Tag: my OCs

development of a new OC in immediately-after-each-other Discord posts

Old character concept I’m picking back up again to try and make into someone:

bot who’s spent most of their life in their alt mode, plugged into a bunch of electronics and basically acting as a living computer bank.

No idea how to actually speak or walk or anything of the sort.

They’re on a ship somewhere. 

Bolted to the wall, probably, or the floor.

The crew of the ship is killed off somehow, and they decide they would rather not die, so they start broadcasting an alarm signal.

And only realize after rescue shows up that they… don’t actually know where they are.

The only sensory input they have is around the computer parts that are not them, to monitor things and make sure everything is working right.

meanwhile the rescuers are like “hi so are you the ship?? or”

much looking around in confusion and much unhelpful typing of words on screens

until someone finally scans everything and notices that one of those computer components has a spark signature.

They don’t really… know much of anything about how to function.

Sometimes people talk to them. Call them Computer, or swear words. 

But suddenly having a specific frame is very disorienting, and then someone does something weird in their innards 

and all of a sudden they have limbs??

and a limited number of optics??

and then they fall over and it hurts and they make a noise?????

they are evidently capable of noise???????

They’re also not good with subtleties.

Example: they learn that Autobots are responsible for trapping them in their alt for their entire life, immediately conclude that all Autobots ever are bad and that they want to be a Decepticon.

learning that the ship they are now on has a mix of both does not go over well.

Bracer has to explain to them that there are other categories, and subcategories.

Mind you this is done with Computer in one arm, kicking furiously with what little bit of dexterity they’ve learned.

f u r i o u s l y  tapping out swear words in what is basically Morse code on Bracer’s arm.

“So, yeah, not everyone is like that, and I’m not an Autobot anyway, and- what did you just call me?? that is rude!”

basically picture Tailgate but square and probably without much color.

Devoting their newly unoccupied processor power to things like having Emotions and being Pissed

and biting people

and this… drinking thing?? this is weird

and then someone grabs their crotch entirely by mistake while wrangling the Anger and their panels pop aside and they’re just like “oh, great, what are all THESE parts now that I have to learn what to do with”

“fuck this”

every new bit of mobility that Computer learns immediately goes to being Fucking Angry and trying to fight people.

People who, mind you, are doing things like trying to help them figure out how to walk and keep them from falling over all the time. 

They aren’t any good at emotions, they’ve only ever experienced very weak versions, their processor was too busy elsewhere. 

Mostly they’re mad about everything and are showing it the only way they can, without any way to speak.

just

PISSED

for like 3 days straight until they get too tired. 

(Longrange is indoctrinated if not outright brainwashed, Sharpshot is furious at that, confusion ensues when those collide.)

“You forgot everywhere
else.” 

Longrange paused, mildly puzzled,
and looked their frame over for a moment. They hadn’t missed any visible areas,
and they knew they hadn’t gotten dirty enough to need any sort of deep
cleaning, so they were done. They tried to tell Sharpshot as much, but he was already
steering them back into the shower. Puzzled but cooperative, Longrange sat down
on the bench again, helm tilted to watch Sharpshot. “I’m- I’m sorry, but I
don’t know what you’re talking about, to be perfectly honest.” 

Sharpshot, electing to demonstrate rather than talk,
sat down next to them and showed them a long, thin brush. “This is for
cleaning under plating. Someone clearly hasn’t shown you how to use one. You’re
shiny and attractive, yes, but you need to clean the parts of you that are not visible. You need to keep
yourself comfortable. Hold still.” 

As expected, Longrange
cooperated. It usually made Sharpshot angry that they were so compliant, but,
in this case, it might be helpful. Wasn’t as if one could easily scrub under
the plating of someone who was actively running away from you. 

It was working, at least.
Longrange was still wearing their all-too-common “what in Primus’ name are
you doing” expression, but they were relaxing, and there was no undercurrent of
anything negative. Still- best to ask. 

“Longrange, do you want me to
stop doing this? If it’s unpleasant for you, I will stop.” 

No, they really didn’t mind. In
fact, Longrange leaned into Sharpshot, more than happy to go with… whatever
this was. He confused them, but he seemed very earnest about helping. However
this was supposed to help. They looked nice! They were fine! 

…although that did feel good.
If ticklish. “No, no objections, thank you, this is actually quite nice,
but- ah! Goodness! That’s- I- oh!” 

Wait, no, too ticklish. 

People who started to squirm that
much generally wanted whatever was happening to stop, so Sharpshot paused, then
shifted to a different area that didn’t earn as much wiggling. “Good. Hold
still. And, urgh- look down.” 

Primus. How long had it been
since anyone had done this? Ever? The solvent running from under Longrange’s
lifted plating was filthy where Sharpshot was scrubbing, Not enough to truly
interfere with anything, but it couldn’t be comfortable. “How much of your
weight is grime?” 

Longrange would have been light
in the first place, meant to be held on someone’s arm, and the carved markings
in their plating lessened their weight even more. It was absurd. Sharpshot
could throw them over one shoulder and carry them away. Had, once. It made them
even more confused. 

Poor, deluded, brainwashed Longrange. Somehow not
aware that they should be outraged over having their genetics lab-modified to
make them prettier for their owner. What on Cybertron did a noble even need with
a long-range telescope? What-

Oh, he was getting riled up
again. Probably best not to do that, Longrange was confused enough already
without further outrage on their behalf. 

Oh good, he’d stopped. Longrange
had no idea how to communicate “please continue doing this thing but alter
it slightly to suit my minor and unimportant request” without sounding
incredibly selfish. This was lovely. 

Entirely unnecessary,
though. “Sharpshot, this… this feels very good, but… I’m quite clean
enough. I need to maintain my image if I am ever going to find a new Lord. I-”
almost a chuckle, but not quite, this wasn’t the funniest thought, “I do
terribly hope that wouldn’t require me to take my plating off. Not that I’m…
quite certain. People have been unofficially appointing themselves to the
position for me. I haven’t needed to look. Would you… happen to have any
ideas?” 

That’s a bit sad, isn’t it?
Servitor-class mech asking how to find a new Lord. It wasn’t as though they’d
had any practice in this. Every time they’d been available, someone had…
picked them up. Often literally. It was their role in life. 

Longrange was making it very hard not to be visibly
outraged on their behalf. “No. I… wouldn’t know how to go about finding
yourself a new owner. Unless you want to go all-out, put a leash on yourself,
and hold an auction,” Sharpshot grumbled, then paused, hissed, and outright
glared up at them. “Do not do that. Instead, explain to me why you need an
owner.” 

Dear Primus, there’s that
brainwashed expression again. Like they’re baffled by the very thought of
questioning any of this. Perfectly happy with their life as a decorative
pet. 

Was it not obvious? Genuinely taken aback, Longrange
leaned away to look down at Sharpshot, optics wide and helm cocked. “I’m-
first of all, not an owner, a Lord. And… look at me. Really. My alt mde is
immobile. I am entirely useless without someone to use me.” 

