Wheatley's writing blog. Here you will find things people have requested from me (because I do that), fics that I've written about whatever, and occasionally notes on my books. Have fun yo. Also I have a wattpad now, under the name Wheatley...
He regretted a lot of things in his life, it occurred to Teenamock as he watched a red lightsaber sear through the flesh of his apprentice. He regretted agreeing to the separatists ideals and plans. He regretted cutting off Masjis legs. He regretted letting Ywetlah drink themselves half to death during training time. He regretted leaving home, leaving the jedi order, hell, he regretted not eating something for breakfast that morning.
The murder of younglings had the force bleeding agony and misery. Ynetbah had revealed in it, delighting in every force sensitive screaming out as they felt the pain and sorrow from the unnecessary deaths.
Teenamock didn’t feel like admitting it unsettled him more than he cared to admit.
What he didn’t expect was that he was next. The newly named Darth Vader stood in front of him, lightsaber down and ready. Taunting every poor choice the Mirialan had ever made in his life. Teenamock stared him down, swallowing his fear. It was clearly going to be a fight to the death. And while he didn’t feel particularly too inclined to be enraged at the loss of his apprentice there was an element that he should probably cry for revenge. Or something like that.
So he held his lightsaber high, internally apologising to himself for not ensuring his survival, and waited for his fate to step forwards and strike him down.
Except. He didn’t.
In fact, the very second he took a step forwards, there was gunfire from the sky. Missing Teenamock, but nearly hitting Vader. The Mirialan blinked, brain running on blanks. The ship fired again a few times, keeping Vader at bay with skill that was almost impossible. It kept Teenamock safe as it lowered, closer and closer to his form, on his side. He ran through names in his mind, trying to think of anyone, anyone, who would dare fight a sith to come to his rescue.
His answer came in a flash of blue, black and purple, leaping down from a now open bay door. They rolled across the dirt, hand held out over Teenamock’s stomach, where they only just reached. Their eyes flashed with what Teenamock could swear was a purplish red rather than their usual blue, and their hand swung out.
He didn’t have to feel it to know the push they had given would have stung like a good punch to the chest. He knew both from previous experience, and by the sheer intensity that their hand swung. He could have sworn he almost felt the force dragged from around him to give it the power it so needed. Darth Vader was sent back, unprepared for the sudden addition to the fight. The ship hovered just above ground behind them, and Teenamock stuttered for a sentence to say. Still dazed and confused.
“I- this isn't a fight you can win.”
Ywetlah gave him a disbelieving look, as if he had just insulted their intelligence. “Yeah, fucking duh! So are you gonna get in the ship or not?!”
Get in the ship. As in, get to safety. Somewhere where he might not be killed. They were offering him safety, the choice to live, and if he didn’t know better, redemption. Some part of his mind screamed at him to say yes, to run back and get on the ship, but the sheer nonsense of the situation told him that this had to be some weird dream, some torture sequence to make him believe he was safe. But the irritated roll of blue eyes, and a sudden arm around his waist told him it was real that they’d came to save him.
“Unbelievable. I spend twenty minutes asking Masji to make sure you’re alright when we sense it’s not just the jedi and this is the thanks I get?”
They didn’t seem sincere in their complaints, force jumping up into the hanger, slamming their free hand on the button to close the doors behind them. Teenamock just kinda hung over their shoulder, feeling stupid. They were half his height. How could they even hold him like this. Why didn’t they show this strength when they were fighting? What ridiculous concept of absolute laziness stopped them from using this power.
They put him down on some seat, and yelled (unnecessarily loudly) into a comms device. “Yo Masji, I got Sunsnake-” Teenamock raised an eyebrow. ‘Sunsnake’? What was that supposed to relate to? “-over here, door’s closed, red-hot-chilli-pepper is dead, get driving before we’re next!!”
“Why do you insist on coming up with shitty nicknames?” Teenamock resisted the impulse to freeze when he heard Masji’s voice, tired and irritable. Ywetlah shrugged, despite their Master being unable to see them do so.
“I donno. It’s just more fun that way I guess.”
“Sometimes I think it’s just to do with the fact that giving people names makes you care about them more.”
Ywetlah pouted into the mic, and Teenamock jolted at the sensation of entering hyperspace. “Hey, no psycho-analysing in closed quarters. Doesn’t end well for anyone.”
They hung up, and shrugged at Teenamock as if to say ‘whatever’ before sobering up and shoving their hands down, as if they anticipated having pockets. “Alright, he’ll be down here later to talk to you about this mess. But I’ve got another mess to clean up and it’s called ‘my room’. So I’m gonna be a lil’ busy. Just stay here and if you throw up or anything don’t bother cleaning it up cause we got it.”
They clicked their tongue, shooting what they called ‘finger guns’ at him, and Teenamock paused for a moment.
“… Are you drunk?”
“Actually no,” they sounded disappointed, but shrugged and started walking off. “But hopefully I will be when we stop off at our next place. You just stay there. Masji will be down later.”
The door slid shut behind them, and Teenamock sat where he’d been placed, hands digging into the fabric of his trousers and teeth digging into his bottom lip.
He’d nearly died. And those two were the only people who came to even try and help him. The two who he’d tortured and manipulated for his own personal gain.
The instant Rodimus had picked up the matrix, he had known that something was different. Not with his fellow cybertronians, but with the Quintessons. The two behind the one they knew as death, in reds and yellows, suddenly looked unsure, perhaps even a little worried. But Death had been the one who reacted the worst. Though not in his usual, commonplace anger and irritation.
This almost seemed like fear.
“Rodimus,” he started softly, a hand held out haltingly as if he meant to take it from the redhead forcibly. “I will ask you, politely, once, to put. The Matrix. Down.”
Rod squinted at the Quint suspiciously, looking between him and the object in his hands. This wasn’t right. Something was wrong here- the Quints didn’t act like this usually. He blinked, lifting the matrix up slowly.
“Rodimus,” Death hissed through clenched teeth, eyes slowly becoming more slitted. “Put. It. Down.”
The Cybertronian went to, but hesitated, returning back to his usual state. “Now hold on-“
“Roduimus.”
“No no no, hold on a moment,” he glared, taking a step back, holding the matrix in both hands, close to his chest. He heard a choked noise, and eld back a grin. “Why? Why does it bother you so much?”
“Why would that matter to your kind?” Death snapped, not once taking his eyes off the Matrix as he took two careful steps forwards. “Listen, just. Put. It. Down.”
Rodimus backed up a little as Death took steps towards him. The Quintesson froze, swallowing hard as Rod stared him down. “No.”
It wasn’t anger on the mans face, that was for certain. But could he say it was fear in absolute certainty? Unlikely. What would terrify him so thoroughly to make him react in such a way?
“Rodimus you do not understand what you hold so for the love, of every god that I know- put. The Matrix-!”
“But why should I?” Rod interrupted, ignoring the hosed warning from his dad. “What is it? Why are you so afraid? What power does it have over you that you don’t want me to have?”
Death didn’t answer, which was enough to reveal to Rod what he needed to know. He lived the Matrix to eye level, to see if there was anything written on it that would reveal its meaning to him. But all that happened was he heard Death take another few hurried steps forwards.
“Rodimus Prime, sTOP!! STOP PUT IT DOWN!!” His breath came in sharp pants, and the two behind him looked like they wanted to intervene but were thinking better of it. His eyes were wide and his teeth bared, alongside his near debilitating panic. “PUT THE MATRIX DOWN!!”
Rodimus stared at his through the blue tinted glass, and nearly missed the next whispered words out the Quintessons mouth, that he doubted anyone else would be able to hear.
“Rodimus, please.”
His hand still reached for the matrix that they both knew Rod wouldn’t give up. For a moment time seemed to freeze, silence overtaking them both.
And then chaos erupted as Rodimus raised the matrix higher.
He didn’t understand the words that came out of Death’s mouth, a garbled shriek as he leapt for Rod. Who lifted the Matrix higher so that he wouldn’t be able to reach it (even if Death was far taller than him).
The next thing he knew was a pulse of blue that overtook his sight and blinded him for a few seconds.
When he next blinked, he didn’t recognise where he was. Death was still stood in front of him, arm outstretched, but face now contorted in overwhelmed terror. The rubble that now surrounded them, Rod vaguely recalled to have the same colour as the room they had been in before. And his dad, Megatron, and the other cybertronians that had come with them were there too. But the other two Quints were gone.
And Death looked mortified and actually quite sick.
He whispered something out, in a cracked and desperate tone. Then repeated it. He closed his eyes shut, and repeated it a little louder. As he spun around on his heel, it clicked in Rod’s head that there were in fact two, very, very, bloody messes half fused to the ground where the two once stood.
