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Title: Alphabet Soup	By : Chaosdreamer Category: Transformers > G1 > Slash - M/M Views: 2419 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Transformers and all recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro. I am making no profit writing these stories.

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Title: SoundwavexPerceptor Drabbles
Author: dreamerchaos
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are owned by Hasbro. I'm only playing with them.
Rating: G all the way to Mature.
Summary: Short, short drabbles, ranging from G to Mature. Be warned. Slash between two mechs. Takes place in the G1/IDW universe. None of these drabbles are are meant to be in consecutive order.

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A is for Assessment

“You Will Either Bend, Autobot.” Soundwave pinched the microscope’s chin between thumb and forefingers, bending forward until the prisoner’s breath brushed the plating of his face guard. “Or You Will Break.”

Perceptor planted the struts of his shoulder blades against the wall, arching back, with no avail, to escape the encroaching fingers sliding along his temple. “N-no-” The tremble of voice, either in plea or refusal, lost when the telepath establishes the link. Causing the microscope to arch violently as his CPU collapses under the Decepticon’s telepathic invasion.

B is for Bravery

It is quite a feat, to halt the Decepticon telepath in his path. One hand wielding a blaster, the other raised to deliver a crushing blow from a balled fist.

The microscope throws himself between the Decepticon and his red and gold opponent, standing with his arms flung wide open to shield the fallen and damaged Autobot Communications Officer. Blaster grimaced, arm wrapped around the sparking, jagged wound in his abdomen. “P-perceptor… g-get out of the…the way.” Blaster pleads with the scientist to remove himself from harms way.

Noticeably shaking with fear and dread, Perceptor whips his head left and right in silent rebuke. Arms spread open, as if ready to embrace the cold, methodical fury of the Decepticon a mere ten feet away.

C is for Craving

He does not really know this strange mech, Perceptor realizes. Except for the occasional passing by within the vast corridors or streets, the scientist catches a glimpse of the sapphire blue mech from a distance, whether the visored mech wanders alone or silently beside the vibrant, lavender Senator Ratbat.

There are only one or two instances when their glances meet. Amidst the whispers of a civil war and citizens disappearing within the night cycle, the scientist scurries between his labs and apartment unit, never mind catching the heated conversations about the gangs of mechs hitting the streets bearing the crude title of ‘Decepticons’.

It is to his immense surprise when a hand swallows a startled cry when he has just stepped into his apartment unit after punching in his entry code. A larger frame splayed against his back, bodily forcing him into his domicile, the door sliding shut to shield his late attempt to struggle for freedom; muffling a sharp shout of distress.

“You!” Perceptor gasps, once freed, spun around, shoved flat against the wall. Wrists snapped up within the unbending grip of his assailant’s.

Chassis to chassis, hands trapped above his shoulders, Perceptor shudders at the press of cool lips tickling down his cheek. The words, entreaties, or threats unspoken. Left only with the silent promise as denta bit hard, just so, into the arc of his neck and jaw, inciting a shudder and tumble of unregistered static from his prey.

D is for Duty

“It is my sworn duty!” The hand aiming the blaster at Soundwave’s chassis shudders, unable to keep his aim straight. “Decepticon! You are hereby under arrest! By the authority of the Autobot edict for the capture and imprisonment of war criminals.”

The battle mask cannot disguise the telepath’s small amount of humor at the microscope’s proclamation. Boldly, the Decepticon takes one, then two steps forward.

“Stop.” Perceptor warns, taking a step back in response to the mech’s brazen move.

Soundwave matches each retreat with a step of his own.

“Halt! Not one step closer or..or I’ll shoot!” The blaster hardly remains in the shaken mech’s grip, wrist and fingers rattling together as he shakes. Duty and doubt warring.
“No.” Soundwave disregards the Autobot’s commands to halt. Sliding a hand past the wrist, wrapping around the elbow; folding the arm straight against the microscope’s side, until the blaster falls from a limp grip, “You Will Not Shoot.”

E is for Entertainment

Perceptor has never been to a club. Coaxed and wheedled by a fellow student, he reluctantly follows as they lead him down the unlit alleyways into one of the more infamous clubs where the best dancers, musicians, and partygoers meet. Mechs and femmes so beautiful they rivaled the stars gathered, dancing intimately close together, awing those who wished they possessed a fraction of their grace or charisma.

