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anon-e-miss · 3 days
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Before anyone worries, given my track record, I am not turtling, all is well. I’m just helping a colleague make some wedding favours and it’s a bit time consuming.
Should be done tomorrow. In theory.
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anon-e-miss · 6 days
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I will not spend $50 Canadian on an 8” Squishmallow.
I will not.
Noro will turn up in a local store if it is meant to be.
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anon-e-miss · 8 days
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Is it just me or does she look like she’s high as fuck?
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anon-e-miss · 9 days
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The game: why do I have hives?
Yesterday's installment, most likely triggered by the gel glue I used on my nails. I don't think it fully cured and it's a common side effect.
Today's installment, I don't fucking know. I just know I have hives in my inner elbow and on my collarbone.
If anyone is new to this "game" of mine, the answer is, I will never know. I have chronic urticaria and chronic rhinitis. Neither is the the result of allergies, I have been thoroughly tested on that front, and this is an unknown autoimmune trigger. I have tested negative for MS and Lupus, the most common causes of this so while I am really fucking annoyed it keeps happening, thinks could be worse.
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anon-e-miss · 9 days
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Tattoo’d Prowl. How can I ply with the idea again…
Perhaps bolder tattoos, the psalms coloured black or red or gold.
Is the cult perhaps feared or really shunned in Polyhex so Prowl immediately gives him bad vibes?
Décisions.
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anon-e-miss · 10 days
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Yes, I really needed my whole fecking hands developing hives. This isn't distracting at all.
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anon-e-miss · 10 days
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Dropping in to say I think it's neat what you do with Jazz and Prowl, all your story lines have a vibrancy to them.
Thank you!
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anon-e-miss · 10 days
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I’ve been contemplating becoming a member of your Patreon for about a month now and before I decide anything, I need to know.
How big is the google docs access?
And just how many unpublished drafts are there?
Thanks for the questions.
There are no unpublished drafts right now because I haven’t been writing those fics. It’s more of a sneak peak before fics are beta’d.
My Patreon has been dead, as in I haven’t posted, since family and work stress broke my brain.
I think I need to be honest and say I recommend waiting as I revamp it and get posting. When I post Pateeon fic I do share them here so people can decide if they want to wait or to subscribe.
I appreciate the subscribers that have stuck with me so much and I also appreciate the former subscribers for the support they gave. I have no doubt my frequent turtling is frustrating.
I hope I can have a proper schedule of posting by the end of this month but it might be wishful thinking.
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anon-e-miss · 11 days
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A Touch of Sight
“The price is two silver shanix.” Jazz turned his helm in search of the speaker. The voice was unusual, and it true his attention. It was
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A Touch of Sight - 2
“We’re here,” Smokescreen called breathlessly. Prowl did not need to see to know the “we” was Bluestreak. “Did you have a good mega-cycle at
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A Touch of Sight - 3
When Jazz returned to the palace grounds he found Ironhide barking commands at the latest rookies to accept the Prime’s brand. Gruff and dem
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A Touch of Sight - Interlude OP/Ironhide
Ironhide turned over the cracked barrel. There was no mending it but that did not mean the blaster itself was scrap. The forge smouldered in
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A Touch of Sight - 4
“Well, it looks like none of the internal structure of yer servo were damaged,” Medic Fixit declared. “I’ll knit yer sentio metallico and ya
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A Touch of Sight - 5
The Praxian youngling’s doorwings wiggled with excitement as he placed his order for fried garnet cakes from the vendor. His blue paint had
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A Touch of Sight - 6
There was a knock at the door. Prowl frowned. It was not the first of the quartex, rent was not yet due and he had not reported any problem
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A Touch of Sight - 7
“Yo, Swin,” Jazz called to the merchant as he entered his shop without knocking. Swindle jerked with surprise, coins scattering everywhere.
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A Touch of Sight - 8
Jazz had never heard a song as beautiful as the one the crystals sang for Prowl. The Praxian stepped amongst the crystals, doorwings and arm
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A Tough of Sight - 9
Somehow, Prowl lost all concept of time. They lingered at the lunch table. The soup Punch had served a crusty loaf of energon bread to dip i
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A Touch of Sight - 10
“Fire!” Jazz heard the first shoot as he walked down he ambling road that led to the servants gate of the palace. He turned back and listene
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Since Starsheild kindly bundled links together for me, here's all of A Touch of Sight in One convenient location... until Tumblr eats the tags and buries it amongst my ramblings.

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anon-e-miss · 11 days
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HELLSITE! Why have you blacklisted my laptop.
The Harlot Machine demands access to her repository!
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anon-e-miss · 11 days
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i hate being That Anon but is it possible to update the Touch of Sight masterpost? for some reason 10 doesn't show up when I click on the tag QwQ
I will as soon as I can. I’m not able to post anything from my laptop write now.
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anon-e-miss · 11 days
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A Touch of Sight - 10
“Fire!” Jazz heard the first shoot as he walked down he ambling road that led to the servants gate of the palace. He turned back and listened. “Fire! Fire! The market’s on fire!”
