A work of fan fiction contributes to much a larger body of fan work, a network of stories being continually produced by fans. An individual story joins both this broader network of stories, as well as potentially being affected by a source-text that may still be developing its own version of the story. These larger networks of stories work together to reinforce the sense of a continually changing story-world, one always filled with the potential for new conflicts. Essentially, even if one individual work of fan fiction ends with a happy couple, there is always a layer of instability within a fandom’s larger story world. This deeply affects the sense of finality fan fiction readers may get from an individual story’s happy ending. It may also drive fan authors to keep revisiting characters and working to restore them to a moment of stability and happiness.

From Fandom Then/Now: Romance & Fan Fiction

What do you think? Share your thoughts at Fandom Then/Now.

I officially posted the first chapter to my very first fan fiction, about a month ago. I am now three chapters into it, with chapter four going through the last stages of editing. I decided to share the first chapter here. I will probably post the other chapters here as well. I am also going to make this blog the main source of any updates or news, such as, when new chapters will be up, if there is any delays, or just discuss the story topic. So I hope y'all enjoy :)

-I have seen all three movies, Transformers movies. A Transformer, in the fandom of Transfans, means gigantic alien machines that can scan vehicles and become them, hence, becoming Robots in Disguise. They are not the powerboxes that you see on the poles. They have sparks, which generate their personality and life being extremely vital to living itself. And then there’s the Allspark, the cube. I have seen the first movie several times directed by Micheal Bay, the worst director ever. Why? I’ll get to that, as soon as this Dark of The Moon is about to end.

(Has 5,997 reads at the moment)

an old review from a fic of mine over on the pit, but I’d like to share it, as it’s probably the funniest damn one I’ve ever received, period.

don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE and ADORE every single person who’s ever commented on this story or ANY of my works.

but… omg. This cracks me up every time. Ahahaha just the timing of it with such a srs bsn chapter.

The last thing any fangirl would expect to happen to her is to be sucked into her favourite TV show, and that’s the last thing I would’ve counted on happening one Sunday afternoon. But, sadly, we rarely have control of the future. The day I was literally sucked through my television and into a world that existed only in my daydreams, I learned that truth the hard way. I made new friends and enemies as well, I found myself in a world that was not quite fiction.

Chapter 42 of a Transformers - Adventure/Friendship fanfiction with characters Jazz & The Fallen. Their world destroyed by the arrival of Galvatron and the Fallen, a group of Autobots, Decepticons and humans tried to survive. They made a choice - and now, they find themselves with the chance to fix things… to fix everything. Sequel to Fallout. AU2007.


One would wonder why anyone would think of transferring to another school with just a month before the end of the year. Well, tell that to four teenagers who moved from California to finish their last month of school and their summer vacation. Meanwhile, a young man in Qatar will have to survive the near coming of the destruction of his home away from home. In the District of Columbia in the US, a young woman and her program will assist in cracking a signal in which will reveal a secret that has been long hidden for decades. All lives will be brought together by hands of fate as all will find that their lives will never become the same ever again. Can either of them be able to fight through this while keeping their own selves out of harm’s way?

Transformers Fan Fiction based in the events before, after and during the first movie.

Just getting back into this thanks to the damn fourth installment >A>

The last thing any fangirl would expect to happen to her is to be sucked into her favourite TV show, and that’s the last thing I would’ve counted on happening one Sunday afternoon. But, sadly, we rarely have control of the future. The day I was literally sucked through my television and into a world that existed only in my daydreams, I learned that truth the hard way. I made new friends and enemies as well, I found myself in a world that was not quite fiction.

generic tendencies #3: seriality & instability (p1)

Fandom Then/Now
presents research conducted in 2008 and uses to facilitate fan conversations about fan fiction’s past and future.
In my last round of posts I was focusing on things I noticed in 2008 as I read different works of fan fiction and commercial romance. So far, I’ve touched on narrative arcs and world building and character relationship development (p1, p2). The last story elements I noticed were trends regarding seriality and narrative instability.

