#rumbleclutch

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Going to be organizing them by character again… loosely.

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Leoblast actually loves to race. He’s not really fast since he’s a guardian and has a weak spark, but he’s still smaller and faster than most guardians and can outrun them. And is very good at navigating rough terrain, better than other faster mechs because he’s a guardian and has extra protection.

Because Leoblast was raised in the Praxus guardian center he actually doesn’t love physical contact (unless he considers you family or a close friend) and is very awkward in most public bathing situations because of his anxieties.

Leoblast is such a morning person it’s actually annoying. He wakes up and is ready to go and do. Which is ironic because when he was younger he was a very low energy child because of his spark issues.

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One of the reasons why Echo has ridiculously good aim is he played darts way too much before the war. The other reason is he loves guns but shhhhhh.

Echo is touch averse, which is heavily influenced by Praxian culture, which restricts touch for close friends and family. Echo only really tolerates touch from doctors, Tempestrift (his Conjunx) and Leoblast (his Amica) everyone else he just kinda tolerates.

Echo is really good at playing poker because his doorwings don’t actually convey any emotion. You would expect that a praxians twitching doorwings would indicate some poorly regulated emotion in a situation like that, but because he’s twitchy in general it means nothing. He’s sending false signals without even meaning to.

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Nova really enjoys board games. Give him monopoly and a group of three other people and he will have himself a swell time. You just have to get him out there.

Nova’s favorite color is teal. He won’t change his paint color to it though because it’s expensive and he’s worried that he will get tired of it if he does that.

Nova does have a little tooth gap. Yeah I know they are robots and if doesn’t make sense but let me have my fun please. (And my brother, who is seven, has one and is already very insecure about it and he likes it when I draw nova for him)

Nova actually has such a sweet tooth. Or whatever the robot equivalent of that is. He has it. Easiest way into this man’s heart is food. He will be infinitely suspicious of you but he will accept it.

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Powercase is a sports guy. I don’t know what kind of sports Cybertronians have other than racing and the gladiator stuff but I’m sure they have others. And he would be a big fan of them.

Powercase was the class clown and I will die on that hill. I made him which makes it canon so anyone who says otherwise is wrong. As a child this man would not sit down or shut up and the only reason why he wasn’t killed was because Sunrazor saved his ass.

Powercase is afraid of large masses of water. Like enough water to drown in. I don’t want to call that hydrophobia because he’s able to shower and all that he just doesn’t like lost of water. He gets really anxious near them… because of reasons.

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Sunrazor (prewar) loves fireworks. They freak her out because loud noises that could possibly indicate danger but she is also like every other three year old and will happily sit and watch the magic with some earbuds on.

Sunrazor feels like she would passionately dislike the color brown. I don’t want to say hate because that’s a strong word but I feel like of all the colors she just doesn’t like it. She will go out of her way to not pick an item that is brown. It just gross to her.

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Dropmix’s favorite color is orange. Is this important? Nope. Not at all. In fact it has no significant meaning either? Unless you wanna call Theremin’s color orange? But Dropmix likes bright orange. Annoying orange. I don’t know why, that’s just why he told me.

Dropmix loves food. There is a reason why he gets fat after the war and that is because his metabolism isn’t the same, he’s lazy but most importantly he is a snacker. Constantly munching on something unless he has something to keep his hand occupied.

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—

By the time Nova walked out of his office he’d managed to regain some of his composure. Enough to pass. Enough to function. Enough that he could pretend that he hadn’t ever had a sister and everyone would believe it—which was all that mattered anyway.

His stride was short, efficient, nearly silent. He prowled underfoot of the larger and perhaps more capable mechs—the truth of the thought stung. It was only amplified by the residual ache that Saberfire’s words had left.

Regardless of the stinging ache that had settled in his chest he didn’t stop walking. The orange mech kept his eyes forward, golden visor angled down. A perfect image of a mech who didn’t want to be bothered or that was deep in thought. It was enough to deter at least one mech who tried to start a conversation. Someone that had recently been transferred and was looking for a mech to offer safe harbor.

Nova offered him none.

He didn’t want to run into anyone who might ask questions—or worse, look at him long enough to notice anything was off. Like the way his rotors sat higher than usual, or the way his vents shuttered off beat. He didn’t need them questioning him or pressing for answers. He would probably have to face Jeopardy down at the medical bay and that alone is draining enough.

