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Description
Implied spoiler for the ending of TFA season 2!

I swear I'll stop this 'uploading every single night' thing. Swear.

... The concept wouldnt leave me alone, gaiz. Srsly. I kinda like the result, I kinda don't like it. Mostly... don't.

Yay: THE LINEART, Bumblebee's utterly feral look, his scuffed-upness/scars/cracked optic, Sari's expression + facial proportions and her blistering skin fragments

BOO: Rough coloring on Sari, her freakinghorrible hair, her too-subtle autobot crest, her too-generic-angry-comicbook-beauty-Electra-syndrome, SHE'S TOO FREAKING OLD I WANTED HER 16, and most of the lighting.

Relevant piece: [link]

Based on V

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was a darker time on Earth.

Perhaps it was the darkest time, but such an assumption would have brazenly dared the night to deepen and swallow them whole. So Prowl kept his silence. It was the only thing he had left—his silence and his solitude--and they had lost so much.

The war against the Decepticons had escalated for years—seven grey years—and finally left them in the wreckage of Detroit with little hope and fewer options. While pain was ever-present, the first real loss hit them five years in. Isaac Sumdac was crushed in an ambush while working intel for the Autobot assault, and fourteen-year-old Sari became quiet and strange after seeing her father and creator’s unrecognizable body peel away from the girders of the blackened warehouse. The following morning, the only thing left undiminished in her quaking female body was a capacity for hatred.

She seared a patch of her artificial skin away and carved an Autobot symbol into her sparking midnight exostructure with a kitchen knife. An agonizing circuit snapped into existence every time the conductive tool touched her plating, so the act nearly killed her, but two years had drained away and still the crest glowed, as much a part of her as her father. She was truly one of them, now, and they mourned it every day.

Bulkhead went offline valiantly.

Bumblebee insisted that it should have been him to go, and it was true. Bulkhead—loving, gluttonous Bulkhead—had thrown himself into Blitzwing’s cite and taken the blast for his best friend. There was little they could do: his spark-chamber was nothing but a delicate silicone eggshell, smoke-marbled and smashed through the center when they found it. Truly, it should have been Bumblebee, but what began as a piteous mantra in the night for the traumatized ‘bot warped into a hissing attack: a source of envy that Bulkhead was not forced to live through this darkening reality. Bumblebee no longer grinned, played or laughed, but clawed out at his friends as he would his enemies, sunny jibes long-ossified into barbs.

Sari was the only one who could physically touch him.

Ratchet was powering down, little by little. Some days were worse than others: on the worst of them, he would fall into fits of uncontrollable stasis, internal pressure dropping and tensors slackening without warning. He would remain stalled until one of them found him crumpled on the ground, or crashed over his scruffy projects, electro-pulse a mere whisper of static. A quick jolt was all it would take to bring him back online, but it still wounded the crusty Medibot internally; more than he could bear. A century ago, he’d been getting old: now, in seven short stellar-cycles, he was long past it.

He waited for death the way someone waited for a late train.

Optimus’ left optic-slot had scarred over: the wait for a replacement had dragged on too long, and his self-preserving wiring had snaked out to cover the battle wound. Megatron kept the dull blue chip mounted on his front, snapped into the Decepticon crest. The war had changed him from a friend into a harsh, withholding leader, and with that change went their last hope of being happy together after it was all over.

Their darling little family was collapsing from within and Sari struggled to hold them together, hulking cold insufficiencies and all, with her tiny hands. All of their actions were modified malfunctions, and every move, every word could be called into question, but there were too many questions already. Each coped with the misery their own particular way, all of them fighting the best they could in the empty city and for their empty Sari, but they were missing something. Rather, something had been taken from each of them: and while Prowl had always been known for his lone-wolf ways, a ‘bot had few places to turn to for relief now that home wasn’t home anymore.

He began to look up.

-.-.-.-.-

Up = Lockdown, by the by.

... ohnoes, right? Summary: Optimus = asshole, Bulkhead = dead, Bumblebee = bee-yotch, Ratchet = suicide watch, Sari = vicious and Prowl = silent basket case. Makes you want to die a little bit D: I'VE RUINED TRANSFORMERS ANIMATED.

Still, the idea of Sari being all cyborg-kick-assy with her Key as a power-source makes me veeeeery interested.

