Revel

• It’s like Orion doesn’t understand that what they do is vital. That they’re an integral cog in the Cybertronian machine as miners. Exploring exotic, alien worlds? That’s the domain of other bots. Not them. And even worse, Orion wants to find a human conjunx so that they can’t be forced back to Cybertron. Wants to keep playing space explorer. “I mean, that is an option, but you know as well as I do that we’re meant for more,” Orion insists and D rolls his optics, clearing his vents noisily. ‘We’re meant to be miners. You know, to do our job?’ He growls and Orion throws an arm across his shoulders. “There’s one. I’m going over. Try to look less angry. Maybe smile,” Orion says and D grabs for the other mech, but he’s already striding for the organic coming out of the lawn and garden store. ‘Pax,’ he hisses angrily.

• Looking up when you see one of the alien refugees heading your way with a wide smile, your shoulders hunch. Walking a little faster with your cart of plants, you hope you’re wrong. That he’s not about to hassle you as his buddy throws up his hands and turns away. “Hi,” he says moving to intercept you and you’re forced to stop or run into him with your cart. And he’s smiling charmingly as he catches the front of your cart like he knows you’re trying to find a way around him. “Me and my shy friend over there, we’re pretty new here. We were hoping you might be able to show us around?” Glancing at his surly looking buddy when he gestures at him, the other mech awkwardly sort of lifts a hand. But mostly he just looks really uncomfortable and you know the feeling. ‘Sorry, I’m not looking for a husband,’ you mutter. Especially not husbands plural.

• Keeping his smile in place, Orion shrugs. “Who said anything about husbands?” He counters as he puzzles over the word. Is that your people’s term for a conjunx, maybe? “D, I mean he’s too embarrassed to admit it, but he can’t read your human language,” he adds, gesturing at the writing on the front of the nearest building. “Makes it a little hard to figure out what places are Cybertronian friendly. Where to find energon.” And your brow furrows, but you’re not trying to run. Or screaming at him to go away. “We’re just lost. Hungry.” Which isn’t exactly a lie.

• Writing up an inventory receipt and handing it off to the crew, you smile. Going through the motions of your new job on autopilot. Keep telling yourself that it’s a fresh start. New town, new job. Without the shadow of a bad relationship hanging over you. All those regrets, the what ifs. The hurt. And you can move on. Meet someone new. Hate that a part of you keeps wondering what he’s doing right now. Where he is. Shouldn’t still care. Not after how badly he’d hurt you, but you do. Why can’t you just move on? Forget him? What’s wrong with you?

• Wings trembling in outrage, he hangs there against the backdrop of the sky. After the little man had insisted he didn’t know where you’d gone, it had taken all of his self control to not raze the small airport to the ground. Had ‘accidentally’ stepped on the chain link fence as he’d walked away, but otherwise he’d reined in the urge to destroy everything. Hates that you’ve obviously moved on. And knows that he should let it go. That he’d hurt you out of fear. Chosen his own aspirations and goals over you. Of course you’d left him. Everyone always turns on him eventually anyway.

• Except, he’d been the one to turn on you. Had been too worried about what others might think if he was seen with you. That he might be judged for being in an interspecies relationship. Why had he cared what everyone else might think? Servos curling into a fist, his wings tremble faintly. Remembering the warmth of you stretched out against his side while he’d been mass shifted, the sound of your voice telling him about your day and asking about his. You were supposed to be here. Supposed to be where he could find you, check on you. See you. Running a hand over his face, it’s a shock when his servos come away damp. Staring at his hand, he snarls.

• Why can’t you move on? He’s like a ghost haunting you, catching you off guard over and over. You see something and think about what he’ll say when you tell him about it. And then remember that you won’t. It’s been months since the two of you broke up. Since he told you that there could never be anything serious between you and him. That you were too human, too alien for anything more than a casual relationship. Eyes burning, you huff out a bitter laugh. So why does a part of you still love him? Shouldn’t you hate him for that?

Previous

• Giving you a pointed look to back him up, you lift a shoulder in a shrug. And he’s turning when Drift wanders into the kitchen area to see what’s going on. “Your son’s been sneaking out. With Swindle’s little hoodlums,” Ratchet says and Drift almost smiles. ‘Hoodlums?’ The other bot repeats and you laugh. “I know. It’s adorable, right?” You say as he scowls at both of you, aware of his son hurriedly cleaning out the bowl and wolfing down energon batter.

