Mechtech Coffee is the lifeblood of a workshop, keeping mechtechs on their feet until their mechs are shiny, ready for combat and emitting the happy bleep bloops. Each mechtech has a closely-guarded recipe unique to their workshop, but the traditional recipe can be found in the Pilot’s Handbook:
- 3tsp instant coffee
- 15mls hard liquor (traditionally rum)
- sugar to taste
- a pinch of red chilli flakes and cinnamon
- 100mg of dextroamphetamine
- boiling water
(Having tried making this to the best of my ability for this post, I can confirm that it would keep me going long enough to clean a 15m tall weapons platform <3)
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Wheeljack is Happy To know Sideswipe enjoys the Mechtech Weapons he Made
(And Slightly Concerned too if Wheeljack Loves One of his New Mechtech Weapons a little Too Much but at least Wheeljack's Gun doesn't Explode for Once)
Raymond Foss winced as the lighter in Harjell's hand clicked on. He watched as the Stockmaster lit the cigar he held between his lips before breathing out a cloud of smoke.
"So."
Foss and Harjell looked at eachother in silence, both of them tired and worn to the bone. Despite being a band of mercenaries hired at the tail end of the Sol War, the three months of combat they - and the rest of the Steelhounds 4th Squadron - had experienced had been the worst in the history of the unit.
"So. What now?"
Stockmaster Harjell let out a defeated sigh as he mulled over Foss's question. That was the true dilemma now - what in the hell did they do now? After all…
Harjell swiveled his seat to look out the large - for a voidship, that is - window his office provided. Terra burned orange and blue, a mix of fire and plasma currents from the aftermath of Terran Godhand deployments. The final weeks of the war, when Godhand and Atlas fought head to head…
His eyes drifted to the wall of Sol War pilot memorials. There had to be at least thirty.
"I don't know, Raymond. Terra is gone. The financial system across the colonies is already failing."
Harjell took another puff of his cigar. In the corner of his eye he could see Foss adjust his uniform, trying to get the collar to sit so that it didn't bother the port at the base of his skull.
"…Perhaps we could work for one of the larger corporations. "
"In exchange for what, Foss? There isn't any money anymo-"
Foss slammed a hand on the steel desk between them hard enough that it left a dent.
"Goddamnit I know that, Harjell! What do you think I was doing before I came in here? Petting puppies? No, Harjell, I was telling our men - MY men - that we couldn't afford to give their dead comrades burials because there was no more money. I had to tell them that we weren't going to be able to get food regularly because there is no more money. I had to tell them that some of us may die - Me included - because there was no more money to upkeep our augmentations because Terra is fucking dead, Harjell. Terra is dead and we helped kill it and now we're going to fucking starve because of it."
Silence filled the space between them as the anger slowly faded from Foss. He straightened in his seat and adjusted the collar of his uniform again, his eyes cast down.
"Alright, Raymond. I'll see what I can do."
Foss nodded and stood, exiting the office quietly. He shut the door behind him with an almost silent click, and after a moment Harjell could hear his footsteps move down the hall.
The Stockmaster sighed to himself before pivoting to look back out the window.
"We're so fucked."
-----
The hangar was quiet around Captain Raymond Foss as he sat on the foot of his Centaurii, infodeck glowing in his hands. Every news channel was broadcasting the breakdown following the complete destruction of the centralized Terran government. Almost every single one was speaking of the fact that the central financial system databanks had been held on Terra and had been obliterated, wiping out almost all financial information and causing crashes throughout the settled human space.
"So what now?"
Foss shrugged as Bridges sat down next to him. Silence fell, but unlike the pauses in Harjell's office this silence was… comfortable. Or at least as comfortable as it could be as the Steelhounds Captain watched the stability of settled space go to shit in real time.
Bridges broke the silence first.
"I overheard Harjell speaking with the comms people to try and get a contract with Helgath in exchange for replacement parts and food. Hopefully that'll work out, but if it doesnt…"
Foss slumped to the side, resting his head on Bridge's shoulder. Despite how some of the other pilots wanted to pretend that she was small - waifish, even - Bridges was massive, over six feet tall and two inches taller than Foss himself.
Foss closed his eyes as bridges rested a hand on his head, careful to avoid the neurocradle port. The last few hours had practically destroyed Foss and while the time hadn't been much kinder to Bridges, she understood that he needed rest.
"Alright, let's get you some rest."