This was true. Yes, they could
theoretically position themself to look at things themselves, but what good
would that do? They weren’t any sort of leader, they weren’t a strategist. The
best they could do was look at things and enjoy it. Enjoyable, admittedly, but
useless. That didn’t do anyone any good. Sharpshot really didn’t seem to be
getting the idea, though, and evidently something was upsetting here.

Turning slightly to the side,
Longrange placed their servos on Sharpshot’s servos, meeting his optics. Well-
meeting his center optic, that was probably the best place to look. “Sharpshot,
I am servitor-class. When needed, I work for strategists. When not in active
warfare, I work for nobles. Nobles use my alt for their enjoyment, and, as you
can see by my plating, the rest of me is used for decoration. That is my role
in life. And it’s, really- it’s fine!” they crooned, armor lifting, optics
bright and earnest. “It’s not hard! I follow someone around, I keep myself
clean, I transform when requested, and that’s it. One of the easiest jobs I
know of.” 

…oh dear. Sharpshot had that
furious expression in their optics again. It was borderline terrifying,
honestly, his scope-optic whirred and dilated rapidly as if focusing on a
target. 

Ow, okay, that hurt. Sharpshot’s
primary optic physically couldn’t focus on anything this close, so he shut it
and shook his helm, using the moment of time to settle his plating down. He was
probably scaring Longrange, wasn’t he? 

Dear Primus. He’d hoped that
asking Longrange what they thought was happening would help him figure out how
to get around it, but it was mostly just making him angry. 

A few deep vents to settle himself, then he patted
Longrange’s arm, sighing quietly. “I understand that you… are very set
in your role here. I suppose it offers you some level of stability, hm? But
stability that centers around being controlled by, used by,
other people for no reason other than the frame you were born into. You are a
person. You are not a tool. Look at me- my alt is incapable of operating
properly without assistance! But I do fine on my own. I don’t need an owner. Stop- stop
saying ‘Lord’, Longrange. If someone controls your every movement and what
you are allowed to do, if they fuel you and provide you with a place to live
only so you will do something for them, if they have ultimate control over
everything including whether or not you are allowed to interface, they see
themselves as owning you!” 

He tried to stay calm. He really
did. It didn’t work. “And- and another thing! You are not going to burn
out your lenses if you overload! Believe me, overloads have not hurt me, not one iota. We
are living beings born of a species meant to self-reproduce in a process
involving overloads, there would be no practical reason for overloads to do us
any harm! How do you think your ancestors reproduced if not by interfacing and
overloading?” 

Ah, he was getting through, Longrange was starting to think, he
could see it in their optics- 

Until it faded into a
forced-looking version of the infuriating mindlessness from before. 

That- that couldn’t be- 

Sharpshot was almost scaring Longrange at that point
with the outright fury in his optics. He was nearly shaking, armor
flared, optics blazing, gripping Longrange’s arm in one servo, as intimidating
as someone his size could be. The one thing keeping Longrange from being
genuinely afraid was the fact that it wasn’t directed at them. It was at, what-
their Lord? For- for wh- 

He was right. He was right about-
about overloads, wasn’t he? And about- yes, fine, “owner” was a more
accurate word, Longrange had nearly been their Lord’s pet, but that was okay because pets got fed
and- 

…being
a pet was okay? Being, essentially, one of the bred-out-of-practicality leashed
mechanimals was okay? Being- being lied to about their own frame, being told
they couldn’t interact with others because their Lord was too busy to stand
around and allow it, being picked up and carried at any moment despite their
feelings on the matter was okay? 

…no, no, this line of thought was dangerous, this
line of thought got people transferred -no, sold– to places no one ever heard
from them again, and it- and their- 

Their Lord had always been kind
to them. Aloof, but kind, keeping them clean and well-fueled and away from
people who looked at them wrong, had never demanded anything of them but what
their frame was made for, had- 

-how had it become such an
accepted thing that a servitor-class mech might have to do more than what their
alt was made for? How- how was that- 

How did- 

What- 

But they- 

Vocalizer clicking a quiet noise of distress,
Longrange sat back against the wall, hunching into the corner for protection
against the onslaught of things they’d never had reason to think of before.
They didn’t have anything to put against Sharpshot’s- well, not quite evidence,
but everything he was saying made sense. Far too much sense. 

They didn’t know what to do.

They really, genuinely didn’t
know what to do. 

So they defaulted. They stood up,
stepped in front of Sharpshot, and waited for orders. 

Frag. 

Frag frag frag. 

Was that- had he just run afoul
of some sort of slave coding? Sharpshot’s spark lurched, but Longrange didn’t
have that faded look in their optics, the way people did when something pushed
their rational thought away. They looked incredibly, unbelievably confused, and
a little bit like they might be about to cry. 

Whoops. 

Maybe Sharpshot should have been
more gentle. This was probably his fault.

At least Longrange was thinking.
Even if that thinking included seemingly running out of processor power and
just standing there waiting for him to give them an order. Poor mech. 

…maybe an order would help,
actually. Gesturing slightly, Sharpshot whispered “come here, Longrange”
and coaxed the taller mech closer, petting and lightly pressing on their frame
until they were back on the bench with him. This time, lying down, helm in his
lap. “There. Now… stay here. Let me keep cleaning you. All right?” 

Longrange
didn’t seem to have any complaints. 

Probably wouldn’t say if they did.

Primus save the poor thing from their own processor.

(Hijack meets Acus and ends up semi-permanently latched to him. Warnings for this: slave coding, mention of dubcon. Acus is somewhat unhappy. Hijack is surprisingly okay.)

Acus very rarely stood up for himself, even now that he was feeling better. Some of it
was a lack of will to fight, most of it was because Scalpel never gave him the
chance. Not that he minded. She was very good at standing up for people.

Trouble was, that meant Acus had no practice in this sort of
thing.

It helped, in this case, that he was standing up for- well, somewhat for
a patient, but also for the health of his friends. Still, his winglets were low
on his back as he spoke, and he was stroking his fingertips in small patterns against
each other in an effort to stay calm. “I’m- I’m sorry, but , no, we all know
none of that will- will work. It needs to be a-a medic, the coding pathways are
smoother that way, we have access to and processors for things that others
don’t. And- and you both-“

They were listening, albeit
a bit skeptically, and Acus’ winglets lifted in a gesture of hope. “-you both
have to admit, you’re- you’re a lot more emotional than I am. We- we don’t know
how strong this coding is. I’m sorry, Scalpel, but- but you’re really- you get
angry very easily, and it’s not a bad thing, it’s not! Except that… how do you
think the coding will- will respond to that? It- if it’s the really strong
kind, it’s probably going to hurt them
for- for upsetting you, and just it existing
will upset you. Patches, you’ll- you’ll just get all sad, and the- you know, the-“

Acus made a sort of squishing motion at the air, attempting
to indicate Patches’ soft-friendly-sad feelings that he got at people. “-those.
The feelings. Not good, either. I’m… I get anxious, but not emotional, usually. I’m… maybe not the
best choice ever, but… the best choice here. I can do this. It’s… just
temporary, after all, right? I can do this.”