The orange mech’s steps did falter at that, his vents giving a sharp hiss as his pace slowed.

The last thing he needed was Jeopardy bounding up to him with a barrage of concerned chirps. If he was lucky the pestering medic would be off socializing with Echo or Valkyrie, or perhaps training with Rumbleclutch. Anywhere but the medical bay.

Fate—it would seem—decided to continue to torment him today.

He passed Rumbleclutch, the large mech giving him a curious glance followed by a firm nod as he passed. That itself wasn’t out of the ordinary, no, it was what followed.

The Commanding Officer was being tailed by Jeopardy.

Irritation immediately prickled at Nova’s plates, hot and uncomfortable. Suffocating in its intensity. His steady gait stumbled and his frown deepened slightly, a huff escaping his vents. He was not in the mood for these antics, granted, he never was. But that didn’t stop the growl threatening to rise from his engine. He’d had enough of annoying mechs today.

Nova ignored the hesitant small smile the young medic sent his way, biting back a sharp retort. Rumbleclutch was within earshot, he would not risk something like that. The last thing he needed was for the CO to have a grudge against him for getting snarky with the base's new golden boy. Instead, he simply glared at the anxious mech under his visor. His plates fluffed up slightly despite his attempt to keep himself in check—that caught the CO’s attention. The titan of a mech’s own plates bristled empathetically.

He wished he had the ability to simply melt into the shadows and save himself from this.

Jeopardy, as always, seemed blissfully unaware—perhaps forcefully optimistic, Nova had yet to determine which—and offered a quiet greeting as they passed. Far more acknowledgement than what Nova wanted at the moment, especially in front of Rumbleclutch. Nova glanced at the larger mech, gauging his reaction—unbothered—and grunted in response.

The rest of the trip to the medical bay was rather uneventful. Only a few other mechs crossed paths with him. Of those few a very small portion ever bothered to greet him. Never anything more than an acknowledging nod or grunt.

Nova ignored the sharp sting in his chest and the way his plates pressed into himself when one had asked if he was new.

He had managed to get his hands to stop shaking by the time he got to the doors to the medical bay. Despite the desperate urge to get out of the hallway and away from the prying eyes he felt along his back—despite the fact that the hallway was empty—he paused. The doors to the Medi bay sat innocently in front of him, patiently waiting for him to step closer so they could reveal what lay beyond.

The thought of what lay beyond made his spark flicker in his chest and his throat produce a quiet click.

Dropmix had requested him. It should be simple enough, something was wrong with his comms or monitor again, nothing out of the usual. It would not be a check up, this would not be an interrogation hidden under the shroud of medical analysis. He was here to work, not to have his spark checked or to be revived because of a simple miscalculation on his part.

He tried not to linger on those thoughts.

After a long moment Nova managed to summon his nerves enough to brace for what lay ahead. His plates shifted and then rested in a position that was far more confident than he felt. It would most likely be another unpleasant experience to add to his already distasteful day. He could handle it.

Nova had never liked medbays. He had been in plenty of them. Too many. Perhaps that was the issue.

But Dropmix’s medical bay always left him with a distinct flavor of disdain on his tongue when he entered.

The Medbay lights were harsher than the ones in his office—clinical, bright, faintly pulsing with the faint buzz of overworked energy grids. The stench of energon and hot metal was thick in the air, persistent regardless of the attempts to cover it with cleaner. Gentle music drifted from hidden speakers, like it always did. Just as constant as the dark mech that resided in the isolated wing. The string instruments were dominating the current tune, demanding attention with a subtle obnoxious whine.

But the music served a purpose, it covered the deathly hum of large machinery, the ticking of medical equipment firing up. When the medbay was in use it helped mask the distress of the room, the gasps of pain and clicks of despair would be drowned out by the thrum of a steady beat. Some found it soothing, comforting, a gentle reminder of a softer, safer time.

Nova felt the tempo beating against his helm like a countdown.

He fought the urge to grimace, let out a deep shuttering vent and stepped inside, stopping just past the doorway to look around the room. It hadn’t changed since his last visit.

Dropmix was already watching him.

Not obviously—just a glance over his shoulder from where he stood sorting instruments into shallow drawers. It seemed a rather mundane task for the head medical officer on base, something Jeopardy should be doing rather than parading around with Rumbleclutch. But nova made no comment, his attention fixed on the only other mech in the room.

