AU August 2020

Bluestreak shunted open the shutters to Oil Machinations, the hanging bars clattering in the brittle cold as his plating rattled. Fumbling in his HUD to activate the ident code for the shop's security system whilst balancing several boxes brimming with imported organic delights, he shimmed the door open with his pede before the system could even play him the merry jingle and let him inside.

In a clacking of old infrastructure, the automatic defrosting blowers came on with a tepid bout of air. He waited until it slowly crept towards real warmth, whilst getting an longing optik-full of the parcels propped on his hip. Waiting still, he shifted from pede to pede, going through tiny transformations to free shards of frost and flicking through his old culinary textbooks for inpiration. His optiks landed on the counter and the tools he had prepared when he had last closed up shop. He could taste phantom tar over his glossa.

"Can't mess up the new floor," he said to the grates below him, "just got it installed and all."

As the vents began to belch hot air throughout the store, the frosty layer of solvents began to recede from his wings. He waited just a little longer until his top half was almost clean before arching up on the tippy tops of his pedes to let the hot air melt the parcels' frost as well.

"Come on come on, I don't want to get nasty acid drippings in my imports..."

At long last the parcels were free, along with half of his frame. However, new floor forgetten, he made a beeline to the opposite end of the shop and slowly shimmied the precariously stacked parcels onto the countertop. Bluestreak pinged his ident at them, popping their magnetic seals.

The scent was divine. The hot air wafted hints of aged organic oils and tars about, even through their cork and wax seals. The scent of organic matter was interesting enough as his processor attemped to break down its composition from smell alone, but when he used his claw to shimmy the stopper from a bottle of Cygnus X-1 tar, a dense wave of heady chemotags crept out. He swirled the bottle, letting the rich aroma settle on his glossa. Hints of numerous longchain carbon molecules and even polymers that were nonexistent on Cybertron settled onto his chemoreceptors. The senors were confounded, but Bluestreak was beyond delighted. Even the beeswax of the seal formed a protective silky layer on his claws as he kneaded it in his digits. So many secrets and pleasures to be found on organic worlds!

Should he cure them under UV and add the plasticiser to polymerise them into something chewy and wonderful? He could pull the resulting stretchy solid into strands, braid them, and coat them with the crystal fragments Praxus was so well known for.

With another whiff he thought that that might spoil the lovely single-source tar. Heated and served over a flame, one could taste the sublime notes of minerals and polymers perhaps older than Bluestreak himself.

Then again, he thought, as he shook the final frost remnants off his rear bumper and grabbed for the UV lamp, he was responsible for making the best possible treat from this rare luxury. Preferences varied from bot to bot and frametype to frametype, so it was his responsibility to invite his friends over to try a little bit of everything...

and then order another batch of oil.

The Lineage of Praxian Wings:
From the Selective Breeding of Seeker Wingform Onwards

Authours:
Technoline of Stanix, Cybergen of Vos, Comprehense of Praxis

Published by the Center of Praxian Technogeneology.

Abstract:
As it is known in folk tales and general parlance, the occurance of "wings" (also known as doors,or doorwings) in the Praxian frame type is due to their state's founding members being a troupe of shamed flightless seekers exiled from Vos. This is well known and widely accepted. [1][2][3][4]

However, it has also been recently discovered that these grounded seekers, once thought to be pariah outsiders in their society due to damaged or malformed wings, were not, in fact, part of Vos' lower castes; they were royals of the highest pedigree. [5] What is not well understood is how exactly these royal-line seekers came to be flightless. We propose further cultural research is needed in this area, but it is likely that inbreeding, and especially the selective breeding that focused on the long, slim wings still seen as the ideal in Vos today, caused a thinning and weakening in the outmost regions of the already-hollow wing struts. We see many interred frames lacking wingtips from the ages before the exile[6], especially as breeding became more selective. Other scientists (see Microavion of Vos et al.) said that this was likely due to natural degredation of the corpse. We do not believe it to be so. If this were indeed the extremities decaying, would we not have seen damage on other areas such as the digits and pedes which was not present?

Instead, we propose that as Vosnians adapted to spaceflight, the pointed edges of the wings, and especially their strength, became more and more important. So, these sparklings which once would have been coddled even after having injured these wingtips before full growth (and therefore could not have them replaced, lacking the protoform to graft to a new strut), were now not viable for the line of succession for Winglord, as they could no longer complete the trials (which began to include spaceflight). [7]

These seekers likely quickly degraded in mental state without ardent peer support, and were housed in asylums with pallative care, but, occasionally, some survived.[8] We believe it is these seekers, just before the advent of true long-distance spaceflight in the seekers of Vos, that were shamed and exiled as a stain on the family line.

Modern Praxians maintain some of these alterations and selective breeding traits, such as fragile wing struts [8], impeccable spatial orientation [9], auxilary tanks for in-flight refueling (repurposed as refined energon tanks for Praxus' long winter hibernation or for enriched sparkling-grade in the modern Praxian frame)[10][11], and, in some cases, resistance to vacuum,[12] extreme UV[13] and extreme cold.[14] The last three traits are common enough in Praxians, but with such a high cost to the frame that they must come from some previously established mutation, there is no explaination of pre-spaceflight seekers needing such extreme UV or vacuum resistance had atmosphere-breaking (but not yet long-distance) space flight not been invented.

In conclusion, we believe that selectively bred royal Vosnians with damadged wings as sparklings were exiled to the northern lands of Praxis, which, at that time was frozen wasteland, as punishment. There, they allowed their frames to develop in ways that allowed them to use their wings and abilities for non-flight purposes. The tips of the doorwings were no longer necessary and are now reabsorbed before the 5th term of carrying, as before that physical scans are unable to differentiate between a Praxian and Vosnian frame.[15]

"Huh, kid's got more to 'er than I though."