He was nearly sick when Death started screaming, verifying what he thought the mess might be.
The Quint shrieked, screamed, screeched, and roared in varying degrees of emotion that Rod wasn’t sure he’d ever quite place, and certainly would never forget.
He said something that didn’t quite register in his mind as something he’d actually said, but Death turned with the fury of thousands, hand raised in murderous rage.
“YOU IDIOT!!!!” He snarled, hand above his head, fingers clawed as he seemed to prepare himself to tear Rodimus apart. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT…!!!”
He paused, a strange look crossing his face as his eyes flicked to his hand.
“….you’ve just…”
His hand fell, as did his entire form. Collapsing onto the floor, staring at the cracked and ruined surface with the exhaustion of someone who had been alive for far longer than they should have been. Rod could have sworn, that in that moment, he could see decades of pain, centuries of regret, and weariness on his face.
Tears started to leak from now closed eyelids, and Rod felt wrong in that moment to see his childhood monster, the nightmare that haunted Cybertronian life, sobbing on the floor of his own palace.
i don't think you understand how exceedingly and needlessly dramatic i am
Walking into base while it was quiet was extremely uncommon, and Snapjaw was not too proud to admit he intentionally tried to avoid it. The lab where Akinator was commonly found was empty. His computer left on, and unattended.
“Uh, Snapjaw?” Horizon’s hushed voice came from behind him as he continued walking in. The little shuttle had been increasingly jumpy since his capture by the Misfits. “Shouldn’t we wait for him to come back?”
Snapjaw looked over his shoulder, looking briefly at the others before making a call. He smiled as reassuringly as possible. “Hey come on, inputting data reports into files won’t be that hard. He probably has a log on there for it.”
The computer was needlessly large, especially for someone of Akinator’s size. The screen was segmented, but the times Snapjaw had been in here it tended to either be turned off for his arrival, or showing one large picture. Which it currently did, an ellipsis blinking across the screen as he approached.
“Are you sure, Snap?” Skyline crept up to him, her head poking cautiously past his arm to address him. “What if he gets mad?”
“He’s not going to get mad,” he rolled his optics as they reached the computer. “We’re just inputting data. That’s nothing he’s gonna get mad at.”
When he reactivated the computer, the screen flashed to show a list of options. Some, Snapjaw could make sense of. Finances, Base Operations, Personnel Files, Data Log, something called ‘Project O’. But then there were the two he couldn’t make sense of.
“Uh, Snap?” Waterjet stage whispered. “I don’t mean to be rude, nor presumptuous, or any other weird adjective the guy might yell at me that I can’t make sense of; but what kinda mech has ‘Allies’ and ‘Threats’ on his loading screen?”
Snapjaw opened and closed his mouth for a minute before resetting his vocaliser with a quick shrug. The entirety of Sigma team seemed to stare at the options, before looking at each other. Snapjaw didn’t dare voice any opinions. This looked… suspicious, to say the least. Even someone, as a paranoid neutral on uneven ground, shouldn’t really be keeping a literal checklist. They shouldn’t be looking at this, he realised.
And yet it sat there, tauntingly. Menacingly. A secret not meant to be heard, a box meant to remain unopened. He recalled a human tale. Pandora’s Box, with all its darkness and evil kept locked inside until someone opened it. Perhaps, unlike within the tale, they should keep it closed.
“Snap, I think we should check.”
He turned his head quickly, as did most others, to look at Seadown, about to ask her if she’d knocked a few screws loose before she explained herself.
“If Akinator doesn’t see us as allies, we shouldn’t be working with him. We don’t know who he would determine a threat. And if he sees us as one, who’s to say he won’t do something about us the second we’re no longer needed?”
“But he wouldn’t! He’s not mean, he’s probably just scared- this war’s been hard on all of us!” Skyline looked to Snapjaw imploringly.
“Right…” He nodded, decisively. “Right- he asked us to bring the members of The Commune in alive. I don’t think he’d intentionally hurt anyone himself.”
“Of course, that’s why he builds weapons.”
“Waterjet!”
“I’m just sayin’!” He held his hands up in mock defence. “It’s not like we’ve seen them or anything. And I doubt he organised a trip home for ‘em. Or a tea party.”
Snapjaw wished he could snark back, but instead just settled on a glare, before turning to Horizon for his opinion. The little shuttle shuffled for a bit before resetting his vocaliser and voicing it. “I think we should. Just to be on the safe side.”
The leader of Sigma team nodded and taking a deep breath, clicked on the file named ‘Threats’.
Instantly, pictures flashed on screen, A few seconds passed and Snapjaw felt his insides freeze as he heard a few of his teammates gasp behind him. Name after name, picture after picture, mech after mech and femme after femme, Decepticons and Autobots alike flashed up on screen. Their name, their fraction, a brief description on how they were a threat.
And then a large, red TERMINATED, over their picture.
He watched them flashed by, sickened. He felt Skyline grip his hands, shaking. A few names Snapjaw tried to memorise once the shock had passed.
Uplink, an Autobot, intel runner, security risk. Terminated. Clutch, Decepticon, weapons smuggler, ‘knew private information’. Terminated. Heat-Coil, Decepticon, weapons manufacturer, security risk and threats made, terminated. Floodlight, Autobot, Anti PCC, terminated.
He forced himself to look away for a moment, to the others. While Waterjet was undecipherable, Seadown was clearly horrified. Horizon seemed unsettlingly unsurprised. Skyline still clung to him like a terrified sparkling.
Snapjaw looked back to the screen. Names still hadn’t stopped coming.
Overheat, Decepticon, former Commanding Officer, Terminated. Cooldown, Decepticon, Anti PCC, terminated. Welder, Bot, developed enhanced PCC weapon drones, terminated. Solar-Shield Bot Anti PCC terminated. Steam-Force, killed ‘Full-Throttle’. Terminated. Orbital-Strike, killed ‘Full-Throttle’. Terminated. Mega-Hurt, Terminated, Terror-Bit, Terminated, Short-Circuit TERMINATED.
It seemed like the list went on and on and on, with no end in sight. But he began to notice a theme. With each passing name, certain words seemed to stick. Anti PCC. Former Officer. Threatened. Knows. Akinator was hiding something, a secret big enough for him to demand the death of anyone who knew about it.
When the list of those dead ceased, Snapjaw was all but ready to leave and pretend he never saw anything, but Seadown’s shaky voice interrupted his thoughts.
“That’s just the list of people he’s killed. We still don’t know about us.”
Snapjaw was about to voice his opinion anyway when Waterjet interrupted him.
“She’s right. And judging by the size of this list, we really need to know.”
The leader of Sigma team swallowed hard. A search bar sat tauntingly at the top of the screen, and he clicked it, haltingly typing in his own name.
Snapjaw- Autobot- Leader of Sigma team. Ally.
He felt relief run through him and was about to call it as that when he noticed the looks of the others. Snapjaw needed to check their names too- it wasn’t comfort enough knowing just he was safe.
Seadown- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally.
Waterjet- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally.
Skyline- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Ally.
Horizon- Autobot- Member of Sigma Team. Threat. Associated with members of ‘The Misfits’, may feel suspicious or rebellious under orders to remove them.
Snapjaw stared disbelievingly, and then turned hurriedly to Horizon, who stood shakily under the scrutiny of his teammates, near tears. “I-is he going to kill me?”
“No, no I’ll make sure of it.” Snapjaw grit his denta, optics flashing in a slight panic. Just meeting with the Misfits made Horizon a threat?
“Maybe we should… check the other people we know here?” Waterjet almost seemed afraid, body language defensive as he almost crept closer to Horizon, as if ready to protect him. “To get an idea of how paranoid this little scientist is, I mean.”
Wordlessly, Snapjaw spun back around to the computer, typing in the glyphs for the others they knew around the base.
Reload- Decepticon- weapons master. UNKNOWN.
Waterjet whistled and Seadown hissed air between her denta. “Ouch. I thought they were friends.”
Snapjaw said nothing, and instead continued typing.
Wireframe- NOT FOUND
This one seemed to shock them all the most. Skyline actually blurted out a hurried sentence. “But- they- I- I thought they were Conjux?”
“That’s… admittedly very unsettling. Particularly if it doesn’t even recognise him on the Allies list.”
“Maybe you spelt his name wrong?”
Snapjaw gave a short thought to this, and then proceeded to type in five variations on the spelling of Wireframe, but still turned up with nothing. Then they continued.
Liege- Decepticon- Current Co-Commander of Base 407265. Threat. Knows too much.
Snapjaw felt his spark stop beating for a moment. Not even a neat and clean justification like the names before. This secret deemed too large for Akinator to even acknowledge peoples uses past their threats. Snapjaw would have hated to be one of the people to know it- particularly now.