The harried microscope feels like a timid retro-rabbit among the mech-wolves.

His companions eagerly shove a container of high grade into his twisting, nervous hands. Laughing in good nature as he gags reflexively, tasting the potent liquid for the very first time; pushing another chalice of the noxious drink into his grip when he manages to force the first cup down his cringing throat.

He cannot say whether he enjoys the tumbling feeling within his fuel pumps, too many drinks making his skittish, practically itching beneath the weight of his own dermal plating. His friends are in no better shape, as awkward on their pedes as the microscope.

Perceptor cannot say that he is honestly stunned when he literally falls into the lap of a lone, seated mech. The stranger grunts at the sudden impact of his new ‘guest’ perched upon his lap. The microscope’s optics blinking in innocent surprise, arms wrapped around the blue mech’s neck to prevent him from sliding onto his posterior upon the floor.

“Gracious.” Perceptor stutters, straddling the mech, “I’m sorry to impose.”

“……” The stranger’s hands slide upon to rest upon Perceptor’s waist, drawing a secret shudder of surprise, then delight from the caress, sensors and plating sensitivity heightened by his overcharged state, “…Apologies: Unnecessary.”

F is for Freedom

It is a simple, yet cherished treasure to have a few joors with his bondmate. Decepticon and Autobot alliance shed for a mere breathe of time together.

Rendezvousing at a distant enclosed valley, sharing the hushing rain of a tall waterfall and gurgling stream; Perceptor sighs in bliss as he stretches back to lie within the embrace. Soundwave’s arms encircling from behind, folding the microscope against his chassis, knees and legs walling his smaller mate in closer. Back resting against chest, their bodies hum in tempo, while Perceptor draws idle paths across the folded arms around his waist with the tips of his fingers.

“It’s been too long.” Perceptor smiles in content, Soundwave nuzzling the side of his helm, the two mechs pressed temple to temple.

The telepath hums in agreement, mask retracting.

Perceptor meets his mate halfway, sharing a kiss of renewal and longing after so much time apart.

G is for Greed

To Soundwave, it is laughingly easy to steal the microscope from the brig. Swiftly tucking and locking the mech within his quarters, sending the Cassettes out for reconnaissance duty.
Leaving him ample amount of time to acquaint himself with the Autobot prisoner.

The microscope tries to twist away, arms and wrists shackled behind his back. Lying on his side upon the berth, the microscope whines softly, the telepath stretched along his back. One of the Decepticon’s hands circling Perceptor’s knee, spreading the mech’s lower limbs to allow greater access for Soundwave to caress and explore.

Perceptor’s helm cants with each thrust, impaled by the telepath’s interface spike. Hiding his face against his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge or turn enough to meet the Decepticon’s red gaze.

Soundwave groans softly past grinding denta, hand pressing his partner’s head back and underneath his chin. His mask screeches in brash, rough contact against the smooth metal of the microscope’s neck and audios, cursing in ancient Cybertronian at the warm, suffocating embrace as the microscope’s heat and body surrounds him, heating him from the inside and out.
This feeling is…indefinable. All encompassing. Brought upon by Motormaster’s loud boasts and crude comments about the latest prisoner, the Stunticon leader pondering aloud whether the microscope would be remotely entertaining when the semi-truck would begin his shift down in the brigs.

The wash of…molten fury…silent but deadly…that rushed up the telepath’s throat at the Stunticons snickering, further encouraging their leader, caused the Decepticons fists to tighten and shaken beneath the cover of his work console, audios unable to mute the bragging brutes.

Perceptor chokes out several short pleas, the words lost all the while the telepath’s hand threads down to slide into the microscope’s port, the warm space stretched tight, snug around the two fingers and interface spike. Perceptor groans in distress, and then pleasure, hips and thighs unconsciously rocking against the smooth, plunging invaders.

‘No.’ No, he would not share with any of them. Not what was his and his alone, ‘Never.’

H is for Hands

Soundwave tilted his helm, pondering the queer actions of the microscope.
Perceptor smiled at his mate’s curious gaze. Laying his hand atop the telepath’s, comparing the difference in width and length.

“Your hands are so much larger than mine.” The microscope murmured, pressing their palms together, fingers spreading in a mirror image of the other, “My fingers are blunt, and thicker than yours, though. Compared to mine, your hands are graceful and beautiful.”

