Sticky Response Pt 3
This post is closed to new stories! Head over to Pt 5!
Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
Stories that were started here continue here.
FIC: Continuity - Title (optional) - Characters - brief Kink (please include the entire thing on every part you post and for every comment!) and put Ch# or Pt# at the end. Note any major squicks or kinks in the header as a courtesy to the ( Read more... )
Cybertron was an ancient planet, and things lived in the deeps that few records told of, that no living mech had seen. Composite beasts of metal and stone, discarded components aggregated and gone feral, the occasional experiment escaped from its lab. They ate the planet’s bones, or ate each other, would certainly eat mechs who strayed too far from the surface or the hallowed halls of Vector Sigma and the Well of All Sparks.
It had at least six legs, perhaps eight, unless those were tails, and it easily massed four times what Optimus did. Twin projections - heads? - reared above its cranial end, ringed with dim violet optics. Its dorsum sprouted a thick cover of long spines. Scraplets scuttled demurely among its feet, followed in a carpet behind it; no longer intent, it seemed, on their primary directive of devouring everything that moved.
Optimus kept his weapons ready, but he did not want to kill this creature, whatever it was. It trundled toward him, in no hurry. As it came within range it slowed further. The projections or heads dipped, extending toward him with what Optimus would term cautiousness. He heard internal fans whirl, drawing his scent into chemoreceptors. He didn’t feel a scan, but EM sensors were often passive. It gave a low whistle and the scraplets stopped, while it took a few more hesitating steps. Optimus didn’t move.
It smelled of antimony and rust and powdered silicon dioxide. It crept closer, optics flickering, shifting spectra perhaps. Optimus searched for evidence of a mouth or mouths. Teeth, jaws, mandibles, proboscis. The creature was armored below the spines with irregular plates that might conceal anything. The optics focused on the fallen rifle. Sidling forward, the creature extended one of its forelimbs and snagged the gun, dragging it across the stone with a scrape and screech that was jarringly loud in the enclosed tunnel and relative quiet.
An opening appeared between the scales at the junction of the two projections and the creature flipped the rifle into its mouth with its claws. Only a clunk and shush followed, no noisy chewing. Perhaps the creature had a smelter in its belly. Optimus hoped the gun’s power converter didn’t blow.
He could have laid a hand on its back. He remained motionless. The projections bobbed and wafted over his body, not quite making contact, one pausing near his face before darting away. A metal tendril extruded from below the ring of optics toward the energon leaking from his wounds. It followed the runnels down to the floor where it had puddled and cooled. There the tip of the tendril expanded into a blunt, spongy pad and proceeded to lick the energon from the stone. It shuffled closer still, intent on its meager meal, and now Optimus could see a discontinuity seaming the creature’s left flank. It had been damaged by an energy weapon. How long ago Optimus couldn’t guess. It seemed to be healing, spines regrowing along the boundary, the wound itself shiny and smooth.
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“Hello?”
The creature flinched at the sound of his voice, retreating from a last, faint rim of spilled energon.
“Are you hungry?”
It snuffled toward him again. Toward his remaining rifle. Lifting a forelimb, it patted almost delicately at the barrel, the optics on one of the protrusions watching Optimus’ face. The tendril withdrew and the central mouth opened.
Ironhide would have his aft if he lost both guns down here. The creature patted the barrel again, both sets of optics blinking at him.
Venting softly at his own folly, Optimus disengaged the rifle’s attachments, letting it slide free and clatter to the floor. The creature flipped the second gun neatly into its mouth and swallowed.
“Anything else?”
After nosing briefly at his extended blade, the creature blinked at him again, then returned its attention to the last vestiges of cold energon on the floor, tendril licking fastidiously.
Sheathing the blade, he slowly got to his feet.
The creature shrieked, spines spraying in all directions, and went galloping back the way it had come, scraplets skittering after.
Optimus had been pinned to the wall. Shuttering his optics and biting his lips to keep from laughing - or swearing - he grasped the spine that had gone clean through his shoulder and imbedded at least a hand-span into the stone wall. With a single jerk he yanked it free, letting himself collapse once again to the floor for a moment.
He thought perhaps he had had quite enough of this test.
The climb ahead, damaged as he was now, did not appeal, but climb he must.
.oOo0oOo.