“Well… we’ve already gotten this far,” they all turned to Waterjet with faces between curiosity and dread. “Might as well figure what else he’s hiding on here.”
Snapjaw had to agree, and nodded slowly, turning back to the screen. He exited the lists of Allies and Threats, and looked though the list once more. Finances spoke on obvious levels, Base operations could probably be looked at on a later date, Personnel Files interested no one, and Data Log was what they came for in the first place.
But Project O. It sat pretty under the two lists. It didn’t have any hint of what it could mean, and Snapjaw had heard of no such project.
And besides, what Project was so important, that it wouldn’t be covered under Base Operations?
Time almost seemed to slow. Sigma team seemed to take a collective breath. Snapjaw scrolled almost painfully slow, as if asking for a way out. As if stalling. Seconds passed like minutes. Even as he hovered over the choice, he debated changing his mind. What if this got them all to be threats?
He clicked, and the screen changed. Five ‘Phases’ appeared on screen, with no further explanation. A brief glance back to his team had him take another deep breath. He clicked Phase One.
“What are you all doing in here?”
The entirety of Sigma Team jumped, spinning away from the screen to see Akinator standing in the doorway, a data pad under one arm. As Snapjaw stuttered an excuse, Akinator looked up to the display screen.
His face contorted from a moment. Optics wide and lips filled back. The data pad clattered on the floor, and before anyone could look to see what had Akinator so… afraid, the first real form of emotion they’d ever seen on his face aside from snide irritation, he had shot past them all, a crack of mental on metal telling them he’d just about punched the off button for the display screen.
“Did no one tell you not to pry into matters that were not your own?” The snarl his voice took, almost glitched and contorted beyond what he had ever sounded like, and his optics a sudden low crimson rather than their usual orange, had Snapjaw jumping back, away.
He’d only ever felt threatened enough by a commanding officer to want to tell his team to retreat one other time. And it was by a mech almost twice Akinator’s height, with a truck for an altmode, and had more than just commanding power over him.
But the smaller mech very, very quickly collected himself. And although the ominous and deadly look stayed on his faceplates, he appeared outwardly calm. “I shall assume you are here for reports- and I will ask you kindly locate and tell Wireframe instead, as I am currently unavailable. Should you be unable to find him, please redirect yourselves to Reload, as he will relay the information to me at a later time. Now if you please, get out of my lab.”
The majority of Sigma team tripped over themselves a little upon leaving, Snapjaw one of them. But he moved with intended slowness and falsified grace. As he exited, he looked behind him, to see Akinator. Not working. But watching them leave. Only when the doors began to slide shut did the scientist move.
And through the crack of the closing door, Snapjaw saw something he wished he hadn’t.
“Phase Three: Spark Extraction and Preservation”.
bit of a shitscram update: im kinda looking for editors right now- I only have about 7 more chapters before my book is done and i wanna make sure that its kinda good? so if anyone wants to help me out on that, that’d be great
i can't stop watching dracula untold and SIAU is fun
“This is not a game!!” Megatron hissed, nearly spilling his glass across the spotless sheets as he surged forwards, offended by the Quintessons implications.
“Ah, but what better way to endure eternity?” Death laid back in his throne, throwing a single hand out to gesture over the table, filled with foods he would not eat and drinks he would not pour. Not once did he raise his own glass, nor take a bite of the meat, despite the fact that he had so cleanly proven it was not poisoned. “For this, little Prince, is the greatest game.”
He stood slowly, taking measured and careful steps along the length of the table. He ran his claws over the fabric, eyes tracing the cut he left behind. “Light, versus dark. Hope, versus despair. And all the worlds fate,” he stopped merely a metre away from where Megatron had risen, and flicked graceful fingers out to curl around a wine filled goblet and lift it as if in the form of a toast. “Hangs. In the balance.”
Megatron stared at the shining metal, holding the strangely strong smelling wine out in front of him. It reeked of a scent he could not place. But soon he grabbed the cup from the slender fingers, snarling.
“Then it will be my great pleasure to disappoint you.”
Death raised both hands as he almost floated backwards, movements of his feet hidden by his extravagant drapes, yet amplifying them in such a way it was almost intimidating.
“Drink,” he stared at the taller man, smile wide and voice crooning and honeyed as Megatron stared into the golden cup, and its sickly red contents. “And let the games begin.”
Megatron was unsure why he obeyed. Perhaps it was the sharpened teeth sliding out of pressed lips, perhaps it was his presence, intimidating through pure existence. But the second the liquid touched his lips he knew something was wrong. It was too much flavour for too little liquid. It was like a punch to his seances, a mixture of harsh iron and thick salt, like seawater and copper, with the consistency of wet bread. Nearly sickened by the broth he threw the cup aside before realising he had drank it all. The dark carnelian dripping from his teeth and to the tiles of the floor, where is stood out like rust on silver.
“What now?” He choked out between breaths, staring up at the man in disgust.
“Now?” Death made a slight face of contemplation, turning in one graceful movement, amusement in his tone. “You die.”
“He worries about you, you know.”
Ywetlah stopped, glass millimetres from their lips as the voice reached their ears. Lowering the glass, they looked at the ex-sith leaning against the doorway, squinting as they put the glass down. “What’s that to you?”
Teenamock shrugged, taking a few steps into the room before shoving his hands in the pockets of his cape. “I’m just saying. He worries about you, your bad habits included.”
“You don’t seem too worried. And it’s not like he’s my dad.”
“No, he isn’t. But he is your friend. And isn’t that enough?” Ywetlah scoffed, rolling their eyes. Irritated, they went to take another drink from the glass, only to have it stopped once more as Teenamock’s hand covered the rim, forcibly lowering it.
“What’s your problem?!”
“What’s your problem? It’s all you do! Drink, take drugs, go out partying, do things you regret and things you know people don’t like you doing, and then spend the next few days being quiet and irritable. I thought when you were with me you were just acting up, but as it turns out- no. It’s how you normally behave,” Teenamock glared, lifting his hand from the glass and backing off by a few steps. “What is it? What makes you so desperate to drink yourself to ignorance, to ignore the teachings of your master, the words of your friend, and to keep doing this?”
He stayed silent for a moment, but after about a minute passing without him receiving an answer, he moved to sit opposite the younger human. He placed his hands down on the table, where they could be clearly seen and not interpreted as a threat.
“What are you so afraid of, that you have to completely take your mind off it? Why do you run into things unprepared, uncaring for its outcome? Why do you run away when there might be a confrontation that isn’t physical? Are you afraid of yourself, is that it? Are you scared to show your true strength to people who never believed in you, who were afraid of you?”
Again, he questions went unanswered, and Ywetlah remained quiet. Teenamock sighed, staring at the still full glass of multicoloured liquids, stacked on top of each other.
“Why drink the bad ones too? You don’t like the taste. Is it just because it gives you the effect faster, for longer? Because it drags on the effect after the initial reaction has worn off?”
“Why are you still here.”
The question took Teenamock off guard slightly, eyebrow raising as his head tilted slightly. “I’m sorry?”
“Why are you still here- you didn’t have to stay with us, you probably would have been safer alone. You could have made yourself a new, untraceable life. You didn’t have to stay. So my theory is that you stayed for him,” Ywetlah looked up from the glass, glare almost deadly. “You stayed for him, and it makes you angry that I don’t appreciate him the way I should. That I treat him like shit despite very clearly caring for him. It confuses you, but at the same time, it makes you angry because you know he doesn’t deserve bad treatment, right?”
Teenamock went to open his mouth to answer, but was cut off with an extravagant and dramatic hand gesture. “But it doesn’t matter- you’re going to cover it up with false concern for me instead. You don’t care about me, but it’s a convenient excuse to not admit you care about him. And the effect I have on him.”
“You don’t think I care about you?”
“Don’t start,” Ywetlah pointed an accusing finer at him, jabbing forwards slightly with their head low. “I know you don’t. You don’t need to start up pretending you have morals about the life of others now. Maybe I effect him, maybe I don’t. But I don’t think he cares about me either. I doubt he cares for me any more than he does most other living creatures. I’m not all that important, we both know it. From the start I was leverage to you. Leverage to him. I’m just middle ground. Another stepping stone.”
“You have a very poor outlook on yourself.”
“No. I have an honest outlook on myself. I have no more worth than any other living creature does- I’m not an idiot.”
Teenamock was silent for a moment, before a look of pity crossed his face with a sigh pressed through clenched teeth. “You still haven’t answered a single one of my previous questions.”
Ywetlah merely scoffed, once again going to take a gulp from their drink, and yet again being stopped. Their glare turned murderous, their voice raising. “Do you mind?!”