Here are a few core tendencies I noticed as I read:

Three: Seriality & Instability (p1)

In 2008, I noticed a heightened feeling of seriality in the popular works of fan fiction I read, particularly when compared to the popular romance novels I was comparing them to. Many of the works of fan fiction I read had sequels or were part of a larger series. Reading these stories, it felt as if the characters were part-way through a larger journey. This felt different from many of the commercial romances I was reading, which often stood alone and had a clear sense of closure at the end. This may be influenced by the medium itself. As I’ve already discussed, an individual work of fan fiction feeds off of a larger story-world that keeps changing. From season to season, a television show will introduce new plot developments or characters to challenge it’s protagonists. These changes continually introduce new obstacles for a fan writer to deal with. This environment may facilitate a greater sense of seriality within fan fiction.

However, as a reader I didn’t only experience this feeling of seriality when I read fan fiction from fandoms where the source-text was still being produced. Irregardless of the fandom, many of the fan fiction authors I was introduced to were working on extensive follow-ups to their initial stories. A work of fan fiction contributes to much a larger body of fan work, a network of stories being continually produced by fans. An individual story joins both this broader network of stories, as well as potentially being affected by a source-text that may still be developing its own version of the story. These larger networks of stories work together to reinforce the sense of a continually changing story-world, one always filled with the potential for new conflicts. Essentially, even if one individual work of fan fiction ends with a happy couple, there is always a layer of instability within a fandom’s larger story world. This deeply affects the sense of finality fan fiction readers may get from an individual story’s happy ending. It may also drive fan authors to keep revisiting characters and working to restore them to a moment of stability and happiness.

What do you think about this idea that fan fiction often tends to feel more serial? Do you notice anything like this when you read commercial or fan romances today? Does fan fiction feel any more serial to you today than it did in past years?

What do you think of my findings? Read the full write up on fan fiction and romance here. Share what you think about this on the Fandom Then/Now website or respond here using the #fandomthennow tag.

File Recovery - Chapter Ten

File Recovery

Chapter Ten - Syntax Error


He wondered idly, as the sedatives began releasing their hold on his systems, why a moment shrouded with the after affects of high grade would have survived long enough to be ingrained in his processor, let alone still be intact after the corruption of his memory core. He was distracted from this particular line of thought as he onlined completely, yet another set of warnings flashing across his CPU. They declared that he was now missing the armor over his chest, though somehow this didn’t surprise him as much as it should have.

Glancing about, he found that the operating lights were running at half capacity, pulled back away from the table and shoved closer to the wall. It made the shadows in the room a little less sharp, blurred and distorted by the decrease in intensity.

In the corner, sitting in a haphazard pile upon another table, were his missing chest plates.

They looked to be even more of a mess than he recalled when they had been attached, but then again it could have been from how they had been stacked. The charred and twisted edges looked much worse with the way the shadows fell on them. They didn’t really look as if they had been a part of his body at all.

Hesitantly, he raised his hand up to where the armor should have been, carefully feeling along the edges of the now open cavity. Rougher textures prevailed under his fingers, indicating that the metal had been far too warped to simply detach by itself. The vast majority of the sensors along each edge were dead, burned out and unresponsive to his prodding, so when he finally ran across a live one it sent a sudden sharp shock over his neural network.

His jaw clenched, fighting back a vocal response to the pain as he snapped his hand away from that particular section. He waited a moment, cycling air through his vents until the sensation faded, taking that fractional amount of time to brace himself mentally.

After a few seconds, he slowly lifted his head from the berth.

His optics went first to focus on the edges, the rough cut metal confirming what he’d felt out with his fingers. They weren’t as jagged to the visual as they had been to the tactile. He raised his hand back to his chest, tracing over the one area of his under-plating within the range of his current gaze that did not bear signs of scarring. He lingered, staring at that plate for the longest moment, wondering why it alone had escaped damage. It didn’t appear to be a vital spot or even very important in the overall structure of his frame, although the curvature of the metal was somewhat odd considering its placement. The under-plating attached to and just beneath the spark chamber was supposed to be flatter, covering those systems related to the processing of energon.

He frowned, craning his head forward. With the lights no longer positioned directly over his berth, the shadows made it difficult to follow where the metal dipped down. But all the plates next to it, though damaged, followed the same curving pattern all around the bottom of his spark chamber. This left a small area of open space, encased in the thinner sheets of metal that made up his under-plating, right where his fuel tank should have been.

For a moment he sat simply staring, bewildered.

A quick run through of his basic systems confirmed that his fuel tank and all connected processes were all accounted for, working at slightly less than peak efficiency. Their relative positioning had simply been shifted about, rearranged to form a space that appeared to serve no purpose. He was distracted from doing a full system search for its function by the sound of the door opening.