"Whatcha mean by that, Jackie?" Bulkhead asked, turning from where he was packing their patrol supplies.

Wheeljack, optiks serious, tipped his head over to where Miko was arranging a stuffed animal and a pillow onto a sleeping bag. Both Wreckers watched with not a little concern at the familiarity that the girl had with handling the bag.

The fabric was artificial and non-breathable, almost oily and slick in appearance. The headhole with its elastic that was just tight enough to sit firmly under the chin. There were no other holes. The reinforced zipper along its length that she pulled up to enclose her diary and a small bundle June had told them contained a selection of cotton pads and a menstrual cup. They watched with trepidation as she hummed and went to grab her pillow. The elastic snap of the attached restraining straps made then wince, as she rolled the humanoid silhouette (not so unlike the coffin they had seen in a picture of Fowler) around the pillow.

"She'd, y'know, put her head on that feather sack, and her array against those pads, and that cup in her valve knowing what that thing has been used for?"

The number of offline frames that had been created in it?

"I dunno Jackie, guess those organics just have more acceptance a' death than we do."

"That's not death though, that's gool ol' fashioned torture," the Lancia hissed. Bulkhead could only reply with a confused churn of his engine, while they continued to watch.

Both of the Wreckers had seen and done far more than most in the Autobots would ever know. They weren't strangers to being tortured themselves, and Wheeljack swore he had been in one of those suffication devices before, though he had been too out of it from energon loss at the time to confirm.

"I still remember that time, y'know?"

"Hmm?"

"When they put me in the suffication sack when caught me at that old Decepticon moon base near.

"The way my vents just kept building up, it kept getting hotter and heavier, but I couldn't vent through nothin' but my mouth -- felt like I couldn't vent fast enough, my glossa felt like rust, I --"

"Hey, guys! I'm ready to rock 'n' roll!"

Both bots startled as Miko hollered at them from thirty feet below, clutching her macabre bundle.

Wheeljack chucked weakly, "You're prepped for anything, Mags is sure to warm to ya, just... don't prepare like that around him and you'll be fine."

"Like what?"

"That specialised device you've got there is a bit grey in morality for old tight laced Magnus."

She rolled her eyes, "What, is he one of those teachers who takes your phone if you use it in class or something? Lame--"

"No!" hissed Bulkhead, peering to see if there were any witnesses, "he means the sack."

"The what now?"

"That!" said Wheeljack, gesturing at the roll of fabric under her arms.

"You mean this?"

She quirked her eyebrow, standing with her a sneaky Miko smile creeping onto her face.

"Do you not have them on Cybertron? They're super useful," she said, amused, "just watch this!"

Both bots watched in crude horror as toys and pens clattered from the bedroll Miko was undoing. She unzipped it and slipped in, zipping it back up before Wheeljack got his glossa back.

"Primus below kid, stop! You don't need to prove anything to me! Kid?"

"Miko, please, that thing is dangerous! Miko?"

There was no answer as Miko fumbled around inside, consumed by the fabric as she hunted for the head opening.

Bulkhead and Wheeljack immediately pinged Ratchet and Ms. Darby's cell with their location in a panic, afraid to geab at the tiny organic afraid they could harm her. The siren's wails had begun to reach earsplitting just as Miko popped her head out, wondering what the heck the noise was.

Ratchet looked horrified as he transformed and set Ms. Darby down, but the nurse kept searching the room, and as Ratchet began to move towards the entombed, and now standing, Miko she asked "Where's the emergency?"

"Yeah guys, what's the hubbub about?"

The Autobots stared at Miko, watching as the girl shuffled her way over to Ms. Darby.

"Ms. D? Where's the fire at?"

"Yes, you two, where is the fire?" she said, turning to look at the two Wreckers, who in turn gestured frantically to Miko.

"What crawled up their tailpipes?"
asked Miko.

"Perhaps a more prudent question, considering their concern, is why you're in your sleeping bag miss Nakadai?"

"They don't have 'em on Cybertron! I was just showing them." As Ms. Darby continued to watch with suspicion, Miko continued "and maybe do the worm. Just a little."

The nurse sighed. A concerned and frantic Ratchet then spoke.

"What are you waiting for, get her out of that thing before she suffocates! Her main vents are blocked!"

"Ratchet," she replied, "her mouth and nose and completely unobstructed."

"But her ears! The indentation on her stomach--"

"Ratch," said Miko, eyes mischevious, "do you think... that we breathe out of our bellybuttons?"

Nurse Darby first peered incredulously at Miko, who seemed to be rapidly saturated by prank concepts, then at Ratchet. The doctor let her reaction percholate in his CPU for a bit, then seemed to realise that there had been an interspecies misunderstanding of some kind, and thus sighed, resigned. The good doctor pinched his nasal ridge, a habit picked up from their human compatriots. Nurse Darby followed suit.

Meanwhile, the worry simmering under the plates of Bulkhead and Wheeljack was preyed upon by a ruthless Miko.

"So," she said, hopping closer to them, "do you breathe out of your ears?"

"So, let me make sure I have this correct. Humans have two tiny vents in their nasal ridge which have minimal protection against foreign bodies. They sense the composition of the air via smell. The larger vent beneath this has the same function, except it also eats.

"Besides the point that smell and taste overlap so much as to be confusing, all the vents share only one passage, which also shares its opening with another tube at the mouth that consumes food and drink.

"The cooling using evaporation of water I will give you, that is an ingenious design for non-desertdwelling humans who have their internal organs directly connected to their external ones. But the tubes-- Has no one tried to do a hardware update? After those dialysis machines and trepanning, I see no reason to fear an extra tube. I could install one for you right now, look--"

"Ratchet?" said Raf, looking concerned.

