Chapter 1: Part 1
Blackarachnia's bare cranial circuitry gleamed grotesquely in the low light, the organic appendages along her jaw twitching in a way that would have had more squeamish Cybertronians flinching away in disgust. Slipstream, who had known no worlds but this organic planet and its barren moon, simply pulled a harsh claw down Blackarachnia's chest plate, reveling in the prickling sting of techno-organic claws scraping thin peels of metal from her back.
Fanzone, Issac Sumdac
Fanzone paid a visit to Sumdac Tower one day. Out of curiosity, a sense of duty, just looking for someone to commiserate with, he didn't know. It was awkward; he and Issac Sumdac were complete strangers, dissimilar in so many ways, despite having their lives so dramatically influenced by the same set of alien machines. But in the end the robots had come to him for help when Sari needed looking after; he felt a certain responsibility towards her, whether or not he wanted it. And apparently now the girl and the robots were gone, and to his disgruntlement he actually missed them, and he could only think of one other man who might be feeling the absence even more keenly. So he told the man that he'd done his best to look out for the girl, and when Sumdac invited him in for coffee he didn't refuse.
Brawn, Ironhide, Hot Shot
Brawn and Ironhide acted like a pair of mechs who'd not only worked many long, hard shifts together, but who enjoyed being in each other's company. Hot Shot, new to the team, wanted in on it. Red Alert was stand-offish and something in her demeanor intimidated him, and Prime was personable but still his superior officer; what Hot Shot wanted was friends. So when he strode with false confidence into the small rec room for his ration of energon and Ironhide waved him over, Hot Shot joined them with relief. And when Ironhide cracked a dirty joke and Brawn snorted, Hot Shot laughed too. And when Brawn gave him a hearty, friendly slap on the forearm as the two left to go on patrol, Hot Shot did his best to fight down the feeling of disappointed exclusion.
Will and Sarah cuddled in the back of Ironhide's bed, trusting the black mech's sensors to tell them if Annabelle, asleep inside the house, should need them. They gazed up at the stars – so clear out here with no surrounding city or even roadside lamps polluting the night sky with light – and cuddled, sharing soft kisses and the long, tender stroke of hands across neck and arm and waist and occasionally straying down to brush across the metal truck bed. They'd asked him together, if he'd mind, something in Sarah's eyes that brought to mind the gratefulness Optimus used to express when Ironhide managed to bring the troops under his command out of impossible situations with all sparks intact and something in Will's that reminded him of lovers and comrades long lost, and any desire to refuse them had vanished.
Windcharger likes to sneak up on Brawn and goose him with a minor magnetic jolt; Brawn hasn't quite got to the point of actually pouncing on Windcharger himself, but some time ago he'd begun to retaliate out of pure self defense with headlocks and noogies or, on one occasion, by pulling Windcharger around and carrying him, head down, all the way outside before dumping him on his face in the mud. Then Windcharger countered by picking him up and dropping him on his aft and in the subsequent wrestling match Windcharger's magnets might have given him enough of an edge to win if Brawn hadn't kept distracting him. It wasn't fair when your opponent knew all your ticklish spots.
Firestar presses into Chromia fiercely, running high on adrenaline, the heady rush of explosions all around them still ringing in her processor. Chromia secures her blaster in subspace and has to tap Firestar on the temple with the butt of her own gun before Firestar pauses long enough to do the same. Chromia looked beautiful today, thinking fast on her feet as always and handling her weapon with the practiced confidence that never fails to set Firestar's circuits alight. Chromia uses her heavier frame to maneuver Firestar up against a wall, mouthing at the cables in Firestar's neck, hands wandering far too slowly for Firestar's taste. For all her intensity on the battlefield, getting Chromia worked up to a frenzy off of it takes some persistence. Firestar, who likes things hot and fast, tugs impatiently at Chromia's helm, deliberately sending feedback through her audios in a bid to aggravate her into a faster pace. The minor assault causes Chromia to jerk back, optics gleaming, before securing Firestar's arms in one hand and resuming her slow, torturous explorations.
Interfacing with Beachcomber had taught Cosmos nothing if not that peace could be found in even the most passionate of acts. Cosmos was never quite sure just where Beachcomber's attention actually was when they interfaced, what with the way his hands and energy field wandered absently, visor staring off into space. Occasionally a melodious hum escaped him, or a twittering response to a nearby bird, or a flicker of light across the visor as Beachcomber analyzed the components in some tree, or perhaps searched for patterns in the clouds. Things invisible to Cosmos. His sensors were calibrated for the vast, slow turn of space, perfectly in tune with the magnificent spin of the stars and planets above. Cosmos stood beside Beachcomber fully upright – there was no truly comfortable way for him to sit or lie down – and together they would wile away an entire day in the hidden places they found, slowly fluxing their fields with each other and with the unending dance of the universe around them.