Transformers (c) Hasbro

Description
Implied spoiler for the ending of TFA season 2!

I swear I'll stop this 'uploading every single night' thing. Swear.

... The concept wouldnt leave me alone, gaiz. Srsly. I kinda like the result, I kinda don't like it. Mostly... don't.

Yay: THE LINEART, Bumblebee's utterly feral look, his scuffed-upness/scars/cracked optic, Sari's expression + facial proportions and her blistering skin fragments

BOO: Rough coloring on Sari, her freakinghorrible hair, her too-subtle autobot crest, her too-generic-angry-comicbook-beauty-Electra-syndrome, SHE'S TOO FREAKING OLD I WANTED HER 16, and most of the lighting.

Relevant piece: [link]

Based on V

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

It was a darker time on Earth.

Perhaps it was the darkest time, but such an assumption would have brazenly dared the night to deepen and swallow them whole. So Prowl kept his silence. It was the only thing he had left—his silence and his solitude--and they had lost so much.

The war against the Decepticons had escalated for years—seven grey years—and finally left them in the wreckage of Detroit with little hope and fewer options. While pain was ever-present, the first real loss hit them five years in. Isaac Sumdac was crushed in an ambush while working intel for the Autobot assault, and fourteen-year-old Sari became quiet and strange after seeing her father and creator’s unrecognizable body peel away from the girders of the blackened warehouse. The following morning, the only thing left undiminished in her quaking female body was a capacity for hatred.

She seared a patch of her artificial skin away and carved an Autobot symbol into her sparking midnight exostructure with a kitchen knife. An agonizing circuit snapped into existence every time the conductive tool touched her plating, so the act nearly killed her, but two years had drained away and still the crest glowed, as much a part of her as her father. She was truly one of them, now, and they mourned it every day.

Bulkhead went offline valiantly.

Bumblebee insisted that it should have been him to go, and it was true. Bulkhead—loving, gluttonous Bulkhead—had thrown himself into Blitzwing’s cite and taken the blast for his best friend. There was little they could do: his spark-chamber was nothing but a delicate silicone eggshell, smoke-marbled and smashed through the center when they found it. Truly, it should have been Bumblebee, but what began as a piteous mantra in the night for the traumatized ‘bot warped into a hissing attack: a source of envy that Bulkhead was not forced to live through this darkening reality. Bumblebee no longer grinned, played or laughed, but clawed out at his friends as he would his enemies, sunny jibes long-ossified into barbs.

Sari was the only one who could physically touch him.

Ratchet was powering down, little by little. Some days were worse than others: on the worst of them, he would fall into fits of uncontrollable stasis, internal pressure dropping and tensors slackening without warning. He would remain stalled until one of them found him crumpled on the ground, or crashed over his scruffy projects, electro-pulse a mere whisper of static. A quick jolt was all it would take to bring him back online, but it still wounded the crusty Medibot internally; more than he could bear. A century ago, he’d been getting old: now, in seven short stellar-cycles, he was long past it.

He waited for death the way someone waited for a late train.

Optimus’ left optic-slot had scarred over: the wait for a replacement had dragged on too long, and his self-preserving wiring had snaked out to cover the battle wound. Megatron kept the dull blue chip mounted on his front, snapped into the Decepticon crest. The war had changed him from a friend into a harsh, withholding leader, and with that change went their last hope of being happy together after it was all over.

Their darling little family was collapsing from within and Sari struggled to hold them together, hulking cold insufficiencies and all, with her tiny hands. All of their actions were modified malfunctions, and every move, every word could be called into question, but there were too many questions already. Each coped with the misery their own particular way, all of them fighting the best they could in the empty city and for their empty Sari, but they were missing something. Rather, something had been taken from each of them: and while Prowl had always been known for his lone-wolf ways, a ‘bot had few places to turn to for relief now that home wasn’t home anymore.

He began to look up.

-.-.-.-.-

Up = Lockdown, by the by.

... ohnoes, right? Summary: Optimus = asshole, Bulkhead = dead, Bumblebee = bee-yotch, Ratchet = suicide watch, Sari = vicious and Prowl = silent basket case. Makes you want to die a little bit D: I'VE RUINED TRANSFORMERS ANIMATED.

Still, the idea of Sari being all cyborg-kick-assy with her Key as a power-source makes me veeeeery interested.

Transformers (c) Hasbro