“Maybe not,” Teenamock let go, standing and going to leave. “Maybe I only care about you through him. But that doesn’t stop the fact I do care about you. And it certainly doesn’t stop him worrying about you.”
They snorted, purposely avoiding eye contact by staring into the liquid in their drink as Teenamock stopped in the doorway, looking over his shoulder.
“He’s not my dad.” Their voice was perhaps a little weaker, a little more lost, but the ex-with didn’t dare bring attention to it.
“He’s still your friend.”
As he left, Ywetlah gave a small bark of a laugh, muttering something under their breath in a language he didn’t recognise. He didn’t look back to see them lift the drink once more.
But it meant he didn’t see them pour it down the sink either.
I really shouldn’t put this here. I probably shouldn’t even be talking about it, but I have to get it out of me and I just.
I don’t wanna put it on my personal. There’s less people who follow me here, and even less who read my things or even care about them. So this is just something I wanna kinda gloss over as if spilling my guts will make me feel better.
I don’t love my mum. It’s not that I hate her, it’s not like I’m angry at her or anything, and I’d be sad if something happened to her, but it’d be the same way if you found out your friends nan had died or something. You feel bad, but you don’t care. Maybe you didn’t know them, maybe you didn’t care about them. Who knows? Who cares.
But I don’t love her at all. I don’t feel anything towards her. I know I struggle with emotions in general, particularly positive ones, but I just. Don’t care about her.
A lot of the time I know I blame her for things too. Am I mad at her? Do I feel anything at all about her? Is she even important to me?
She scares me.
I don’t feel safe opening up to her. I don’t know what I want out of our relationship. I don’t know anything about how I feel about her, it’s like she doesn’t even exist when she isn’t around. I don’t feel safe, i don’t feel happy, I don’t like talking to her, I don’t like spending time with her. I don’t like being around her.
All my memories of her are bad- I remember the time she screamed at me and said I was lucky she hadn’t hit me, because anyone else would have. I remember when I was late home and she got mad and yelled for ages. I remember when she threatened to put me out for fostering, because she didn’t want to deal with my shit anymore. I remember when i tried to tell her I thought I was depressed and she shut me down completely. I remember when I tried to tell her how I felt and she just shut me down.
I’m not my own person to my family. I’m just her. I’m just a second version of my mum to them and I hate it. I hate that my nan will call me ‘Jo’ and then never correct herself. I hate that my mum will say I’m just like her, i hate when she says I’m like a little her. I’m not you, I will never be you, I am Wheatley Blake and after my 18th birthday I have the choice to never, EVER, be affiliated with you again. You are not important to me, you will never be important to me, I don’t love you, I don’t care about you, and every fucking time I tell you you’re a good mum I’m lying though my teeth.
Because good mothers wouldn’t tell their child what they’re feeling isn’t real, that they’ll grow out of it. Good mothers don’t tell their child that they’re useless and lazy and worthless, then turn around to their fucking face and act as if you want my opinion.
Things aren’t the way they were before. You can’t say that I’m the only reason you haven’t killed yourself yet and expect that shit to fly. You can’t tell me everything wrong with our family and expect that to not effect me. I’m not your property, I’m not a computer you insert numbers into to get output, and I’m not a mirror.
I don’t even think you really love me.
But I feel bad, I feel fucking awful because I feel like I should love you, like you should mean something more to me than ‘source of food and money’.
And I will never see you more than that. Because you were supposed to listen to me, you were supposed to help, you weren’t supposed to make me feel bad, you weren’t supposed to make me feel lost, you weren’t supposed to make me feel scared. Family ties mean nothing when they’re wrapped around your neck like a collar that gets tugged when you step out of line, and whipped on the floor when I move off the path you wanted me to take.
i keep getting dramatic at like 3am and this shit happens and i just feel like saving it
So reaching the end of the war, the Decepticons are losing. In a desperate last ditch effort, they attempt to make a new cybertronian. These new cybertronians are made up of salvaged code and parts- to prove they can be built from the dead on either side of the battle. They are meant to be an obedient drone that learns the habitual orders of their holder and how their skills can be applied in battle. A final element is added of a bezerk mode, in case of a situation where they are captured it's going to be resolved as a kill or be killed result.
So decepticon scientists piece together a mech able to do three things- take orders, learn, and kill. They're meant to be a drone, one that's intelligence is only useful in carrying out orders faster and putting casualties in their favour.
Then they need a spark. Well, they can make a fake one can't they? Like how humans have pacemakers. So they create the spark of a drone and do their best to infuse it with the elements of a mech. Enough for it to be able to learn.
Except it backfires tremendously. When the mech is first brought online, the coding reacts and rebells against itself. The weapon is unable to recognise the decepticon insignia and by extension, their owners. Newborn, starving, and working off base instinct, the newly formed mech devours their surroundings in bezerk mode, as they were made to do.
By the time the coding sorts itself out, and it is no longer starved, there's no one left. Confused and alone, the drone wonders. Until something comes from the sky.
The fraction is recognised.
The drone imprints.
Their owner and handler asks for its name.
They look up their build.
"I am Armalite."
sometimes i do this cool thing called “alright who can i shove my emotions onto right now”
sometimes it makes me feel better
this. wasn't one of those times.
Their plan was foolproof. It had to be. All they had to do was convince Prowl to come out on the balcony and answer their questions, and the journalists under them would (hopefully) do the rest of the matter for them.
The general plan was just ‘get Prowl to talk about his feelings, get everyone to realise how damaging it was to him’. The rest of the secrets he would inevitably spout would be other peoples job to clean up, not Prowl’s. At the most, he’d have to give a quote that it was not received from a proper interview. And he had five eyewitnesses to confirm.
Getting him outside wasn’t actually the problem. He could be tempted with sweets and drinks and the view of the nightlife, he loved the balcony as much as his stunted personality allowed him to show. It was really the questions that was the struggle. Prowl avoided them even on the best of terms, let alone in a mock interrogation he would be unprepared for. But hopefully the sweets and treats would convince him to play along for at least a little while. And Primus forbid this was all a waste, if Prowls answers weren’t truthful but the journalists took them for it.
But that’s what they were there for.
It was actually Bonecrusher who was the one to convince him out, a hand wrapped around his waist in the most nonintrusive way he could manage, talking softly of drinks and treats.
“I… I guess. It’s not like I have any paperwork that’s pressing…”
“Great!” Hook was next to come out, with champagne in one hand and six glasses in the other. That was when Prowl seemed noticeably suspicious, and Bonecrusher jumped to calm his paranoia down. “We got some real fancy stuff, wanted to share it with you. Some sugary jelly treats. That and bubblegum. I know you like bubblegum so?”
Prowl sighed, nodding his head weakly and taking the offered glass, although not drinking just yet. “And the others?”
“Will be coming out after they finish up what they’re doing.” Hook confirmed, sitting down opposite the policeman and taking a careful sip from his own glass.
Bonecrusher gave an awkward smile. “Probably should have warned you beforehand. Sorry about that.”
Prowl took a breath in, as if he was about to speak, but cut himself off by drinking from his own glass. They watched him swirl the liquid around in the glass for a moment before haltingly talking. “I. What. What kind of sweets did you get?”
“Chocolates, mostly. Some weird crystal gel things that apparently taste really nice. The jelly things and bubblegum I mentioned earlier. A bit of taffy, some jelly beans and those weird sherbet flying saucer things.”
“Oh.”
That seemed to be the end of it, Bonecrusher and Hook shared a look between them. Prowl was upset about something and they were gonna pry it out of him. He was upset the wider majority of the time, honestly. They suspected he dealt with depression, honestly. Though if they were right he was to be commended totally on his ability to power through most days.
But this was a day where they were gonna break the concept of the ‘emotionally lacking’ officer. Prowl was just stubborn. And beat everything back with a stick unless it had an appointment. He took another sip of the champagne, and Hook leant in closer.
“Alright, so what’s up?”
Prowl recoiled slightly, tapping his finger against the glass and staring into the bubbling liquid. “Nothing’s ‘up’.”
“Yes there is- something’s bothering you and you don’t want to talk about it. So you’re not talking at all in case you say something wrong, or out of line, or however you want to call talking about your feelings.”
The tapping on the glass sped up, and Prowl looked visibly uncomfortable. “When will the others-?”
“Prowl. Come on, don’t change the subject. Something’s wrong and we want to help. We know you’re upset, and who knows. Maybe we can help. But you beating your emotions down isn’t going to,” Bonecrusher glared halfheartedly. “So. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong. Everything is just how it should be. Everything is going as expected, as is normal.”
“Please don’t start getting robotic on us,” Hook frowned, reaching out to take Prowls free hand. “You know you can talk to us.”