Chapter 2: Part 2
Ratchet, Hoist, First Aid
"...tried to tell me it was a hiking accident. Sometimes a fellow has to wonder if they think the visor means that I don't have perfectly functional optical input."
"You're telling me. I had one of the little glitches in here the other day who actually had the audacity to--"
First Aid, looking for Ratchet, let the sound of muffled voices lead him towards the CMO's office. He paused outside to peer around the open doorway. Ratchet had his chair pulled around to the front side of his desk, right next to Hoist, who was sitting in one of the two visitor's chairs. Each had a cube of energon in hand. It couldn't be more obvious that he'd interrupted something. First Aid hesitated. His thoughts of coming back later were cut off when they both looked up.
"First Aid!" Ratchet barked, "Quit waffling in the door. Are you coming in or aren't you?"
"Care to join us for some energon?" Hoist asked in a much for inviting manner. First Aid had a shy refusal prepared until Ratchet reached over to his desk and pulled a fresh cube from a small pile stacked there.
"Let a pair of grouchy old medics show you how a bitching session's done." Ratchet smirked, dangling the small cube from thumb and middle finger. Hoist's visor winked in cheerful contrast to Ratchet's words, and First Aid found he just couldn't refuse.
Gears did not like Huffer. But somehow they were always the last two left at a table together in a rec room. They were put on duty shifts together. They wound up side by side in the convoy of vehicles when the Autobots traveled. It was enough to drive a mech crazy, because Huffer liked to talk. To be honest, so did Gears. But no one liked to listen to him. Not the big bots, not his fellow minibots, and most of all not Huffer. Huffer made that very clear. Maybe that's why Gears always let himself get stuck as the last left at a table with him, the one to wind up beside him when they were driving. There's some vindictive enjoyment to be had in watching the other bots vacate the room, in watching Huffer twitch and glare, when Gears just goes and starts talking right overtop of him.
Jazz came in fast, leading with a diversionary kick. The nunchuck strike that followed was deflected by the blue flare of Sentinel's shield and Jazz carried his motion through to another attack, spinning around the shield to send a chop towards the back of Sentinel's neck. One thick blue arm came around to meet him, forcing him to change the attack to a block and then shift his stance to meet a rising knee with one of his own legs, and they were at a standstill.
Sentinel lifted his weapon and Jazz ducked away, giving them both space to reevaluate. All systems humming at peak efficiency, an undefined tension snapped between them as they met each other's optics. The harsh sounds of metal on metal rang through the sparring room again.
Blurr, Thundercracker, Skywarp
For the first few moments, all three of them panicked. Blurr, because for all his flailing he couldn't move and it was a nightmare he was visiting for the second time in the short period since he'd been sent on assignment to Earth. Thundercracker, because he couldn't stand being powerless. And Skywarp, because Skywarp panicked at everything. Thundercracker was actually the first to calm down. Once his pretentious monologue began to register in Blurr's audios he was ashamed enough of his brief loss of control to calm just as quickly as he'd panicked. Then Blurr started talking again. He had to get control of the situation if he was going to get out of it. But Thundercracker wasn't exactly inclined to stop, and with Skywarp still gibbering away to himself really all Blurr was doing was adding to the noise. Then their ball of mech and concrete slammed into a small moon, sending them all momentarily silent. Skywarp started complaining about the cement in his joints. Blurr resisted the urge to slam his head against the ground in utter frustration.
Takes place in the same headverse as the Brawn, Ironhide, and Hot Shot ficibit from part 1 and "What We Do."
“Ha!” Ironhide crowed when they finally pulled off the maneuver they'd been practicing. He turned to exchange a victorious chest-bump with Brawn. Brawn, as usual, had to jump to reach. Only this time he missed and wound up banging his head off Ironhide's windshield, sending Ironhide staggering back several steps and Brawn falling straight onto his aft. They blinked at each other stupidly until Rodimus' voice, rough tones sounding suspiciously of laughter, had them both moving into position to run through the battlefield scenario again.
Prowl, Bulkhead (Set in the third season.)
The spirits danced like snow across the road before them. Prowl could see them now, illuminated in his headlights and the brighter rays from Bulkhead, cutting through the dark night behind him.
Prowl had always encouraged Bulkhead's artistic tendencies, even if he personally did not find them appealing. Now, though, he began to appreciate the seeming mess his comrade's brush produced. Chaos, the spirits were. Beautiful but wild. He thought he understood, now, why his meditations never quite reached the level he desired, why his search for inner tranquility always seemed to stall against an inner rebellion he could never quite quash. There was nothing, nothing tranquil about the way the spirits swirled, playful, through the trees, riding on the wind and cutting against his plating like salt on ocean air.
The road was a meditation of its own. Prowl imagined bright clashing color, heard the thunderous roar of Bulkhead's engine and his own and for the first time felt as if the clamorous noise fit, did not disturb. A new joy sprang to life in his spark and Prowl felt suddenly, strangely at peace.