• “You don’t even know them,” his son mutters, licking the spoon clean and leaning to bump you with his head in thanks before hurrying away. ‘I know their sire,’ Ratchet snarls before rounding on Drift. ‘You two are okay with this? They’ll have him stealing anything that’s not tied down.’ Smiling at how annoyed the Ratchet is, Drift draws him into a hug. “He’s not a thief,” Drift soothes and Ratchet’s plating slowly settles. ‘I’m not saying he is. But those younglings are a bad influence.’

• Sighing when Drift gives you a questioning look, you shrug. “They like to play Grand Theft Auto. The video game,” you say and Drift hums as Ratchet pulls away to lean on the counter. Before reaching for one of your molds and the spoon your son left in the bowl. “Those aren’t ready,” you mutter watching him eat the energon batter anyway, gesturing with the spoon. ‘Next thing you know, it’ll be some stupid internet challenge. He’ll be eating tide pods,’ Ratchet grumbles and you watch him stress eating. Just like your son.

• “Okay, nope. Give me that,” you say, trying to take the bowl as he backs up into Drift and the other mech takes it away from him. You two always ganging up on him. “Remember what First Aid said about your tank and over processed energon?” You ask as he rumbles in annoyance. ‘What does that kid even know?’ He grumbles, venting and leaning down when you pull on his arm so you can press a kiss against his chin. ‘I’m perfectly healthy,’ he adds, eyeing the silicone mold of energon batter in Drift’s hands. “And I’d like to keep you that way,” you say as he vents in aggravation.

• “Are you okay?” He asks and you try to focus on the question when you feel oddly confused. What were you doing? Staring at him, you stumble back another step. He’s soapy. You were going to rinse him, right? Had unzipped the top half of your coveralls to let it hang around your waist, but you’re still overheating in the sun. The concrete floor and walls of the stall baking you. Why do you feel so weird? What were you about to do? You’d lost the thought again. The hose?

• “Hey, talk to me,” he says, frowning as you take another wobbly step. And you’re breathing strangely, trembling. Saying your name, he watches you list and he’s lunging, knees smacking against the concrete as he mass shifts and reaches for you. Catching you as you just collapse, going eerily limp. “Hey,” he growls as he cradles you against his frame, feeling the rapid, shallow way you’re breathing and frantic beat of your heart.

• Startling when you get soaked in cold water, you’re sputtering and turning your face away from the spray. Muddled as you realize Hound is clutching you against his chassis and standing under the emergency, chemical shower head with you. “What happened?” You ask, hearing the way your words slurr. And why do you feel so confused? ‘You tell me. You just collapsed,’ he growls, shifting you in the spray as you shiver at the cold water. ‘Medics are coming,’ he adds as you take a shuddering breath.

• She’s softer looking than the big mechs, no hard lines or pointy edges at all, yet. As you watch, she yawns with a chirp and wiggles to hide her face against her human parent. And that ache inside you spreads as you see Starscream come over to cup his hands and let his partner scoot into his palm with their hybrid baby. Turning to look at Flatline busying himself cleaning up, you wonder what his sparking would look like. It’s not like you haven’t thought about kids, but with your existing medical issues, you’ve known it wasn’t happening. Had told yourself you were okay with that. You’d accepted it.

• Turning to raid the tiny chest of human food on a counter after washing up, he grabs energon for himself and turns. “I want a sparkling,” you blurt and he hears the seeker snort as he carries his conjunx and sparkling out of the medbay. ‘What?’ He asks, staring at you as your shoulders hunch. “You heard me,” You mumble, looking embarrassed but determined as your chin lifts. And he has no idea what to say since he’s never really thought about it. ‘Sparklings require spark bonding. Fully spark bonding,’ he murmurs.

• “I know,” you say, meeting his optics as his plating flares then settles. Had already decided on him anyway. Wanted to spend your life with the quiet medic, but if you can have this, too? Everything you were certain you couldn’t have? “I still want it. If you do?” You add uncertainly, because it’s not like you’ve ever talked about it with him. Maybe he doesn’t want kids? Chest aching, you know you’d still choose him regardless, but seeing the little seeker had made you want more. Made you want kids.

