fell, purely action, no thought, and almost shocked himself with the speed of it. 'I think you know,' he said, unbidden. 'I think you could tell me.'

Rictus’ features betrayed no confusion, but his voice did. 'I… could?' he said, lacking the confidence to make it a statement.

Flashsteel tugged at the hand to pull Rictus closer. Rictus put out his other hand to stop his fall, effectively pinning Flashsteel against the wall. 'Well?' Flashsteel slurred. 'How's this?'

He got to watch as the realisation dawned on Rictus. The tall mech's serious expression fell for a fleeting moment. He seemed almost regretful. Flashsteel wasn't sure what to make of it. He wasn't sure that he had even seen it, as what came after it was such a laugh that he'd never expect to hear in a situation such as this one.

Rictus leaned in and whispered in his characteristic, honeyed cruelty: 'Ask me again when you’re sober.' Then he cast off Flashsteel's hand and showed him the door.

Flashsteel had to curl his servos into a fist to stop them from shaking. The disarray around him was as uncomfortable than witnessing that desperate expression, than the ensuing entreatments by Rictus to commit murder on top of mutiny.

Rictus hadn't been himself for at least fifty years. But the past five must have truly changed him, and Flashsteel found himself infuriated with the miserable ruin that Rictus had created, and not remembering what he even entered the place for. He kicked at the datapads littering the floor, scattering them across the room, as if to vent his frustrations. But finding it unsatisfactory, he could only leave, locking the door to the darkened room behind him.

[earthstory]

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Star trails looking directly north from camp on a hill in Iran, leading into sunrise.

[pearl-nautilus]

Stars of Cassiopeia, Draco, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor in relation to Polaris

[mikenudelman]

These graphics explain how the world’s best pilots perform death defying tricks.

[mad-cloudspotter]

Some special clouds for you special people ;)