( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

(And pierce he does. The blade sinks deep and crunches, almost like the warrior was chopping into a melon. It’s wet and still wriggling and resisting against the blade while Pyarrr wails his rage and grapples Bellator with his claws.) 

(Pyarrr’s ears ring with the pleads of his people, calling for help and slaughter and forgiveness in equal volume. He cannot find peace in the discord. His only focus is the bright flame before him and how he can make it hurt like he does.) 

Wires and circuitry snapping, cables severing and splashing his draining blade with lifeblood. These were sensations he was familiar with whenever his sword sank into another’s frame; what he felt now felt more organic, empty flesh, like he’d somehow missed everything. Something wasn’t right…

Bellator didn’t have much time to think before Pyarr’s claws closed around him, digging into his chest and waist as the crazed beast attempted to wrench him apart. He strained and glared, the light within him flashing to blind his opponent and force him to let go. Gripping his sword, Bellator slashed to the side, cutting a long gash to remove his blade and still feeling that strange, empty flesh. He jumped back, crouching in wait for another charge as flames began to rise from the massive weapon.

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

…What manner of beast is this? Pyarr! Know me and yield!!

The warrior dodges the god-creature’s wild charge, the flame in his chest blazing bright. The thrill of battle pulses in him always, though he hesitates. His opponent is a non-combatant, a creature of the soil and forest, mad from whatever poison strange prayers have given him. 

Pyarr, hear me! If you do not yield, you will be made to do so! Do not challenge me, for I will answer!

(The mass thunders past him like a landslide. Pyarrr’s charge misses, but his tail doesn’t. Now hooked and barbed and fanged, it’s a mouth on its own, and it’s pained flailing catches Bellator’s arm where the rest of the god’s body misses. It’s only a glancing blow- the mouth is stupid and mindless- but the feeling of it makes Pyarrr whip around and attack from above with his clawed wings.) 

(Pyarrr doesn’t think. There’s no recognition in the blank red eyes. He only screams and roars and attacks.) 

Bellator doesn’t flinch at the wound, his own fuel boiling as it drips down his arm. He growls as the Beast turns, replying with his own roar as his sword clashes with the clawed wings above his helm. He’s pushed to one knee, but uses his grounding shove the wings away with a slash.

PYARR! Take heed and yield! If my warning goes unheard-

He feels them, then. The call of warriors, invoking him against the god of beasts and his followers… against what he has become. His flame burns bright with their offerings and devotion, with their desire to live and to win. The face of Bellator becomes a dark sneer, his fangs bared.

So be it.

Bellator charges forward, eyes ablaze as he aims to pierce the Beast’s neck with his blade.

(Out in the universe, a band of mechs is suddenly harassed.)

the-scrappy-stinger:

(A group comes out of the wild and bangs on their walls, shouts and hollers in the night, tosses around flaming torches and sings of how Pyarrr will bless them and give them their lands in glory. The quiet mechs won’t stand a chance against their power, as they’d armored themselves in the pieces of beasts left over from their sacrifices, and Pyarrr the All-Consuming Beast will recognize them as his own.) 

(The quiet mechs they bother are the Warriors of Bellator.) 

(And in silent unison, they take up their arms and defend.)

The soldiers sit in their camp, sharpening their swords and thanking the Flame of Battle for their victory to come by spilling vials of their energon. Assured of their strength, each warrior takes up arms, brandishing swords, blasters, shields, hard-light maces and electric javelins, all manner of weapons they’d brought for war. Instead, these trespassers would first be punished.

Fools dressed in the hides of animals. No armor or wild charge can outmatch a phalanx of large warriors, prepared for attack, and retaliation.

Patience has always been a virtue of the Useless One, but right now he feels like there’s an itch working down his spinal struts telling him to move. Sitting cross legged with his staff across his lap, he taps his fingers lightly near the shocking end of his weapon. “Bellator, how do you deal with needing to wait…?”

The mighty warrior stands tall, his servos resting on the pommel of his blade as it stands in the ground. His eyes are closed, but a grin spreads what’s left of his lips at the question.

Ah, Useless One. I am never left waiting long. There are always those who plot, who take up the sword against those who would strike them down. But, the acts of revenge that taste most sweet on my sword… Ah, Rung. Those are the ones that take time. Those who have time and again been denied, finally able to rest their claws across their opponent’s throat…

These moments are to be savored. Swift vengeance is called for often, but it is never as satisfying as that which has been left to stew. 