• Hurrying through the base and trying to avoid huge peds, you glance at your dossier. At the Megatron variant you’ve been assigned. Because usually, this guy is always problematic from what you’ve heard. This one, though? He looks angry; his helm, his face, and frame decorated with markings and his lip curled to flash denta. He’s also handsome. But then, you’d signed up because of the rumors. Because you’d been curious about the aliens. Ever since they’d arrived you’ve been fascinated with the Cybertronians. And all that anger on his face? The rebellion? It’s so fascinating. He’s fascinating.

• Sees so many Cybertronians with humans. Doesn’t know what to make of any of this. Because it’s what he’d imagined minus the organics. What he’d been fighting for. Peace and equality. No senate and no more castes. No more being trapped or judged by your altmode. It feels like a dream and he doesn’t quite trust it. “Sir!” Looking around, he rumbles as he spots familiar faces and so many new faces. “Sir?” Hesitating, he looks down and there’s a human staring breathlessly up at him with a smile. Rumbling as he slides his ped away from you, he frowns down at you. You’ve got your covering half off around your waist, the thinner covering underneath baring your arms and the designs covering them. And it’s still so strange how Cybertronian your people look. What are the odds of finding another sentient race so similar to their own? “Hi, I’ve been looking for you. I’m yours,” you say, offering him your name, but his processor is caught on that ‘I’m yours.’

• Didn’t mean to say it like that, but you’d gotten flustered and the words a bit mixed up. He’s just frowning seriously down at you, too. Do those markings mean something? They must to him since you haven’t really seen any other aliens with markings like his. They make him seem wilder, more feral somehow. Temptingly dangerous. Flustered, you know yourself well enough to know that the bad boy, rebel image he has going is all just tailor made to draw you in. Get you in trouble. “Is that so?” He growls and that deep, rumbling voice is just the cherry on top of the inappropriate thought sundae that you’re now enjoying. ‘If you want me to be,’ you answer.

• Are you flirting with him? Remembers the way Terminus had been possessively cradling the human he’d been carrying. The way he’d seen several other Cybertronians interacting with these organics. Is that what’s going on? Some kind of interspecies meetup to find conjunxes? Even more lost, he watches your eyes give him a slow once over. Like you find him desirable and that thought is so foreign to him. So used to being looked down on because of his frame, his altmode. Barely noticed. Had been put to work in the mines right after coming online and knew he’d die in those same mines. Knew it. But then Terminus had been killed in front of him for daring to question a mech from an upper caste and everything had changed. He’d started pushing back. Started taking what he wanted. Making them hear him, see him. Isn’t used to being seen without giving someone a reason to notice him, though. “How about a bath? Some energon while we get to know each other,” you say and he vents softly, rumbling as his lips twitch.

• And you hear laughter, your twins shoving each other and grinning. “Is there anything to eat?” Tron asks as Pax leans against the back of the couch, reaching to flick Rez’s audial fin and you cup a hand against his helm as his battle mask clicks into place. ‘You can’t wait for dinner?’ You ask, waving off Pax. “I’m hungry now,” Tron groans and you notice the peace sign he’s added to his helm. Inhaling slowly, you really hope Megatron is too human illiterate to know what the symbol is or you’re going to have to hear about it. The graffitied ‘make love, not war’ he’d painted on himself hadn’t gone over that well either.

• “You’re too old to fly with your sire?” Starscream growls as Skyfall flicks her wings at him. Giving him attitude. ‘I didn’t say that. I just said that I wanted to go flying with my friends,’ she mutters, walking away from him and he shoots you a look when he spots you. Widening his optics at you to say something and you make a face. “Which friends?” He asks, wings lifting when she shoots him a look. ‘Carrier,’ she groans, wings dropping as she keeps walking like she thinks you’ll take her side. “Which friends?” He repeats.

• Looking up from his writing, Megatron glances from his daughter to Starscream. “Go fly with your sire every so often so the rest of us don’t have to listen to him whining about it,” he murmurs as Skyfall huffs through her vents before immediately turning toward you. ‘Carrier,’ she whines and you flick your fingers toward Starscream. Agreeing with him. “You used to like flying with me,” the seeker mutters and her wings flick. ‘I still do,’ she mumbles. Rumbling as he studies the way her wings flare and her plating barely lifts, Megatron glances at you and you barely shrug. Does his little spark have a crush? Isn’t sure how he feels about that. Or whether the youngling she likes will get to live.