Ori? Prowl? Smokey? Blue? Jazz shook off his shock and transformed. He barrelled down the streets at the same time as mechanisms, roused from their berths from the screams ran into the streets and looked up at the black smoke filling the night sky. As he raced down the hill, he realized it was not the market that was burning, Ori was safe, the smoke billowed up from Devil’s Acre, the very rookery where Prowl and his mechlings lived. As he drove closer, Jazz’s spark clenched in his chassis. Before he even saw the crowd and the flames he had known, he had known it would be Prowl’s home ablaze. He transformed as he reached the seen. Mechanisms, Prowl’s neighbours were sitting on the sidewalk in various states of distress. Neither Prowl or the mechlings were among them. The roof was on fire, the very top floor; the very floor Prowl lived on with his creations. A figure stumbled out of the burning building, hacking violently. It was Punch.
“Ori!” he exclaimed and he ran for his originator and guided him away from the building.
“I... cough... couldn’t get to them,” Punch said between coughs. “The stairs, the floor, its all burning.”
“Did ya see’em?” Jazz asked. Punch nodded pointed up as he coughed and Jazz looked up. He saw a face in the window. Someone, Prowl likely, had already broken the glass.. Jazz waved his arms. “Help’s comin’!”
“Help! Jazz! Help!” Smokescreen cried. “The wall’s starting to burn!”
“Hang in there!” Jazz shouted. “Help’s comin’. I promise!”
“It ain’t,” one of Prowl’s soot covered neighbours lamented. “Fire marshal won’t come here. They don’t serve Swindle’s properties.”
“Scrap,” Jazz cursed. “Are ya able, Sir?”
“Yeah,” the mech coughed once. “Just took a bit of smoke trying to get ole couple next to be out. They don’t move too good.”
“Can ya drive to the fire station?” Jazz asked. “Tell to get their afts here on order o’ the Lord Inquisitor.”
“If they don’t listen?”
“Tell ‘m I’ll put them to the sword myself,” Jazz said. “This street ain’t gonna burn ‘cause they got a beef wit Swin. That ain’t a threat. Ya tell’m that. It’s a promise.”
“Yes Sir!” The neighbour transformed and raised towards the fire station located deep in the market.
“Hey! You!” Jazz waved a bystander who was giving coolant to the victims. “Go to the palace. ‘N get the to wake the Master o’ Arms ‘n Medic Ratchet. Tell’em theirs a fire ‘n the Lord Inquisitor called for ‘em.”
“Yes, My Lord!” The femme said. She transformed into a slick motorcycle and raced towards the palace.
“Ain’t ‘nough time,” Punch said.
“I know,” Jazz replied. “Anyone go some coolants I can use?”
“Oiy!”Another bystander stepped forward and offered Jazz the cube. It looked to be the last one on hand.
“Thanks,” Jazz said. He offered it to Punch first, who took a swig. Then he took rags from his subspace and soaked them. “Do ya know where the weaver’s shop is?”
“Aie.”
“Take some friends, take all the energon and coolant ya can carry ‘n bring it here, take care o’ everyone,” Jazz ordered. “That’s my Ori and his shop... just sayin’... in case anyone gets any ideas.”
“Be careful Jazz,” Punch ordered. “But be quick.”
“‘M always careful,” Jazz replied.
His originator scoffed. Jazz did not counter, their definitions of careful were different. He wrapped the wet rags around his servos and rolled his shoulders. The wall of apartment building was cool at street level, it would not be as he climbed higher. Stretching his arms up as he jumped, Jazz servos magnetized to wall. Digging his pedtips in, he started to climb. Swindle may not have been so shoddy with his upkeep after all. Jazz had seen buildings like this in the Dead End burn up in nanokliks but then, Jazz supposed that even if Swindle had insurance on it, the payout would not cover future lost rents. They would still have a talk later. If shoddy electrical work had started this, Swindle would pay for it. Heat radiated from the wall as he climbed higher. Thick smoke poured out the wind. He saw a tangle of thread trapped on ragged glass dancing in the smoke and looked down. A makeshift rope lay in a pile on the ground. Unlike that rope, Jazz would not let them down. The coolant soaked rags around his servos were heating up. He could hardly touch the tips of his digits to the wall it was so hot but he grit his denta and pushed on.
“Jazz!” Smokescreen coughed as his head poked out of the black cloud of smoke. He disappear for a moment and reappeared, pushing a pillow against the jagged glass.
“‘M here!” Jazz choked on a face full of smoke. The back wall of the apartment was a wall of fire. The floor was wet. Broken pipes from the washracks. It was starting to steam. Prowl was standing next to the window, holding Bluestreak’s face towards the fresh air. “‘M here, Prowl.”
“Take them!” Prowl exclaimed, fear clear in his voice. His doorwings were spread wide, guarding Bluestreak from the unbearable heat.”
“Get on my back, Smokey,” Jazz order, swinging one leg over the broken window leg, trying to avoid getting cut up. “I need to hold on. Ya can’t let go.”
“I won’t,” the youngling promised and he crossed his legs around Jazz’s waist and his arms around his neck. Jazz gave his wrist a squeeze as he pulled his leg back out. The wall burnt his palm and his ped tips but he held firm.
“Prowl,” Jazz reached out his servo.
“You cannot carry the three of us down,” Prowl said. “Take Bluestreak.”
“I...” Jazz saw the wall of flames and saw the determined line of Prowl’s doorwings and mouth and he hated that the crystal peddler was right. He took Bluestreak, the little mech still holding the little lupinoid Ori had given him, and held him to his chassis. “Hold on to me, Blue. I’ll be back for ya Prowl.”