Tell me, Rung, what do you believe this heretic deserves?

Bellator. I request you hold still, there is something very important I must do for everyone’s wellbeing.

ask-smokescreen:

mightymegatron:

Bellator glares at the trickster, his sword pulsing with light. 

Touch me and you will regret it, Trickster. What must you insist upon?

“Despite whatever you may try, I don’t think I will ever be able to regret this.”

The Playful One is going to start sticking soft tennis balls into all the pointy parts of Bellator.

This image lasts for approximately 1.73 seconds, before the war God’s flame brightens to blinding, setting the balls ablaze as he charges the Trickster.

I take that as a challenge!

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

(The monster bursts through the door. A wisp of a memory has guided him to a familiar face, but all that he can do is drive forward and blindly attack.) 

(Nearly Bellator’s size now, he screams and thunders blindly into the war god’s path.) 

…What manner of beast is this? Pyarr! Know me and yield!!

The warrior dodges the god-creature’s wild charge, the flame in his chest blazing bright. The thrill of battle pulses in him always, though he hesitates. His opponent is a non-combatant, a creature of the soil and forest, mad from whatever poison strange prayers have given him. 

Pyarr, hear me! If you do not yield, you will be made to do so! Do not challenge me, for I will answer!

( A roar bellows through the ship, almost like it’s going right through the wall. Pyarrr’s on his way, and he’s angry, and big. )

Bellator hears this mighty call, standing from his resting place amidst the celebrating soldiers.

SILENCE!

All the rough-housing, all the drinking and partying stops as Bellator listens… Some great beast comes. He draws his sword from the air, stalking out into the hallway, to meet the approaching storm.

Who dares?!

Bellator, I beseech you. Something burns in my bones like fire that should not be, for I can feel war.

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

the-scrappy-stinger:

mightymegatron:

I hear your call, Pyarr. I am comprised of such flames as those that burn now within you, though it is strange that one such as you should feel them. 

The Predacons… oh, but Bellator, the Predacons were a great joy and brought much happiness to me! How beautiful their cries, how tightly tied they were to the Earth. How happy I was-

(Pyarrr’s optics lose their focus.) -and when they returned to the planet, how marvelous the work of those mechs that made it possible. What a debt I oOOWEE-

-DEATH TO ALL THAT WOULD OPPOSE US, THE PREDACONS RAIN DOWN UPON YOUR-

(Pyarrr pulls at his ears in panic.) Bellator I grow mad! 

A great joy indeed, but they changed your-

Bellator is interrupted by Pyarr’s wild howling, stunned by his rage. He looks away, optic ridges knit in thought.

I am most familiar such war-cries, but to hear them from your mouth vexes me. Who prays to you with such hateful intent?

I do not know! I deign not to speak to the mortals. They desire an upright walker, a god in their own image, and have many! I shall not spoil them with another! I speak with the beasts, I speak for them, I speak to them! 

Yet something now deigns speak through you that seems more of mech than of beast. You are being called by forces darker than is custom, and should seek them out. Learn the cause of such fury. Extinguish it, if you must.

The drunk pic is angled upwards and the lighting might not be that great for the surroundings, but there’s enough light on Rung’s body to send a neat photo. It shows his chassis open and one hand inside his spark chamber, cupping the electric orb so lines of energy look like they’re snapping between his digits. Fingertips brush the outer edges of the chamber and his back is arched up, the light of his spark showing the lower half of his face as he moans.

willnotgogently:

mightymegatron:

At first he closes out of the document immediately. It had been some time since anyone dared to send the warlord something illicit and he was unprepared. After gathering himself, Megatron sneers and opens it again, simply to delete it- at least, that is what he tells himself. 

In truth, he spends a few moments appreciating the photo and attempting to recognize the mech. Someone orange, from one of the “Lost Light” universes judging by the nasal ridge. Perhaps it is some prank, Kenny sending him something while Soundwave is away… until he sees the ID tagged to the message. The former therapist. Megatron deletes the image and sends a short reply.

::I doubt I was your intended recipient, Rung. Perhaps Bumblebee?::

He needs to learn to turn off his comms and photo applications when he starts drinking.  But it seemed like such a good idea at the time.  Like many drunken shenanigans.

::Apologies, I will send it to Bumblebee.::

::No apology necessary. He will enjoy it.::

Does one compliment another’s lewd photography? Is that done? Is it inappropriate to comment on another’s bared spark? Not knowing, he simply leaves it be.