• Can feel your weak field sinking into him, the feel of your breathing and the quick beat of your heart. Alien, but things that seem right. Like he’s been waiting a lifetime to feel them. “Are you asleep? Do you sleep?” You whisper and he rumbles. ‘I recharge. Dream,’ he murmurs as you wiggle like you’re trying to get more comfortable. ‘Do you dream?’ It’s so odd to feel like he knows you already and to know nothing about you or your kind.

• Eyes hooded, you stare at his steering wheel since you’re not entirely sure where to focus when you’re talking to him. But you like the way his low voice spills into you, relaxing you. “Are you sure this is okay?” You ask, not wanting to bother him even as you desperately want to stay. Being here with him is like remembering something you’d forgotten a long time ago. Something that was always yours but lost to you. And it makes no more sense than the existence of aliens does. But it feels right.

• “I was watching you. Every time you looked out, I hoped you’d come back outside to me,” he admits softly and you smile, fingers playing with the tooling on his seat to make him even more aware of the soft warmth of you cradled inside him. Had thought having an organic inside his altmode would be unsettling. Strange. But with you, it feels right. Like he’d always known how you’d feel. ‘You feel like home,’ you admit, cheek against his seat and he understands what you mean. Because that’s what you are to him. ‘But I don’t even know you.’

• “We have time,” he says. “If you’re not tired, we could just talk.” Studying the interior of his altmode, that strange sense of deja vu whispers through you. Insisting that you do know him. Have always known him. Been waiting for him. Every failed relationship, every choice suddenly shifting in your mind. Like no matter what you chose, what you did, you had to end up here in this moment with him. ‘I’d like that,’ you answer with a small smile. ‘Tell me about your world. Do you have family?’

Previous

• Rumbling because there are so many humans scurrying about everywhere. And he can’t understand how fearless they all are, either. Stumbling when a human runs out in front of him, he clears his vents. It’s like they have no idea how tiny they are. Eyeing the concrete wall of the wash stalls, he wonders if maybe a walkway could be constructed against it off the ground. Maybe humans don’t like heights, though? Squinting at the weird alien glyphs on the stalls, he recognizes the curly one he’s supposed to report to. Because apparently one of them wants to court him.

• It’s like the universe has it out for you. Dragging your cart with its bad wheel into the stall, his head turns and he lifts a hand to awkwardly wave. “Hi.” Does he even recognize you as one of the people he terrorized? You can’t tell from his expression. Maybe humans all look the same to them. ‘Sir,’ you mutter, yanking your cart closer and almost running over your own foot with it. “That’s not my name. It’s Pax. Orion Pax,” he says and you suppose it could be worse. He seems friendly at least. Some of them are just outright hostile to humans.

• Waving again when you finally give him your name, you don’t look that enthused. Definitely don’t look like someone in love and trying to find a spark mate. Wait, is this an arranged conjunx setup? Knows the wealthier families on Cybertron used to do things like that, but with his station it was something he’d never thought much about. Making matches for political reasons instead of love. Immediately feeling sorry for you, he stands and heads your way. And you tense, moving to put the cart between you and him like you’re scared of him.

• Heart racing as he mass shifts, your skin crawls. He’s not about to grab you again, right? “Sir, if you could just sit still and let me take care of you,” you say, edging around the cart when he circles it. ‘Bring it in,’ he says, arms spreading. How about no? Really want to keep the cart between you and him. “Sir?” What is he doing? You’re not running, but he’s definitely chasing you around the cart now, his expression a little too focused. And you’re painfully aware of how ludicrous this all is. That you’re almost but not quite running to try and keep your assigned mech from grabbing you for a hug.

Previous

• Venting in annoyance, he spots you and heads your way. "Your progeny has painted his plating and lined his optics. He's also had someone paint flames on him,” he growls and you make a noise, kneading energon dough. ‘He's that age and it's probably going to get worse, so enjoy,’ you mutter as you lean to grab the rolling pin and his antenna go back. ‘What?’ You ask when he’s silent and he rumbles. "He also said science was lame,” he admits and you look up at him, eyes widening.