Prowl visibly winced, and stuttered briefly. “It- it doesn’t matter, you know it doesn’t, my emotions have no relevance in context of situation and will therefore be ignored. That’s just how it works. I shouldn’t express emotion unless it’s relevant, and dwelling on said emotion will just get messy.”
“And messy is wrong?”
“Yes!” He made an exasperated sigh, trying to reign himself back. “I mean- no, no, it’s. It’s not appropriate. Not in a work setting.”
Scavenger was next to come out, sitting next to Hook, one chair closer to Prowl. “Are we talking about how Prowl shoves everything he feels down again?”
“I don’t shove everything down!!”
“Except you do,” Bonecrusher gestured vaguely with his glass, taking a gulp of the liquid before speaking again. “You shove it down under layers of protocol and orders, no matter how much you personally disagree, and at the end of the day you come back and drink yourself halfway into a coma. Sometimes you don’t even come home- you change clothes at the station and head right off into a club where no one is going to recognise you as anything other than another person too drunk to care where hands go investigating.”
Prowl, to his credit, blushed a decent amount of red, sipping idly at his drink. He opened and closed his mouth in a few abortive movements before apparently finding words that fit. “It. It works.”
“No it doesn’t,” Hook interrupted, glaring slightly. “You my dear, out of all of us, are the one most likely to be found drunk off your ass. And we’re construction workers. You have this strange and unusual habit of ignoring all your problems as if they’ll go away.”
“That’s- that’s not- you’re just- was this intended to be an interrogation?!”
“No, but you were upset. And we knew you weren’t about to talk about it yourself.”
Prowl sighed, leaning back and thanking Scavenger softly as he refilled Prowl’s glass. “So, what, you didn’t intend this to be a makeshift therapy session, but while you’re at it? What do you think you’re going to achieve from this?”
“Stop you shutting down, for one. You seem to be under the impression that any form of imperfection means something bad is going to happen.”
“Can you prove otherwise?” The desperation in Prowl’s voice was almost painful. “I know the things I order, the things I do, aren’t good in the moral sense of the word, but what else am I supposed to do? How else can I keep the peace without having to stand back, not think about reason, and just do the right thing? If I so much as stop for one second to question myself and my choices people could die!”
Silence ran between them for a few moments as they digested what was said, Scavenger being the first to pipe up. “You put lives over feelings?”
“Yes!” Prowl practically sobbed, laughing weakly. “What else am I supposed to put first? People can feel bad all they want, but no amount of apologies of well intended wishes will ever bring back the dead! You, you lot of all people should know that! Scrapper isn’t going to come back no matter how many times Earth politicians apologise, and Spike will get what’s coming to him-!”
“Stop,” Hook’s voice was resolute, but shaky. “Prowl, stop, you’re. You’re scaring us a little-“
“You should be!” Prowl made a choked noise, tipping back in his chair. “Do you even realise what kind of orders I’ve given on that mentality? I’ve told others to do horrible things, I’ve been the one to give orders to shoot to kill, I’ve been the one to organise strikes on hideouts. I can’t stop being this awful person or else no one else can do what I need to do!”
“What you need to do, or what in general needs to be done?” The arrival of Longhaul seemed to take Prowl by surprise more than what he said did. “You’re implying you don’t know which one it is. But it’s very apparent it’s not for your benefit- and it’s more apparent to us.”
“I- what do you mean by that?!”
Longhaul sighed, taking the glass offered to him by Bonecrusher with a small ‘thanks’. “It’s simple. You keep secrets, you come home only to pace around for hours without eating or drinking, you take all the mirrors down, or at least avoid them. You jump at every sound you hear, no matter what it is. You struggle on most days, whether you drink yourself to half death or not. You shut yourself down to the point where people only describe you as cold.”
Prowl spluttered for a moment, before almost spitting out a response. “I can’t help that!”
“You shouldn’t have to.” Longhaul didn’t say another word, only glaring slightly before leaning back and letting a tense silence fall.
It stayed that way for a long time, Prowl and the others drinking and helping themselves to the sweets Longhaul had brought with him. Mixmaster appeared soon after, joining the silence without disturbing it, and joined the mutual drinking and eating. It stayed that way for a good while before Prowl spoke again.
“Are you scared of me?”
They looked among themselves before answering softly. “Do you want us to be?”
“No,” Prowl slumped, putting his glass down and covering his eyes with his palms. “No. I don’t. I don’t want anyone to be scared of me. I know they’re not really, but I know they hate me. I don’t want them to hate me either, but there has to be a scapegoat. It can’t be someone who’s supposed to be good and kind, like Optimus, it can’t be the leader of the gangs because we don’t know for definite who that is or even how much influence they have. We don’t know anything beyond speculation- and until we have someone to blame for certain we have to use other people. It’d be disrespectful to blame anyone dead so.”
“So you have to take the place?”
Prowl nodded, letting out a shuddering sob and leaning against Scavengers body. “Who else will if I don’t? I can’t question myself, at least not publicly, and I- I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up. It’s so hard to keep together. I can’t let anyone know how- how difficult it is to keep doing the right thing. They have to think it comes easy- that I’m cold and detached.”
Savengers arm wrapped gently around Prowl’s shoulders, his voice quiet and gentle. “Is this part of the mentality that you’re a form of merchandise?”
“Can you prove I’m not?” He croaked, looking up sadly. “My labour is sold. I am meant to follow orders- take input to give the expected output. I am not meant to have opinions, nor thoughts, that are intended for anything other than completing assignments and jobs. I am supposed to meet all expectations of me or else I will be replaced. Should I express any defective piece I need to be fixed, or else be replaced. Isn’t that how merchandise works?”
No one could really bring up a valid point against it, but Hook tried regardless. “But you’re alive, aren’t you? You’re a living being.”
“I’m part of a machine,” he countered bitterly. “Isn’t that the Autobot motto? ‘You’re a cog in the great autobot machine’? Makes sense. A cog can be easily be replaced if it gets broken. You may be working for something bigger, but you’re easily replaced, and even more easily disposed of.”
They were silent again for a few minutes before Prowl spoke again, much quieter, and staring blankly up at the cloudless sky, stars seemingly darker than usual. “I’m trying so hard not to let it show. But I can’t keep it up for much longer. And when I fail, I will be replaced. I will be kept only as a scapegoat- every problem will stem from me somehow. Everything I’ve done will be exposed to cover up the other monsters in our ranks. And I will not be able to say a thing against it. More than likely, I may be assassinated to assure my silence.”
He crawled slowly onto Scavengers lap, resting his head against his chest and closing his eyes as hands wrapped around him. “I want to live. I’ll do everything I’m asked to- I won’t say a word. I won’t think, I won’t do anything unless I’m asked to.”
“…Prowl,” Bonecrusher’s voice was far softer than usual. “Are you. Are you scared?”
Prowl didn’t answer, fists clinging to Scavengers shirt and eyes closing tighter. Eventually, he gave a harsh whisper. “I promised myself I wouldn’t get attached to you all, but I don’t want to let this go. But I can cling to you as much as I want, and you will never force me to let go, and even better, you hold me back. You stop the pain, you stop the screaming inside my head, you ease the loathing. You hold me above water, stop me drowning. I try to get away, cry and complain about everything you do, but you’re stuck here, with me, in me. And I don’t want to let go and I- I just…”
A loud sob escaped him, and he buried his face before turning to face them. “I’m sorry I fell in love with you all, I’m sorry it was me you felt attached to, I didn’t mean to at all, I’m sorry I fell in love at all, but can we please, please just pretend it’s mutual? Can you pretend to love me back?”
The constructicons reached in, Hook wiping away Prowl’s tears, Scavenger holding him tight around his waist, Longhaul and Mixmaster holding his hands and Bonecrusher’s hand resting on his shoulder.
“We don’t have to pretend,” Mixmaster whispered. “We do love you back. We love you too.”
Prowl seemed to freeze for a moment, before hiccupping and sobbing almost violently. His hands clinched around Longhauls and Mixmasters, as they moved in closer collectively.
“We love you so much Prowl,” Scavenger whispered. “You’re not as bad as you think, you’re not as coldhearted and evil as people make you out to be. We know that. And if others can’t see that, then it’s their problem.”
“But- but the others!” Prowl sniffed, hiccuping and coughing. “Jazz, Chromedome, they- they got closer and they- they didn’t-!”
“They didn’t expect to find a human then,” Longhaul’s voice was bitter. “They saw your professional face and thought it was you. That was their mistake. Not yours. It’s not your fault if they were looking for something you’re not.”