Turning slightly, Acus gestured to the motionless frame of
the mech in question, his winglets lifting higher in the most confident gesture
he could manage. Up, out to the sides, presenting the bright orange trim, a
gesture he’d accidentally picked up from Scalpel and her tendency to show off
her sharp edges. “I can do this. And
I can’t exactly not. They need help.
I can help them. I can.”

No one liked this idea. He could see that much. But… no one
had any coherent objections.

Patches, in lieu of objections, offered a stabilizing hug. Nuzzling
Acus’ forehelm, he rocked gently back and forth, taking Acus with him, until he
felt the smaller frame relax. “I know. You’re right. I hate it, but you’re
right. We’re here, okay? We’ve got you. Whatever you need, we’ve got you. I’ve
got you right here… whenever you’re ready. We’ve got you, Acus.”

Ready to most likely activate the slave coding of a nearly
comatose mech who would probably latch onto him? No. No one decent could ever
be ready for that. He wasn’t going to get any readier by waiting, though, so he
nodded despite himself and let Patches half-carry him to the berth. Sometimes
Patches’ walking hugs felt more like being awkwardly carried. The effort was
appreciated, and… somewhat helpful.

Acus vented deeply, then reached up, tucked his patient’s
hem forward to access the panel at the back of their helm, and clicked it open
via a medical override tool. Best to be quick about this. As he’d suspected,
the ports under the panel were scratched, healed over but clearly damaged
previously, and Acus spent a nanoklik or two searching for the least damaged
ones. No sense causing any further discomfort if he could avoid it.

When the plug locked into place, Acus was met with a nearly
blank wall. No traps, no defensive measures, just a wall. A wall and a door,
carved out in coding so clearly he could nearly see it. Another deep vent, and
Acus reached out, pushing at the door. He fully intended to pulse medic
override coding at the door, let it know he wasn’t someone who needed to be
locked out, but it opened at the lightest nudge.

Before Acus could reach inside, something else reached out,
wrapped around him, and latched into place like a set of animated chains. It
held for a fraction of an impulse, then released almost entirely, leaving a
thin trail between Acus and-

And slave coding. Coding that had imprinted on him, was
registering him as its commander, and had just presented every aspect of his
patient’s mind for him to peruse.

Acus politely but firmly declined the offer. A quick
once-over for clearly damaged or dead-end coding that would need to be removed,
then Acus retreated, firmly closing the door behind him. The chain stayed,
though, and he could almost feel it still around him as he unplugged.

His patient’s optics flickered furiously for a moment or
two, then shut off, and their frame slumped from sitting ramrod-straight to
almost falling against Acus. Blackspark, fortunately, caught them. “Whoops,
Pit- there ‘e go. You see anythin’ useful in there? They sure ain’t givin’ any
answers out.”  

Acus, settling against Patches for further support, rubbed
his temples briefly before responding. “Yes, I saw some things. They are… as ‘okay’
as they can be. We were right- slave coding. Imprinted on me immediately, no-
no barriers to keep me out, must be some sort of succession protocol. They’re
rebooting, and should… hopefully be slightly more animated when they wake up,”
he sighed, settling into Patches’s arms, and slowly shook his helm. “Goodness,
I still don’t like this, but… we have to get the coding out of them, and it is active regardless of if it’s latched
onto someone. Better they not be forced into that blank state. We can work with
most other things. If- if they’re imprinted on me, at least I can try to treat
them well, give them some degree of freedom. Worst case scenario, they can be
sedated while we work on the code, but, Primus, I do hope that won’t be the
case. Please, could you- wrap them up in something?”

Responding with quiet sympathy to the pitiful, trilling
undernote in Acus’ voice, Patches hugged the smaller medic tight, reaching out
to pull a blanket up over their patient with his free servo. “Poor thing. You’re
right, though, this is… probably the best option. I almost hope the coding is
old, because it- it means they might be somewhat resigned to it at this point.
Less stressful for them.”

Blackspark, leaning against the edge of the berth, lifted
one of the mech’s forearms and tapped a fingertip against one of multiple
panels along their arm. “What d’you suppose is up with this? That’s, what- a
good twenty panels, easily visible, an’ I bet more out of easy sight. Not even
databirds got that many wires. I’d almost think they were some kinda charge
hub- this many wires an’ slave coding don’t bode well. If that were th’ case,
though, I’d think they woulda been modded to be a bit less, well-“

Pausing, he gestured at the mech’s frame in general,
especially the completely flat chassis and stomach and the oddly oriented hip
joints. “-that. Weird as Pit. I guess it could be a kink, but can’t be this
many panels wortha mechs with a kink like this. Wouldn’t be profitable. So, I
don’t think that’s right. Dear Primus I hope I’m right about that not bein’ the
reason.”

“Well, we’ll just… put that on the list of things to check
for on the exam, then,” Acus muttered, and sat down next to his patient, not
sure what to do other than wait for them to wake up. And, well, pet them.
Nothing much, they were unaware and potentially unconscious, but he lightly
stroked their forearm in hopes that they would wake with some awareness of
softness. It worked for him. Completely innocent contact, not looking for
anything, not touching anywhere most people would object to. Who knew, with
this patient, but… worth a try. Hopefully it wouldn’t do any harm.

Eventually, their patient’s optics onlined, slow but steady.
Optic lids flickered, then each piece of plating slowly rose and settled, a few
plates at a time, a clear manifestation of a physical reboot. Blinking, they
watched the ceiling for a few nanokliks, then turned their arm over to offer
Acus the small panels. “Do you require access for further scans?”

They looked better. Neutral, field restrained, minimal to no
body language on any part of them, but better. They were awake, their optics
were focused, and they weren’t in any sort of visible distress. That was a
start. Acus in-vented deeply, relieved, and offered them a gentle, professional
pulse of greeting/reassurance/comfort with
an overlay of medic-signal. “Not right now, no. Thank you. My name is-“

“Acus. I know. I heard, and” the mech sighed, sitting up and
crossing their legs, “my coding imprinted on you. Coding you evidently intend
to remove. I was locked, not unaware. It happens if I go long enough without
interacting with my Commander.”

“…right,” Acus muttered, turning to properly face them, and
shut everything else out in favor of his patient. “Good to know. Now… I need
your name, and I need to know the details of how your coding works, as much as
you can give me. I’d rather not have to go prying into anything if I can talk
to you instead. You’ve had enough of that, I’m sure.”