Soundwave clasped one of the microscope’s hands between his owns, lifting the appendage and brushing his cheek against the curled fingers. “Assessment: Incorrect. Perceptor: Confident and Competent Mech. Hands Firm And Strong, Like The Mech’s Spark.”

Perceptor chuckled, raising his other hand to clasp his mate’s, “You’re such a charmer.” He rose onto the tips of his pedes, pressing a kiss to the arch of the mech’s nasal ridge. This close, he could detect a rise in heat as the telepath’s dermal plating and cheeks heated in embarrassment.

I is for Interloper

“The Third, Then, Is He?” Shockwave pondered Soundwave’s confirmation. Yellow optic flaring, then narrowing in contemplation of his partner’s revelation, “The Final Piece For Our Trine.”

“Correct.” Soundwave affirmed.

Shockwave folded his arms over a broad chassis, scrutinizing his bondmate. “A Quandary, We Now Have. The Third, An Autobot. Will Not Comply With Our Needs.”

“Approval: Not Necessary,” Soundwave argued, red visor meeting the lavender mech’s, “The Compulsion Will Lead Him To Us. Resistance: Ultimately Futile.”

Shockwave looked down from the viewing platform, scrutinizing the small Autobot party in the distance. The two Decepticons hidden from view from within a tall, recessed archway stories above the scorched and twisted metal streets, allowing them to observe the small scout party that had ventured into the abandoned city. The aforementioned mech that they were discussing standing shoulder to shoulder with two Autobot warriors, the more experienced and well-trained soldiers keeping the timid scientist and young medic within a tight grid, out of sight of any sniper scopes.

“Actions Necessary,” His blaster hand charging to life with a sharp hum, the larger mech taking a step outside the safety and discretion of the archway.

“Agreed,” Soundwave removed his own blaster from subspace, “Before Our Quarry Escapes.”

J is for Joined

“…sound…wave…?” Perceptor dragged himself closer to his bondmate. The passage long and agonizing, one leg sheared completely away at the hip, the other limb at the knee.

“…” The mech’s hand rose, fingers trembling. Resting upon the microscope’s cheek as Perceptor winced, levering up enough to lean over his injured mate. Three jagged, twisted cuts stretched across the telepath’s chassis, the edges snapping bright yellow and red sparks, popping and hissing in the air. The microscope’s mouth and glossa stung from the smell – the taste – of scorched wires and tainted energon. “…’cep..toooorr..” The telepath rasped, fingers slickened with energon, tracing his mate’s face.

Around them, the small city continued to crumble down to its very last struts and foundations. The city razed to the ground by an unprecedented clash between the Decepticons and the Autobots. Like many others, the two mechs, trying to seek refuge from the war, caught directly in the middle. The only memory that Perceptor’s CPU could recall was the sudden scream of jets shooting overhead, a wide misfire of a cannon, and the skyscrapers tumbling like domino pieces, crashing to the streets while civilians, Decepticons, and Autobots tried to flee for cover.

“It’s okay.” Perceptor dropped several gentle, reassuring kisses upon his mate’s face. Optics burning at the sight of the horrible, wide lacerations decorating Soundwave’s cheeks and forehead, “It’s going to be all right… Som-someone will find us. They…Someone will help us. You’ll see…They’ll get a medic and everything will be all right.”

As if in answer to his prayers, like a gift from Primus, searchlights suddenly lit the two mechs. Perceptor shielded his optics from the glare, bent over his mate to protect him from the whine of aerial craft engines and blades. Debris flying around them. “Here! Over here!” He cried out for assistance, using his free hand to staunch the flow of energon trickling from Soundwave’s neck.

“What is this, then?” The low growl a mixture of amusement and curiosity. A stranger backlit by the bright searchlights, striding confidently towards the injured civilians, the large Cybertronian casually stepping over debris and gray bodies.

Perceptor’s optics rose to survey the towering mech looming above him and his mate. Blue gaze widening at the sight of the silver mech, recognizing the large black fusion cannon, but more importantly imprinting the visage of the stenciled purple symbol upon the large mech’s chassis.

Megatron.

“Please…please help us...” Perceptor beseeched the warlord, cradling one of Soundwave’s hands against his chassis, their fingers intertwined together, his mate’s optics darkening threateningly, signaling emergency stasis.

Megatron’s gaze narrowed, searching the microscope. “What could either of you possibly offer in order to deign assistance from me?”