• Trying to not laugh as his single optic dims and his antenna go back, you lean your shoulder into him. “Oh, sweetie. I'm sure it's just a phase. Give him time and he'll realize that super sketchy, unethical science is the coolest,” you say and he stares at you as you turn back to trying to flatten your energon dough enough to cut out shapes. ‘Sarcasm?’ He finally asks and you do laugh, surprised. "Hey, good job. I was sure it was going to go right over your head."

• Venting at you, he rumbles as you grin up at him. “The paint isn’t hurting anything. He’ll either get bored of it or he’ll start trying to figure out how to pierce his plating,” you tell him, cutting shapes out and transferring them to a sheet of aluminum. Staring at you, he watches you dust crushed bismuth on the treats and tries to figure out why you’re not more concerned. ‘And the correct response is to just ignore this behavior?’ He growls, trying to follow your logic.

• Hissing as he circles Bombshell, Shrapnel hunches slightly as his plating flares in warning. Wanting to tear into the other mech. Make him admit that he knows you’re not a threat. Because he doesn’t understand any of this. Insecticons aren’t meant for this. To socialize outside the hive and make friends with food. And you’re other. Not one of them, so you have to be food. Except he doesn’t like that thought anymore and it confuses him. Makes him angry. “Not one of us, us,” he snarls, lashing out. Settling the argument the only way he knows. With force.

• “They’re ours,” Bombshell hisses as he slams into Shrapnel and the two go rolling. Circling and chirping, Kickback’s clawed servos flex with the excitement and need to get in on the fight even though he knows he’ll end up taking the brunt of it if he does. Watching as they bite and tear at each other to fill the air with the sweet tang of energon, he considers Bombshell’s claim. That you’re theirs even though you’re not one of them. Not food. Nervously swiping his claws against an antenna as Bombshell’s mask retracts to sink his denta into Shrapnel’s side, the other mech claws free, hissing.

• Energon dripping down his chin onto his chassis, Bombshell watches Shrapnel grimace as he touches his side. “They’re ours, ours,” Shrapnel finally mutters, tone sullen with defeat. Licking energon off his servos, Bombshell rumbles softly. Understands Shrapnel’s frustration, though. If you’re not food, what are you? Soft and warm. Helpless. Where do you fit in the hive hierarchy? Growling, his battle mask clicks back into place. Barely pays attention to the other Cybertronians, but he’s heard them talking about conjunxes. About human conjunxes. And you’ve been courting them as foolish as it is.

• Startling awake, for a moment you have no idea what woke you up but then you hear the tapping again. Sliding out of bed, you stare at the shadowy shapes moving outside your balcony. Skin crawling, you ease closer and relax when you realize it’s your mechs in their giant, bug altmodes. Just chilling on the side of the building, crawling around. What are they doing? And then one of them chirps before all three start making a sibilant, creaking cacophony that has your skin crawling because it’s like cicadas screaming dialed up to one hundred. Shoulders hunching as you stare at their shapes moving around on the glass, claws tapping, you back up toward your bed as you hear your neighbor screaming profanity.

• Wheezing as you hook a finger in the neck of your shirt while sweat slicks it to you, you’re startling when servos brush your temple. Staring up at him as he leans down, his head tilts slightly, visor brightening. “I’m good,” you manage, guessing he’s worried. He has to be used to you gasping and sweating after a run at this point, though. “Just feeling that burn.” Which is supposedly a good thing, but you’re not loving it.

• Hand still extended as you slowly straighten, he has the urge to hook his servo in the neck of your covering. To tug you into his frame. Instead, he lets his hand fall. This fixation with you isn’t healthy. Far too close to obsession. The smart thing to do would be to back off. Let you have your space. Knows the war is officially over, but a part of him is still waiting. Still expecting Megatron to return defiant and angry. Because the corruption on Cybertron had started back up almost immediately. It’s why he’d stayed here. Why so many had. Living here, but not really living. Not belonging. Not home.

• He’s just staring at you without moving as your skin crawls. It’s not like you haven’t seen him do this before, but it’s always unsettling. A reminder that he’s alien. Not human. Makes you wonder what he’s thinking right now as his visor dims. There are so many of them here on earth. Living and working, but you know a part of you will always see them as other. He’s your friend, your coworker, but he’s not like you. Doesn’t think like you do. Doesn’t think or act like a human. “Soundwave?”