Dropmix’s posture was, as always, maddeningly relaxed, shoulders slightly slouched, head dipping on every odd beat of the song. His plates never flared or rattled with unkempt emotion, his vents even and controlled and a constant lax smile tugged at his lips. Like a beast lounging in his domain, Dropmix seemed untouchable when hidden within the white walls of his medical bay.

“Nova,” Dropmix greeted, his deep voice warm enough to cause a small ache in Nova’s chest. His dark blue optic glowed with something welcoming, a wider smile toying at the corners of his mouth as he hummed a pleased noise. “Good. I was starting to get worried that you got stepped on in the hallway or something.”

Simple, easy humor. It rolled off his tone and soothed the invisible tension. At least that’s what it was meant to do, unfortunately Nova was a coiled spring, the easygoing smile only made him narrow his eyes. Nova stepped closer, plates pressing inward just slightly on instinct. He kept his tone level and unamused, “Your systems are malfunctioning?”

“Mm… ‘malfunctioning’ is one word for it,” Dropmix hummed thoughtfully. Something too pleased crossed his face as he shut the drawer with a soft click that synchronized with the beat of the song, almost uncannily. It must have been intentional. He lazily looked at the monitor on his official desk. “I hit it a few times and got it working again though.”

Nova glanced at the monitor and felt a sharp spike of anger rush through him. His vents hissed, low and steady, as he fought the urge to puff up his plates and yell. His small engine ticked in warning as his fingers twitched at his sides and his rotors shifted up. The computer seemed to be functioning perfectly, a few emails popping up, the system from afar looked functional.

The orange mech clenched his jaw, tilting his head so his visor caught the light just right to glare at Dropmix. He was not in the mood for the old mech’s games. He knew where this was going and a pinprick of dread seeped into the coiling irritation of his spark. He growled out, “Why am I here then? I’m on shift, you know, I have important things to do.”

Something danced across Dropmix’s one exposed eye, a flicker that was something more—it was gone before Nova could decipher it. It was probably better that way. The easygoing air around Dropmix disappeared the moment Nova had opened his mouth to talk back.

The dark mech’s smile never faltered, his blunt fingers never stopped thrumming the beat against the open counter. His posture remained lax and unmoving. A silent sentinel. His lack of response and heavy gaze was enough to convey the message.

Nova’s plating pressed against himself instinctually, making himself marginally smaller, submissive. Like that mattered. Dropmix already towered over him. His dark plating a mass expanse of control—something that Nova seemed to lack today, his plates kept on fighting to quiver. A slight tremor running through his frame.

The large medic finally turned fully toward him, movement slow, deliberate, practiced to perfection. He didn’t step closer, didn’t crowd Nova, but somehow he filled the space anyway.

“I called you because you’re good at what I need,” he said softly, almost conversational, unbothered. He leaned his hip against the workstation, arms folding loosely over his chest. Casual. Relaxed. But every inch of him radiated attention. Focus. Intent. “And it’s been a while since we’ve had a chat, don’t you think?”

Nova’s spark lurched in his chest, his vents hissing and plates flaring up upon hearing the word. His fingers twitched again, fighting the urge to clench into fists. It took seconds too long to get them to smooth out again, ages of Dropmix simply watching Nova scramble to get his reaction in line. His gaze was dreadfully patient.

Nova’s plating never settled right, it sat too close, suffocating him just like the smothering stench of hot metal. His hands refused to stop trembling this time—he hated it. The weakness and vulnerability that had seized him the moment he heard that dreaded word.

A chat. That was Dropmix’s favorite lie. A word he used the same way he used the soft lighting and the low music—pretty distractions overlaid on top of something sharp.

“I don’t have time for a chat,” Nova muttered, keeping his voice as flat as he could manage. His rotors twitched again—traitorous, jittery. He ignored the frantic beating of his own spark, the uneven lurching in his chest. “If you don’t need repairs then I’ll—”

Dropmix didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t even shift his stance. He simply spoke—quiet, smooth, landing in the narrow space between them like a weight.

“Nova.”

Nothing more.

