This is Megsy.
Opi will be absent for the next week, but she may come on sparingly for brief amounts of time. She will be out of town due to a family emergency. She received news this afternoon that her sister passed away earlier this morning.
She has a flight booked to leave on Friday and she will not be returning until Thursday next week. She is not sure if she’ll be coming online at all on this account in the mean time.
If she does pop up, it’ll be as a brief escape from the reality of what is happening around her. Please don’t expect much from her right now.
Trying to make up a little for wasting literally 4 days of time oh god family why
I figured it’d be easiest to get his helm right, then work out where his eyes and that go, unpick and resew it all back up~
The Terrorcon lurched through the darkness, bumping and crowding against its fellows, the shoal coalescing briefly as it encountered the frustrating barriers of blast-proof doors, funneling and pouring towards the heart of the Nemesis before diffusing out, an infection spreading through the ship on a mindless mission of hunger.
Sightless optics stared, scanners mapping out the terrain before it. Sensors tuned for the subsonic throb of a fuel pump, the electric prickle of the field of active prey, the heat of exhaust and exhaustion. Claws, dripping with life-fluid, curled and flexed.
Bright slash and spatter, brilliant blue glow in the gloom, sign of prey passed recently by. A sign of food living and squirming, an arrow guiding the hunter to the mark.
The Terrorcon licked the smear of energon, lifted its head, and hissed into the darkness of the hall. Pistons and actuators, just starting to turn with rust and slime, fired and the creature sped off, its rolling, loping gait continuous, never-tiring in the search for prey.
The hunt was on.
Sheer rage boiled in the tainted spark of the Protector and seared through his lines as he wandered the Nemesis, searching for one in particular. A guillotine loomed over the throats of the joined Autobot and Decepticon forces; the sharpened blade hungry and the rope threadbare, ready to snap and sever the heads from the necks of anyone who was not allied with the antithesis of Optimus Prime. Still, Megatron would not kneel to the one who had crippled him and all that he held dear, he would not surrender, he would not lay down and die.
Crippled, but not defeated, the Protector was given the task to protect. From his grandiose pauldrons, he shrugged his infamy to enter battle to destroy and rearmed himself with the duty to defend and to guard. War had been declared and unleashed mercilessly by a poltroon and Megatron would not allow devastating happenstance to become familiarity.
Visions of war and death flickered behind his optics as the poisonous knowledge of Shadow Zones dripped in his audios. He ached for the technology that was used against them so that he might cloak his people with a shield of invisibility, and as his pedesteps scraped against the floor, the Protector decided what would be done.
A flash of blue tempted his optics away from the flickering visions and Megatron knew he had found who he was searching for, and thankfully, the one who he sought was alone.
“Arcee,” he beckoned her from the shadows.
Bright cerulean met crimson, and for the first time, Megatron noticed the pink in her irises as she stared up at him with dull surprise. Clearly she was not amused or flattered to have earned his attention. He smiled and asked with fake sincerity, “Settling in well?”
Her optics narrowed in suspicion as her gaze searched his face, looking for some sort of hint for the cause of his behavior. She shifted her weight to one leg before resting her servos upon her hips, the skepticism in her gaze still heavy. Deciding to play his game, she answered, “If recharging in the hangar bay is a luxury, then I suppose.”
“An unfortunate circumstance that my army was nearly obliterated; your rooms would have been ready by now otherwise.”
“Yeah, real shame. What do you want?”
The Decepticon Lord did not hide a smirk as he folded his arms behind his back, clasping his clawed servos together. From the shadows his stepped and the darkness fell from his armor like a cloak sighing and falling to the floor. Slowly, he circled her, watching her carefully. “You stare at me as though you wish to murder me,” he said.
He gaze bore into him, wary to drop her guard. Her tone was harsh, “You may have Optimus’ favor, but you don’t have mine.”
“You are aware of the gravity of our current situation.”
“Get to the point.”
“You are familiar with the concept of a Shadow Zone?”
“The kids were accidentally trapped in one a few years ago, but I don’t know why that’s important now.”
And so Megatron explained, “Currently, our enemy possesses the ability to hide within one of these sub-dimensional pockets. We cannot see them, but they can see us. At any moment, we could be attacked and we would not see the attack coming. We are at an extreme disadvantage, one which must eradicated immediately.”
For a moment, he paused and shifted his crimson gaze to the two-wheeler, observing her quizzical expression. She would know her importance and involvement soon enough. Continuing, he spoke, “However, we do possess one possible advantage. We do have the Starscream of their world as prisoner.”
Arcee crossed her arms, “I don’t know if you got the memo, but the last time I tried to babysit an imprisoned Starscream, it didn’t end well.”
“I am not asking you to guard him, but to participate in an interrogation.”
Again her gaze was filled with skepticism, “Torture isn’t part of the Autobot code of conduct.”
“A cortical psychic patch is hardly torture.”