“I-I’ll do anything. Anything…Please. Please, Lord Megatron. M-my bondmate…he needs a medic…” Already bowed over his mate, barely able to support his weight due to missing most of his lower limbs, Perceptor was poorly capable of performing a subservient bow low enough in the presence of the warlord. He did try, pouring all of his Spark into the gesture, helm almost touching the Decepticon’s pedes.

A faint, but noticeable twitch of the warlord’s lips graced the microscope’s efforts.

Crouching down upon one knee, Megatron kneels above the bowing mech. Hand encircling the back of Perceptor’s neck, squeezing long and hard enough to draw a pained whimper.

“You both will have plenty of time and opportunity to prove your usefulness to me.” Megatron said with promise.

K is for Kids

“He hit me!”

“Shut up! He’s lying!”

“Screech! Awk!”

“Ow! That hurt, Laserbeak!”

“RRRrrrrr!”

“Huh! You wanna piece of me! Bring it on!”

“ScreeeeK!!”

“Stop ganging up on me!”

“Perceptor! He hit me again!”

“He’s lying, he’s lying, he’s lying, he’s lying-”

Perceptor sighed, covering his face with a weary palm. In his lap, Frenzy growled at his twin, the red and black Cassette sitting opposite within the cradle of Soundwave’s lap. Frenzy rubbing at the sore area on his helm where Rumble had hit him.

Ravage snarled at her brother, curling up against Soundwave’ knee, tail swishing in distemper. Laserbeak squawked at all of the Cassettes, perched upon Perceptor’s shoulder, pecking at Rumble’s hand when he smacked his brother once more.

“There, there.” Perceptor soothed the furious Cassette, Frenzy hanging onto his forearm while throwing curses at his twin from the safety of the microscope’s lap. Soundwave catches the growling red and black Cassette before he threw himself at his brother and the argument and tussle began anew.

L is for Love

“The humans have a name for this feeling.” Perceptor lays a hand upon his chassis, directly above his Spark.

“Let Humans Keep Their Words.” Soundwave wrapped his arms around Perceptor’s waist, pulling him in, close and tight, “We Do Not Need Words For This.” Sealing the pronouncement with a Spark-searing kiss.

M is for Monster

“…no…” Perceptor stole several steps back away from the telepath. Hands hovering in front of his face as if to shield his optics from the sight of the mech. “You betrayed…everything.” The microscope huddled away from the hand reaching towards him in entreaty, beseechingly stretched towards the red and cobalt mech.
“…I-” But Soundwave is cut off.

“You betrayed us…betrayed me…to serve that tyrant?!” Perceptor winces at the mere mention of the Decepticon warlord.

“I Had No Choice.”

“You had every choice.” Perceptor refuted. Hands crossing against his chassis, face torn, bereaved by grief and betrayal, “You chose him. And…” His voice collapsed, shoulders shaking with immeasurable grief, looking at the telepath as if he can’t stand the sight of him, “…and you broke my Spark.” He managed to sob out the aching truth.

“..N-No.” Soundwave pleads, taking a step closer. “No. I…This Isn’t Right-”

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!” The Autobot Communications Officer is suddenly between them, the barrel of a weapon pointed between the telepath’s optics.

Reflexively, Soundwave’s hands rise in surrender. With his other hand, Blaster yanks Perceptor to safety, holding the microscope tightly against his chassis, teeth bared in a snarl of fury as he growls at the Decepticon.

“Get away from him, Soundwave.” Blaster spits out the telepath’s name as if it were an acid or a poison. “I won’t let you hurt him. Not again.”

N is for Never Again

“You Will Never Lay A Hand On Him.” Soundwave derives a sick − and no small amount − of pleasure when ripping the Spark from the Senator’s frame; Senator Ratbat retching up thick gout of energon, optics wide with disbelief at the mech’s betrayal, “Never Again!”

O is for Opposition

“Primus, Percy. What do you see in him?”

“I…do not believe you would understand.”

“Why him?!” Brawn smashes his fist into the wall beside the energon bars. Glaring at the mech seated within the cell, the microscope’s hands hanging between his bent knees. Dull optics meeting the Minibot’s, the microscope sitting upon the small berth, wrists shackled in thick stasis cuffs almost too big, “What makes him so wonderful that – that you were willing to betray us and follow that fragger back to Megatron and the Nemesis!”