“Hijack,” the mech replied, quiet, optics flicking briefly
to the rest of the room before going back to Acus as if pulled. Look a
Commander in the optics when speaking to them. “Relatively long-leash coding. I
am largely functional if left to myself, but need to interact with my Commander
occasionally to avoid a forcible lockdown. I cannot disobey an order you give
me, and you have the authority to give others total control over me. I also”
with a clear expression of distaste “have been explicitly ordered to include in
this description that I am bound to the word
of an order. I can be creative in
my interpretation of an order, and” still unhappily “I have learned to find as
many loopholes as I can if I disagree with an order. I personally find this
entirely reasonable. I also have a few long-standing orders of etiquette. One
of them is optic contact, I am not choosing to keep my optics locked on yours.
I would rather be looking around. I am not obligated to speak my thoughts
unless ordered, and I am not obligated to do anything that is not a direct
order. I will be very creative in my interpretation of broad orders regarding
your intent. I also-“

Armor clamping, Hijack made a clear effort to shut up, but
failed as if it was being dragged free of them. “…I have numerical codes which
can trigger various punishment subroutines, you should have a file of those
freely available now. I am additionally unable to refuse direct orders to
injure myself if you feel as though ‘your creativity should match mine’.
Lastly, I am not allowed to make direct contact with you, with any part of
myself, without explicit permission.”

Acus, trying not to look upset, gave a jerky nod of
understanding. “Registered. First- I do not care about your manners. Please
discard any sort of etiquette rules you have as far as you are able to, I-“

Excellent. That bled a considerable amount of tension out of
Hijack’s frame as their optics immediately moved from him to everyone else in
the room, flickering back and forth, clearly assessing the situation. “-ah,
that helped? Good. Second, I am not going to order you to harm yourself. Let me
be clear about that. Before I say anything else, I need to know why you have this coding in the first
place, and I need to know the truth. I’m…” Pit he didn’t like this “I’m afraid
I’ll have to make that an order.”

Muttering something about “nicest order ever”, Hijack cut
their optics over to Acus, smirking inwardly when they didn’t immediately have to meet his optics. Oh, they liked that.
They liked this mech already. “It was decided that my ability made me too much
of a risk. Especially a political risk. Would you like me to show you?”

Of course Acus
would like them to show him. He wanted to know what was up with Hijack’s
frame, he’d never seen anything quite like this. Though- with caution. “Assuming
the demonstration won’t harm anyone in this room, absolutely.”

Hijack, almost smirking, obliged. Every small panel along
their front opened up, and twenty-plus thin, prehensile cables of varying
thicknesses, most tipped with small metal points, unspooled into thin air.

They were expecting some variety of interest, probably mixed
with horror. They were not expecting utter fascination and no concern
whatsoever. Cocking their helm slightly, they extended one cable slightly
towards Acus, offering him the chance to inspect. “I don’t mind if you touch. They’re
highly sensitive to electrical signals, but not especially to contact.”

Oh. That was cute. Acus’ first touch was gentle, soft,
taking the cable between two fingertips and almost-but-not-quite flinching back
as it wrapped against his fingers. “Those locate and fasten around signal relays.
If I land on someone’s back and get enough cables fastened into place, I can
draw away their movement impulses and replace them. It enables me to completely
control any motions from the neck down. Hence the political danger…
incriminating actions and all. And-“

Acus looked fascinated, and Hijack slowly stood up to
demonstrate further, stretching their arms out to either side. What looked a
bit like a thick bio-light ran down each arm from about mid-forearm to their
knee, on each side, and expanded out as they stretched. An electric current ran
through each slack membrane, and the membranes tightened to almost resemble a
glider suit such as a humanoid being might use. “-I can glide, if thrown or
given a high platform to dive off of. The coding was a precaution against any
political manipulation I might attempt… and is largely the only way they could
get me to use my ability against anyone. I don’t particularly enjoy taking
control of people who’ve done nothing to me.”

Acus, still fascinated by the cables, wrapped two of them
around his wrist and stroked a third between his fingertips, then reached to
touch the membrane. “Ah, this explains the odd frame arrangement- fascinating. And it makes the coding
understandable. Not, agh- not excusable,
of course, it’s still a horrible thing to do to someone, but I see why they
would think it a good idea.”

“Mm, no, never questioned that,” Hijack murmured, optics
cutting towards the multiple doors along one wall, and shifted their weight
slightly. “I would… like to take any further discussion to somewhere else, if
we can, potentially somewhere with a berth. I am going to need fuel, if
possible. And I would… like elaboration, now that you know what I can do. I don’t
intend to hurt you. I couldn’t if I tried, and… so far, I like you well enough.
I heard your… very long discussion about my potential coding, well before you
had any idea what you were dealing with. I don’t believe any of that was a lie.
As far as I can, as of right now… I trust you. I definitely like you.”

“I’m. Well. I- thank you?”

Seeming uncertain how to respond, Acus fidgeted slightly
with both servos, accidentally involving the cables around his wrist, then
nodded once and attempted to disengage. “-yes, sure, we can go somewhere else,
there is a private room through that door with a berth and energon. I. Ah. I
can take this from here.”

Patches, trying his best not
to engulf Hijack in hugs, settled for hugging Acus once before backing
away.

Scalpel did not take a similarly cuddly role. She pulsed a
quick wave of supportiveness at Acus, but aimed a glare at Hijack, winglets up
and flared. “Lemme be clear, mech. You try and hurt him, I hurt you. You
successfully hurt him, I kill you.”

“Scalpel, maybe don’- ah, no, you threatened ‘em, sorry,”
Blackspark muttered, shrugging apologetically from behind Scalpel, and dodged a
half-sparked smack at him. “-oi, fine, I’m leavin’, I’ll go sit down, but she
ain’t kiddin’!”

“Sorry, she’s-“

How the Pit did he- react to that? Acus disentangled his
servos from Hijack’s assorted parts, stepping away, and shook his helm
slightly. “She’s, ah- not, um, not bluffing, no. She’s very protective. I
promise she won’t hurt you if you don’t try
to kill me or- or anything, though. So. Don’t do that.”

“Noted,” Hijack muttered, following after Acus, eyeing
Scalpel over their shoulder the entire way into the room. She meant it.
Clearly. They’d avoid hurting Acus. Not that they wanted to hurt him in the
first place. This mech, they could work with as a Commander.

The instant the door shut behind them, Hijack gave in to exhaustion
and impulse and flopped onto the berth, face-down, groaning quietly against the
padding. “Ow.”

Oh, concern from Acus. Cute. “Fine. Just. Ow at life.”

Goodness, right, low fuel levels. Acus pulled a cube from
the cabinet on the wall and sat near Hijack’s helm, reaching to touch one of
their- winglets? Almost winglets. Two thin ribs sticking up from their upper
back, slightly curved, with a membrane stretched from the tips to a point
attached below them. Probably for steering help while gliding. Decent for
expression. “You need fuel. Are you steady enough to hold the cube? I can get
an IV, if not, or help you keep it steady.”

“That’s… another thing,” Hijack muttered against the
padding, and propped their helm up just enough to speak clearly. “If my fuel
levels are low enough, I can only fuel out of a container held in a Commander’s
servos. Someone added it as a manipulation tactic. I don’t want to fight it
right now, I don’t like needles, I just want to go with it for once, but… I am
not allowed to touch,” they murmured, shrugging against the padding.

Acus didn’t like that, but he settled a servo on Hijack’s
back and guided them halfway into his lap, holding the cube easily where Hijack
could sip. “Well, as I offered, I will… happily assist you. And I would like to
remove this order, if I can. I would also like to… set some boundaries, or lack
thereof. I do not want a slave.”