Foss made a low rumble in response before standing up. Even in the low light of the hangar Bridges could see the messy stubble that framed his face from the past weeks of constant combat. While many of the Steelhound's pilots had worked on shifts or were only deployed when their skills were needed, Foss had gone on almost every mission as overseer and as a sniper. As part of the contract with the Venetian forces they had outfitted Foss's mech with a multipropellant flechette launcher which meant he was the only one who could reliably punch through Godhand shielding.
The dim sunlight glinted off the metal crawling up Foss's hands as he adjusted his collar once again. He could never get the thing to sit right no matter how many times he shifted it and at this point Bridges didn't understand why Foss refused to just… cut a hole in it to make space for the port like she had.
As Foss took a step towards the officers section of the ship, Bridges stood and nudged him towards the standard crew quarters. Foss turned without a sound and followed Bridges - after all this, she knew that if he went to sleep on his own he would have nightmares and she'd have to go across the ship to make sure he was still alive.
To be fair, so would she. And after some of the missions she had been on with Foss, she would rather not relive those moments.
So in the dwindling light of the hangar, beneath the burning corpse of humanity's homeworld, Bridges guided her tired friend of nearly two decades towards her quarters just to be sure that he wouldn't tear himself apart during the night.
-----
"Harjell. Excellent speaking to you once more."
Darkness filled Harjell's office. The only things illuminating the Stockmaster's face were the subtle glow of the Infodeck built into his desk and the cigar in his mouth. Smoke curled from the edges of Harjell's mouth as he leaned forward so that Ichbaeld could see him better.
"Same to you, Ichbaeld. You read my messages, I presume?"
"Of course, Harjell. I just had to speak with my Uppers before responding."
Ichbaeld retrieved a cigar from out of view of his Infodeck's camera - the same brand Harjell smoked. Afterall, it was from the Helgath Weaponry's procurement officer that Harjell had adopted his enjoyment of smoking.
"They say they're willing to accept your offer with a slight modification - you integrate into Helgath Weaponry and become our in-house Mech squadron. Now I know that may not sound great off the bat-"
"Mm." Harjell only grunted in response.
"-But they're also willing to negotiate with Foss to make sure he doesn't bitch too much."
Harjell cracked an eyebrow up just a hair, illiciting a slight smile from Ichbaeld. The Stockmaster removed his cigar from his mouth and blew a fountain of smoke, closing his eyes as he weighed his options.
Not that there were very many to chose from.
"Alright, Ichbaeld. Tell your lads I'll need drivecodes and an anchor by Midnight Standard. Foss is already asleep - Bridges is making sure his augments don't act up and torment him during the night. I should be off to sleep as well."
"You've got it Harjell. And make sure to try and pretty up your Centauriis best you can - you know as well as I do that the Uppers are going to want you to look parade ready, if only to feel better about their machines."
Harjell chuckled and gave Ichbaeld a playful salute. The Helgath officer returned it with a grin and shut down the connection.
The chair Harjell was sat in creaked as he leaned back, cigar ash falling into his lap as he did so. It didn't matter, of course - his uniform was worn down and tattered from being on the surface of Terra several times to aquire ammunition stores and replacement armor paneling for the Centauriis.
His Infodeck pinged. With a wave of his hand it turned on and projected his email terminal - and anchor point ID and access codes. He forwarded it to the Punchdrive and pinged Engineering to start punch prep.
{{AUGMENTATION WAKEUP PROCEDURE COMPLETE. CURRENT TIME: 08:00}}
Raymond's eyes opened to a soft light illuminating the room. He moved to sit with a groan, hands automatically reaching for.. something.
They closed around a cup of 'Coffee'. It wasn't real coffee but it had caffeine and tasted alright enough, so he called it that regardless. He raised it to his face and savored the warmth of the steam for a moment before taking a sip and immediately grimaced from the feeling of his tongue burning.
"Too hot for the indomitable Raymond Foss?"
Raymond waved one of his hands at the direction Bridge's voice came from, his sight still not fully functioning. It usually took fifteen minutes for the signals from his optical nerves to fully direct towards his brain instead of his Neurocradle port.
"Just because I can take the heat of getting shot at doesn't mean I'm able to survive the fact you serve your coffee still boiling."
That got a laugh from Bridges. He felt the mattress depress as she sat next to him. Her form was blurry but the fact that it was mostly green told Raymond that she was in standard uniform. Speaking of which…
"How long have you been up?"