He turned his head in time to see Optimus walk in and caught a brief look at the chamber beyond his brother’s frame. He spotted a mech with grey and green armor sitting on one of the berths at the far end and the reflective fluorescent hue of the medic before the door snapped shut again. It seemed that he wasn’t the only patient in the med bay that particular orn.

He transferred his gaze back to his brother and saw that once again Optimus was wearing that patented expression of neutrality. Through the bond he caught a faint whiff of worry tangled up with confusion, and a weary sensation of contemplation. He knew that whatever thoughts were running rampant in his brother’s processor, causing that worry, that confusion, were there due to his presence on the base.

It made a fresh surge of shame wash through his systems.

When Wraithfire had passed the office of Protectorate to him, Optimus had already been Prime for quite some time. He had done everything in his power to keep from causing his brother any more difficulties than what the position had already heaped on him. They had helped each other, trying to gain favor with the more senior senators who were quite unused to change. Senators who more often than not listened to what their sire had to say rather than either of them, even though technically they had the final word.

They had learned the hard way the difference between technicalities and actualities.

He went to sit up, remembering just how off balance he currently was due to his missing limbs just in time to catch himself from rolling off the table. A hand on his shoulder helped him to a steadier position, and he threw Optimus a grateful glance only to frown when he saw that his brother was pointedly avoiding his gaze. He started to say something, but faltered, turning his head away.

After a moment’s silence, he raised his hand back up to his chest, just barely setting his fingers against the cavity’s lower edges.

“What is this?”

He felt a flash of surprise pass briefly over their bond and saw an expression of uncertainty overtake his brother’s face. Apparently this hadn’t been the expected query, which led him to think that the answer should have been obvious. He looked away, lowering his gaze back over his chest. He noticed now that even the walls of his spark chamber hadn’t escaped the damage that had been inflicted on his chest plates. The metal surface was charred, and in some places still contorted, though his repair systems had nearly finished fixing where it had been melted through. From this angle the small space beneath it looked smaller, less of cavity and more like a simple pocket within his armor.

He heard his brother sigh almost wearily, and looked up in time to see Optimus slowly shaking his head. A sense of discomfort slipped through, as if the presented topic was something his brother did not like, did not want, to think about.

“That is a carrying hold,” Optimus murmured after a long moment, the level of disquiet leaking through their bond rising as the words were spoken. With it came a swirl of disbelief, though he wasn’t sure if it was his brother’s or his own. “You have a carrying hold.”

He stared at Optimus as those words wound their way through his processor, the question of why such a statement was voiced in a way that made it out to be terrible getting stuck in his throat as the implication of it suddenly hit home.

A carrying hold only developed under a certain set of circumstances, the programming for it to form activated if the correct criteria was met. It required two sparks, a mech’s and a femme’s, bound together, each one exactly one half of the other, and a merger between them strong enough to cause one to splinter. The creation of a sparkling, in other words, spurred the creation of the hold within each of its creators. Internals reorganized to form a space designed specifically to cradle, and comfort, and care for that new life.

“But—but I’m not—I never—”

He stopped, optics darting back and forth in tune to the thoughts now running rampant in his processor.

Focusing on his own spark, he sought out the individual connections to it. His brother’s was burning brightest at the moment, newly reinitialized and bolstered by Optimus’s immediate proximity. Next to it all the other links were so pallid, frayed and tangled at having been shoved back, that he was afraid that he wouldn’t ever be able to decipher whom they had belonged to.

Past tense, because all those threads were either dead or disconnected from disuse.

At first he didn’t think to look beyond them, automatically drawing to the conclusion that those tangled lines were all that was there, but an itch at the back of his processor made him search through them again.

There, buried deep beneath the dead connections, pulled back so that any who were connected to his spark could not detect them without alerting him to their investigation, were two threads. He pulled them back into range, trying to feel out where they connected to.

What he got was an indescribable emptiness.

He cast his optics up towards the ceiling as a wave of nausea ripped through him, pre-empting the pain in his spark by a mere half a second. He couldn’t keep down the compulsion to purge his tank, barely able to turn over the side of the table so his half-processed energon wouldn’t get all over his opened chest. The dry heaves hit once his tank was empty, coinciding with every wave of pain inside his spark.

