#acidlacedwings

((How old is mun?))

{{-whispers- not as old as meeeeeee}}

“Oh how smug you think you are. it’s precious, really. but the answer is never. Even if I did accidentally soak myself in acid, the worst I’d get is maybe some interesting new textures on my plating.”

See that? That's Skywarp squinting at you. Intensely squinting.

“Sooo... you're telling me you handle this slag always and never ever has it hurt you?”

He pondered over that.

“Ah, yes… working… is that what they call ‘surfing the human internet’ these days?”

He tilted his helm slightly to look around the prehistoric avian-form taking Cybertronian at the terminal’s interface. “There’s no shame in… studying… or working. however if you must insist on such rigorous dedication to either, I will insist on you taking at least a refueling break.”

» ⚜ ||  There’s no mistaking the irritated rumble in his chassis, the way his sickle claws twitched. He turned toward Acidstorm with a hiss of annoyance, hunkering down on his pedes.

» ⚜ ||  “I’m working.”

ahhhh hello friend ;n;

So my robutts live on a planet called Morge.  I have a tag for them on this blog that’s just “#Morge tag” for simplicity’s sake.

The planet is entirely metal.  Trees, flowers, ground (though the ground has like dirt and stuff? idk need to sort that out with my cowriter), inhabitants both humanoid and animal.  Everything.

The robots on this planet are divided into two races: the Mourgish and the Terrors.  Mourgish are defined by their sharp, claw-like digits and pointed audio receptors, and their frames are a little more sleek and slender.  Terrors are more thickly built.  Broad shoulders, wide frames.  Bulky.  They have rounded digits and more...er...square-looking audio receptors.  Neither race has nasal features.  Both have optics (think kinda like a mix between TFP Optimus and TFP Bee’s optics in appearance.) and lip components.  But Terrors have fang-like dentals that are sharper than Mourgish.  Mourgish fems also have silver, wire-like strands of hair on their heads.  The upper classes of Mourgish braid it in intricate styles to denote their status.  Terrors, no matter what gender, don’t have hair.

Uh...each robot has an armor and an optic color so while these aren’t specific to one robot it’s very unlikely two robots will have the same combination.  Armor pieces are on the upper hydraulic, chest, pelvis, and thighs, but they also wear dresses made of animal hide or chainmail at times.  Lower classes tend to have chainmail while the upper classes have hides and cloth.  Sashes are also sometimes worn in place of hydraulic armor to dress up a little, or they can be tied in elegant knots and wrapped around the frame for a sort of lingerie look (kinda hard to explain I guess but... xD)

They drink oil for sustenance.  Refined oil is the safest, but they also have unrefined as well as lava which is like...super unrefined and spiced oil.  Terrors tend to drink lava and can handle harsher drinks better.  Drinking too much unrefined or lava is how they get drunk because of their internal refineries.  They also eat certain gems on their planet.  Pearls are a delicacy and basically are like chocolate to them.  And gold is like the rarest of the rare shit.  If it’s given to someone as a gift it’s incredibly sacred and special.  Like...something you would only give your soulmate or someone you completely trusted because of how incredibly rare it is.

The basic history is that the Mourgish enslaved the Terrors because the Terror capital of Aak is stationed right next to what is known as the Black Sea, a huge oil deposit that just stretches as far as the optic can see.  The Terrors eventually rebelled in a bloody war known as the Ten Revolution War and gained their freedom, though at the time of the book I’m writing racial tensions are still pretty high and some cities are still pretty Mourgish-only.

He held up the container where he kept such goodies. “No. I’m good.” Setting it back down, he sipped his warm energon, reclined in his chair again and returned to reading, before pausing, actually looking at Skywarp and eyed him up and down…. “What in Primus’ name are you wearing?”

Skywarp shrugged in a silent “Suit yourself” and munched on, in no way seeing a problem with sitting on the ground. He nommed happily, until Acidstorm interrupted him.

“Huh?,” he looked down at himself, “Oh, 'ight, th' 'ost'm'!”

He swallowed: “It's a costume. Of a cartoon character. Her name's Sugilite, and she's a rock but not really, she's actually an alien. Or rather two of them – three, actually, but two are always one anyway. She can smash slag with her flail.”

Send “Nightmare” to see what Kind of Nightmares My Muse has involving Yours

It was supposed to be a normal scouting mission.  Rain was a common occurrence.

He thought it was a normal downpour.

One minute he was walking with Bumblebee discussing the specs of his future laptop; the next, it was raining.

He thought nothing of it until Bumblebee cried out in pain.  There was nowhere to seek shelter.  At least, not for a Bot Bumblebee’s size.

“Bumblebee, what’s wrong?!” Raf cried as the scout knelt next to him and tried to duck his helm.

“̸̢́Th́e̢͢ ́r͘͜a͘͝in̵̷̴!̢͝͠ ̵͢͏ ͠I̷͘t̵̛’͟͟s͢͞--̡a̷͜g҉̵̷h͟͏!̸̧ ̛͢ ͝R͡a͡f,̀͠ ̡g͠-͡g̡͡-͢g̨͟e̷͜t͜ t̵̨-͠to̡͞-͟-͏̷̶!͘͜”̵̨̛

And then Bumblebee’s voice was gone.  His frame was smoking with damage from the acid rain, sensors fried.  His optics were shorting out.

“Bumblebee!” Raf nudged him with his palms to try and get his attention.  There had to be somewhere they could hide until the storm passed.  Somewhere--

A jet swooped overhead, engines howling above the rain.

“Bee, come on.  We have to go.  You can’t fight like this.”

Bumblebee couldn’t hear him.  He was slowly shutting down despite Raf’s best efforts to get him to notice him.

“Bumblebee, please!  They’re coming!”

Heavy landfall sounded.  Beneath his hands, Bumblebee’s frame burned hot.  There was no time.  He couldn’t drag Bumblebee with him.

In the distance, thunderous pedsteps shook the ground.  Raf’s heart jumped with every step.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Normally, when one thought of a “guardian angel”, they thought of a soft-spoken, mystical being hovering about and shielding their charge from wordly dangers. 

Acidstorm laughed when he compared the legend of angels to the reality of his own. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” Starscream’s shrill voice rang in his audials as he was attempting to mix together his lately chemical compound. Acidstorm rolled his optics and kept his servo steady.

“Wait! It’s not stable enough, you’ll blow your servos clean off!”

“Stop your squawking! I double checked, this is correct.” Without waiting for his angel’s chiding reply, he squeezed the pipette into the mixture…

Nothing happened. 

Instead of rejoicing that his charge had not been maimed, Starscream huffed and whined indignantly, “You merely got lucky; your mixture was still wrong.”

  Storm sneered, “Right, I’m sure. It’s not as though the tragic lab accident that caused your demise was a chemical reaction.”

If Starscream had a corporeal form, he would be steaming. “So hateful! So spiteful to your poor, dedicated guardian! Whatever did you do to deserve my unstinting devotion and love? Not a thing! I might have had a gentle, easy appreciative mech to look after! Instead my protection is wasted on one that spurns me!” He wailed childishly, flitting about in distress and frustration. 

Taking pity on his neurotic but well-meaning angel, Acidstorm folded his wings complacently, dripping half an ounce too much of the potent chemical into the vial, causing it to fizz and shoot up, just barely missing his servo. “Dear me, look at that. You right after all. I’ll be more careful next time.”