"Yes?"

"The extra tube sounds great and all --I'd have to ask my mom first if we can ever let you meet her -- but I think we all know that Miko would just use it to scare people with how many pieces of liquorice she could eat at a time."

"Hey! My record is already at five!"

"But Ratchet, there are other species on this planet who have it far worse."

The doctor sputtered, unbelieving.

"How can you get worse than sharing a breathing tube with a consumption tube? That cannot be possible."

"Animals like cheetas and dogs can only cool off via their mouths." As Ratchet looked confused as to how they would even function, Raf continued, "and have you ever heard of a cloaca?"

Blaster hadn't fragged a soul last night (it just wasn't his jam), and yet Jazz could still smell the burnt wire sheaths as soon as the carrier opened his room's door. The heavier thuds of his pedes gave away that the cassettes were currently docked. But, they sounded muffled, like the shoes he had worn on a Cultural Studies lecture trip to a site where the floor was made of imported ceramic.

Jazz always turned off the largest vents in his extremities, and left the main ones at half-bore while resting. This allowed him to breathe while still retaining warmth while he was recharging and not producing as much passive heat. He knew some bots had pop-up tents with mesh walls, or heat pumps set directly above their berth that blew fresh, hot atmosphere down on them. But those were for richer bots who had the creds for such a setup and didn't move every quarter-vorn like Jazz had in the past. He'd seen many strange ways of keeping metal from dumping heat in his day as a street musician, but the one the red and orange bot wore perhaps topped the list of absurdities.

The muffling of steps had come from this dense, fluffy material stuck unevenly to his pede plating. similar gaps were left covered in rigid mesh over the slats of vents, it was a form-hugging monstrosity of an outfit. Outfits being something that no normal bot would don. Magnetic charms? Sure. Chain-link drapes? Jazz had a set himself for performing in bars. Fine and dandy. But Blaster?

He looked like one of those organic-wearing councilbots who thought it the height of fashion to wear the pelts of conquered races. It was no suprise that the Iaconian Blaster would have such an extreme set of restwear to prevent the cold from settling into his protoform, especially as attentive to his little cassettes as he was and how stupidly cold Iacon got. But, if Jazz has seen that coming down the hallway at him in the nightcycle, he'd have shanked it, make no mistake.

Continuing his shamble down the length of the hallway, Blaster made very few metallic sounds, even as he stumbled. Even the cacophonic clattering of the waking bits inside his chest was muffled.

Jazz leapt from the Chesterfield before the larger bot could even reach the kitchen, and started a boiler full of artificial tar (not the good imported organic stuff, Blaster was too out of it from last night's bender to tell the difference). As Jazz began the work of brewing a good cube of oil, Blaster and the scent of charred sheaths slid into a stool at the counter. The carrier let his dock's door drop directly onto the hard countertop, as the door was also covered by a hinged fluffly slab of unknown material. Out tottered his lil' gang of misfits, several complaining that they couldn't get any rest while the larger bot had to repair all his own wiring after drinking too hard.

Jazz could only chuckle, his wires were safe from most threats, as his native Polyhex was known for two things: massive acid rain storms, and musicians. Jazz pondered on it as he stirred the black sludge on the stovetop: there was no better way on Cybertron for somebot to test out their wires than by blasting organic screamo from every speaker in their body like Jazz himself did at the club most evenings. Blaster could multitask music tracks, work a recording studio suite, and distribute tunes and info over the airwaves, yes, but not play it himself.

He burnt off the oily residue that bubbled on top of the tar, then dropped a few chunks of fresh rubber into the brew, and finally charring it rich and thick. He set out all the glasses from tiny bitty cubes, to his standard one with a curly straw, and Blaster's larger recangular prism that allowed him to keep some nutrients in reserve for the cassettes when they docked. Jazz served it with a florish that had the cassettes clapping, pouring up all the cubes in one smooth motion without a single drop glooping onto the counter. As each individual started sprinkling in whatever their self-repair hollered the most for, Jazz just dumped a mass of copper, gold, and polymer into Blaster's, stirring it until it became as thick as thermal paste. He slid it to the unresponsive bot with a spoon.

He watched as the carrier was roused by scent of fresh tar, and began to clumsily peel off his fluffy gear, tossing it back behind him onto the chesterfield with a strange muddled thump. Jazz watched him stuggle a little to release the magnetic clips that kept the mesh secure over his vents, yeeting it over his shoulder.

As soon as he was done derobing and looking like he was about to fall back into recharge. Eject then slammed a spoon full of the recovery tar straight into Blaster's gaping gullet, who took the utensil continued to shovel it in, obviously running some automatic feeding program so he could rest while he ate.

Jazz studied the lumps near the Chesterfield, wondering how many paint jobs he could have saved had he been wearing that while sleeping in alleys or unpadded berths. Blaster, while he had scuffs from a thunderous night out networking with other carriers and their cassettes, showed no signs of the rough recharge he had obviously had, where the autonomic system turned bots to and fro to pop out dents and repopulate nanite colonies while they were still sleeping, but left cosmetic finish damage on most bots. After a recharge like that you never woke up in the same position you plugged yourself asleep into.

The auto-run feeding program having finished running, Blaster sat a little straighter, smirking.

"Like my outfit?" asked the carrier.

Jazz gave a good-natured snicker, "I don't know what that is, but it'll give the councilbots a run for their money."

Blaster mock-winced, "Oof, harsh my dude. Come over we'll see how you look with it on."