Bridges shrugged. "About an hour or so."
Raymond frowned. "My fault?"
She shook her head. Raymond sighed in relief - that meant he hadn't started screaming in his sleep again. Always a good sign.
"However you should get out of bed, lazy. Harjell wants the pilots and Mech upkeep in the hangar within.. forty-five minutes. I went ahead and grabbed one of your nicer uniforms from your room alongside your medication so you can wear it over the suit."
Raymond gave out a noise of thanks as he took another sip of coffee. The lack of burn this time led to him downing the entire mug's worth in a few seconds. He closed his eyes and when he opened them again he vision clicked to full fidelity. He swung his legs out of bed and grabbed the uniform Bridges had retrieved from his quarters (how had she gotten in?) and quickly pulled it over the sleepsuit he had on. In a smooth motion he also grabbed the small handful of pills that quelled his skin irritation and swallowed them dry.
"Did Harjell give any specifics about the meeting?"
"Nope. Just said he needed us there. He did say that he needed everyone to remember their positions when he spoke, however."
Raymond frowned. That was what Harjell said whenever he was going to say something that would anger the people he was speaking to.
Well, regardless of what was about to happen, it was time to face the music.
-----
Harjell stood atop a raised platform made from several crates. To his left was a hologram of Ichbaeld, the latter lighting one of his cigars. The flame illuminated his face just enough to show the circles under his eyes.
"Alright. Now that everyone's here, let's get the hard stuff out of the way first since I know everyone's going to get antsy waiting for it."
Harjells eyes grazed over Raymond as he said that but only for a moment.
"Helgath has offered to let us use their resources in exchange for becoming their in-house Mech squad. For the sake of our survival, I have accepted this offer."
Silence reigned over the crowd.
"Your ship should be arriving in low Helgath orbit in around three Standard hours." Ichbaeld's voice was slightly crackly from the speakers of the Infodeck console that Harjell had dragged into the hangar. "So I would suggest everyone get prepared for transit via Punchdrive soon."
One of the Mechtechs raised their hand. Harjell nodded, allowing them to speak.
"Will we all keep our jobs?"
"Yes. While you will receive new job titles under Helgath you will be keeping your positions as the designated technicians for these mechs. Granted, you will likely be assigned some additional help for more indepth upgrades and whatnot but you will keep your positions as lead techs."
Harjell spoke as the static from Ichbaeld's speakers died down. "Anyone else?"
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Hey Mechtechs, I’m looking into some space saving tech for battlemechs. I know there’s stuff like ferrofibre and endosteel that saves weight to give more crit slots, but is there anything that gives crits in exchange for weight? I know there’s both compact engines and gyros, but anything else?
There’s also the small cockpit, but that also takes less weight, which I have more than enough off, and then gives a +1 to psr targets. Is there an alternative that takes more weight for less crits that doesn’t impact psr’s?
I want to make an assault mech mainly outfitted with stuff like machineguns, small lasers and flamers. That sorta stuff. All pretty light, but taking a crit each.
Dear Vector Prime, why is everyone in the bayverse so violent and mean to each other? There doesn’t seem to be much difference between Autobot and Decepticon in terms of tactics or manners.
Dear Tyran Tactician,
I like to think of my kind as being less war-like, and more war-prone. Although we often find ourselves mired in conflict, I believe that Cybertronians are—more often than not—compassionate at spark. Therein lies one of the greatest tragedies of our wars: that so many of such potential and goodness stray from that nature.
It is true, however, that this is not the case on every Cybertron, and that—in certain corners of the multiverse—our culture is indeed founded on violence. Some would ascribe this to the external influence of those such as Quintessa, but I have seen little evidence to support this theory. Cybertronians are above all else adaptable, and much as our physical forms are reflections of the environments we find ourselves in, so too can be our dispositions. And although we have learned much from Earth, it too is a place of strife, and it has not always taught us the right lessons.
When one's life has been so deeply defined by conflict—by foes that return time and again, and bodies so laden with self-regenerating molecular armor, MechTech weaponry and ammo-fabricators that the mere act of taking a step without destroying something is a trial—it can be hard to learn how to be peaceful.
//Haruka just showers this lad with love and kisses whenever possible and shit idk what brought this headcanon up but Rock is just a good cute lad she'd def spoil him. Tho it's probably embarrassing maybe.
VERY CUTE!! He’d only be embarrassed if she did it in front of his friends or something