They moved in closer, and closer still, as fast as they risked moving. The night ended as a giant pile of snuggles, around a still sniffling Prowl. Although eventually they moved inside to the bed, bringing the sweets and drinks with them.
no seriously what are you guys doing here like why do you follow me i wanna know
what part of you is telling you following me is a good idea? is it just a tired obligation? can you just not be bothered to unfollow me? is there just some weird part of you that hopes one day I’ll write something good?
Because it’s not like I do- no one’s requested anything in a long while, and I don’t know how to write anything. I don’t know what to do because I can have all the ideas I want it won’t make them liked and I just??? kinda wish that someone who wasn’t my friend would have some form of interest in the stuff I do?
Like i certainly appreciate my friends liking my things but I’ll never quite get over the feeling that they only like it because they like me and I just really don’t know what to do because I’ve got over 25 pages of character details, I’ve got over 15 pages about different species and neither of them are finished and I’ve got to organise them and honestly I don’t. See a point half the time.
I’m not good enough. I was gonna set up commissions but the more I look at my things its just.
people don’t even want this shit for free.
they’re not gonna pay.
This isn’t going to be my career. I’m gonna be as empty and unachieved as everyone else on the planet is. I’ve got nowhere I want to go and.
There’s no point.
Why do you follow me if you don’t like anything I do?
i don't understand why i have 71 followers what are you doing here
Nightbeat, in his time of hanging around Breakdown, had discovered many things he didn’t intend on finding out. Some about their country, some about the Decepticons and the workings of the gang, and some about Breakdown’s family. But the weirdest things he had discovered were about Breakdown himself.
For one, the man slept in a onsie. A legitimate footie pyjama onsie. He claimed it was for the betterment of whether or not he needed to run- saved him time if he needed to get out of the house quickly. Protected his feet (because of course he’d have a onsie with soles attached) from street contaminants. The second thing he’d discovered was that Breakdown was actually extremely organised. All his files were filed into subject matter, then into year of creation, then date of creation, then further into alphabetical order. It was meticulous, ridiculous, and irritatingly helpful. Breakdown had a ridiculous amount of original files, and then even had a cabinet filled with boxes (subject matter) containing edited files of the originals. Thirdly, he was horrifyingly uncomfortable with physical contact. He carried around a bunch of things to help with that though. Including leather gloves, hand cream, antibacterial hand cream, and a few wipes.
The list of little habits Breakdown had could go on. The countless locks on every door, the meticulous cleaning, the precise routines and planning, the random outbursts of ideas, carrying that little notebook with scribbles and decent sketches inside that he never let anyone look at, keeping everything on a collection of memory sticks, his computer harddrive, and on a paper copy, when thinking too hard or angry or irritated his accent would switch from a more Lower District Tarnian accent to a mixture of that and a Junk one- which would get extremely annoying. Marina and the Diamonds.
But never before had he accompanied Breakdown shopping. He’d never had to before, really. But after staying with him for a few weeks, he had some things to say about his diet. Seeing as he was willing to pay, he steered the shorter man venomously away from the quick foods aisles. If Nightbeat had to suffer through one more bowl of pot noodles he was going to kill someone.
So he directed him mostly towards the vegetables and meats. They grabbed a decent amount, although Breakdown winced now and then. At the spinach, the nuts, at the pomegranate. Didn’t object so much to other fruits, like the apples and oranges. They grabbed some chicken, a few different kids of fish, some prawns, a few cheeses, some mincemeat and tomatoes. Spaghetti and pasta. Celery, carrots, salads, it all went down vaguely well.
But then Breakdown actually refused to get broccoli.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Nightbeat stared at the apparently flustered man disbelievingly. “What, did your dad tell you they were trees or something? Do you refuse to eat them on terms of ‘the government’ the same way you keep files on three copies?”
“N-no, I- I just. I don’t like bitter foods.”
Nightbeat had let it go. He wasn’t about to call Breakdown out in the middle of a store. It’d kill the poor guy for one. But then when they had gotten home, his totally-not-faked-powers-of-perception had kicked in.
Breakdown took his coffee with half the cup as milk and three sugars. Any less and he’d make a face. Sometimes he added a spoonful of honey to milk. He happily took bites out of apples but winced at pomegranates, grapefruits, and cranberries. He wasn’t a fan of nuts, but delighted in the savoury taste of Nightbeat’s homemade bolognese. He liked sushi but made ad odd wheezing noise when Nightbeat offered the vinegar like flavouring.
Breakdown genuinely hated bitter foods.
He brought it up again when Breakdown was sipping at his coffee, staring disdainfully at the mug now and then. He had sighed in response, leaning back.
“I just. Actually don’t like it. I really can’t stand it.”
“And broccoli?”
He actually made a noise of disgust, nose scrunching up in an unfairly adorable way. “Bpabpa used to make me eat it because it was really good for me. That and spinach. I hate them both. Well, spinach is alright if you wrap it up in an omelette- it takes the taste away, or covers it or something. I just really can’t stand bitter foods.”
Nightbeat nodded, ignoring the blatant switch into the heavy LDTA accent, then left him to it. But no matter how much he tried to hide and deny it, he did find himself picking out more savoury things than bitter.
Breakdown seemed to appreciate it at least.
I should really work on some more of my own stuff for once, stop doing all this ridiculous SIAU stuff
but the thing is i’m mixing them together now and its just becoming a huge mess
I’m mixing things like the builds of the cities together- and i really should work on the actual writing and not the world. I’ve created plants, diseases, religions, cities, buildings, the way these things work, the way the cities look, I’ve made wars and I’ve created my own personal brand of physics. I’ve created solar systems and galaxies, pocket dimensions, species within them all. I’m driving myself insane with the extent I’m going to but I can’t stop.
Life begun in my hands, dripping in paint and ink as I carved space and time indenting sheets upon sheets of paper with languages of both my own creation and otherwise. The universe spills from my throat when I speak and I am a God within my own right.
And I need to stop.
There are so many things I’ve done to create these worlds, the way the function, what they do, their lores and myths and all that form with it. I’ve created thousands on thousands of characters, only a few being a part of it in entirety. And I just.
I don't know, maybe I wish people were more invested in my things? I don’t know. Whatever. This was a weird rant.
Ambulon was missing.
It irritated Ratchet when he vanished. He did it every now and then, and he always ended up finding him out in the back room, nervous and twitchy. At first he put it down to coming off drug addiction, but now he wasn’t so sure on the state of things. It’d been long enough now that he’d gotten a few other hints. The cutting was the key point, but Ambulon’s disappearances had never been too worrying before.
Except he’d never been gone for longer than half an hour before, and now they were treading dangerous grounds. Dangerous in the terms of Ambulon, and nothing else. He was supposed to be keeping an eye on him, making sure that he wasn’t going to relapse or anything. During working hours he was Ratchet’s responsibility,
It never really occurred to him where he went when he wasn’t working. That was a question to ask at some point.
He went up each floor, searching back and forth, checking on the longer patients, making sure everything was ok. Still no Ambulon. And it was starting to push limits on the time allowance of ‘breaks’ before Ratchet had to legally call the police for a search. Parole wasn’t fun, and he really didn’t want to punish him for privacy, but rules were rules. And Ambulon had agreed to them.
When Ratchet realised the roof was the last place to check he felt his blood run cold for a second. And then shook it off the best he could. Ambulon wouldn’t. He just wouldn’t. It wasn’t like him to do that kinda thing.
But he’d thought that about stealing bandages and cutting too. His track record wasn’t the cleanest. And neither was his criminal record. Ratchet wouldn’t confess to rushing up the stairs, hopeful that he wouldn’t see the dyed red and yellow hair, the black of his natural colour creeping in at the roots, and the doubled up shirts to hide his fading weight and the scars on his wrists that weren’t quite from the gangs. Maybe he’d just missed him, and he wouldn’t see the scratched and scraped up clothes, torn and crudely sewn back together with a few patches that weren’t quite the same colour.
But he was.
Ambulon stood at the edge of the roof, past the protective fence although gripping the flimsy thing. His hair had been pulled out its normal ponytail and blew loosely in the wind. He hadn’t noticed ratchet yet. Probably a good thing, considering the way he was shaking. He’d probably jump at the slightest noise.
Ratchet did his best to walk quietly, although noticeably. His footsteps unnaturally heavy, but he couldn't have stopped it if he had wanted to. The entire situation was weighing down on him like a sack of bricks and he couldn’t have remembered what he was supposed to do if he tried. A part of him hoped, pleaded, begged, that Ambulon was just messing around. That he wasn’t about to do what he thought he was.
But that hope was dashed very quickly.
“I hope you don’t plan on trying to stop me. It’ll just get messy, and no one wants that.”
It almost unsettled him, the way that Ambulon seemed so at peace with this decision. Like it was nothing to him, no big deal.