He waved Jazz over to the scattered pile of garments. There seemed to be a separate covering for each pede; a single piece that covered the front of his chest, his pelvic area all the way around, and two large attatched panels with slits to allow motion which would surround his legs; a part that covered his back, arms, servos, and neck; and, finally, the pièce de résistance
that was the helmet. Reminescent of the Lord High Protector's infamous 'bucket helm', the fuzzy monstrosity had been painted silver by an enterprising cassette to further bring the resemblance to life. The base material seemed to be some sort of fiber-based insulation in a light pink hue, and the back seemed to have strips of magnets beneath some imported organic-produced vinyl -- a rare luxury. The monstosity ensemble's unnerving colour was broken up by stickers likely applied, again, by the cassettes. the locations of main vents were marked by a cutout of rigid wiremesh and magnetic clamps to hold the mesh directly over the vents. It was like a 3D mesh of Blaster had been lain out on the ground.

"These babies? Not cheap in the slightest. I originally just had a separate one for my chest to keep the bitties warm. But, when you get as well known as I do in the broadcasting industry, you want one. I know you'll want one so I already got a fitting planned-- all on me-- and don't you dare object, I'm your manager and you'll find it very useful, I promise."

Jazz nearly felt his spark twist its rotation backwards, how much was this bot willing to spend to make sure they succeded?

"I was iffy about you, where outsiders can often be mistrustful of carriers, but as soon as I met you I knew you'd be the envy of any producer. I would've brought you to the carrier's gathering last nightcycle--you'd've fit in like a wrench on a nut -- but I needed to have the tram tickets booked far in advance of when I first saw you.

"Back to these bad boys, they're synthetic organic insulation with magnetic strips and clamps, a soft backing, and metalmesh to cover the vents. I know back in Polyhex y'all tune your vents very particularly, but you know yourself it ain't enough sometimes. And we'll be going everywhere. These getups allow you to not only keep warm, but they're portable, and prevent scratches on you or any bedfellows from. In carrier meetings, we all recharge in a pile. Some carriers from away use different methods, but in Iacon they're often insufficient, so every meeting has a bunch of these for use by bots from away.

"In combination with a rain tent? Us carriers can stay anywhere on Cybertron to get our info, no matter how cold or damp. Something I'm hoping you'll share with your cultural investigator friends because I'm tired of seeing them suffer.
"Freedom of movement and ease of use are the two most important factors in being a cultural musician, learning the vibes and flows of the different cities. You and your cute personable face?" Blaster leaned over and rubbed the audial horn of Jazz that was closest, and the Polyhexian let a little contended rumble in his engine at the sensation as Blaster continued. "We're gonna do grand things my mech! Also, holy Primus below you're cute. I know that cassettes can't reproduce sexually, but you've some in you somewhere, I swear it."

Jazz let out a snort, "and you've got some 'Hexie in you, too," and playfully pinched one of Blaster's audials.

Jazz stood nervous at the modeller's computer as a T-posing him, in all its illegally-modded Polyhexian glory, rotated slowly. The twitchy little bot had let his manager go over and check out the available materials with his cassettes, and he could see them over there happily mauling a pad of... was that wool‽ Jazz felt his vents stutter as they started asking a salesbot (a cassette in a dashing cloak) about fiber size or something, so he turned back to the modeller. The bot eventually had Jazz plug into the system and provide his vent capacities and specs, as well as showing how his joints moved back in the scanner booth. The tech marked different notes all over the scan, as a smirking Blaster hid the samples he brought over to scanner worker. Then it was over. Jazz insisted on buying them some energon on the way back, cutting every processor thread that started with cost, cred, or debt. All the cassettes seemed delighted by the gift they had decided on for their new buisness partner-cum-potential clade member. A 'platonic courting gift', Blaster called it. Jazz didn't know what to think about it.

When Blaster got the notification on his HUD a dozen cycles later, he immediately booked a fitting timeslot in as soon as physically possible, just before a free cycle. Jazz also knew that there was another tentative appointment booked just after for the both of them, but was too scared to check his schedule to see what it was.

The journey to the shop had Blaster buckled up in Jazz's backseat, but with Ramhorn and Steeljaw sitting in the front seats enjoying the breeze. The Polyhexian had a coverning slapped over his visor as soon aa they stepped foot in the store. Within ten minutes, all the while he felt as the tailors made adjustments to whatever illegally soft material covered the magnets, and to the layers of insulating fiber that were so warm he'd had turn up his vents only a few clicks after being dressed up. With a few final snaps of clasps snapping on his vents, the covering was drawn away, and Jazz saw himself covered in rich brown wool of a shininess he'd never seen before, and was that top grain leather. Touching his plating. He didn't know what to say. He looked like a councilbot. He was cozy.

Blaster and his cassettes padded up to him.

"The whole Iaconi clade pitched in when I told them about you and showed them your demos. We're going to get you dolled up at a salon appointment in a bit, because with this you'll never damage your finish while you recharge. And, whether or not you stay with us, you'll never be cold again."

Jazz was giddly. He was nervous. He was practically vibrating his plating loose. The room on the train has Vosnian-style berths, which worked perfectly well for carriers, and was intended for the lazy, young, elderly, gravid, or infirm. In this case, the train was booked solid by a bunch of carriers, their cassettes, and Jazz, so the berths were still comfortable for their standard method of piling clade members atop one another.

Soundblaster, Bluster, and Twincast, all with variably full docks sat simultaneously, falling together in such a way that one's protruding kibble slipped into the divet of another's. Jazz watched Blaster shuffle up behind the trio, lounging his head on Bluster's ankle joint. The Polyhexian, not quite up to the level of skill required for syncronised lounging, was still an adaptable little bot, and squirreled his way into a cave of limbs just as the cassettes were let free.

The muffled plating of cassettes trotting across the sleepwear-insulated carriers warned him that he was about to become a footstool to one Rewind and two unknown cassettes.

He was illegally cozy.