“Just do not drop them,” Prowl begged. “Please!”
“I won’t,” Jazz promised. “Hold on Prowl. Stay right here ‘n I’ll be back for ya.”
His servos and peds were burning but Jazz pressed his arms and servos flat against the wall as he shuffled down. Bluestreak was too paralyzed with fear to hold on properly so Jazz tried to form a cage around him with his arms and legs. Smokescreen held the collar of Bluestreak’s armour, with more strength than a youngling should have had but he held tight for both of them. He watched Bluestreak’s doorwings and pressed off the wall just a little to keep them away from the red hot metal. If not for the mechlings, Jazz would have just risked the fall, he had the dexterity of a pneumalion but he could not dug and roll or twist mid fall with the mechlings, not without dropping them and he had given Prowl his glyph. Even as they descended and the wall was no longer burning hot, Jazz’s arms, servos and peds were on fire. Someone reached up and pulled Smokescreen from his back. It was Swindle. Jazz looked at him.
“I didn’t do this,” Swindle insisted.
“It was the crazy mech,” Smokescreen exclaimed. “He was ranting. Said he was burning the demons... then... then he screamed and screamed. I think he jumped into the fire.”
“He was supposed to be in the sanatorium!” Swindle exclaimed.
“Ori,” Jazz jogged to his originator as he called out to him.
“Sweetlin’” Punch took Bluestreak in his arms and hugged him.
“I need to go back for Prowl,” Jazz said. “Take care o’em for me.”
“Be careful!” Punch ordered. There was a loud crackle and the ground rumbled. Jazz looked up and saw the roof collapsing onto Prowl’s apartment.
“Creator!” Smokescreen screamed. Jazz stared up in disbelief. He shook his helm. He did not give up so easily.
“Stay with Ori,” Jazz ordered as he squeezed Smokescreen’s shoulders. “Y’re Creator don’t give up easy, do he?”
“No!” Smokescreen replied.
“Neither do I,” Jazz insisted.
Every step hurt but Jazz ran to the burning building and started to climb. It did not matter how much it burned, as Jazz climbed, it goaded him on. Prowl had faced worse, Prowl was facing worse. The inferno crackled loudly above his helm and he could feel the wall moving as he climbed. He stared up into the smoke and fire and it seemed like Prowl’s whole floor had collapsed. For a nanoklik it seemed hopeless but then Jazz shook his helm and snarled to himself. Prowl had been alone with the mechlings through armegeddon; he was not alone now. Jazz moved to climb around the window below Prowl’s and he gasped as he saw the gaping whole above it. The whole floor had collapsed. He saw a flash of white in the blackened debris and put his elbow through the window. In a frenzy, Jazz broke the window and crawled quickly inside. Coughing as smoke overwhelmed him, Jazz crawled to the debris and pulled and pushed it away as his blistered servos screamed. A wide white and black panel came into view, Prowl’s doorwing! It was still white, his spark sang. It was still white. Jazz dusted off Prowl’s intakes as he dug him out.
“I got ya,” Jazz told him. He did not stir. Energon covered his face from a gash next to his empty optic socket. He was alive. That was enough.
Jazz looked back to the window and over to the door the tenant had left wide open. Lifting Prowl over his shoulder, Jazz climbed through the debris a went to the door. The fire was spreading along the walls. Moving quickly, Jazz raced to the stairs. The smoke was so thick it choked him. As Ori had warned, they had collapsed at Prowl’s floor, they had collapsed here too but the floor’s below still looked intact. Jazz took a leap of faith. He shouted with pain as his burnt treads hit the ground but Jazz did not collapse, instead he ran, taking two steps at the time as his helm throbbed and his peds screamed. As his knees gave way, Jazz was hit with a blast of coolant. He looked to see the barrel of a gun disappear. Servos reached out and pulled him up. Ironhide hauled him and Prowl together out the door.
“I got the idiot!” He exclaimed. Jazz hacked. He could not even argue.
“Bring them over here,” Ratchet ordered. “Well Jazz, that was brave and stupid.”
“Good thing I got ya that fluorite,” he coughed. “He gonna make it?”
“He’s taken in a lot of smoke and his doorwings are burned but his spark rate is good,” the medic replied. “You’re a bloody mess yourself.”
“I got the blighters!” The neighbour Jazz had sent to the fire service station raced up, fire engines following behind him.
“Bring it down!” Ironhide barked as he stepped back into the street.
“Like I told this reprobate, we don’t...” the captain of the fire vigile snapped.
“I didn’t ask,” Ironhide snarled as he flared his armour. “I told ya, bring it down before the whole street goes up. Now!”
“We don’t...” The mech, a fire engine, stood taller than Ironhide but Ironhide had never been intimidated by bigger mech. He pointed his blaster at the captain.
“I said, bring it down,” Ironhide snarled. The other vigiles quickly got into formation. The captain glared but transformed back into a fire engine. Ironhide continued to stare him down. “Do it!”
Smaller vigiles stood on the ladders their larger compatriots extended and reached long poles topped with hooks up to the roof. Together, they pulled and the badly damaged building collapsed with a flurry of sparks and smoke. This could not happen again. Not the fire itself, though it seemed to him like it could have been prevented, it had not needed to happen, but the refusal of the fire service to attend a fire. They were a private operation, they all were. If Jazz had any say, they would be under the Prime’s authority soon. With Ironhide’s support and Jazz was sure he would have it, Optimus would agree, if he did not come up with the idea on his own. Vigiles outfitted with hoses sprayed down the surrounding buildings as Ironhide watched on, blaster hanging loosely in his servos.