But the single word unspooled Nova’s attempt at composure with surgical precision. His vents caught, hitching mid-cycle; his frame locked, plates pressing in firmly. The orange mech’s gaze drifted down, away from the dark mech before him. His spark made a tight, painful twist in its chamber. He knew that tone, that disappointment, the way the air shaped around the words. It twisted into his chest and left him feeling terribly hollow.

Wrong.

He had made a mistake and that alone made something primal seethe in him, taking its claws through his throat and rendering him useless.

The music sunk its vile hooks into him, the pace quickening slightly, gaining momentum and Nova’s mind spiraled.

Dropmix watched it all happen. Patient. Measuring.

“Come now,” the medic murmured, the warmth in his tone far too deliberate, he offered a casual friendly smile, shifting to stretch. It only made the towering mech take up more space, somehow get bigger in Nova’s eye. “You know better than to pretend you’re in a hurry, let me get you a drink.”

Nova made some sort of noise, something between a gasp and a desperate click. The music persisted, beating into his helm and very being, taunting him.

“You’re too tense, mech,” The large medic paid it no mind, smiling and waving a hand in his direction as he started moving. He laughed, a gentle rumbling sound that carried too well in the heavy air. It was not a safe noise, “You’re making me nervous just from watching you twitch.”

The orange mech shifted, watching Dropmix move for a moment longer before he finally got his voice to cooperate with him. He swallowed a click and kept his gaze steady, not ever meeting Dropmix’s eyes directly, but getting close.

“Everyone needs something,” Dropmix murmured, already turning toward the small cooler tucked beneath one of the counters. “Especially on a day like this.”

Nova’s fingers curled into trembling half-fists. He hadn’t told him what kind of day it was. He hadn’t said a single thing about Saberfire, about the ache still twisting in his core.

“No.” The word came out too fast, too raw. Nova blinked, startling himself with the drone. He sounded desperate. Maybe because he was. Because he kept waking up at night with a hollow ache in his chest and no warmth at his side. He would find himself searching through his drawers, desperate to find his escape. The lover that had consumed him ages ago.

High grade.

The seductive poison that numbed everything perfectly, made his vision fuzz and brain slow down. It helped him forget. Helped soothe the constant itch of invisible eyes and the yearning to be seen and held in a way he hadn’t been in a long time. Got rid of the phantom hands that wandered tenderly over his frame at night. A bottle held no expectations or standards or imposing regret and shame, no disappointment.

He’d gotten carried away though, stepped over that fine line that kept him safe. He hadn’t even remembered what he’d been chasing that night, comfort or finiality. Maybe both. Maybe that siren song had gotten too strong and he tipped over the edge. He’d allowed himself to slip, let himself get caught and ruined.

Nova hadn’t touched it since he had gotten his room upturned by Rumbleclutch himself.

Dropmix’s hand lingered on the cooler for a moment longer, letting the faint hum of the medbay’s speakers fill the silence between them. The dreadful song finally slowed, then seeped to a lulling close. Only for a new tune to start, gentle and relaxing. Comforting. The dark mech’s optic swept over Nova in that unhurried, calculating way, and Nova felt himself shrink under the weight of that gaze.

“Are you still shaken up from your little scare the other day?” Dropmix said softly, almost conversationally, yet every word landed like a diagnostic probe against Nova’s chest. His tone wasn’t accusing. It wasn’t angry. It was… precise. Observant. Uncomfortably intimate.

Nova clicked sharply, a spike of panic racing through him like a shock. His chest contracted as if warning him he was too exposed, rotors rising sharply. He hated this. Hated the way his vents stuttered and the room felt too hot and small. “I’m… fine,” he rasped, the words coming out harsher than intended. His plates pressing in more—if at all possible.

Dropmix hummed, tilting his head slightly as he studied Nova. The larger medic’s lips curved into that same infuriatingly patient smile. “Fine, huh?” he repeated softly, more to himself than to Nova. He didn’t press immediately—didn’t have to—but the mere sound of his voice made the air feel heavier.

The orange mech’s plating twitched, reflexive. His gaze flicked to the floor, to the counters, anywhere but Dropmix. Nova’s gaze flicked to the cooler again, though he forced himself not to move. His fingers itched with restrained tension, the old, familiar pulse of craving threading through his system. He hated it. Hated himself for even thinking about it.

Dropmix leaned against the counter, dark plating catching the harsh lights, eyes narrowing just slightly as if measuring every twitch of Nova’s plates. “You know the drill, Nova,” he said softly, almost lazily, though the weight behind it made Nova’s spark stutter. “I have a small task, a little off the books favor. And you get your high grade. That’s the deal.”