“Not really. Not if you’re serious about it. I just want to talk a little while.”
The twenty three year old laughed, hollow and bitter, looking over his shoulder to look at Ratchet with a horrifyingly blank look on his face. “Talk? What, you hoping for some pretty last words? I’d thought you’d know as well as I do that they can’t all be winners.”
Ratchet hid a wince the best he could, clearing his throat and taking a cautious step forwards. “That depends if they’re last words now, doesn’t it? You sure you want to do this? First Aid was gonna show you some things when he got back here you know, after school.”
“He can show you,” Ambulon didn’t turn around, but he kept eye contact with Ratchet. More than he had done in a long time, considering he was usually staring at his feet. “It’s no loss to him.”
“He loves you though. I’d hate to give First Aid the whole ‘they’ve gone away for a long while’ speech again. He’s already lost one family member.”
Guilt spread across Ambulon’s face, and he turned away slightly. Ratchet rushed to continue on. “Plus, getting a new babysitter he actually listens to will be hard enough. Not only that, but you’ve come so far with your parole, you want this to be how it ends up? Not to mention all the patients who won’t be able to come to the roof anymore. It’ll be closed off.”
Ambulon took a step back, and Ratchet took it as a small victory. He thought as fast as he could for things that might help the situation without pushing Ambulon closer. “Plus, who wants about forty five interviews with people who ‘knew you well’, dripping with false sincerity?”
They were both quiet for a moment before the younger of the two laughed, looking up slightly at the grey clouds covering what was supposed to be a pretty sunny day. “‘Today I looked down on you all, Today I watched you cry. How dare you have the never to say, I wish they didn’t die’.”
Ratchet paused, eyebrow raising in slight confusion. “What?”
“Sometimes I write. It’s an old one but. I still remember it.”
“You write poetry?”
“Sometimes,” He held up a finger, turning around cautiously, leaning forwards on the fence. “I don’t do it often, and a lot of the time its not for anything fun. It’s venting.”
And there was the opening. “You want to show me some of it? We can have lunch too- you like Mexican right?”
He offered out his hand to help Ambulon over the railing. The younger man stared at the offer for a moment, face contorting strangely as he considered it. For a moment Ratchet debated comforting him, reassuring he wasn’t about to push him off instead. It seemed to be what he was assuming would happen.
But carefully, Ambulon placed his hand in Ratchets, allowing himself to be pulled away from the edge to safety. Ratchet smiled, feeling his heart rate drop significantly from the suspended state of fear. He ruffled the poorly dyed hair with a one sided grin, pulling the kid along and mentally noting to change the locks on the roof door. “Come on. Let’s get going. What’s your favourites?”
oh yeah also i did maths for this one and people are scared of my ability to do maths without a calculator when i really try
It had happened so suddenly no one had really realised what was happening. One moment they were fighting, the two decepticons unexpected in the base of operations. They had gone up, presumably to find something or to retreat. But someone had gotten in a lucky hit to one of them, who shared a similar build to Wheeljack, first knocking them offline. The second hit had sent them flying out the window, shattering the surprisingly thin glass without any effort whatsoever. And that’s when everything had gone to shit.
The smaller one, form messy and undefined to the point no one could really determine their build type or altmode, had screamed out. With a final kick to the person they were fighting (as if it could be called that- all they were doing is dodging and getting hits in the best they can), they jumped after their fallen through the shattered glass.
The autobots flocked to the window almost instantly, surprised at the fact they had even gone after them, or even if the intention was suicide as they were aware they couldn’t get away from this unscathed.
But the fall was long- there had to have been at least 20,000 floors. Sure the hit on the ground would be deadly, but there was no need to go to such an extent to get into one of the tallest buildings to jump out of it.
It was about that point that the smaller bot grabbed the other and stabbed their leg into the wall of the building. The sudden jolt of friction and pressure as they slowed at an execrated rate, the screech of joints and the cry of pain, the slight splatter of energon from injured parts as wounds were agitated, the majority of autobots winced. It wasn’t too gruesome, but the scream was the decisive factor.
A pained, static laced scream escaping the smaller mechs mouth as metal scraped through metal to slow them down, still weighed down by their second member. Held awkwardly just to keep their grip as they fought to keep it together. Red hot from friction, splattered pink from energon bleeding from them. It wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t the worst anyone had seen.
A groan of pressured joints, a small gasp from the apprehensive audience who heard even from where they stood, and a sudden snap and crunch as the leg tore loose. Silence rang out, pain surpassing their ability to express it. The autobots watched in mixed fascination and horror as they fell away from the building, only about halfway down.
A sudden blast of an engine, and they were back at the wall, and their only remaining free limb stabbed itself into the metal.
They slowed down once more, though the effect was not as jarring as the time before, and their makeshift audience could only watch as they grew smaller and smaller, screams and screeches fading out of their audio range. They looked at each other, and in unspoken agreement rushed to the security feeds to continue watching the falling Cons. It was a brief search- not hard to find a camera with view of the lower half of the building. The screams were mostly static now, but they had almost slowed down enough to survive their fall.
But the joint was giving again, already weakened from the earlier fight, and their servos slipped on their grip of the other as they struggled to hold them together. They were nearly sobbing, desperate to hold them, desperate to keep themselves connected to the wall.
They managed it. They slowed down, just enough that the fall wouldn't effect them at all, as their only remaining leg snapped and shattered, letting them fall to the ground in a small puddle of their own energon, still clutching desperately to the larger mech as they sobbed out in pain.
No one reacted fast enough to be able to get down there before two other cons flew in. One sleek, a femme, who did quick repair patches on the smaller mech and gathered them up into her arms, flying away as the larger grabbed the still unconscious con to follow.
The autobots kinda looked at each other for a minute, before someone finally spoke.
“Should we report that?”
???? listen its called Self indulgence AU for a reason ok sometimes we joke about things and then they happen and its too late to take it all back now
Touching things was dangerous. You never knew what kind of germs were on them, you never knew when it might be alarmed, and what if you touched it and it broke? Touching people was even worse- some people didn’t wash their hands, some just grabbed, and you never knew their true motive until it was far too late. Bottom line? Breakdown did not like touching or being touched. It was a problem. His dad always respected it though. Even if to that point it was more or less ‘well he’s not as bad as Wildrider so this is fine’. Most people respected it. Even if it was mostly due to the look of mixed disgust and horror he gave when they touched him.
The first time Nightbeat touched him was to pull him out of the way of an incoming car.
They had been walking to Breakdown’s house to search through his archive at the time. Completely lost in thought he’d done what was probably the stupidest thing in his life and crossed the road without looking first. A perfect opportunity for there to be a little ‘accident’ and for the government to remove any little fish nibbling at bait. Which would have happened if Nightbeat hadn’t caught him.
A cry of ‘look out’ had knocked him out his thoughts, just in time to feel the hand grab his arm and pull him back to the curb. He had tripped, falling into Nightbeats chest (ew ew ew!! All those clothes that might not be cleaned and blatant disregard of personal space and pressure all over his front and urGH it was horrible) as he heard a car zoom past, honking its horn violently as Breakdown turned to watch it go shooting off around the corner.
Nightbeat had instantly let him go, asking if he was alright and hands hovering as if wanting to touch but waiting for permission first. Appreciated, even it hadn’t been there in the first place. He’d waved him off, a little shaken from the near death experience and the sudden unexpected touch.
The second time it had been at Breakdown’s suggestion. He was almost certain they were being followed, and he had suggested ‘displaying affection’ to deter others from looking at him. At them. Nightbeat had looked at him, surprised, and then had laughed. Breakdown was about to snap, when Nightbeats arm wrapped around his shoulders and tugged him in close. They’d gotten home fine, aside from a bit of battered pride on Breakdowns part. But it had been fine. He was fine. It was all good.
Touch was still something he set out to avoid. It wasn’t anything he enjoyed, and it certainly wasn’t something he aimed to do. But Nightbeats little hand brushes and pats to his lower back weren’t. Unappreciated. Not to say it didn’t bother him. A little pat to his lower spine had Breakdown nearly jumping a solid metre into the air, and the brushes against his hands had his breath hitching.
He lost count of how many idle touches happened before, but the point is it was about two months into their work relationship when Breakdown had pulled Nightbeat down to his level and pressed his lips directly to his.
He still swore his face burned every time he thought about it.
It was embarrassing for one. You don’t just jump coworkers, and you most certainly don’t make out with them. Secondly, it was gross. Lips and saliva and all that icky stuff and urgh it was just horrible. It was unhygienic and a ridiculous concept of sharing affection.