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anon-e-miss · 12 days
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A Tough of Sight - 9
Somehow, Prowl lost all concept of time. They lingered at the lunch table. The soup Punch had served a crusty loaf of energon bread to dip in it, was rich and flavourful. Prowl could not think of a time where he had tasted better fuel. It was simpler fare than he had been served in the palace and superior in every way. Perhaps his regular diet of cheap cubes had dulled his pallet but he did not believe that to be the case. Punch’s cooking was not about impressing his betters, it was about fuelling and comforting the mechanisms he fed. Bluestreak did a happy wiggle as he ate the soup and Prowl smiled as Smokescreen snickered. Though Prowl could not see Bluestreak’s face, his doorwings did not have the sensors for such fine detail, he could see his shape, see the cant of his doorwings and Prowl new he was enjoying his meal.
“Such a sweetspark,” Punch praised Bluestreak. “Did ya wanna help me wit the tapestry ‘m weavin’? O’ course ya won’t wreck it, Bitlet.”
“Bluestreak has never taken so easily to any mech,” Prowl told Jazz as he stayed at the table as Jazz cleared it.
“Except for you, Creator,” Smokescreen corrected him.
“It was really more you he was taken with, Smokescreen,” Prowl told his creation. “He was quite terrified me when you brought him to me. In fairness to him, I could not have been pleasant to look at.”
“How’d ya find Bitty Blue, Smokey?” Jazz asked. Prowl’s sparked fluttered in a funny way. It would have been unheard of for anyone to be so familiar with Smokescreen, even Prowl had been to free in their interactions. They were sweet pet-designations.
“I was looking for medicine for Creator,” Smokescreen explained. Prowl listened to the harmonics in Smokescreen’s voice, ready to hush him and to warn the Lord Inquisitor off but Smokescreen’s voice was clear and strong. “Creator doesn’t complain but he was in so much pain and he was running a fever ‘cause the burns were infected. He was resting and I wasn’t supposed to go far... but I did. I heard running energon. We hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in... forever it felt like... I thought it would help, maybe. I followed the sound into a cave. I found Bluestreak all alone sitting on the far side of an underground river. Everything before that had been scorch but the river must have stopped it because everything on his side was... perfect.”
“How long were the three o’ ya travellin’ alone for?” Jazz asked.
“A quartex,” Prowl replied. “I think. We stumbled upon a refugee camp.”
“They tried to chase us off,” Smokescreen had a sneer in his voice.
“They were scared,” Prowl hushed him.
“You were hurt,” Smokescreen countered.
“I was not the only one,” Prowl replied.
No, Prowl had not been the only injured mechanism in the camp. The stench of infection had been been everywhere Prowl had turned. There had only been one mechanism in camp with any training in first aid, a farmer’s creation who had learned to tend the ills of the sheepacron they had raised. With smoke still hanging heavy in the air, it had kept the odour of rotting sentio-metallico from fading. There had been no solvent, no coolant and no clear source of energon. Prowl had taken the mechlings away from camp in search of a few breaths of clean air. He had almost missed the faint tinkle of the wiluite they walked past. His audials and doorwings had not been so well tuned then and he had felt blindly along the ground for a while before uncovering a cluster of crystals under the broken root of a fallen tree. Another survivor had found a creek and between the two pumices and tisanes had been brewed and more of the wounded had survived thanks to these interventions than otherwise might have.
“I learned I could find crystals blind,” Prowl explained. “I did not plan to forage for our living but I learned quickly that begging is a dangerous way to try and survive. Traffickers tried to buy the mechlings from me and I knew I had to do something else lest one of these monsters snatch them from me when my guard was down. I trained my doorwings and my audials to guide my servos. We do not prosper but we do well.”
“I can see clear as crystal how well ya take care o’ these two,” Jazz said. “Ya must o’ had Blue seen by a medic.”
“There is no physical cause to his mutism,” Prowl explained. “And so nothing for them to treat. Often, even his servos are mute, his doorwings usually are. I do not know precisely what he saw but I know it was a horror because that is the story all Praxians share. Every time he becomes a little surer of his “voice” something spoils it. I am amazed at how well he has bounced back this time.”
“This time?”
“The teacher at the temple screamed at him for not answering,” Smokescreen explained. “He knew Blue doesn’t talk but he thought we were making excuses and making him weak. I got in his face and he hit me. See? You can see the scar. Fixit said it’ll probably disappear since I’m young and healthy.”
“Did ya report the slagsucker?” Jazz asked, his tone dark and foreboding as he looked over Smokescreen’s servo. He did not apologize for his crass language. Prowl elected not to scold him.
“The medic I called did,” Prowl replied. “The priest we spoke to at the Cornerstone took issue as well. I believe the cur will be disciplined.”
“Good,” Jazz said. “If they leave anythin’ for me, I might put some licks in o’ my own.”
“You do not need to trouble yourself,” Prowl replied.
“Ain’t trouble,” Jazz replied. “Scrappin’ bullies is a pleasure.”