“They’re dead—I can't—I can’t feel them,” he whispered, once the convulsions had subsided enough for his vocal processor to work. His brother hadn’t moved from where he’d been standing, expression having remained unchanged as well. Their link had withdrawn a bit, guarding Optimus’s thoughts. Worry hit then, followed swiftly by the sharp tang of fear. “I—”

He coughed, a broken image of a faceless blue armored femme flickering through his processor, screaming as his claws tore open her chassis, ripping out not her spark but the sparkling that had been curled up inside her hold.

Shuddering, he shuttered his optics.

“I didn't—Oh Primus, please tell me I didn’t kill them too.”

“I don’t know.”

He lifted his head off the side of the table, optics snapping open again.

“You—I didn’t tell you?”


“Why! You’re my brother, why wouldn’t I tell you!” he asked, feeling a strange kind of panic begin to well up in his systems. “You told me about yours, even before she was your spark mate I knew about her! Why would I hide my own from you!”

I don’t know!

He froze upon hearing the tone in his brother’s voice. That underlying anger he’d sensed when he’d first come online those few orns ago had returned, tainting the words.

“I don’t know why you didn’t tell me, Megatron,” Optimus stated, and he noted that one of his brother’s hands had curled itself into a fist. “I haven’t known why you’ve done things in a very long time.”

He wasn’t certain if it was the implications of the last statement or the way his brother had said his name that caused the sharp, needle-like pains to dig into his spark once more. Without a word, he turned away, falling onto the berth again, his back turned towards Optimus. His arm fell over the side of the table, those hellish claws that had once been his fingers dangling just on the edge of his vision. He flexed them, optics drifting to the floor and the crooked shadows that they made across the tile. An array of thoughts churned their way through his processor.

Slowly, one digit at a time, he formed his hand into a fist.

“Why am I still alive?” he asked in a low voice, seemingly to himself. “If my spark mate is dead, I should be too.”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know a lot of things, brother.”

“I know enough,” Optimus retorted, a very small amount of defiance leaking through their connection. “You brought this on yourself, Megatron.”

“By killing Jazz?”

“By killing—”

There was a sharp pause, a short, tempered silence.

“You’re trying to provoke me.”

“If that’s the only way to get you to explain things, then so be it.”

“I told you before, brother,” Optimus sighed. He could hear his elder sibling shifting about on his feet, discomfort with the conversation causing the blue and red mech to fidget. A nervous habit from their youngling days that had since disappeared save for extremely rare occasions. “You don’t want me to explain.”

“Oh, but I do,” he murmured, raising his gaze back to the table where the remains of his chest plates still sat. “I remember walking back into the hall that night-the night you had your date. And then suddenly I’m here, every warning system in my processor shrieking, every sensor screaming in agony—and I don’t know why.”

He raised his fist up in front of his face, optics narrowing on the ends of each claw, noting that there were gouges in the metal of his palm and wrist. Well worn gouges, the tips of each sharpened claw fitting neatly into them.

“I don’t why—why my voice is changed—why my optics are different—why my armor is burnt through.”

He shuttered his optics, letting his hand fall back down.

“And what little you have told me—that I killed Jazz and Sentinel—our sire? That they’re not the only ones—what am I supposed to think of myself now, Optimus? I don’t even know why I killed them.”

The silence that followed his words was far too thick, far too choking for him to stand. It made him feel all the worse, guilt welling up for playing on his brother’s inherent sense of empathy. He shifted, opening is mouth to break the quiet, to say something, anything to keep Optimus from speaking only to find himself too late as his sibling’s voice cut through the air.

“Sentinel discovered that you were in league with the dissidents, the ones that bombed the Senate Hall,” his brother said, as if it were flat fact, something long known but seldom referenced. “That is why you killed him.”


“You heard me, I’m not repeating it.”

“I’m not—I was never—why would I be league with them!” he spat out, wrenching himself back up to face his brother. Despite everything, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat insulted by this information, especially with the memory of that particular incident relatively fresh in his processor. “They killed Blackjack and Dualpoint, or did you forget that! Just because I chose to join the Aerial Force rather than follow you through the Elite Guard doesn’t mean I completely disregarded the fact that they practically raised us—”


“—just because I never got along well with Sentinel—”


“—he’s the one that kept the senate from approving any of our proposals—”


He froze, more from the snappish way the words were spewed out than the actual command itself. He raised his optics to find that his brother’s face currently held a vexed expression, though there was a mixture of frustrated bewilderment in his optics.