As the carriers debated over what to put on the room's vidscreen, Jazz watched the frigid Praxian landscape go by through frosted windows. The meeting was happening in Vos, which had seemed strange to Jazz at first, as Vos apparently didn't have any carriers -- collective seeker knowledge was held in the shared windbond, apparently. It only made sense considering that it was carriers and their cassettes planning and attending the get-together, the knowledge-hungry noseybodies they were, and they knew they'd never be invited by the non-existant Vosnian carriers, so they just invited themselves.

The vidscreen flickered, they had finally decided on a documentary in Vosnian about the architecture of the towers. Jazz sighed, his grasp of the language was rudimentary at best, but this was as good a time to review as any.

He... drifted off almost immediately.

The meeting was intense and wild and smelled of jet-grade engex and Vosnian nibbly treats. The hooting and hollering of rambunctious carriers and cassettes absolutely drowned out the voices of the cassettes trading knowledge to enjoy and so that their carriers could preserve it, trading memories like bumper stickers. Given the number of bots hooked up to each of Blaster's cassettes, and carriers asking Blaster which of his cassettes had what files, there was no doubt that Blaster was very, very important. Jazz had never known.

Cassettes were approaching him too, either having heard of his job as a cultural investigator or having thought that he was a very large cassette himself. They were amazed by his demo reel, and even though he gave it freely they still insisted of giving him memories of shaved energon parlours in the Golden Age, of his favourite bands playing live, of Insecticons, and of everything inbetween.

There was even discussion about winged cassettes attempting to break into the windbond as a seeker to share the knowledge within it.

Slowly, the night worse down and people began to don their insulated sleepwear, the mangets slapping onto their plating while tired cassettes slipped into their docks. The pile formed in layers, and a divet was left near the middle which Jazz wondered over until after he finished putting on his gear, whereupon he was guided into it by Blaster.

"An honoured and cozy spot," the red and yellow carrier elaborated, as the wireless recharging station clicked as active on his HUD.

The cacophonous clash and screech of plating that normally would've accompanied such an arrangement was soft shuffling instead; the susurration of warm frames adjusting had Jazz in recharge before his head had finished snuggling into the crook of Blaster's hip.

After a long period of sampling rocks in the playground with the geology instructor, both Chitter and Sandstrafe were ready for recess.

"Ih womfeh," said Chitter, suckling on a chunk of pyrite she had nabbed from the instructor's test rocks, "I wonder if the instructor bot'll have some more stickers today." She stepped her volume down to an excited whisper and continued. "Sire gave me some that are super rare last night, wants me to trade for 'em to see what I can get. But!"

She let her slitted pupils bore into the riveted Sandstrafe's optiks for just a moment.
"He gave me an even better one to keep... wanna see?"

"Yes! Oh, pretty please?"

Chitter lifted a section of panels on her flank, and gleaming beside the dozen or so actual Decepticon stickers from prewar was-

"Is that a real badge?"

"Yup. It was sire's, carrier's is on my opposite flank. It's even got the massive cut in the engraving from a real gladitorial match."

Sandstrafe was sure the hydraulics in his jaw had failed because he was sure his mouth was gaping. He had never seen anyone be allowed to wear a faction badge before.

"And!" the feliniform bot continued, "sire gave me this for you, never been worn-"

She stuck her muzzle into her tiny subspace pouch and nosed aside her lunchbox, pulling it out. Sandstrafe cupped his hands like a bot receiving communion.

An unworn Deception badge was placed into his hands.

"You gotta put the badge under some left side plating, 'cause of the 'deception' bit. And as much as I wanna hear you sing my praises, we gotta get back!"

Standstrafe hobbled behind her, as he tried to slide the badge onto the back of a plate in his left thigh so he could stare at it in class. When he caught up, he managed to nuzzle the top of her head like she loved. The poor bot was beyond words. All seemed well until they were slipping into their spots and screech broke out of Chitter like a soul from the Pits.

She scrabbled about, hissing at her front paw, until Sandstrafe managed to stop her flailing and peel off the offending article. A sticker, ugly and covered in glue. While the feliniform bot nursed the stinging gel pads on her pede, Sandstrafe was preparing a dressing-down like no other and scanning the room until he found -- there.

Sitting across the play area from them was Propulsor, flapping his pointy wings and grinning with his nasty little fangs.

Before anyone in the classroom could do more than tense, their instructor Arcee stepped inbetween the two, taking the whining seekerling out by the wing. She had seen the whole thing, as she often did, and did not have the patience for it that day. Chitter and Sandstrafe bitterly nursed their Capregons.

Arcee's mate had told her that sparklings liked trading stickers as much as bots did during the war, but every time Arcee had to stop a fight because of the blasted things she wanted to put them all in a smelter.

She knew that the other sparkling was merely bitter that he couldn't wear stickers. Seekers couldn't wear them as their aerodynamics were too precise deal with such things. Not to mention that the stickers would probably peel off at such high speeds. Or melt on during atmospheric exit or entry. Or get caught in their engines and just cause general mayhem.

His far more well adjusted seeker brother Stabiliser had very politely asked the shop instructor to help him build a sticker album. So, from some thin steel sheets and some fabric nicked from his carrier's closet(he did have a Skywarp-style mean streak on occasion) the kid had a way to display his stickers that, while it was less cool than being able to flare an armour piece and show your wares like a back-alley booster vendor, was far better for making trades.

Dumping Propulsor in the dean's office, she zipped back to the classroom, only to find a preening Chitter strutting about the class displaying the glint of purple metal that was a real Decepticon badge. She saw another snarling visage -- make that two Decepticon badges. And, on the other side, an Autobot badge.

"Yeah, lots of us have our parents' badges," cried a sparkling, "what makes yours so special?"

A chorus of jealous agreement went around the class. Arcee was kind of envious herself, if that was the Slagmaker's badge...