Prowl imagined Jazz meant it. He knew the duties of the Lord Inquisitor did not end at operating a spy network and he doubted Jazz prioritized keeping his servos cleaning when enemies were revealed, either from within Iacon or beyond its borders. The Optics of Praxus had not been so different, though Prowl could not picture Camshaft walking through markets to recruit his agents, Praxus chief spy had bloodied his servos when the situation called for it. Prowl had lived his whole life under the watchful gaze of hundreds of spies, both those employed by the Optics and those employed by any number of dukes and earls, each of them waiting for him to make a misstep and he had always thought Camshaft to be the exact same sort until the last Optics of Praxus had defied Nightstalker and abetted the escape of the sparklings of executed lords, “traitors” to the Emperor’s reign. Camshaft had paid for that act of mercy with his life. Faced with the same situation, Prowl believe Jazz would make the same choice but perhaps that was just wishful thinking.
Somehow, they visited so long with Jazz and Punch that Punch insisted they might as well stay for dinner. Smokescreen had been delighted by the invitation to help with dinner. He had never cooked, neither had Prowl, princes did not dirty their servos with such menial tasks. If a prince wished to occupy his servos, he might go hunting, write poetry or arrange crystals. Though the nobility often had greenhouses on their estates, they were usually staffed by gardeners. They might play about with propagation but they did not turn the soil or weed the garden beds. Prowl had been consider eccentric for his tending his own crystals and for dancing for them. As it had stood, many of his predecessors had been known for eccentricities and his gardening hobby had been quite mild compared to those of his ancestors, and his elder brother.
Jazz dug out a bag and marbles and showed Bluestreak how to play the game. Prowl stretched his doorwings wide and basked in moment. Smokescreen snickered at something Punch said and Bluestreak’s near mute doorwings fluttered as Jazz praised him. These were good mechs, truly good mechs. Prowl could believe Jazz did the work he did for the sake of the citizens of Iacon and not for fame and fortune. They both appeared to shun the temples and yet they were more godly mechs than any priest Prowl had known. He doubted he would be of much use of to Jazz, beyond reporting on counterfeit coin or petty scams. Apart from his time spent selling crystals, Prowl was reclusive. It was not an accident that he put his mat down well away from the corner of the market most Praxians. Though neither he or Smokescreen wore the armour of royalty, Prowl feared someone might one mega-cycle recognize them. His burns served as something of a mask and Smokescreen had largely been kept from public view but even if it was unlikely, it was not impossible that they might one mega-cycle cross paths with someone who had attended court and there was nothing that scared him more.
“Let me walk ya home,” Jazz said after dinner.
Prowl thought he should demure. He knew the market, as did his creations but Prowl knew Jazz would insist and Punch would as well. Beyond that, Prowl found he liked the Lord Inquisitor’s company. Bluestreak’s doorwings danced on his back. They did not move in a manner that “spoke” glyphs but in emotion. Bluestreak held knit lupinoid toy to his chassis. Punch had given it to him from his stock. It was now the single most precious thing in Bluestreak’s world. Smokescreen gave Bluestreak and “Woof” a piggyback ride as Prowl walked behind with Jazz, keeping his creations “in sight” in the only way he had. The air was cool on his plating but not unpleasantly so. Soon Saltus would give way to Calor and the dark-cycles would become unpleasantly hot. Such was the way of the seasons. In the next quartex Prowl would need to forage for the crystals that would disappear or go dormant during Calor, to awaken the next Saltus. He would treat them with a tincture to preserve them for sale for the quartexes to come. Prowl paused at the door when they reached his building. Jazz opened the door for him.
“Ori’d expect me to see ya all the way home,” Jazz said. Prowl smiled and he supposed that was true but Jazz, for all his lack of courtly manners was a gentlemech to his core. Insisting on his originator’s behalf was simply a convenient excuse.
“If you wish,” Prowl replied. “Thank you. Your originator is a wonderful mech.”
“When he told ya to come by any time to take a meal, he meant it,” Jazz said. “I hope ya know. He’d love to see more o’ yer bitties. He’s got a hankerin’ for grandbitties and he don’t got any comin’ from me or Rico.”
“Neither you nor your twin have intendes or conjunxes?” Prowl asked.
“Rico’s sweetspark died in riot back in Polyhex,” Jazz explained. “Don’t think he’s even ready to look for someone to open his spark to again. ‘N I... guess I’ve always thought wit my work, it would be too dangerous. I got enemies ‘n I can handle’em but I couldn’t handle’m comin’ after my family.”
“Are you afraid for Punch?” Prowl asked.
“More afraid for anyone dumb ‘nough to test’m,” Jazz replied. “I learned everythin’ I know from ‘m. I thought he outta have this job ‘n not me but he’s where he wants to be.”
“He seems... happy,” Prowl said. “Genuinely so.”
“Thank ya,” Jazz sighed. “I always worry ‘m just bein’ hopeful thinkin’ the same. It was hard, real hard when my genitors died. A part o’m died wit them and he lived for our sake. I was startled to feel like he was findin’ his joy again.”
“I do believe he is,” Prowl turned his helm to “look” down at Jazz and smile. He paused as he stepped on the next stair. “Oh! Swindle fixed the lose step!”
“I may o’ had a glyph wit’em,” Jazz told him. “He knows I got ya in my... protection I guess. He won’t give ya trouble. Mech’s so scared o’ bein’ poor again he’s stingy but he’s more scared o’ me than losin’ his coin.”
“You are familiar with each other?” Prowl asked.