Once he was sure Hijack was listening, Acus spoke softly,
gently, but as firmly as he could in that tone. “Unless I specifically phrase
something as an order, please take it as a request. Also, please, please tell me if you object to an
order. You are… not quite welcome to freely touch me, I can be somewhat
contact-averse, however I will not require explicit permission for anything
that does not involve your interface equipment or the use of your ability.
General permission or positive responses should suffice. And I am making this
an order- do not use that ability on anyone who is not threatening bodily harm
to another. Though I gather that may not be something you want to do in any
case. In short… please behave as though this coding does not exist, unless I
specify otherwise, and do not make a puppet of anyone who is not thoroughly
earning it.”

“Fair enough,” Hijack declared into the half-empty cube,
then drained the rest of it, optic lids fluttering slightly as if they were
sleepy. “Now… my turn for ‘n order. Be honest. What do you want me to do? I-I
know you want something, however nice you are. You must want me to do
something. Mix you drinks, bring you things, polish some part of you or another…
I honestly wouldn’t object to a decent number of things. Could also take notes,
potentially assist during some procedure or another that requires extra servos
with no skill, could-“

They were rambling, they knew, they didn’t care. They were
just listing off… things. Things with no serious connotations. Things they
wouldn’t much mind.

And then things they didn’t want to do.

“-wouldn’t like that much. Or, Pit, could make me suck you
off, had someone consider that before my looks put them off i- oh.”

Acus cringed, and
Hijack instantly regretted what had been something of a joking statement. Pit.
Acus had seemed at least okay with most of the joking, but that, agh- people
didn’t flinch away from the entire room for anything less than personal. “…apologies.
What, specifically, if you can clarify, do I need to never say again?”

Acus, resisting the urge to curl up and hide, shook his helm
violently and pushed at the air with both servos. “No, no, I’m- I’m not, not going to order you not to say
something, I, no-“

Hijack lifted a servo and patted at the air a distance from Acus’
face, managing to quiet him, and pointed almost sternly at his face. “D’you
think I’d suggest you order me not to say something? I mean, what do I need to
never say around you again in order to be a decent person? Because that- that
is personal. Something happened. I don’t want to mention whatever it was again
if it makes you do this. Also. Give me permission to hug you.”

Oh. Acus blinked twice, startled, and ex-vented heavily. “I’m.
Ah. You- you’re perceptive. And I’m blatantly upset, I-I suppose. Just, ah..
any- any mentions of… those in positions of power abusing their power to gain
sexual favors from- from subordinates. Especially. Ah. Oral favors. Please.
That’s… not an order. It’s a request. As for… the hug? I. Shouldn’t. You’re a
patient, and- and forcibly anchored to- I’m- I- oh, frag, okay, yes, please.”

Selfish. Incredibly selfish. But he wanted, dear Primus he
wanted, and it looked like Hijack wanted just as much. Hijack looked… apologetic.
For triggering him, evidently.

And then Hijack flipped over, slid into his lap, and hugged
him. With all their limbs. All their
limbs, legs and cables included. Acus chirped in surprise, then relaxed, optics
almost shutting in response to the pressure. “…that’s nice. Thank you.”

Hijack, groggy as the energon flooded their systems, pulsed
shivering bliss at the contact and at
the praise. “Mmh, okay, I… am staying
like this, we are not moving, deeeear Primus I don’t think I have ever hugged someone with cables and it
is good, you feel warm. And praiiise,
I like the praise, thaaaat’s fun, that’s awesome, never got enough of… oh,
lookit, ‘m drunk. Okay. Yay. Sure. Whatever. Gonna hug you.”

Pressure. Pressure through his entire frame, firm and snug,
warm, friendly. Acus didn’t mind the cables- Hijack physically couldn’t hurt
him and didn’t likely have any desire to do so. They were strange, alarming to
most, but not that bad. This… was far too warm to protest. Mm. Deep pressure,
always fun. Chirruping in the back of his throat, Acus about keeled over onto
his side, pulling a spare blanket up with one servo to cover them both. “Ohh.
No. No complaints. Good- good mech, good, warm, kind mech, thank you, this is
nice, very nice, good, good dear
mech. Relax, Hijack. ‘s only fair. Gonna relax.”

Well.

This? This, Hijack could work with. Ending up this cuddly
with a new Commander was probably a good sign. Especially one who seemed so
repulsed –or traumatized- by the idea of taking advantage of them. Nonsexual
contact, they could and would happily do. First hug they’d had in a very long
time. Good hug.

Awesome.

Time to sleep. Stasis pods didn’t count as sleep.

There was a party going on.

Optimus wasn’t one for partying, but sometimes he liked to
sit nearby and watch everyone. It was interesting to see how everyone acted when
they were buzzed and happy, how the groups sorted themselves out and interacted
with others.

The medics were off to one side, complaining at each other
and anyone who would listen about idiots and idiotic medical cases, thoroughly
enjoying their complaining. Except Acus, who was pressed tight to Scalpel’s
side, silent but awake and watching. Poor mech didn’t socialize much in larger
groups, he just sat and listened. Maybe that was socializing for him, Optimus
didn’t know. He seemed happy, and Scalpel wouldn’t be here with him if he wasn’t.

Over by the bar, Swerve and the silver-green limb bundle of
Duo were chattering chemical formulas around a strange, twisty apparatus,
evidently distilling or mixing or chemically altering something. It was
probably supposed to be a drink. If Swerve was involved, it was most likely a
drink. Hopefully they’d remember to keep in mind that others couldn’t drink
quite the variety of things that Duo could.

And, that was unusual- everyone past a certain size had
grouped into one part of the room. Avalon was in the group as well, oddly for
him, though he’d fit himself into a corner rather than getting involved in the
literal, friendly shoulder-bumping of the rest.

Something else unusual; someone being thrown through the
air. That almost never happened. 

Optimus stopped in surprise as a small frame
zipped by him at about chassis height, hitting the wall opposite the group with
a rather amusing splak sound. It
would have been concerning, except that the mech –oh, that was Hijack, wasn’t
it?- stuck to the wall on a hastily-painted target, looking thoroughly
unconcerned. Leaning back with three limbs still attached to the wall, they
tapped the spot they’d hit and called “two points!” back at the audience, then
dropped off the wall and trotted back over to jump into Bracer’s servos.

Well. Evidently there was a game going on. Consisting of
throwing Hijack at a target on the wall. Hijack looked to be having fun, and
they were genetically designed to be
thrown at solid targets, but Optimus stayed where he was to watch and be sure
all involved were having fun.

Hijack, giggling and tipsy but clearly aware, shifted around
until their stomach was against Bracer’s palm and spread the thin, metallic
flight-membrane that led from their elbows to their knees. Goggles and face
mask in place, they wiggled in evident anticipation, tapping on his servo. “Go
on. Hard mode!”

Bracer had clearly done this several times already, and he
pulled his arm back as if to throw a dart or a model glider. As he did, Hijack
shifted, spreading the membranes askew in what would probably make them spiral
in flight.