"I have all my parents' badges. These aren't fakes. The one on my left even has scars from my sire's gladitorial matches pre-war."

Appreciative noises began to circle around, Megatron's badge? What could be better than that?

"Umm?" mumbled a small voice, "I might have a fair trade."

Eyes shot over to the quaint little sparkling who was a smattering of crisp Autobot hues in red, blue, yellow, and white. Arcee smirked, she couldn't wait to hear from the parents about this trade; She knew exactly what was happening. The kid's little audial horns flicked. She could see a question shimmering in the eyes of the other pupils: what could this kid have that would be equal in value to this venerable historic artifact?

The little minibot sparkling reached underneath his chest panel and pulled out a massive Autobot badge, the enamel scuffed and scarred.

"I offer in trade, to spite our parents, the Autobot badge of Optimus Prime, my carrier."

The shock on the faces of these sparklings prompted Arcee to take a few photocaptures for posterity (and to use as blackmail when they all got older), but Chitter's face soon slipped into megomaniacal glee.

"Deal."

His magnets hadn't onlined yet, so the little roly poly bitlet wobbled around the bare floor while Optimus still laboured with his twin. The Prime's eyes were bright with mirth despite his discomfort, watching his first sparkling search for his brother. The sire, Elita, plucked the tiny bit from the floor, nuzzling him and brushing off some shed tubing and dust, placing him atop Optimus' now slightly-less-taut, bulging torso. There, the second sparkling had yet to show any interest in leaving through the ventral seam that had opened up only a three-quarters of a breem before.

When he had awoken that morning, the little countdown timer on his HUD had given him an estimated three breems before he should have felt any desire to exit from the sparklings inside. The first one, the protoform-silver-and-pink-patched bitlet now making plaintative pleas for his brother to the swell of his forge, had immediately squirmed into position. He'd transformed into the spherical altmode he'd have until his fifth instar before Elita had even finished her panicked call to Ratchet. He had nearly been out by the time the doctor had left the hospital complex. From the start of the timer to the bitlet's frame slipping into Elita's cupped servos, his emergence had taken only three-quarters of a breem.

By the time Optimus’ timer finally counted to one, the entranceway swung open to reveal the medbot in all his harried glory. The excitement in his optiks turned to suprised joy at the tiny form of the sparkling perched upon its carrier. Elita-1 had puffed up in pride, watching the medic plug into the Prime and simultaneously attempt to check the squirmy sparkling who wanted only to get back to his brother.

Parting the bitlet’s fur, now shedding to about a handspan in length, the medic absently explained how they should expect it to remain like this until the little one was larger, and therefore better at regulating their internal temperatures. The original length had been all the wiring and tubing that had secured the bit in his carrier’s forge. It could take a few cycles after emergence for the tubes to shorten to the way they would stay until their third instar. The shedding, Ratchet explained, would be uncontrollable until then. After, the fur would again shorten itself to a short fuzz, merely providing abrasion protection as the bitty rolled around in their spherical altmode. Only at the scanning of a bot’s adult altmode at the fifth instar did any Cybertronian loose their fur. As he was explaining to the rapt new parents, he parted the long strands on the bit to see how the nanites were coming in. Finally, with the checks complete, Ratchet had said that there was nothing to do but wait for the other sparkling to get lonely and come out after his brother.

Elita went about petting and stroking the little bit, watching as the remnants of the longest tubes and wires that had sustained him in the forge peeled away to reveal the long fuzz the medic had described. It was slippery and stretchy, almost like silicone, but she could run her digits through it easily.

She regretted the emergence of their sparkling occuring on the deck of a scavenged-parts warship, and not in their old habsuite by the downtown seafront. While the EM fields of the workers and soldiers was welcome and deeply appreciated, she missed the enmeshed supportive waves that came from close neighbours and friends. All of their friends apart from Ratchet were so busy that they would be unavailable until after the sparklings had arrived. They couldn’t afford to sit around waiting at Pax’s bedside while he laboured for who-knew-how-long.

Ratchet chuckled as the pink femme began to pluck strands from her and Optimus' joints and frames while she thought. The medic knew very well that this would be a common occurance until their sparklings were at the stage that they could scan their own altmode, and therefore lose their fur. As Elita had left him an easy escape route, the firstborn wobbled over to his brother, curled within their carrier. The beeps and warbles began anew.

Soon, the other bitlet squirmed, his field reading as harried given the complaining of his older sibling, and Optimus felt the as-of-yet unborn sparkling settled recluctantly into place near the vent's opening. Elita rushed to pluck the first bit so the labouring bot could adjust, and the sparkling clambered to sit on his sire’s shoulder, watching intently. The Prime took up a position on his hands and knees, letting gravity ease the sparkling into his conjunx's hands, and having his amica lean over his back and apply gentle pressure to ease the sparkling from his forge. With an apex of pressure at the forge’s aperture, and a straining cry from the convoy, a teeny spherical form slipped into his sire's servos.

The other sparkling, fur now coming in with shades of striking magenta, scrabbled down from Elita's shoulder where he had been perched watching his brother come to meet him again. Ratchet made a move to begin a checkup on the new bitlet, it not really mattering if it got its sire or its carrier's amica spark imprinted first. The elder silbling was having none of it. With a rattle of plating and a static fluffing of fur, the little bit crouched atop the other bit’s round frame.

The medic stepped back, palms up and his smile betraying his mirth. With his retreat, the magenta sparkling curled around his smaller sibling with a content churr. The younger settled his plating, responding to the first's noise with a happy little chirp.

The larger bit began to knead his tiny servos into the wires and tubes that had sustained the younger until moments before, and soon Ratchet had to grab a vacuum. The shedding had begun as thin wires as long as their forearms began to shed onto every surface, the static making the strands cling to wall and Cybertronian alike.