“He’s a useful mech to know,” Jazz replied. “Sell information, it’s usually good. I killed his conjunx so he gives me a good deal... He deserved it. Sold their mechling a creep that fancies youngling.”
“The monster,” Prowl hissed.
“I got Devcon back for’m and made’m a window so even though a scare the scrap outta him, Swindle, sorta likes me,” Jazz explained. “Was this the only suite available when ya came lookin’ for a place?”
“It was,” Prowl said. “With some many refugees, it was hard to find any place we would not have to share. Swindle is... stingy but in his defence, I never complained about the step. I wanted us to be left be he does and that’s all I really ask.”
“If ya e’er find yerself in a bind, go to ‘m,” Jazz said. “If ya can’t find me or Ori. He’ll keep ya safe ‘til I can take over.”
“Are you sure?” Prowl asked.
“100%.”
“I’ll let ya get to berth,” Jazz said. “Wit the mechlings started their new school in the light-cycle ya probably wanna get’em down quick.”
“Thank you, yet,” Prowl said. The priest we spoke to spoke some chirolinguistics. He promised the instructors would all be made aware and they provice meals to all their students.”
“Sounds like a good place for ‘em for sure,” Jazz said. “I’ll see ya soon.”
“Good dark-cycle, Jazz.”
The mechlings said their goodbyes. Bluestreak gave him a quick hug. It really had been the perfect mega-cycle. They had good fuel in their bellies and the promise of more. Fuel alone might help Smokescreen find some value in his class. Prowl had a loaf of bread for a snack as he sold his crystals throughout the cycle and Punch had told him to expect a visit around lunchtime. He would likely be well-fuelled to. It had been a perfect mega-cycle but it had been a long one. The mechlings had been gathering with him for joors before Jazz had appeared and they would normally have gone to their berth a joor earlier but none of that mattered. This would be a mega-cycle Prowl would dream about for a long time. Smokescreen crawled into berth first, followed by Bluestreak would curled up with his new toy and made a silent, blissful sigh. Prowl crawled into berth last, with doorwings uncovered, facing the door, watching the door, as they recharged.
“Jazz thinks your pretty,” Smokescreen said as he made himself comfortable.
“Oh I do not believe that at all,” Prowl’s intakes flexed and his glossa felt thick and awkward.
“He couldn’t stop looking at you and smiling with googly optics,” Smokescreen replied.
“He has a visor,” Prowl said. “I know the shape.”
“Doesn’t stop googly optics.”
“Silly mechling,” Prowl huffed. Smokescreen snickered as they all snuggled together under their one blanket. Prowl drifted down to recharge with Smokescreen’s glyph repeating in his helm. He rarely dreamt in colour but this dark-cycle he saw his processor’s imagining of Punch’s shop and all the colourful things Bluestreak had been delighted by. There was laughter in the kitchen as Punch prepared a treat with the mechling. He imagined one of the laughs as Bluestreak, sweet and innocent. Jazz pulled him towards a private corner. Prowl threw off the blanket as he broke into a coughing fit. It was too hot. The air was heavy with acrid smoke. He walked towards the door and felt a wall of heat too intense to pass. Prowl heard it crackling. Fire.
“See the demon burns? See? See?” Prowl heard his crazed old neighbour yelling a mechanisms that were not there. “Yes... Yes... I will’ll be transformed.”
“Aiiiiiie!”
“Creator!” Smokescreen called out, coughing as he did.
“To the window!” Prowl ordered, between coughs. “There is no other way out!”
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anon-e-miss · 12 days
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There's no way at all for me to use this for terrible things.
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anon-e-miss · 12 days
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Once I feed my sourdough starter a few times, since it was abandoned while I was away, I want to make sourdough with pea flower and tumeric to make yellow, blue and green swirls.
Because peacock bread would be amazing.
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anon-e-miss · 13 days
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Sometimes I literally do my makeup to help get into the “write” mood. Nothing quite like a dark lip to put me in an evil mood.
Also… dark Energon cocktail.
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anon-e-miss · 14 days
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The Desert Blooms - 10
“I know it wasn’t an easy decision,” Jazz told Prowl. 
Crowds had lined the streets cheering as they had ridden to the temple in a sedan chair. They had not come across as vindictive or wrathful to Prowl. He had searched the faces of thousands of mechanisms for hatred and he had only found jubilation. With singular joy, they had cheered the return of Amalgamous’ sparkline to the throne of Polyhex far more loudly than they were cheering Barricade and he taking the Touch of Adaptus. The worst of the indolent fool’s excesses had been well hidden and well managed during his life. If he had not been assassinated while serving as Prime in Iacon, there was no telling how much worse it would have gotten for Polyhex. He had named Zeta Major, Prowl’s eldest uncle his heir. The same uncle who had first attempted to murder Camshaft when they had been small sparklings. Zeta Prime had known who had arranged for this and had allowed his originator, the Emperor to collect on his debts by invading Polyhex. Perhaps it was karma that Zeta had been assassinated by Sentinel. Regardless, Prowl did not grieve the mech and unlike Amalgamous there was no cult in Praxus celebrating him. Windbreaker had only made a token show of anger at the murder of his first emerged. A simple bribe had been enough to see him turn his troops away from Polyhex. Sentinel had overpaid. Those troops had been simple conscripts pained to look like noble creations, trained from emergence for war. Zeta had not been worth even a single battalion of Praxus’ elite troops.