Nobody got to see if Bracer could still make the shot while
tipsy and on “hard mode”, though, because he sneezed right as he launched
Hijack. Hijack, spiraling thanks to the tilt of their membranes, spun wildly
off to the side-

And hit Optimus’ chassis with, hilariously, the exact same splak noise it produced when they hit a
solid wall.

Everyone aware of the situation froze, seeming unsure how to
respond, then about half the watchers started laughing. Bracer among them, apologizing
through wheezy giggles, rubbing the back of his helm awkwardly but looking far
too amused to be contrite.

To be fair, it was rather
funny. Hijack was still splayed along Optimus’ front, stuck on by magnets and
suction cups, face against Optimus’ windshield. After a nanoklik or two, they
looked up at Optimus, blinking owlishly, then somehow shrugged without moving
their arms. “This works.”

Optimus, still among the mechs with no idea how to respond,
automatically settled a servo on Hijack’s back and attempted to pull them off.
They did not come off. “Ah. I… suppose it does, for you. I will be honest,
however, it is strange for me. I would prefer to return you to your game. Would
you… let go?”

He might have been able to pry Hijack off if he tried, but
he didn’t want to risk injuring them. They weren’t threatening him or being
aggressive, they’d just stuck onto him and decided not to move. The friendly,
tipsy EM field explained that reluctance- evidently they were a cuddly drunk.

Hijack blinked several times, looking around, then grinned
up at Optimus and cocked his helm further. “Let go if you throw me back
over.  Actually- at the ceiling. Throw me at the ceiling.”

…why not? Optimus offered a tiny smile, attempting to grip
Hijack’s back plating firmly enough to support them if they released their hold.
“I will, however it will be difficult if you continue to hold onto me. I cannot
throw myself at the ceiling, unfortunately, the Matrix does not allow me to
alter physics to that degree. I also have no way to hold myself up if I were to
hit the ceiling.”

Hijack slumped obligingly into Optimus’ servos, and Optimus
turned them over, then brought his arm back and tossed them at the ceiling. No
reason not to. At worst, he could catch them if they fell, and they probably
wouldn’t fall hard enough to do any damage in any case.

The worst did not happen. Hijack hit the ceiling and stuck
fast, heralded by several enthusiastic whoops from the watchers. The voiced
approval only increased when Hijack began to move across the ceiling, slowly
but surely, detaching one suction cup at a time and fastening it in a new
place. When they were over the game-players, they let go and fell onto Bracer,
ending up stuck to his shoulder.

Cute. Oddly cute for such a strange mech.

Optimus almost considered joining the game, but decided
against it. Among other things, he wasn’t drunk enough to make it a fair match,
nor did he particularly want to join the drinking. Not to that extent, at
least. Maybe he’d go find out what Swerve and Duo were working on.

Circling around the group, Optimus made his way over to the
bar counter, and heard another splak behind
him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that, yes, Bracer had made the
shot.

Good for him.

And good for Hijack, getting around the semi-understandable unease
of them to make friends.

Now, what in Primus’ name were the twins doing with a bottle
of glitter?

TELL M E TELL ME

Their name is Longrange, I think, but they’ll also respond to a commanding tongue-click and a gesture in their direction. 

They’re a minibot, and their alt is a long-range telescope. Anyone looking through their alt can see anything on the planet that’s not blocked from view by obstacles or the curvature of the planet, and have a good look at most nearby celestial bodies. They can also shift lenses around on command, or their operator can manually shift lenses, to enable clear viewing of closer objects. 

Their alt also includes a sort of stand. Their legs shift into a brace/stand meant to be hooked over a wearer’s shoulder, heavily padded to ensure they don’t leave any marks on paint, and their arms shift into a gripping structure to latch onto someone’s forearm. They can modify the stand and gripping structures to clamp onto a railing or other support structure instead of a user. 

In alt, they can see what their user is seeing, and can adjust themselves accordingly. In root mode, most of their lenses end up stacked against each other, separated by layers of padding, tucked almost around the sides of their spark chamber just on either side of their spinal strut. 

Their root mode is tall and graceful, as minibots go. Their plating is a soft, dignified silver, traced with intricate engravings inlaid with a whiter shade, and there are hints of blue visible around the edges of their plating where the cabling underneath is visible. Their optics are bright blue, and their faceplates are patterned in shades of silver and white, partly to hide the seam down their face. When they transform, their entire face splits apart down the center to let their helm tuck down further out of the way, and if someone looks closely they can see the seam it splits along. They tend to hide this with their arms while transforming, it’s more than a little grotesque. 

They were born of a fairly repugnant practice among nobles. More common with data-birds, like Tempo, but among other small and often-used-as-decorative service-class mechs. The idea is to essentially breed two noble-’pets’ as if they’re show pigeons, but without anyone having to spend time caring for a carrying mech or dealing with potential spark bonds. Genetic samples are taken from the mechs in question and combined, and the result is grown in a lab until adulthood, sort of a cross between cloning and cold-forging. Sometimes the mechs in question are tweaked during growth for particular details. In Longrange’s case, their genetics were changed to carve the patterns into their plating, ensure that their nanites would keep the less-than-practical engravings for decorative purposes, and better hide the seam down their faceplates. 

They see nothing wrong with this. That’s what upsets Sharpshot so much. Longrange sees nothing wrong with them having been used as a tool, as a decoration, led around as if on an invisible leash by their Lord and passed around for use by anyone their Lord decides should be allowed to use them. That’s just how it is. Their job isn’t hard, they’ve been used as a tool their entire life, first by their Lord and then by Autobot commanders, and there’s no reason, in their mind, that they should need to choose. It’s just how things are. 

Also, in a bid to keep their plating as spotless as possible and pull them away from any potential relationships, their former ‘employer’ convinced them that they shouldn’t interface with anyone because it risks damaging their lenses. This is not true. Despite the cosmetic changes, their frame structure is the same as if they’d been naturally born, which includes allowances for safely interfacing and overloading. The padding around their lenses provides insulation. They do not know this. 

Alright, so I’ve got this guy. His name’s Twitch. It’s not particularly clever, he has a tiny glitch somewhere in his coding (probably up next to the stuff about how to blink) that makes one of his optic lids twitch. Not important enough to put the effort into fixing it.

He used to work in medical waste disposal, cleaning up messes and removing biohazards and such. 

Accidentally overheard a budding Decepticon going on a very long and entirely logical anti-Functionalist speech to some medics, thought about it for awhile, went “yeah okay makes sense”, and offered to help distribute their information. People don’t tend to notice trash bots, he was good at getting around quietly, but was eventually captured by Functionalists who had a sense of irony.

They put him through a modified variant of empurata, something experimental at the time. Took his optics out and replaced them with blank, expressionless camera lenses (though with optic lids, still with that glitch), replaced his mouth with what was basically a garbage disposal on steroids, took out his T-cog, even managed to snip out the parts of his coding and processor that dealt with transformation sequences.

Then modded the rest of his frame. Pumped up his nanite production facilities to a ridiculous degree, made him able to digest almost anything.They basically turned him into a living trash disposal slash nanite production factory.