Perceptor clutched his bound hands above his chassis, face squeezing in pain. “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like for someone to own such a large fragment of your Spark. I am his, just as much as he is mine. That is what makes all of this worth it. Worth everything.”

P is for Pensive

“Do you think we could ever go back?”

“When?”

“To…you know. To the way things were. Before the War?”
“…No. Never.”

A sad drop in the mech’s shoulders. “…Oh.”

“But…” The telepath struggles to find the right words, “Perhaps…Something Far Better Awaits. In Time. On Cybertron. Together.”

“Yes.” Perceptor seizes the hand that reaches for his, giving an answering squeeze in affirmation. “Together.”

Q is for Question

“Oh, what’s this? Oh my…How fascinating!”

“Spike, why is this floral specimen making you scratch at your dermal layers?”

“Hound…is that…animal…supposed to be raising its tail at us and backing towards us?”

“Why is Red Alert so frustrated that I moved several specimens of plants into my lab for further study? The vines look quite lovely...”

“Do sharks have eyelids? Carly, I am sorry to say that I have never been close to one in order to prove or disprove that statement. Although I have seen a mecha-shark, but to be quite honest I was more concerned about its teeth…”

“Wheeljack, is the mixture supposed to be that color?”

“Umm…Optimus, sir, do you remember that…thing that you made me promise not to bring into the Ark? Well…it appears to have suddenly spawned offspring…”

“Skyfire, why does Starscream appear to have a sever phobia of snakes? From my readings, most are quite harmless if left alone…”

“Will the yellow paint come off? Um…Tracks…maybe you need to speak to Ratchet..There, there, please do not make such a scene. It is no useful endeavor crying over spilt energon, as the saying goes. I am sure Sunstreaker and Sideswipe are regretting their prank. Perhaps your friend Raoul will have some paint in stock…”

“Oh! What’s this?”

Soundwave’s CPU reeled. The telepath regretting the idle curiosity inciting him into skimming the memory files of his mate’s CPU, curious to observe the microscope’s ventures during the past few days.

R is for Recharge

There is nothing quite like finding one’s berth after long, consecutive joors of research, tests, more research, rushing Wheeljack to Medical after another explosion, and then more research.

Resting his optics and stiff framework, Perceptor sighs with relief when his helm rests upon the berth.

Waking from recharge with his forehead pressed against a familiar blue chassis, long arms holding the microscope close, shuttered red gaze meeting his when Perceptor raises his face from the warmth cradle of the telepath’s grip…

Raising his hand to brush the mech’s face guard…

And those arms tightening ever so slightly…

…Priceless.

S is for Sparkling

The two sparklings squeal and trill, tumbling on the ground by their parents’ pedes like two small puppies, the two twins, identical in appearance except that one wears sapphire blue paint and bearing a red visor, and the other painted ruby but his visor a nova-blue.

Perceptor gusted out an exhausted breath. “Where do they get their energy?” He bemoans, leaning against his bondmate, burrowing his head into the arch of Soundwave’s collar. Scrutinizing their sparklings’ play and only stepping in when things got too rough.

Faint chuckles muffled by his mask, Soundwave tucked his mate in close. One hand sliding up and down the healed vertical seam upon the microscope’s waist, the fresh mark indicating where Ratchet had to perform emergency surgery to remove the twins before their Sparks extinguished, delivery complicated due to the microscope’s framework, chassis not designed to adequately handle the life force of two sparklings all at once.

Frenzy and Rumble can hardly contain their delight at having two younger brothers. Bouncing along the sidelines of the two chirring sparklings, cheering them on, “Get him, Sonar!” Frenzy cheered the small blue sparkling.

“Show him who’s boss, Radar!” Rumble pumped his fists into the air.

Soundwave carefully nudges Sonar when the play becomes too rough, Radar squealing a sharp peep of pain when his brother accidently twists his arm too far back.

Perceptor moans softly in bliss as Soundwave pulls him down until his helm rests in the telepath’s lap, the microscope curling up against the warmth of his mate. Blue optics shuddering as he slowly slips into stasis, “Wake me up when they both pass out and finally fall into recharge.” He mumbles tiredly.

T is for Turnabout

Straddling his lover, Perceptor splays his hands upon the telepath’s heaving chassis. Biting his bottom lip until energon threatens to bead the surface. Hips rolling long and slow, head and neck arched back with every deep caress, the sapphire mech’s interface piece piercing him to the core.