Barricade and Ricochet had been ushered off into their own room. Prowl wished he was not here to endure this but Barricade would not go and Prowl had made his peace with it. Jazz kept him company as they waited. As they spoke, priests were brewing the tisane that would unmech him. He had come to the temple wearing his armour, polished to a shine, he would leave in a silk gown. Already, it was hanging over the chair in the sitting room. The material was so fine, that Prowl hardly felt it against his sentio-metallico. To think this was what he was to wear for the rest of his life. It was unlikely he would be permitted to wear armour as Punch did, no matter the circumstances. Though having seen the welts and sores armour left on the revolutionary Touched, Prowl did not believe he would be terribly inclined to break that convention. In for a thoughtful touch, Punch had woven the cloth himself, creating a beautiful floral pattern. He had woven silks for Barricade as well in rich purple and black. It had been the norm when Punch had been Touched that the silks they wore to be perfectly sheer, simmering white. Prowl thought he understood why and it had nothing to do with the fragility of the Touched. Pigment and embroidery, done correctly added some modestly to a Touched’s garb and modestly was not their due. Would there be grumbling when he stepped out in his for the first time? The gown was sheer where there was no embroidery but there was embroidery over his array and his wells. His spark chamber would be bare between the panels of silk that made his bustier. It could hardly be called a chest plate.
“It was not as hard as I would have wished,” Prowl replied, twisting the soft silk of the gown’s skirt with his digits. 
His vestigial claws had been painted gold. Punch has not been sure if they would fall off as he was changed or if they would impale his digits internally if they were sheathed so for the time being, they were on display, perhaps they always would be. Would they still grow? The Emperor’s were long, as long as each digit in length and he kept them painted red and viciously sharp. His originator had always kept his claws short and unpolished and Prowl had always done the same. Camshaft and not seen the point of lacquer when he dug in the garden as often as he could. 
“Barricade would not have liked it if I had chosen death but he would have understood my reasoning, even though he disagreed with it. I could not have explained it to Bluestreak. He would have only known more pain, more loss. I was not sure if his little spark could take it. After I spoke to Ratchet, he confirmed my fears, there was really no choice at all.”
“Do ya regret’m imprinting on ya?” Jazz asked.
“No,” Prowl replied, smoothing the silks he had wrinkled. “Maybe I should?”
“Ya got a spark for love, nurture‘n protection,” Jazz declared and Prowl found his cheek plates warming. “Ya don’t regret doin’ what ya did for my framekin, do ya?” 
“No.”
“Even now?” Jazz asked. “Knowin’ that they celebrate what’s comin’?”
“Do they not see it as a blessing?” Prowl asked. “In the Lower and the Least?”
“Yeah,” Jazz replied. “They don’t know better.”
“Exactly,” Prowl replied. “They do not know better.”
“Y’re a good mech,” Jazz replied. “I can’t give ya the life ya deserve but I’ll do right by ya.” 
“Thank you,” Prowl said. “Punch is a fine mech, one of the finest I have met. You and Ricochet do him great honour as his creations. I believe you will show yourselves worthy as kings.”
“I hope you’ll be willin’ to advise us.”
“Of course.”
Punch brought Bluestreak to him a final time before the ceremony. The bitlet all but threw himself from Punch’s arms and into Prowl’s. He clung so hard, digging his tiny, clawed digits into his armour. Bluestreak latched hard, harder than he ever had and he suckled with great urgency. Prowl stroked his back and crooned to him. Since Bluestreak had fully imprinted on him, the bitlet had not been away from Prowl’s side for even a moment and this mega-cycle they had been apart for two joors already as Prowl had been detailed from ped to helm and the pure bitlet was beside himself. The violent loss of his biological family was still far too fresh, Prowl realized and he just could not cope with a prolonged separation. What were they to do after the ceremony?
”Seems like yer gonna have to bring Bitty Blue to us soon as ya think Prowl can handle it,” Jazz said as he stroked Bluestreak’s helm. The touch helped to reassure Bluestreak further and he became less frantic in his nursing. Prowl sighed with relief and he nodded.
”I will,” Punch promised. “I’ll take good care o’m. I promise.”
Prowl trusted him. He knew Punch would dote on Bluestreak even more if only Bluestreak would let him but Bluestreak had become very clinging as soon as Prowl had begun to lactate for him. Punch was one of the two mechanisms that Bluestreak could enjoy a little snuggle with, Barricade was the other. He loathed Ratchet at the moment. All the pain and confusion he had endured had been overlaid onto Ratchet. In time that would fade, Prowl hoped. Eventually, Bluestreak would be old enough to be reasoned with but he was just a tiny bitlet, not even a stellar-cycle old. Prowl wished he knew what his procreators had designated him and what they had been called themselves but their Praxian neighbours had all fled and no Polyhexian neighbour had come forward with information. It was unfair; their creation deserved to know them.
“Y’re sure?” Jazz asked as the temple bells rang. It was time. Prowl cocked his helm.
“Would you prefer if I changed my processor,” he asked.  
“Primus no,” Jazz exclaimed. Prowl raised his doorwings in surprise at the force of Jazz’s cliffs.
“I believe you,” Prowl sighed and his doorwings drooped with relief and he found himself flushed again. Jazz smiled at him and it was a charming smile.
