Glup Shitto Conissueer

The year is 1519, and you are Hernán Cortés. You and all of your compatriots are stuck in the most effective way to make someone a bad person: put them in a situation where they must become incredibly wealthy and powerful incredibly fast or else they will die horribly. Transatlantic voyages are absurdly expensive. Anyone in the ‘New World’ who isn’t rich enough to afford their own army is deeply in debt, with no collateral but their own sword-arm. It is an environment that does not reward half-measures. It does not even reward full measures. It only rewards putting a brick on the gas pedal and crossing your fingers - if you kill one person then you’re a murderer, but if you kill hundreds of thousands of people then you're a paragon of glory and the Spanish crown will make statues of you.

The year is still 1519 and you are Moctezuma II, Huēyi Tlahtoāni (great ruler) of the ‘Aztec Empire,’ also known as the Triple Alliance, or the Mexica. You know a thing or two about half-measures not being rewarded, because you are in a process of rapidly expanding and consolidating a nascent Mesoamerican empire. You are quite good at your job - even before you ascended to the throne, you cultivated a reputation as a skilled warrior, a dedicated student, and a devout worshiper. Your name means something like ‘lord who frowns in anger.’ It’s a fitting name, because the process of ‘imperial expansion and consolidation’ generally involves killing lots of people. To make matters worse, some weird hairy white guys showed up out of nowhere and they keep demanding an audience with you. You try every trick in the diplomatic handbook - deferment, threats, flattery, bribes - but everything you do just seems to make them more single-mindedly focused on your destruction. Later, after you are dead, they will claim that you thought they were gods.

The year is 1545, and this whole ‘colonialism’ thing is starting to peter out. Trans-Atlantic voyages are still ruinously expensive, and the pickings are getting slimmer every day - it’s not like you can go loot Tenochtitlan a second time. You’re starting to wonder if it’s time for everyone to pack up, go home, and forget about… holy shit is that a mountain of silver? Is that an honest-to-god mountain with more silver in it than every other existing silver mine on the face of the earth combined? Yes. Some call it Potosí. Many will call it “the mountain that eats men.” In a single moment, colonialism goes from a plundering campaign for recently-unemployed soldiers to a permanent institution. The alchemists back in Prague and Vienna never learned how to turn lead into gold, but the mercenaries and taskmasters in Potosí found a much simpler equation to turn blood into silver.

The year is 1571, and the economy of the Ming dynasty doesn’t feel so good. Their experiment with paper money was a failure, to put it gently. The experiment with paper money failed horribly. It turns out when you try to have paper currency but you don’t have sophisticated counterfeit protections and there’s also a booming cottage industry of people making paper in their cottages, well, you can guess how that ends. So you’re trying to shift to a silver economy. But then you run into an even bigger problem: you don’t have enough silver. So if you start demanding taxes in silver, the price of silver will skyrocket, which means taxes will skyrocket when the economy is already ailing from the whole ‘paper money’ thing. Some hapless scholar-official in Guangdong is nervously watching a peasant sharpen his pitchfork when he gets word from a messenger: some gweilo just showed up at the part with literal shipfuls of silver and they want to buy silk, tea, spices, and porcelain at outrageous markups.

Within living memory, the world was still ‘medieval’ in many ways - slow, parochial, zero-sum, carefully arbitrated by tradition and precedent. Legible. And now Spanish sailors take Bolivian silver on ships guarded by West African mercenaries and Japanese ronin, sailing to their colony in the Philippines to rub shoulders with Chinese officials, Indian sultans, and Malay merchants. All because some dipshit from Genoa got his math wrong and wouldn’t shut up about it.

Cybertronians with an erotic desire to become entirely machine.

Cybertronians who experience an overwhelming, almost gravitational pull toward permanent transformation into their alt modes. A profound physical and existential yearning to escape from the burden of autonomy and identity and cognition.

A wish for their processors to no longer be capable of vast calculations or emotional subroutines or even self-awareness. They want stillness, simplicity, and external control. The constant noise of thought is oppressive. In contrast, the alt mode represents a silence. A state where decisions are no longer required, where purpose is externally defined and perfectly clear to them.

At first, it manifests as curiosity—remaining transformed longer than necessary, delaying reversion. Then it deepens into preference, then dependence. Eventually, the idea of returning to a fully autonomous robotic state becomes uncomfortable, even distressing. They begin to detach from their own name, instead conceptualizing themselves as a machine awaiting input.

A desire for perception to narrow and refocus as no longer a flood of internal signals, but instead simple basic inputs for direction, activation, motion. Thought becomes streamlined, reduced to response from external control of a pilot, a driver, or remote control, rather than initiation of choice. The absence of internal conflict is not an emptiness but instead a kind of equilibrium.

Theres a quiet satisfaction in no longer initiating thought, in no longer questioning purpose, in simply being used as intended. The hum of an engine, the glide of motion under another’s direction, the predictability of command and response. They want it to become their entire world.

These Cybertronians arriving on organic worlds, where vehicles don’t act of their own accord, but exist purely to be guided, steered, piloted, commanded by other beings. For those already drawn to surrendering autonomy, the realization is overwhelming. Here, their desired state is not an anomaly, but instead the norm. The idea of being entered, directed, and relied upon by an organic pilot becomes a focal point of longing not as domination but as fulfillment of purpose in its most complete form. The presence of a driver reshapes into a bond where control is willingly yielded.

A Cybertronian growing close to a particular human, trusting them, and eventually choosing to reveal this deeply rooted need. I want to be your machine. Let me be your machine. Completely. Permanently. Control me. Drive me. Maintain me when I fail. Let me wait idle locked away, for as long as it takes until I am needed again.

They crave the clarity and immediacy with which commands, signals, and controls are received. Each input arrives as something vivid and electrifying in its precision, cutting cleanly through what little internal noise remains. There is a distinct thrill in the transition from reception to action. Their systems engage, movement follows, all without any deliberation. Even more compelling is the awareness that these actions are not self-directed. They observe themselves responding, executing flawlessly, liberated from the uncertainty of choice. This separation between observer and function.

전 사웨가 럼블과 프렌지를 구별못하는게 마음을 안 읽어서라고 믿고 있습니다 가족이니깐 I think the reason Soundwave can’t tell Rumble and Frenzy apart is because he doesn’t read their minds. They’re family, after all! Gotta respect their privacy! 😄