Soundwave’s fingers dig into his palms, pulling futilely at the stasis cuffs that keep him bound flat upon the berth. Hips and thighs jerking upward to meet each downward thrust, inciting a sharp whimper and mewl from his mate.

“Ah, ah.” Perceptor tsks breathily in disapproval, noticing his partner’s attempts to wriggle free from the cuffs; teasing his mate by flashing the tiny key between their tangled bodies. A shivering smile lighting the microscope’s face when he drags the cold, flat side of the key down the mech’s chassis almost to brush the connection between their two bodies, “You promised we would take this nice and slow.” Perceptor admonished.

The microscope soothes a frustrated growl of displeasure by sliding his mouth against his mate’s, glossa entwining. The telepath nipping sharply Perceptor’s lips, deriving a halting gasp of surprise, then a whine of pleasure when the sapphire mech bucks hard enough against his mate that stars zip across their optical screens.

Perceptor should not feel so surprised when, several kliks later, somehow, Soundwave manages to slither free of the cuffs, and flip the microscope onto his back upon the berth, determined to make his mate pay for teasing and torturing him.

Determined to drive Perceptor insane with the tease of overload by showing the mech his version of taking it nice and slow.

U is for Ultimatum

“Perhaps it would not behoove either of us to establish a private comm link so that we can meet and spend more time together? I believe Red Alert can only turn his optics away – and divert unnecessary attention – from Ravage only so many times when she sneaks into the Ark with a datapad held securely within her jaws. It does garner a bit of a reaction.”

V is for Victory

Perceptor is hesitant to concede with his mate’s endeavor to improve the scientist’s skills in hand-to-hand combat. Or rather lack there of.
It comes to his immense bewilderment during one of their routine spars that somehow Perceptor is straddling the stunned telepath, optics blinking in surprise while sitting comfortably in the sprawled mech’s lap.

“Oh…did I do that? Does that mean that I won?” Perceptor grins in delight at managing to win one of their spars, but then yips in alarm as he is flipped over and onto his back, the spar diverting into a sudden wrestling match with Perceptor trying to keep from laughing when they both end up with leaves and twigs in very odd areas between their plating.

W is for Wicked

“I swear by all that is Primus and holy, if you grab me like that again in front of everyone while on the battlefield simply because you’re jealous of Beachcomber and the attention that supposedly he is bestowing upon me, I’ll upload copies of all of Jazz’s and Blaster’s favorite songs into the Nemesis’ main computers. Yes, that one song too that makes you want to tear out your audios!”

X is for X Marks The Spot

“No! No I absolutely will not! I can not believe what my audios are processing! I refuse to have i-in-intercourse with you in the Ark when Wheeljack and Ratchet are in the next room over…Wait, what are you doing…no, not there!” A low, drawn out whine, hands digging into the side of the work bench, “—Oh Primus, Soundwave, do that again-”

Y is for Yield

“Yield, Autobot.” The telepath easily twists the scientist’s hands behind his back, stifling the few jerks and half-sparked struggles as the microscope attempts to escape.

A swift kick to the back of one kneecap, and his prisoner drops to one knee, allowing the Decepticon to swiftly cuff the captured mech. In another smooth, practiced motion, Soundwave loops the metal mouth guard over the mech’s head, the thick metal bar spreading the prisoner’s lips and denta into a grimace while he locks the bar and chains fastening together within the heavy lock resting at the back of the dark, bent helm.

Hardly a klik later, Soundwave finishes by yanking the silvery metal bag over the mech’s head, shielding his optics in the dark, not allowing the prisoner to familiarize the length and direction of travel while he is escorted to the nearest Decepticon holding facility.

It is futile when the scientist digs his pedes into the ground when he’s shoved forward, but he continues his hopeless struggles while Soundwave patiently pushes him towards the small Decepticon aircraft hovering in wait to take another prisoner back to base.

Z is for Zen

“Humans have such fascinating hobbies.” Perceptor kneels down to scrutinize the small rock garden much more closely. “It is as if laying out each rock individually in its own designated area appeals to the humans’ desire for conformity and the ritualistic performance of maintaining the structured layout and integrity-”

“Aaaagh!” Rumble slaps his hands over his audios, trying to ignore the drone of words that are making his CPU freeze. “Boss! He’s doing it again! Make him stop!” Rumble whines to the telepath.
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Title: Alphabet Soup