The three new originators watched with glee as the littlest bot unfurled and began to knead his older sibling in return, easing both their nanites into action.

The faint splotches of magenta that had had Elita entertain thoughts of smugness began to change as the elder sparkling slowly gained colours all through the spectrum of warmth, but mainly kept the lovely magenta as a secondary, with the bright crimson of her conjunx and his amica as his primary. A vibrant colour scheme perfect for an energetic spitfire of a sparkling. However, his tertiary came in with hints at the very base of his fur, revealing itself to be a jovial yellow-orange.

This suprise and comparison of first instar schematics between the code contributors let to the conclusion that they had no idea where this third colour had come from, and flooring them as the other bitlet gained his first online nanites. The cells of the youngest soon sprung into action at the touch of his brother's servos, revealing his one and only colour to be the bright yellow of a sodium flame.

The little bits rolled around and nudged and beeped at eachother, and so born were the sparklings of Optimus Prime, his conjunx Elita-1, and his amica Ratchet. The new royal family having been born on the half-constructed Ark to the tune of distant welders and the raucous well-wishes of contructibots and soldiers alike from their distant EM fields.

While First Aid had set up outside their habsuite to allow only close friends in, the number of surviving noble society bots and nobles outside the door were to leave their thanks and gifts with the trainee medibot, the only one to enter the suite was Mirage with no small amount of smugness. Mirage himself had only entered after the entire command staff brought streamers and chew toys and many many fur-cleaning products. They would be taking whatever breaks they could get to spend time with the new originators, of course. Mirage was glad at this break in tradition, sparklings should be loved by all.

Completed this Cycle, the 12th groon of the Cold season, V3 of the Reign of the Most Noble and Honourable Optimus Prime, by First Aid :D

Mirage of the Most Noble House of Crystin: two sets of identical crystal vibroblades, immediately taken with glee by Elita-1 "until her sparklings are ready for them", presented in a box lined with organic velvet which was immediately occupied by two overjoyed sparklings.
Jazz of Polyhex: full downloads of his lossless music collection from his time as a cultural investigator when they have the storage to download them, a strange musical instrument for organic sparklings that seems made only to drive origins up the wall.
Prowl of Praxis: a crystal tactical game board that makes happy beeps when you do a correct move, also made to drive origins batty.
Smokescreen of Praxis: a self-contained sparkling's crystal gardening set, sure to make a massive mess.
Blaster+Wheeljack: a full set each of sound system upgrades to be installed at the fifth instar (with or without their originators' permission).
Rong of the Pious Pools: a small suction device designed to pick up stray sparkling shed.
Ratchet: a toy that dispenses nutritious energon bites as it rolls around.
Elita-1 of Iacon and Ironhide of Stanix: they gave guns to the sparklings. Toy training guns with numbing lasers. For sparklings. Rung looks concerned.
[doodles of Autobot insignia occur in the margins]
Ultra Magnus of the Most Noble House of Ambus: Imported organic sparkling detergent and a bitlet-sized washbasin with jets to remove accumulated sparkling grime. I approve.
Perceptor: a wide array of chemicals that make pretty colours, immediately taken by Ratchet claiming he saw inedible chemicals.
First Aid (of the Ark???): a blanket I knitted using the colour combos thought to be most likely. Primus below, were we off.

"They make me sick, with how sweet they are", said Chromia while glaring at the couple who had thought they were being discreet.

The slim femme-bot coloured the energon-pink of a warning sign was plugged into the same computer as the towering chivalry Optimus Prime. While the duo was clearly attempting to hide that they were in eachother's CPUs, their synchronisation and leaning on one another gave them away.

"Just saccarine, ain't they?" replied Ironhide, barely hiding his own jealousy. Neither Chromia's origins nor his own had given the maybe-couple their blessing for their courtinship, claiming it was an unbalanced relationship to have only two warriors. "Who would doctor your wounds? Who would prepare the battleplans?" the old origins often said. Optimus and Elita only had to deal with the Council, and for that, the other proto-conjuges thought, they were lucky.

The two leading bots had, before their transformations, been in a courting as slow as congealed high-grade in the cold season and as vanilla as a noble bonding. That they were some nobody low-class dockworkers living in Iacon's grunge did not matter one iota to either of them; Ariel courted Orion Pax like he was some swooning noble. However, even with her own transformation, Elita-1 was still considered some scummy ex-dockworker, while Optimus was now the highest ranked bot in the Cybertronian race. The council rubbed their servos in glee, as they saw the uncultured, unknowing Prime, and realised that they could have him bonded off to someone of their choosing for some sweet, sweet political gainz.

Elita had seen right through them, and was taking Optimus on a whirlwind romance behind some flimsy curtains that swept the Prime off his stabilisers. They would be bonded before the mega-cycle was over, with the council bots out of the loop until it was far too late. She had the ceremony planned for a quarter-vorn in the future, a lavish affair, though she had left the décor and other planning to Optimus, knowning the bot would be overjoyed to do some interior decorating for morale.

Meanwhile, neither Ironhide nor Chromia had the ability (nor the spine, not that they would admit it) to cross their origins, and so remained stubbornly steadfast in wearing them down until they agreed to let them bond.

Frag the Council, just bond already! Chromia thought to herself. She figured that Elita was getting off on snubbing the council, whom everyone knew the pink femme would have happily shot to smitherenes.

Ironhide, on the other hand, pursed his lips and slowly tried to lay his hand atop Chromia's, hoping that the romantic distraction provided by the two leaders would allow him to maybe touch his bootcamp sweetheart without the news getting back to their originators.