Hands lifted him, voices shouted. He was carried out from under the sky, into dimness and warmth. A berth conformed itself to his back, medical lines were attached to his body, hands and scans examined him. First Ratchet’s worried face loomed into his field of view, then Ultra Magnus’.
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“Didn’t mean to hurt me, I don’t think,” Optimus whispered. “Six legs. Two heads, or optical stalks…not a biologist. Seemed to control the scraplets. What was it?”
“You can discuss ecology later!” Ratchet yelled, shoving Ultra Magnus back. “Scraplets! He’s lucky to be alive, let alone in one piece!”
“Mostly in one piece,” someone said.
“Out!” Ratchet howled. “Optimus, I’m putting you in light stasis till I get all these holes patched. Three, two, one…”
Pain and voices and consciousness went away.
.oOo0oOo.
“Did I pass?”
Ratchet chuckled and helped Optimus sit up, disconnecting the last of the medical leads. “I’d say so. Beachcomber was pleased you didn’t blame the hexapod for impaling you. Perceptor’s got the spine, in case you were wondering. Wheeljack caught him licking it. Perceptor said he was sampling the molecular composition, but Wheeljack thinks he was ‘practicing.’ Me, I don’t even want to know.”
Optimus tried to pretend he hadn’t heard the last three sentences.
“I suppose you want your armor back on.”
It was stacked neatly beside the repair berth. Optimus considered the reactions of the nuns to his removing it, and the mischievous look in Ratchet’s optics. “That would probably be best.”
“Pity.”
Definitely for the best. Ratchet assisted him with the heavy dorsal plates and spaulders. Offered to help with faulds and culets, but Optimus assured him he could manage those by himself. Ultra Magnus came in as if on cue, the moment he had finished.
“Optimus Prime,” the Magnus said. “I am very sorry you were injured. You were not meant to find anything alive! There must have been a subsidence that opened a communication between the maze and one of the nearby undercities. Hound, Beachcomber and Trailbreaker have gone down to find and seal it, if feasible, and herd the creature back to its proper territory.”
“You sent them down there with scraplets-!?” Optimus stared at him, aghast. Ratchet chuckled.
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“He’s a shieldmech,” Ratchet explained. “We have our weaponsmaster working on replacements for the rifles you lost, by the way. If Perceptor can keep him from blowing the foundry up this quartex.”
“Uh. Thank you.” Optimus wasn’t certain how else to respond, and Ratchet’s fondly impish expression wasn’t clarifying matters.
“In the meantime,” said Ultra Magnus, stepping neatly into the breach, “if you feel you are ready, we have prepared the second trial.”
Optimus flexed his hands, rolling his spaulders to settle them. “I am ready.”
“I hope so,” he heard Ratchet whisper as Ultra Magnus led him from the infirmary.
He followed the Magnus down a short ramp to the central courtyard. Faint colored lines and symbols still ornamented the stones in the daylight - the circle was unbroken. The shaft to farbelow was open as well, guarded now by a pair of large mechs Optimus hadn’t yet been introduced to. They were similar in build, probably with cargo or construction alts. Ultra Magnus nodded to them as they passed on through the courtyard and into an archway opposite.
Beyond this was a loggia, austere but pleasant. A handful of nuns were gathered at a point midway along its length. As he and Ultra Magnus approached, Optimus could see a very large face peering at them through a window in the loggia wall. Face, hand, and a forearm resting on the window’s sill; all unadorned white.
Ultra Magnus stopped at the window. “Optimus Prime, this is Skyfire, our Anchor.”
“Greetings, Optimus Prime,” said Skyfire warmly, the laughter he’d been sharing with the other nuns coloring his voice. This was no solemn cleric, scrupulously pious and shriveled.
“Hello, Skyfire,” Optimus said automatically, even as his sensors and CPU were fully processing the white mech’s situation. Wings rose above broad shoulders, to either side of sleek, paired engines. Optimus shifted, trying to get a better look at the rest of the room behind Skyfire. Was there no door? There wasn’t. Large as the window was, Skyfire was huge behind it; there was no way he could use it as an egress. Unable to restrain himself, Optimus leapt forward, laying his hands on the broad forearm on the sill, leaning close and earnest to the gentle face above. “You’re…!”
“A shuttle, yes,” Skyfire said. One of the other nuns snickered and was shoved to silence by his fellows.