Nova’s rotors twitched in warning, a low hiss escaping his vents. He’d been here before, enough times to know that ‘small tasks’ from Dropmix never sat right. Sometimes they were harmless, decrypting old data logs, recovering unsure medical journals, downloading music. Other times it was forging reports, deleting camera logs with no questions asked. It could be dangerous.

He took a deep breath, struggling to get his voice even. “I can’t… Rumbleclutch is already on my tail, I can’t risk this,” he muttered, not risking looking at Dropmix’s expression. The disappointment and hurt. He stared at the cooler, his throat felt drier that it had before. “I don’t want your high grade. Not anymore. I’m done.”

Dropmix didn’t flinch. Not a twitch of his plates, not a flicker of his optic. He just leaned a little further against the counter, letting the weight of his presence settle around Nova like smoke. The music hummed quietly, comforting, but it didn’t mask the tension coiling tight in Nova’s chest.

“You think this is about want?” Dropmix murmured, voice low, steady, carrying that infuriating calm. “It’s about need. And you know it. I just need the camera logs altered”

Nova bristled, vents hitting and rotors flinching. His fingers flexed as his spark pulsed unevenly in his chest, like a star about to collapse. He looked down at the tiles, the faint energon stain on a nearby tile that seemed reluctant to be scrubbed out. His shoulders hunched as his voice lowered, hardly a whisper, “I could tell Rumbleclutch.”

Dropmix’s head tilted, just slightly, the dark optic narrowing in a fraction that spoke of careful calculation. He didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff. He didn’t raise his voice. Just a faint shift of weight and the same measured calm that had Nova’s spark quivering like an exposed filament.

“You could,” Dropmix said softly, each word deliberate, careful. “But after the stunt you pulled? It would be rather… unwise, wouldn’t it?” His hand moved slowly, lazily, tapping a rhythm against the counter that echoed the soft thrum of the medbay’s hidden speakers.

Nova’s plating tightened, his rotors twitching like straining antennae. His visor dipped slightly, not in respect, not in submission, but in the faintest whisper of calculation—measuring, weighing, and failing to find a foothold. His spark throbbed unevenly, a raw pulse that screamed at him to resist, to do what he always did: retreat, isolate, survive.

To take that drink and the request and escape.

But Dropmix didn’t move. Didn’t rush. Didn’t press. The dark medic’s presence was a gravitational pull, quiet and relentless, and the warmth in his tone seeped into Nova’s circuits whether he wanted it to or not.

Nova’s jaw tightened, a soft hiss escaping his vents as he pressed his fists to his sides, fighting the tremor that wanted to consume him. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Not yet. Not with Rumbleclutch so close, not with the weight of the day pressing him down like molten steel.

Dropmix’s hand lingered on the counter, tapping slowly. “You’ve been running yourself ragged,” he said quietly, “it’s not enough to hurt, just something to take the edge off.”

The smaller mech’s mind raced, circuits firing, possibilities flashing like warning lights. One step wrong, and this could spiral. The high grade. The logs. The past nights, the hollow ache, the lure of relief. The marginal but painful recovery he’d already made. Every option seemed poisoned in some way, yet every path seemed inevitable.

His vocalizer betrayed him with a series of small clicks, plates shivering in thought.

“You make it sound… harmless,” Nova said, voice tight, almost shaking, “but it’s not. You know it’s not.”

Dropmix tilted his head, that single exposed optic narrowing slightly, and Nova felt the weight of judgment—not harsh, not angry, just… exact. Amused, “That’s what a medic is for, isn’t it?”

Nova’s chest tightened. His spark screamed and whispered at once. The lure, the risk, the ache, the comfort—it all tangled into a tight coil. He pressed his fists to his sides, fingers scraping metal lightly. A soft hiss escaped his vents, and for a long moment, he simply stared at Dropmix, weighing every possibility, every consequence, every thread that led him forward—or back into the safety of denial.

Finally, almost imperceptibly, he moved toward the counter. Not fully. Not yet. But enough. His fingers twitched as if testing the water. The orange plating hummed softly under the harsh lights, rotors still tense, but moving. And Dropmix didn’t step back.

The small, dangerous gamble had begun.