He used to have a fairly heavy frame. Still has the struts for it, but not so much the plating and armor, looks almost emaciated.

Under his chassis armor, on both flanks, he has transparent energon-filled tanks where the excess nanites live. One for repair nanites, one for immune system nanites. His plating is covered in an unusually high number of surface nanites, and he has a couple of vacuum-pumps with attached hoses built into his frame to vacuum the nanites off his armor when a lot of them build up. 

Also, his reproductive system has been retrofitted. His transfluid/reproductive nanite factories now produce transfluid full of repair nanites, and his valve has been altered to essentially milk a spike, drawing in nanites to be modified. He was /intended/ to also be useful as stress relief, but his appearance creeped most people out a bit too much.Fortunately for his mental health, he’s… weirdly calm. In his words “yeah, should’ve expected this. Oh well, works for me. It’s a life. I’m useful, nobody messes with me, and I /like/ the valve mod.”

He’s very firm about people, especially people like him, being treated well by others, but is entirely satisfied with his lot in life. Wasn’t the Functionalists screwing with his ability to care, , he’s just an incredibly calm little mech. With, uh-

Is it still called pica if the things you’re eating are edible?

He eats trash.Broken data-pads, mostly empty energon cubes, and, uhhe’ll quite happily drink medical waste.

“oh, yeah, that’s a piece of plating we had to replace, too badly singed to-" 

*crunch*
”…uh"

None of the medics are sure how much they should encourage him. He’s very useful, they agree on that.

And it doesn’t hurt him to eat things like that, it’s just, well, it’s damned creepy, tends to unnerve people a bit. He forgets to care about it. The medics also tend to very strongly suggest that he use an antiseptic mouthwash. 

At this point, there’s a lot of other people who have Twitch’s nanites in them somewhere after repairs, he’s a productive little thing.

And, for someone not unnerved by the fact that he /does/ kinda look both slightly emaciated and seem to have semi-exposed fuel tanks on both sides, he’s excellent in berth.Tight valve designed to milk a spike of transfluid and all. Plus the lightweight frame meaning he can be easily moved, a fairly strong frame, and he’s usually quite happy with just about everything respectful. His valve has probably been modded to take fairly large spikes, as well. 

The rest of the mods, he’s either neutral about or likes them only for their usefulness.The valve mods, he very much enjoys.

Doesn’t really miss transforming. His alt was slow in the first place, he never had a strong urge to move, and the Functionalists did their job so thoroughly he doesn’t have anything left to miss transforming with. There are the memories, but he could have outrun his own alt, it was basically just a mobile trash can.

Most people would have been fragged all to Pit by what happened, but, no, Twitch is just far too chill to mind very much. His pain tolerance is extraordinarily high, as well, always has been. It takes a massive amount of damage to put him over about a pain level of 3, with 3 being “ow, yeah, I suppose that hurts, but it’s not that hard to ignore, I’m OK”. 

He was a Functionalist tool/pet for awhile, being told over and over how lucky he was that they let him continue to hear, to move, then was rescued/captured/stolen by Decepticons. 

So we have this little guy who’s MTMTE Tailgate’s size or smaller, with lenses for optics, a mouth hidden under a mask due to it being /fangs/, sort of an emaciated look around the joints in his limbs and his stomach, two half-visible tanks of energon under the armor at his sides, who absentmindedly picks up and eats trash. And, if upset enough and out of options, will trigger the emergency “ate something toxic” function of his fuel tank and purge whatever medical waste he’s eaten lately on whoever’s attacking him. It’s gross, but effective, considering how strong his stomach acid is. 

He also has a sort of celebrity-crush on Soundwave. Like, "not sure I’d actually want a relationship but you are /hot/ and /awesome/ and I somewhat look up to you". Light fanboying with a side of “same values!!”, basically. 

Weird little guy, but nice enough. 

Another new guy- Reaver

Reaver is a large Seeker, about mid-chassis-height to Megatron, with a build similar to Predaking’s but a bit lighter. Lots of sharp edges, all topped off with a pair of jet-black horns that sweep up from his helm. Impressive pair of up-swept wings, black clawtips, and a set of thrusters on his legs that he can use for brief flight in root mode.

His plating is patterned in a deep, intense grey and the blue of the first metal on this page http://www.alamy.com/stock-photo/charred-metal-surface.html, like singed metal, and his nanites fill in scar tissue in the same black as his horns. He has some assorted battle scars scattered around his frame, nothing too severe, including one that slashes down across his optic but missed the lens itself. His optics glow a deep, intense red, his features are sharp, and there are several vertical slits in each cheek. 

The slits look almost like scars, but are perfectly clean, and run all the way through and into his mouth. He can flare them open at will, and previously had the dentae directly through the slits made larger and sharper for intimidation purposes. There are odd singe marks around the slits, and exactly why that is becomes evident if he needs to threaten someone. Reaver can breathe fire, and can puff a quick gust of it through the slits to show that off, though he can’t do that for long- his face isn’t entirely fireproof, just heat-resistant. 

Reaver was formerly part of a group something like knights, all fallen to the war. They were devoted to the protection of the innocent, or the closest thing to innocent, and were very… shall we say, dramatic. They were sensible, though, nothing like the group/cult Vanguard was born into. They encouraged interface only on an as-needed basis to burn charge and encourage mental health, and there was basically no discussion of kinks, ever, but most of them were from similar genetic stock and had moderate-to-low libidos anyway. 

Reaver, for his part, is unaware of… just about every kink that exists. The kinkiest thing he’s done so far is spread himself open for a partner to see/enjoy- though he would be open to learning, he’s a curious mech at spark. A mirror in front of him would be right up his alley, among other things, and would get him all flustered and blushy. Admiration is another good way to get him acting considerably less stoic, and it’s not difficult- he may be intimidating, but he’s quite attractive, and his equipment is a particularly deep shade of that gorgeous blue-green. 

If you want to get this guy relaxed, servo-feeding him is the way to go. His group would semi-regularly feed each other from energon cubes or other vessels as a sort of bonding exercise, something like a reminder that they held each other’s lives in their servos, and it’s a symbol of trust and safety to him. Feeding him directly from one’s servos, though it might require some gentle coaxing, would have him beautifully relaxed almost immediately. It’s not a kink, it’s more the meaning, the intent, that calms him. The experience helps, too. 

He’s much kinder than his name would suggest. His former home had a thing for dramatic names, really. Don’t get me wrong, he’s very capable in battle, good with blasters, energy bows, and a type of energy bullwhip meant for use in combat. The flamethrower-breath helps, too. Reaver isn’t overly fond of battle, really- he’s willing to fight, if needed, but doesn’t tend to like loud situations, violence, or killing. 

Another part of him does, though. 

Reaver has DID, dissociative identity disorder. That’s the new name for multiple personality disorder, essentially. It’s characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personalities in the same body, usually with each personality not conscious/aware while another is presenting. Some people may not even know what’s going on, they just have memory gaps. Reaver knows about his alternate thanks to his former compatriots, and the shows she likes to leave for him.