“You weren’t working with the dissidents?”


Optimus stared at him, calculating. He could feel his brother testing his own emotions through their bond, trying to discern whether or not he was lying. He let his end of the connection flow freely, hoping to be believed but not daring to assume that he would be. After a moment, his brother’s frowned deepened, arms raising up to fold over his chest, face full of troubled contemplation.

“Then I am afraid that returns us to square one,” Optimus murmured, looking down at the floor. “As I can think of no other relevant reason for such a deed.”

“Couldn’t of been because he was fragging bastard now, could it?”

This comment earned him a very impatient look.

“I can’t think of any reason either, Optimus,” he muttered, looking away. “None of this makes any sense at all to me—how could you think that I’d work with those—those scum?”

“Because you did.”

“I just said—”

“Maybe not then, but somewhere along the line, they did start answering to you,” his brother said, still looking at the floor. There was a slight strain in Optimus’s voice at this point, as if such memories were something he was not used to reviewing, let alone relaying into spoken words. “It wasn’t long after you killed Sentinel, after you were sentenced for killing him—the undercover agents for the Elite Guard, found so many references to you, to the Stockades in Kaon—we just assumed…”

He felt a cold sensation well up in the pit of his internals, flooding through his energon lines as his thoughts funneled themselves down a certain corridor, corralled to formulate a single icy theory in his processor.


“You wanted to know, brother.”

“I’ve heard enough.”

Optimus finally looked at him, meeting his gaze with those burning blue optics, a glint of uncertainty inside their light. He stared at them for as long as he could before raising his hand up to cover his face, forcing back his revulsion at their shape in order to break his gaze away. Again he turned, rolling over on the berth and wrenching his optics shut, jaw clenching. He heard his brother move after a moment, heavy footsteps across the floor, the sound of the door sliding open and shut again, and the silence beyond fading away.

File Recovery - Chapter Nine

File Recovery

Chapter Nine - Reactant


It was the sound of vents hitching and sputtering, vents that were not his own, that roused him. He activated his optics only to snap them shut again as the light stabbed at the lenses of his visual centers. A dull pain at the back of his processor became just a little bit sharper, and a relatively familiar ache it was. His systems, having finished processing the obscene amount of high grade he had downed the previous night, were now complaining about the abuse.

He groaned, pushing against the floor to flop over on his back. Again the light attacked his optics as they were unshuttered, but instead of wrenching them shut again he kept them halfway open so that they could adjust. It took longer than normal, like the pain, oversensitive visual sensors were an unpleasant after effect of overcharged systems. He stared up at the off-white ceiling, waiting for them to adapt, listening to air being cycled through a ventilation system that sounded as if it were either clogged or forcibly closed off.

After a moment, he slowly turned his head to the side.

Lying on the ground next to him, unmoving save for the occasional shudder as her vents struggled to cycle air, was the slim form of the downcast courier. Her dull blue armor could have blended in with the floor if not for the multiple scuff marks and dents marring every visible surface. Her right leg, the one closest to him, was twisted, the socket popped out of place. In the space where the joint was supposed to be attached he could see the tangle of wires and energon lines leading up to one of the main junctions just above her hip.

An out of place joint had to be painful, and he felt a twinge of guilt at having caused it. However, when he went to prop himself up to peer at her face what he saw made an icy cold feeling crawl through his systems.

She was staring upwards, optics open wide though the pale blue light burning within them was unfocused, and her facial plating was frozen.

This, coupled with the sound her vents were making, force fed a creeping, disturbing thought into his processor, an answer to the query of her stillness.

Paralysis he had witnessed before, mainly in Aerial Force recruits who managed to crash first flight out, wings wrenched from their bodily structure, spinal column partially displaced. These were repairable injuries, always physical, always something to laugh off over high grade afterwards. But he had never seen paralysis stemming from an inability of the CPU to even process the surrounding world. Overruled by emotion rather than pain, the limbs of the body were unable to respond to even the most basic of commands.

She was unmoving, paralyzed by something as simple as fear.