Nightbeat wasn’t that bad tho so he still got kisses. His dad still made that weird wheezing noise whenever he noticed they were holding hands though. He suspected that had something to do with the fact Nightbeat was an autobot.
Touching was dangerous. Touching was gross and icky and just generally a nuisance. But touching Nightbeat wasn’t so bad. So he could allow it.
[30/11/2015 00:30:23] Satan, Overlord of Hell: further on the angst: he’s probably there because something happened to Sunny, but because their parents are gross and kinda rude they’re probably like ‘retribution for his ignorance in his studies’ or ‘he had it coming’ or something equally as horrible because i am horrible, so he’s probably ran from his parents snapping and cutting at his brother from every angle and he just can’t deal with it
[30/11/2015 00:31:54] Satan, Overlord of Hell: so he’s run to people who might understand, who might care, who care about him, and he just ends up at their hideout soaked to the bone from the rain, snivelling and sobbing like a child who just grazed their knee and no one quite knows how to make him feel better, especially because he isn’t talking
[30/11/2015 00:32:29] Satan, Overlord of Hell: so they gently lead him inside, and take away his wet clothes and give him some dry ones, they make him hot chocolate and wrap him in blankets and dry his hair
[30/11/2015 00:33:07] Satan, Overlord of Hell: thunderhoof pulls him into his lap and holds him close to warm his up and sideswipe sobs because when was the last time someone who wasn’t sunny held him like this?
[30/11/2015 00:33:29] JamieDodger ;P: fuck both are good but
[30/11/2015 00:33:33] JamieDodger ;P: angst wins
[30/11/2015 00:33:45] Satan, Overlord of Hell: then ill keep going on my tangent
[30/11/2015 00:34:40] Satan, Overlord of Hell: because they surround him and hold his hands and hug him, and snuggle up close and they all wrap themselves in blankets and its a huge soft pile of cons and Sideswipe and yeah, he’s sad
[30/11/2015 00:34:45] Satan, Overlord of Hell: but he’s not alone anymore
[30/11/2015 00:35:30] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he’s safe, for once in his life, he’s safe
[30/11/2015 00:36:00] Satan, Overlord of Hell: the only bad part is that sunny isn’t here because primus knows his brother craves the same kinda attention
[30/11/2015 00:36:40] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he sobs and he clings to them because please, please don’t leave him alone, not now, not like this
[30/11/2015 00:37:02] Satan, Overlord of Hell: and they don’t, they don’t lie and say its ok because they don’t know if its ok and they’re not gonna say it is when they don’t know
[30/11/2015 00:37:43] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he falls asleep in thunderhoof’s arms, face buried into his chest and shaking softly in an unsteady sleep
[30/11/2015 00:38:37] Satan, Overlord of Hell: They’re all marginally bigger than him, but for once thats not the thing thats threatening him
[30/11/2015 00:39:00] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he wonders if its worth running away completely
[30/11/2015 00:39:44] Satan, Overlord of Hell: tbh this probably turns iNTO the porn
[30/11/2015 00:40:07] Satan, Overlord of Hell: because after all that emotion he just
[30/11/2015 00:40:10] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he’s wanted
[30/11/2015 00:40:37] Satan, Overlord of Hell: no, no, he can’t, he has to stay an autobot until he can leave home, he has to be loyal, he has to be good he. He has to. He…
[30/11/2015 00:40:42] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he’s wanted
[30/11/2015 00:41:52] Satan, Overlord of Hell: He presses his lips against Thunders, pouring all his guilt, his sadness, his desperation, his need, into the kiss
[30/11/2015 00:42:20] Satan, Overlord of Hell: his arms wrap around his neck to pull him closer, legs hook over hips and he grinds forwards
[30/11/2015 00:42:58] Satan, Overlord of Hell: theres an emotion bubbling in his chest that he can’t name or explain but he needs this and at least Thunderhoof seems to catch on even if he’s cautious
[30/11/2015 00:43:28] Satan, Overlord of Hell: hold him down, take the power and decisions away from him for just an hour or so, please, please just take the choices away
[30/11/2015 00:44:34] Satan, Overlord of Hell: for the need for submission, it burns inside him angry and vigorous, flames licking through his veins
[30/11/2015 00:45:55] Satan, Overlord of Hell: Sideswipe would sell his soul to him for this to keep happening but he needs to be helpless, he needs to not be in control for ten fucking minutes at least please
[30/11/2015 00:46:28] Satan, Overlord of Hell: and yeah he’s careful and he’s gentle but he gives him what he needs and he wants more, more more
[30/11/2015 00:47:27] JamieDodger ;P: sideswipe please chill
[30/11/2015 00:47:33] Satan, Overlord of Hell: one hand holds both his wrists down as others tease, trailing over sensitive flesh and he writhes and he begs but he doesnt get and that alone is almost a relief
[30/11/2015 00:48:39] Satan, Overlord of Hell: and when he presses into him he chokes on his break and bucks his hips and lips press into his neck
[30/11/2015 00:49:10] Satan, Overlord of Hell: sooner or later he’s almost lost to it all and he gasps and moans
[30/11/2015 00:50:32] Satan, Overlord of Hell: dark sheets, silk on his skin, bright lights flashing in his eyes, maybe from his own vision failing or maybe from that shitty light no one bothers to fix he isn’t sure, sharpened teeth grinning against the flesh of his neck
[30/11/2015 00:51:23] Satan, Overlord of Hell: hands hold him down and he feels heavy but it feels so good and he knows he promised himself he’d never step over this line but he never wants to let this go
[30/11/2015 00:51:55] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he manages to slip loose, to grip hold of him as a particularly hard thrust makes him cry out
[30/11/2015 00:53:43] Satan, Overlord of Hell: he claws in pleasure unknown to him as he attempts to move back against the friction he desires, he needs and theres a tightness in the pit of his stomach he recognises and a broken cry escapes him in shattered pieces as the heat increases and everything gets faster and harder and then its all too much
[30/11/2015 00:55:55] Satan, Overlord of Hell: and he screams, he screams Thunderhoofs name as he climaxes and hears his own name growled into his own ear and suddenly he feels so full and he moans and shakes and he’s hot and covered in sweat and his own cum splattered across his stomach and Thunderhoofs and he swallows because what now? what does he do now? but a kiss against his cheek reassures him and a smile reminds him he’s safe and as the fullness disappears the ache settles in and he groans, though its cut off by another kiss
[30/11/2015 00:56:56] Satan, Overlord of Hell: his eyes slip closed and a weight settles next to him, a hand pulled over his waist to hold him close and whispered praises in his ear and finally, finally, he sleeps well for the first time in years
“What are you doing here, goggles?”
Observer huffed, sliding out of the shadows as silently as he could, walking cautiously on Habit’s grounds, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. “I would have thought you would not have perceived me for perhaps another minute or two. I was just. Thinking.”
“On what, the best way to stab my in the neck?” Habit cackled, swinging his body around in judged momentum, a grin on his face as he spun a knife around his fingers his fingers. “What can I do you for? A corpse maybe? A lil’, a lil’ blood a few teeth or somethin’?”
Observer made a noise that sounded somewhat like a strangled sigh, and started pacing around. A gesture that could be mistaken for circling, had Habit not been the creature he was close to. This wasn’t anything threatening, particularly not to the likes of Habit.
“I didn’t come for that.”
“So… what?”
Silence fell between them, and unsurprisingly it wasn’t long before Habit lost his patience.
“Listen here you little bitch- you don’t come wondering into my house unannounced, sneaking around like a worried wife- too scared to do anything other than tiptoe in case the eggshells shatter under her toes and slice between them! Say what you came for or get out before I come for you!”
Observer glared, but spoke up regardless, ignoring the self satisfied smirk spreading across Habit’s face.
“I, have been thinking on a scenario of which includes us both.”
Observer seemed content to cut off there, but a wave of Habit’s knife had him pursing his lips and continuing. “Involving us doing certain activities with each other.”
Habit blinked slowly, laughing and cackling, leaning up across the wall before coughing, clearing his throat. “Yeah, yeah I don’t get it.”
Oberver almost growled, stepping forwards to poke Habit in the chest. Though he recoiled as Habit snapped forwards to try and catch the finger between his teeth, “You asked me what i came here for. More importantly, you asked what you could do me for. The real answer to that question is free, and it answers itself. That’s why I’m here.”
Habit stared again, before moving his head in a jerky movement. “What?”
Observer actually cried out in frustration, fingers curling like talons as he leant in perhaps too much into Habits personal space. “You asked what you could do me for- for every deity there is’ sake, just do me!”
He suddenly became flustered, and attempted to step back before Habit grabbed him by the shoulders, grinning wolfishly from ear to ear as he leant in. “Of course. You could have just asked.”