• Shuddering slightly as he straightens, he buries that urge to drag you closer. To hold you. To pursue something more. He’s used to wanting anyway. Before Ravage had taken him in, he’d been hungry all the time, scared, and overwhelmed by an ability he couldn’t understand or control. Can protect you, look after you, but nothing more. No matter what he wants. If Megatron returns, he knows he’ll return to the warlord’s side. “Ready?” He asks as his servos curl into a fist to fight the urge to touch you and you groan, but nod. Trying to ignore the way his spark aches, he’s never been uncertain like this before. Conflicted about what to do. But you make it harder to know his next move. Make him want to believe in a future where he might belong. And when he imagines it, you’re there.

• Hands sliding down your arms as he tugs you back into his frame, he knows you. Has found you doing this before, staring at yourself in the mirror. Knows that sometimes your much longer life bothers you. That you sometimes feel guilty for outliving your human family. “Am I even still human?” You ask, voice soft even though you’re smiling. But he hears the uncertainty in the words. Rumbling, he catches your hand and lifts it. Makes a show of studying you. ‘I can definitely say you’re not Cybertronian. Too soft,’ he says and you laugh.

• “You’re still you,” he adds as you turn your hand over to grasp his. Do better when he’s around. Those intrusive thoughts, the guilt and anxiety, are quieter. Easier to ignore. Because humans aren’t meant to live so long and you know it. You’ve had sparklings with him. Watched them grow and find their own conjunxes. Have their own sparklings. And you haven’t changed at all. But to change is to be human. So what are you? Hate when you get like this. When you can’t seem to get yourself out of a spiral. But maybe the human mind isn’t meant to deal with eternity.

• Arms tightening around you when you don’t answer, his mouth brushes your cheek. Interlacing his servos with your fingers, he vents against you. “If you’re bored, though, we could always start over,” he whispers in your ear and it startles a laugh out of you as he chuckles. Misses the chirping of sparklings, the way you smile when you’re holding a bitlet. “It’s too damn quiet around here anyway.” You’re twisting in his arms to look up at him. ‘Aren’t we too old for that?’ You ask and he rumbles, lifting you off your feet.

• Waiting as he paces, he’s making you anxious as he wears a figurative rut in the floor. Though at the rate he’s going, it might eventually be a literal one. Waving a hand at him to get on with it, he makes a noise. “I don’t have an ID,” he mutters, as his big hands move. Restlessly sketching shapes in the air. “Or anything concrete. I know there’s a informant passing along privileged information to the Decepticons, but I don’t have enough of a lead to act. Or prove my hunch.”

• “Hang on, you came all the way to another planet on a hunch?” You ask and his plating lifts slightly. ‘I know I’m right,’ he mutters, embarrassed. Because if he’s wrong he’ll probably get busted down a rank or three. Be reprimanded for abandoning his post because he knew that by the time the bureaucracy made a decision to act on the transmission he intercepted, it would be too late. ‘I know what the spy sounds like. I heard a sound clip.’

• A voice isn’t much to go on, but you nod and he hesitates, like he didn’t expect you to not question him more. It’s not like you know anything about spy games, though. Unless you can count watching bits and pieces of Mission Impossible movies. But that kind of excitement? That rush of danger? You’ve always had a sweet tooth for adrenaline. “So how do we find this guy if that’s all we have to go on? Can you track his energy signature or hack into his transmissions? He’s talking to someone, right? These Decepticons?”

• “Something like that,” he admits as you grin. Like you’re enjoying this. Don’t you understand how dangerous this is? “I’ve been scanning for transmissions on known old, Decepticon wartime frequencies, but the original transmission I intercepted on Cybertron was actually an older, defunct channel. One associated with the gladiator matches in Kaon.” And he hadn’t made the connection at first. Hadn’t realized it was because Megatron had been a gladiator until he’d gone digging into historical records. Turning, he pulls out a data pad and sets it down beside you, pulling up archival footage of the gladiator who would become the warlord. “But there’s a lot of archival video to comb through. And that’s where you can help,” he adds as you groan.