“But…!”
“And I’m walled in.” Skyfire placed his other hand atop both of Optimus’. “I’m the Anchor; I have been for many vorns. I may not leave this room, nor may others enter. But it’s restful. I am glad to live my life in prayer and meditation.”
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“I can see the sky from here, and the stars.”
Optimus turned around. The loggia bordered another courtyard, smaller than the first, and indeed the low wall on the far side did not obscure Cybertron’s bright horizon. There was a skylight in the loggia roof as well.
“My needs are well attended to,” Skyfire continued. “Everyone comes to talk with me when I’m not in meditation. I’m never lonely. Can you say the same?”
“I suppose not,” Optimus murmured. There were no scratches or claw marks on the inner walls or window. Skyfire’s fields projected nothing but calm, happiness, anticipation, curiosity. He was not an unwilling prisoner. Optimus couldn’t understand why someone would choose to subsume everything they might have done or been, to take up such a circumscribed life, but it did seem clear that Skyfire had so chosen.
“Everyone talks with Skyfire,” Ultra Magnus said. “Confides in him. Most conflicts are mediated not by me, but by him. With far less fuss in most cases.”
Optimus realized he hadn’t been brought this way simply to be exposed to another of the Order’s strange practices. He had been brought this way because everything and everyone came to Skyfire. The shuttle was included in the daily minutiae, in every aspect of the sanctuary’s life as a matter of course. He was their Anchor. Optimus was beginning to see that layers and levels of importance, of authority, of power, could be more complex, more horizontal than he’d ever imagined. He wished he had a lot more time to talk with Skyfire.
“I’ll see you later,” Skyfire said. His fingertips brushed Optimus’ helm in benediction. “All shall be well.”
Ultra Magnus extended a hand, indicating that they continue onward. Another arch at the far end of the loggia gave into an airy hall with high windows and a low platform in the center. Like everything else in the sanctuary, the hall was constructed of the same dark stone; the architecture straightforward and uncomplicated, scaled to allow a mech Skyfire’s size or larger to move about easily, yet somehow proportioned to evoke a feeling of serenity. There were mathematical formulae for such things, Optimus remembered. The Golden Ratio. Whomever had designed this place had been an inspired genius.
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The slender doorwinged mech - Prowl - that Optimus had met the night…no, two nights before stood at one edge, placing small objects here and there on the map.
“We have agreed that the second trial is to be of mind and spark,” Ultra Magnus said.
“A game of ‘Helm and Encompass‘,” Prowl elaborated. He assumed a formal posture of attention and offered a data cable from his wrist. “I can link you the rules and basic strategies if you are unfamiliar with them.”
“I’ve read something of the game but never played,” Optimus said, opening a socket in his wrist and accepting the swiftly transferred file. Prowl withdrew his cable hastily, then looked abashed at his rudeness. Virgins. Dear Primus.
“Hmph.” From behind them, Jazz sauntered, frowning at Optimus. He stood close to his twin, arms crossed. “You’ll have to be very lucky then, to win this time. Prowl here’s the best tactician on any ten planets you care to name.”
“Jazz.” Prowl shot a quelling look at his brother, then gathered his composure. “We may begin as soon as you have assimilated the file.”
Optimus nodded. He walked slowly around the map, analyzing the alien landscape and the particular starting pattern Prowl had chosen for the game pieces. It was a relatively simple arrangement, suitable for a beginner, but providing subtleties an experienced player might take advantage of, Optimus suspected. The strategy file fitted itself neatly into the things Ironhide had been trying to teach Optimus since the war had began.
There was no time limit. Optimus was grateful. Nuns filtered in and out of the hall, watching for a few moments or several groons. If there was commentary going on they kept it to internal comms, and again Optimus was grateful. He had the feeling Prowl was maneuvering him all over the board, waiting for the most spectacular kill.
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Optimus reached out and toppled his last Helm piece. He’d lost, technically.
Prowl’s doorwings went up in surprise. Then down sharply as he scanned the entire board, checking and rechecking. Up and back - and Prowl was laughing. Mechs came running into the hall.
“Well done,” said Ultra Magnus.
“Beautifully done,” said Prowl, optics shining. “Compassion and mercy beyond hope. That’s…that’s an ancient heuristic.”
