#prodigyofheart

♣ || He hated coming to this part of the city, and most other mechs felt the same way. It wasn’t that those couple of blocks were bad in and of themselves - but they were the border between the lighter, brighter side of the city, and the darker, not so humane side of the city was.       Unfortunately for Slipstream, this part of the city was where he would be working for the remainder of the lunar cycle until his boss got the credits to move their gallery somewhere safer. Slipstream still didn’t really know how he landed this job as a guard for a small art gallery - given he was the last mech anyone could speak with regarding art in general - but it paid well and he didn’t have to do much. Which meant, on his free cycles, he was able to go for walks and see what else he could get up to. The gym was always a favorite, but even though he had integrated it fully into his daily activities, he still didn’t find himself...fulfilled, as it were.        Between the impending move and his own fidgety nature, Slip found himself wandering through that borderland, using what little common sense a reasonably young mech like himself had.        There were stores lining the streets boasting delicate pieces of jewelry and  foreign fabrics, with market stalls in between. He bought a few candies off a merchant, sucking on the sour sticks as he meandered through. Few mecha looked twice at him, given his large stature and built physique, although if they watched more than a little carefully, it was impossible to miss just how young and inexperienced this mech was.         Especially when he stopped and stared at a line of minicons up for sale.         Slipstream watches the mech holding a mass of chains slowly dragging out the minis, one by one, displaying them for possible new owners. A crowed had gathered, though Slip could see easily from where he stood in the back.         It makes his spark hurt, seeing how the minicons were treated. Hauled up by collars around their neck cabling, exposed for all to see - and treated worse than fauna. Mechs would go up to the collared minicon, inspect their dentae, their servos, their peds - ask for any problems they should know about before their purchase was made. They would then bid for pricing, raising it higher and higher until one trumped all with a price. Credits were then wired in by hardline, the leash given to the new owner, and the poor minicon was dragged away to the side of their new master.          And then the cycle repeats itself.         Slipstream doesn’t know how long he’s watching, but he keeps going until the crowd has thinned and there’s only three minicons left. If he had thought his spark had hurt before, seeing the next one that was dragged up made him bleed.           He was incredibly small, even for a minicon. Thin too, and shivering in the evening air. His angled blue optics were exhausted and wary, and he did his best to remain folded in on himself, shielding his chassis from the stare of the possible buyers.          Slip doesn’t know why this one is different. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so driven to take this one away from mechs that he knew for a fact weren’t going to treat him the way he deserved - would only add more scrapes to the paint in his armor and protoform. He would change this - he knew he would.          He steps forward, the crowd parting easily, and makes a bid for the minicon.