The recharge slab was scattered with softly glowing raw energon chips, which Elita planned to enjoy eating off her bethrothed. The lights were bright and direct, so she could see every curve of his plating while she waxed and pampered the overworked fool senseless. She had set up imported organic "new car smell" air fresheners on all the output vents, filling the room with the rich scent. Optimus, meanwhile, was nervously touching up his paint in the washroom, knowing that while his almost-mate certainly wouldn't care, he wanted to look his best for them.

That wasn't the only reason for his nervousness. The test chip in his medical port had yet to reveal a result, and he was beyond anxious. The little device had been given to him by Ratchet accompanied by a stern lecture on merging, and he'd never thought he'd have to use one, that'd he'd merge before bonding. But with Elita, it came so easily for him! He drummed his fingers on his plating, antsy and wanting the company of his mate. He went out and sat on the recharge slab next to her.

She held his arm gingerly, watching. The medical device let off a cheery-sounding tune, and a small printout came up on his wrist-mounted display: "sparked".

Neither of them shifted a centimeter.

It looked like they were going to have to push the date of their bonding a little closer than they had previously thought. Not that either of them was complaining.

Prowl's previous nest had been the barracks of the enforcer headquarters in Praxis. It had been the only one he had ever lain in, there surrounded by the susurration of his fellow shiftmates' vents had had slept like the dead. It had, of course, been massive for the thirty-two mech crew, including medics, to sleep on the spread of industrial cushioning and standard barrack bedsheets. Slowly, each bot had horded bits of foam and soft mesh, smooth metal and extra recharge cables. Eventually, they had even saved up enough chits to buy a wireless recharging station, so that even when they were simply lounging and interacting they had not needed to plug in. Each bit and scrap had been sewn in to make it home. Nest.

Now, he had nothing.

That was a lie. He had a damp, rusty floor in a recently un-abandonned military base from three Primes before, and an entirely different goal for his nest. Not basecamp for a full clade of hardened enforcers, but a nursery for a bitlet that was not his and who was so young that his fur still drooped into his optiks.

Cold-constructed fully grown, he had never known the warmth of a mentor's home or the innate comfort of a carrier's nest. Was the goal here functionality? Ease of removing stuck shed? Charging speed?

He stared at the vacant corner of the room, then to the grey bitty clinging to his shins who peered just as intently.

The bit jumped as a knock on the door sounded, but Rung's therapy had been helping matters and Bluestreak no longer seemed terrified at the prospect of seeing what was on the other side. Upon opening the door, desperate for any distraction, he found the hallway deserted, and a pile of collected foams in calming prints- turbofoxes leaping and napping, rust sticks and energon wafers; along with a rack for their robosnuggs and some passive ceramic heaters for Bluestreak for when Prowl's shifts went too long and he couldn't be there to plug the bitty in.

Peering to doublecheck that the corridor was empty, the Praxian gratefully began tugging the pile in through the door by the tarp it had been piled upon.

He had no idea who had lain this there, but watching Bluestreak gingerly scale the pile to grab at the turbofox patterned mesh, he thought to himself that he had never in his function been more gratetful.

The deliveries continued.

Never on a set time or schedule, the piles varied from a single stuffed object to rolls of imported organic textiles whose value Prowl could not begin to compute. So he didn't, and allowed the overjoyed Bluestreak to squeal and knead and hitch it as he lined their nest with it.

Where they had even begun to aquire such things Prowl did not know, nor did he corncern himself with it.

He had more important things to worry about.

Bluestreak honestly didn't know how he was still royalty. Smokescreen the organically smooth and captivating individual, an idealised Praxian beauty. Prowl the silent calculation and a strict moral code, an idealised Praxian character.

Blustreak, his grey paintjob, his chitter chatter, his wild expressiveness, his naïveté, he was outlandish and repulsive to traditional Praxian ideals.

The royalty of a given city state lived directly over where their metrotitan's spark chamber lay deep in Cybertron's many-layered crust. They were thus brought forth as sparks that the metrotitan found harmonious with its own self. But Blustreak held no Praxian ideals other than the silhouette of chunky bumpers, minute waists, eloquent chevrons, and broad doorwings; as soon as he moved the illusion shattered like a brittle crystal. Smokescreen was beauty in motion. Bluestreak hunched and jumped and tripped and startled. The question for him had always been: what did Praxis embody with him?

Prowl watched as the Maestro ordered Bluestreak to restart the waltz for the twenty-third time that afternoon. Not one word had his brother uttered in anger. Not a fist thrown or pede stomped.

Smokescreen had long since left in a huff, impatient at his slow progress. The coronation dance was years upon years of passed-down Praxian culture culminating in this ceremonial dance. With the waltz's intricacies nigh-on laminated atop one other, Prowl had taken a full vorn to concoct a program for his battle computer to use from archival footage. He was still making edits as he watched the Maestro dip a half-transformed Bluestreak. This time, Blue managed to dip back just far enough for his front tires to get traction on the dance floor. He slipped around into the proper grip so the Maestro could hold his front bumper, and then pull himself atop Bluestreak's hood. From there, the royal reversed into a proper spin and fishtailed while his partner posed. Lastly, into the final transformation where he lifted his teacher off his roof and into a lift, still half transformed.

Prowl stood, blarmping his horn and clapping as Bluestreak nearly dropped the Maestro in his enthusiam. Three vorns it had taken his youngest brother to complete the dance without his teacher's intervention. By no means was he prepared to perform in public, yet it was a major milestone.

Smokescreen had been recalcitrant since the first time he had gotten stuck mid-transformation, and hadn't put his spark into the dance since. Prowl himself had gone the simplest possible route and merely allowed his battle computer to handle the motions. Bluestreak contained a spark of attentiveness and patience that neither of his older siblings could hold a light to, and it was something Prowl both deeply admired and feared.