Optimus suspected he should stop staring, but Prowl’s smile and open admiration were like fine high-grade, dizzying warmth suffusing every line and component of his frame. “As I said,” he found himself murmuring rather shyly, “I’ve read a little about the game.”
“So, he won by losing?” Bumblebee asked, peering at the last few standing pieces.
“He surrendered,” Prowl said, pointing to the fallen Helm piece. “But see the Mirror pieces here, here and here?”
“They’re…behind your lines,” Bumblebee murmured, still not quite understanding. The function of each piece could change, depending on what other pieces were nearby and where they were on the board.
“Right. Well into my territory. And what pieces are beside them?”
“The…no, wait, when they’re in opposing territory those become Magni.”
“Exactly. He surrendered his offensive line of play, but his defense was to integrate the secular and religious moieties of both of our territories. I conquered in name, but he had already made our peoples into allies.”
“And that’s cheating,” Jazz said. “You can’t do that. Those Mirror pieces are Spoils, not Solar Arrays.”
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One Optimus suspected Prowl wouldn’t make again. “I am a novice at this particular game,” he said. “I had not played it before. But the principles upon which the rules of play are based are ideas with which I have indeed gained some experience.”
“I bet!” Bumblebee giggled. “That means he passed the second trial, right?”
“Yes, Bumblebee, he passed.” Ultra Magnus smiled at the young nun, but his fields were drawn in against his plating, close and troubled. “The third trial will begin in the morning.” He turned to Optimus, but could not long meet his optics. “You would do well to refuel and recharge as thoroughly as possible before then.”
“What’s the trial?” Jazz asked.
“The trial of the Cord,” Ultra Magnus said, and, whirling on his heel, left them.
.oOo0oOo.
Ultra Magnus stood at his desk, but he did not call up screens or open his log. The trial of the Cord would be as difficult on his nuns as on the presumptive Bearer. It would be worse if Optimus failed. He had consulted with Skyfire, Ratchet and Kup, and this was the trial they had selected. If Optimus succeeded, the next phase would be that much easier, Ultra Magnus understood that.
He moved to the window, with its view out over most of the sanctuary and the troubled skies of Cybertron. If Optimus passed, he and the nuns of the Solian Order would leave their sanctuary and go to war, fighting for a possibly hopeless cause; risking their lives. Losing some, maybe all of them. Using violence against violence while espousing peace. Yet Optimus’ mode of play in the second trial haunted him.
Optimus’ impassioned speech to the Senate had moved them, entrenched and corrupt as they were, to name him Prime. The Matrix had bestirred itself, choosing its carrier more actively than it had for a megavorn. Ultra Magnus could ignore these whispers and portents no more than he had the faint rumbles of unrest among the miners and the cold-constructed and other low-caste Cybertronians. The Order was physically isolate. That did not mean they were ignorant of events in the outside world.
Like Skyfire’s window, this one could be sealed by force fields during acid storms or attack. At the moment, Ultra Magnus needed the cold wind in his face, and he opened his venting systems wide.
He had passed the hexapod’s shed spine to Perceptor quickly. He had washed and washed his hands, but he could still feel Optimus’ energon on his fingertips.
.oOo0oOo.
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Love your icon! Check out the lateral undulation! \o/
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Holy cow this is awesome.
The hexapod creature that controlled the scraplets and Optimus just being too badass for words.
Wheeljack 'practicing' with the spine lmfao
Then, Ratchet 'helping' with Optimus' armor. Kinky old mech.
Skyfire being all... awesome and calm and comforting. Seekers being pretty, I mean really what's not to love about this fic?
Oh, question, is there a reason why you called them nuns and not monks, or priests?
Also, do you have a link to the original prompt?
I really can't wait for the next part!
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http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=7396233#t7396233
And this is to amazing for words. I'm just going to sit here with a biggest, goofiest, silly grin on my face until my stupor lifts and I read this feast again.
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Thank you! Glad you like it so far!
The nun thing...I thought about changing it, but I kind of like the weird little gender bender it suggests. Hot nuns on the make and all that. Nuns get made into porn, but not so much priests? I don't know but I thought I'd leave it there for people to poke at.
Next part should be soon, as I just have a scene to finish and a last editing pass to make. We haven't gotten to the smexings yet - but we're about to!
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