She glared at him, “No.”
“Do not be so quick to refuse, not when, at any moment, we could all be obliterated,” he rasped harshly as he stooped over her, invading her personal space.
She glowered defiantly back at him, “Do not accuse me of not wanting to save what little we have left, Megatron. I know nothing about Decepticon scientific technology, you would be better off asking Ratchet.”
“Ratchet already has a bolt to pick with me for stealing the Prime from him,” he responded as he smiled inwardly, “And I am aware that you were the one to set up the cortical psychic patch when Bumblebee came snooping into my mind.”
“You were in a coma and Optimus was dying, we had no other choice.”
“We are in a state of emergency and have few resources left. We, Arcee, have no other choice. And you, of all of us, should understand that Starscream is not one to be trusted, native or foreign to this universe.”
“Don’t go there.”
“Then what will it be? Will you stand idly by the next time we are attacked knowing that you could have helped prevent it, but you willfully chose not to? I am the Protector now, Arcee. It is my responsibility to protect everyone here, including you.”
She hesitated, reluctant to say anything. But finally, she spoke, “When you go in his head, what will you be looking for?”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his maw, “Knowledge on how to hide the Nemesis within one of these sub-dimensional pockets.”
“Unless there is anything else that could prove to be of use, then no.” Standing to his full height, Megatron regarded her a final time. “Arcee,” he spoke sternly, “Will you do what is asked of you for the greater good and our continued safety? I will ensure Soundwave keeps Optimus blind from the interrogation. The Prime will never know.”
Silence filled the corridor, save for the hum of the overhead lights and machinery around them. Tumultuous thoughts stirred with Arcee’s optics as she made her decision. “Fine,” she said, “But you knew I would say that, didn’t you?”
The Protector only grinned.
Orion Pax and Megatronus
TFP One Shall Rise[x]
It always tickled Darksteel to see bots tremble in fear at the sight of him, but the Prime didn’t falter. At least there was respect. Being respected was more important than being feared, even if it was far less amusing.
The Predacon ambled around sniffing the Prime thoroughly, even somewhat intrusively. It was sometimes difficult to distinguish on alternate from another, even by scent, but there was always some subtle indication. Some trace of chemical signature that was unique.
With each audible intake through the beastbot’s vents, Optimus’ audial fins twitched to track the small variations. Deep within his neuralnet, the language matrix was worked tirelessly to begin to build a point of reference that relayed into translation.
All the while that ambled pedes shuffled around him, and still Prime suppressed the latent instinct to react with fear. Instead, he continued to stand on his pedes, although he too observed the Predacon with great interest.
When a metallic beak was shuffled nearly in his face, Optimus leaned back into his height. The Matrix thrummed a song, audible to most that carried fragments of any of the Original Thirteen’s spark, or a piece of Primus own. Beyond that, it was only heard by those of whom it wished to be heard, and those with keen sensors. It sang to the beast, a noble beat, a rhythm of ancient times; it remembered, and never forsake.
Optimus Prime is a giant nerd pass it on
Darksteel couldn’t speak in his current state, and he didn’t feel particularly like transforming. He felt less self conscious while in beast mode, so it tended to be his default state.
A ornery snort was the only immediate response. The Predacon idly rolled himself back over, disappointed by the lack of tribute he was being paid. Clearly. this wasn’t a Prime he was acquainted with, even if Darksteel had issued a very obvious invitation.
He flapped his wings absent mindedly as be looked the strange mech over, his large help tilted to one side. A sedate trill escaped his vocaliser and he got to his peds.
Vague recollection of time beyond the evolution of even modern-day Cybertron came, and Optimus could draw on faded memories of great beastly wings beating over his helm, casting a shadow on the surface below.
Emotions came to his spark as old as the memory engrams, yet Optimus still kept his composure. Although there was something warm to the memory of golden sun across majestic plates, and it reflected now in the beast before him.
The ornery snort earned a respectful bow of his helm, and he voiced with a humble apology among the noble lilt of his baritone voice, “My apologies. We had believed the Predacons to be extinct.”
Somewhere in it he felt an urge, an urge to explain that he did not know the body language of the Predacons… other than an instinctual —or lost lesson— to run and hide. However, he no longer felt a conscious fear, rather buried it deep in the sub-sectors of his behavioral cortexes.
Congratulations to the first winner of the 1yr Anniversary Raffle. They have been notified.
Due to their privacy concerns, they have requested to be kept anonymous.
I am excited to be done with this.
My congratulations to the winner, and condolences to those who tried really hard to play the game fairly. Overall, the experience was a lot of fun and I look forward to my next raffle — whatever it is and whenever it will be.
I’d like to give a shout out to some of the best contenders that I was silently rooting for:
I do hope that this isn’t the end for many of you that followed during the raffle period. I look forward to more interactions from you all.
- icyrosestar (your comments cheered me up)