Her name is Ravager, and she is not pleasant, but fortunately doesn’t surface often. She surfaced the first time Reaver was in a situation where he had to abandon his morals in favor of violent, dirty, underhanded combat. He probably always had the potential for her to turn up, and trying to reconcile his own response to the situation, his evident willingness to abandon his own morals, caused his processor to split the destructive, violent impulses off into Ravager. 

She functions as a completely separate person, but a simple one: violent, bloodthirsty, wanting nothing more than carnage. Ravager thinks Reaver is soft and weak, and will probably get them both killed- he nearly has, several times, and only survived because Reaver surfaced to do everything it took to keep their collective frame alive. Fortunately, she’s easily bored, and vanishes entirely when there’s no more fighting to do- though not without ripping up the corpses to leave a nice, horrifying show for Reaver. 

Reaver tells himself that he can keep Ravager under control. He can’t, but, really, you can’t blame the guy. It takes a particular type of panicked, pained adrenaline to bring her up, so she really only shows when he’s literally about to die. Reaver can’t be blamed for not focusing on much of anything internal while trying not to die. Fortunately, she only shows up in those situations- anything less, and she may as well not be in there at all. 

I know nothing about alcohol, but here are approximations of my OCs as drinks available at bars.

Blackspark: a kick at first, then surprisingly sweet underneath. Served w/ a stem-on cherry for tongue-trick flirting. 

Gravescratch: unusual flavors, things you wouldn’t expect to work in this context, except they work. Possibly a dash of something glittery. Served in a tall glass. 

Alzu: kiss your inhibitions goodbye, probably tastes like you’d have it with meat.Quite possibly served next to meat. 

Scalpel: kicks you in the teeth and leaves an impression on your tastebuds. Served with a knife and no explanation, probably wise to make this a butter knife since drunk people are uncoordinated and should not have sharp things. 

Patches: fun drink. Sweet, but not overly so, nice and rounded, soft taste. Lots of it, but not very alcoholic. Probably served in a mug. 

Crucible: gentle heat, nice and heavy. Can be modified to sheer fire. Chili peppers probably involved. Possibly served hot? Is that a thing? Definitely comes in something ceramic or stone. 

Duo: two small drinks that come with straws so you can drink both at once. Definitely brightly colored and sparkly. Served in chemist’s beakers. 

Tempo: small glass, big punch. Your mouth now tastes like this drink. Nigh-on impossible to water down. Probably good for quick drunkenness. Served with a paper umbrella that has a startlingly sharp top. Play competitive knife game vs. whoever got the (hopefully butter) knife, see who stabs themself first. Laugh as whoever’s got the cherry stem hits on whoever has a plate full of meat with their drink. 

(This is based on one of my Diablo III characters, a demon hunter, who has one of these weird cow things as a pet. In the game, this type of pet runs around and picks up gold for you after it’s dropped, but doesn’t fight. The cow-pet occasionally gestures and stabs at enemies with her spear, but can’t actually damage them. http://diablo.wikia.com/wiki/That_Which_Must_Not_be_Named?file=TWMNBN.jpg )

Usually, when Dalu
followed the sounds of an animal in distress on a demon-infested farm, he found
the demons tormenting some poor animal that he’d end up having to put out of
its misery after he took care of the demons. 

This? This was not an animal, at least not any
he’d ever seen. 

The being snarling up at him from the ground
was bovine in appearance, but small, only about waist-height. More than that,
it was bipedal, long limbs folding strangely under it as it tried to back away
from him. It had bright red eyes, which were a bit odd, but the udder on its stomach rather cut down on any intimidation factor. Whatever it was, it was bleeding heavily from a deep wound on its
outer thigh, preventing it from standing up. The rest of it was dirty and
bloodied almost as badly, though it didn’t appear to be badly wounded anywhere
else. 

Dalu stared down at whatever in gods’ name
this was for several long moments, watching it scrabble uselessly to get away,
then sighed and reached for it. He ought to put whatever this was out of its
misery instead of gawking at it-

But it bawled in terror and pain as he grabbed
at it, kicking at him with its one good leg, and the idea of killing it faded
away. He didn’t really want to hurt it, strange as it was… maybe he could
patch the damn thing up and chase it off afterwards. 

It was quite a fight
to get the thing hauled off and bandaged up, and Dalu was sporting several
hoof-shaped bruises by the time he was done, but it had settled down
somewhat and was just staring at him from across the campfire. 

Which left him wondering what to feed it. What did one offer something shaped like this? 

Hm- might as well try and ask. “And what do I feed you? Hay? Raw meat? The flesh of newborns?” 

The thing didn’t respond, so Dalu watched it for a moment more, then pulled a piece of dried meat from his pack and slowly held it out to the thing. Whatever it was, it bled like an animal, and he didn’t feel like he should just let it starve.And Dalu was curious- what did this eat? 

Meat, apparently, because it snatched the meat away from him and gulped it down in several large bites. It then sat up further, looking very interested, and stared hopefully at the pack until he gave it more. Quite a bit more, actually, he had plenty. Those giant beasts he kept having to kill so they’d stop charging him didn’t taste half bad when smoked, and he wasn’t about to run out of beasts to slay any time soon. Now, what else could he feed it? 

Turned out he could feed it just about anything he tried. An old carrot, some hardtack, a large handful of long grass from near a creek, a cattail root- all greedily accepted. Also, a locust that got too close was snapped up, even though the creature seemed to be mostly full by that point. It just ate everything, then? 

Maybe he ought to keep whatever this was with him so it didn’t get up to any trouble. That would give him more time to figure out what it was, for one thing. 

And it seemed quite content to follow him around as soon as it was up and about. He fed it at least once a day, offered it the carcasses of any un-contaminated beasts he slew, pointed it towards water, and that was it. 

Then he found a goblin. The damn thing led him through three packs of goat-men before he managed to shoot it enough times to kill it, and it left gold strewn everywhere. 

Dalu fully expected to not get that gold back when he saw the thing gathering it up, but he didn’t pay it much attention. It was just after the strewn gold trail, not the bulk of the coins and the pieces of armor that Dalu actually needed. 

To his surprise, though, the thing ran back and forth between him and the trail, dumping the gold it had gathered into his pack every time it came back. 

The next time he ended up with gold scattered about, this time from a series of shattered urns, it did the same thing. Then the next, and the next, always bringing him every single piece, and starting to watch more alertly for gold once it figured out that he approved. 

Eventually, it kept a large gold earring, which it fit through the hole between its nostrils. Later, it found and kept a simple crown, then a large spear. 

By that point, it had grown, and it was chest-height to him. It was also much more durable, seeming to take no injury from most attacks, and fast enough to flee from anything that posed any real danger. All of which would have been alarming, except that it kept bringing him gold, it stashed a brush in his pack to groom itself with, and it grumbled to itself and slept on top of him when they had to stay somewhere cold. 

Weird cow he’d never identified or not, he was rather fond of the thing. Even if it did occasionally yell at villagers.