Continuities: Animated, G1

Contains: Discussion of (canon) character death in number three. Gen, het.


Ironhide, Brawn

(Takes place in the same headverse as the Brawn, Ironhide, and Hot Shot bit in the previous part 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.

Ratchet, Omega Supreme

(Written for a Christmas exchange, prompt "They don't sing the old songs anymore.")

"Why are they shouting?" Omega asked of the wild crowds filling the streets around his landing struts. Official barriers kept their bodies at bay, but not even Omega's thick plating was enough to stave off the thunderous roar of an entire city gathered around them.

"They're welcoming us home."

"Welcome? With shouting?"

"They don't sing the traditional songs anymore," Ratchet replied, thinking of the old chanted melodies. At the time, he'd hated them. He didn't think he liked this any better, all clamorous noise that grated against the audios and a spark still sore from fresh loss.

Ratchet leaned back in the pilot's chair, rubbing his hand against his chest as if it would help soothe the ache. The others would be unloading their prisoners, gathering Prowl's shell. He ought to go help.

"No songs for celebration?"

"Not like we knew them."

"Funeral songs?"


That came out shorter than he'd intended.

Guilt was an emotion he'd been slowly getting back into the practice of paying attention to; there were very few bots for whom he'd make the effort. Omega was one. "There are a lot of things still not right with the world, old friend." He put a hand on the console, crusty voice wavering. Lights around him blinked, unseen processors whirling. Ratchet waited with a calm patience he reserved for this bot alone.

"Can you sing him a song?"

Something inside Ratchet twisted and froze at the thought. It took two false starts before he could speak. "I don't think I can," he admitted, voice gruff.

"I remember the songs," Omega said, slow, thoughtful. Ratchet shuttered his optics, his hand tightening against Omega's plating. He said nothing, wishing that this conversation would stop.

"I need to go help the others with Prowl."

Omega rumbled his agreement. The pilot's station began to rise with no further prompting, but Omega wasn't ready to let the topic drop. "He should have a song."

Ratchet bowed his head, the fierce ache inside growing insufferably worse. Below him, Omega's voice took up a chant; long, rolling wails to accompany a departed spark on its journey to the Well.


(Much older drabble, prompt "heroism.")

Megatron had no longer been fit to lead. He brought the Decepticons to ruin. He lost them their place on Cybertron. But the others hadn't been able to see that. They were blinded by loyalty, trained to follow without question. Despicable traits, and proof of just how far down Megatron brought them.

Starscream is the leader the Decepticons need; he's earned that place, and he'll prove it. He's found the Allspark, and he's not about to let a measly crew of repair bots keep it from him. He'll never give up his dream. He'll be the Great Starscream, Retriever of the Allspark, Conqueror of Cybertron, and Hero of the Decepticons.



(Also written for a Christmas exchange, prompt "I can do anything better than you.")

"That was totally a perfect bullseye."

"No it wasn't."

"Was too."


"Just because you're jealous..."

"Jealous? Hah!"

"Admit it, you are."

"I am n-! What are you doing? ...Oh. iMmmmm./i"

"There, see? I'm even better than you at that."

"No you aren't. Come back here, let me show you how it's ireally/i done."