“I don’t wish the Touch on ya, but I wish for death less,” Jazz replied with simple sincerity. “I wish I could think o’ some way to spare ya this that wouldn’t mean war with the chiefs. I wish, I didn’t think sacrificin’ ya was the best answer we were gonna get.”
“I do not wish for any more harm to your framekin,” Prowl said. “They have suffered long enough. I was always intended to be a sacrifice. In this way, I can serve as a shield against the Emperor’s machinations, rather than a convenient excuse for war.”
“I hope some mega-cycle I get to tell yer ori what a good pair o’ mechs he raised,” Jazz replied.
“I cannot imagine Originator being permitted to come here,” Prowl said and he grieved that with all his spark. He missed Camshaft dearly. He wished he could tell him that he was going to the temple and to the Touch with a clear helm. If Camshaft ever did make his way to Darkmount, it would not bode well for Jazz or Ricochet.
“From what ya told me, he ain’t the sort to ask permission,” Jazz replied.
No, Camshaft had never been inclined to ask permission from the Emperor and unlike the adage that it was better to ask for forgiveness than permission, Camshaft did not ask his originator’s forgiveness when he did as his willed. But Windbreaker was both cruel and petty and he knew his second creation perfectly well. It would hurt him to be forever separated from his creation, just as it would hurt Prowl, the most reviled of his grandcreations and Prowl had no doubt Windbreaker would make it all but impossible for them to reunite. Prowl prayed his originator faced this cruelty with stoicism and not temper. He did not want Camshaft killed. Perhaps, in time, one of his uncles, or perhaps his aunt would draw the focus of Windbreaker’s ire and Camshaft would have the chance then. Windbreaker hated Camshaft even more than he hated Prowl. It would take quite a grievous error to distract the emperor’s wrath from spiting his Second emerged.
Symbolically, it needed to appear that the one to be Touched went to the blessing willingly. The fact force was applied in the background, as it had been for Punch, as it was now for Prowl and Barricade, could not be on show. Prowl imagined there had been times when mechanisms took the Touch fully willing but Prowl suspected more often than not there was familial pressure and manipulation behind it. No mechanism after Prowl and Barricade would be faced with this pressure. Jazz and Ricochet had stayed out on the burning sands until the playing on their legs and arms had burnt and blistered to ensure they found every crystal and destroyed every one. They would go out again, Jazz had told him, at least once a vorn to make certain no new crystals ever grew.
Prowl stood in the doorway and waited. He saw Barricade take a goblet from from the priest at his own door and brush past the mech mid-blessing. He walked past Prowl to join him in his room. Prowl lightly dipped his doorwings as Ricochet followed after him. Prowl took poisonous tea from the high priest as the priest Barricade had interrupted, rushed to join him and the priests blessed them both as they exalted Adaptus. Jazz waved them off and closed the door. This was a private thing. Though Prowl would be presented when the ordeal was over, to show all, mostly the court, it had been done. Setting the poison down, Prowl removed his armour as Punch had advised. Prowl shrugged his doorwings as the others watched anxiously as he retrieved the poison and drank it down.
Pain!
He screamed but no sound came out. Prowl felt to the floor, saved from falling flat on his face by Jazz’s quick catch. It felt like Jazz’s digits were digging into his plating. Over and over Prowl wretched as it felt like shards of glass carved their way through his fuel tank and energon lines. It felt like acid was burning through his array. Servos cupped his helm as he writhed on the floor. The carpet scratched his sentio-metallico; it felt like hundreds of small knives cutting over and over. A keen deafened him and for a moment Prowl thought it was his own but his spark flared and Prowl dragged himself onto his knees and he crawled towards the door. Bluestreak. Bluestreak was hurting. His legs gave way as the poison burned like acid through his array. Was he leaking energon? It felt like he must have been. Though it felt like the carpet would skin him, Prowl pushed himself up onto his elbows. Bluestreak. Bluestreak. The door flew open and the keening became louder.
“What’s wrong with him?” Barricade demanded.
“He feels it through the bond,” Punch explained. “Jazz, help’m sit up.”
“I don’t wanna hurt’m,” Jazz sounded distressed.
“Ya will,” Punch replied. “It can’t be helped.”
“‘M sorry Prowl,” Jazz crooned and he pulled Prowl into his arms. Prowl thrashed. A cry finally escaped his vocalizer. Jazz was crushing him!
“Hold the bitty to his chassis,” Punch ordered.
“Won’t that make it worse?” Jazz asked. A weight like a boulder pressed against his chassis. Bluestreak’s spark screamed against his and Prowl stopped his thrashing and crossed his arms over the bitlet and trembled with pain beyond agony. His ventilations came in hisses as he tried to still his spark so as to soothe Bluestreak.
“No,” Punch replied. He stroked a tear from Prowl’s faceplate. “Their sparks were feeding off each other, creatin’ a loop that mighta been strong ‘nough to gutter’em both.”
“Fraggin’ pit,” Jazz cursed. “‘M so sorry Prowl.”
“Are they okay?” Barricade asked.
“I think the worst is o’er,” Punch said. “Barricade…”
“Ya don’t gotta do this,” Ricochet sounded panicked as he caught Barricade’s wrist. Prowl looked up at his brother and saw a will of fire.
“I only waited in case this was some trick,” Barricade said. He pulled his wrist free and took a step back. Prowl locked optics with his brother. “You aren’t getting rid of me.”
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