He pushed himself up further, optics still on the tiny femme. Even his sudden movement didn’t break whatever hold terror had on her processor. He let his gaze drift back down to her displaced hip, though the dents in the thinner armor of her abdomen quickly drew his attention away. The scrapes and gouges that were spread so sporadically over the rest of her frame became an interlaced network of pockmarked metal the lower his optics traversed. There was no trace of her original paint on these plates, nor any indication that repairs had even been attempted, save for a few traces of unhealed solder.

None of the damage was fresh, for which he felt a twisted sense of relief flood through him.

He was only indirectly responsible for her current state.

He shifted, reaching forward only to pause, hand halfway outstretched as indecisiveness seized hold of him. His optics flicked back up to her face, the symbols etched there standing out starkly in the light, though now that he had a better chance to look at them he could see just how hastily done the engraving had been. Not that he had expected it to be quality work, not when the bot at hand was a downcast, but there was evidence of additional scarring around the edges as if the engraver hadn’t been overly zealous with his tools.

He knew of downcasts, the reasons behind their creation and their continued existence in mainstream society. Centuries ago during the reign of Nova Prime, when all support for the Halicon Penitentiary on Cybertron’s secondary moon had been pulled, the continued problem of what to do with the dregs of society reared it’s ugly head. The constructs in Kaon were not large enough to hold the ever burgeoning ranks of those who chose to disobey the law. Someone whose name was but a footnote in history had suggested taking the worst of the worst, the murderers, the rapists, those that persisted down the lines of physical abuse, and molding them into workers, to serve the society they had wronged.

This measure, once put forth, was readily accepted.

Hoards of prisoners were taken out, their memory cores erased and their base programming edited to favor docility. Their faces marked, they were assigned to jobs too complicated for drones but still far too menial for ordinary laborers. It soon became public knowledge where they had originated, and the stigmas of their past lives caused many to be killed outright, beaten and broken for crimes they didn’t even remember committing. Restricted from retaliation or even basic self defense, most of them did not survive even a vorn after reprogramming.

Femme downcasts were few and far between, as most violent crimes were committed by mechs and those that did meet the criteria were often sold as pleasure-bots to the highest bidder.

He didn’t really know if the little courier had been lucky enough to have escaped that fate, though judging by the arrangement of the half healed injuries on her chassis she seemed to have it worse. As he stared at her, he couldn’t help but wonder what she had done to have been sentenced to this fate. She seemed far too small, far too weak to be capable of committing any of the atrocities that other holders of the title had meted out.

He looked back at her leg, hesitating.

It was such simple thing to do, to pop the joint back into its proper place; it wouldn’t take any longer than a few seconds at the very most.

His brother would have done it already, would not have just sat there staring, always giving help when needed even when he wasn’t asked to. Optimus would have done everything he could to make her fear dissipate, would have gained her trust simply through his ability to understand the situation. His brother would have done the right thing, no hesitation, no second thoughts.

It was in thinking this more than anything that he finally forced his limbs to cooperate.

He slid his hand beneath her leg, trying not to jar it too much in the process. Her upper thigh didn’t even span the entire width of his palm, the armor covering it laughably thin. He tried not to grip too hard as he pushed the joint back into place, but still found that the metal had buckled somewhat as he pulled his hand away.

The sputtering of her vents increased and he snapped his gaze back to her face only to note a subtle shift in her entire frame. The strange unnatural tightening of the limbs usually associated with paralysis had disappeared, replaced by a limpness that did nothing to relieve his current feeling of unease regarding her presence. Her optics were no longer forced open so wide, he could see that her gaze while still untraceable was at least somewhat focused and her facial plates were no longer pulled taught but had slackened into an almost emotionless state. It was if she had immediately slipped into a default mode of functioning upon the lifting of the paralysis, refusing to acknowledge that she now had use of her limbs.

He frowned, sitting back as he tried to puzzle through this with the ache of a hangover pounding at the back of his own processor.

The icy cold feeling in his circuits returned when it the realization finally came.

Willful inaction brought on by learned expectations, the mere thought of how such a reaction was forged sent a churning nausea through his fuel tank. He looked away, a strange mix of emotions prickling around the edges of everything, confusing and frustrating his aching CPU. He grit his dental plates, grinding them together before making the decision to climb slowly to his feet. He looked back down at her, again feeling that strange static enveloping his systems at the sight of her frame.

She looked far smaller from this angle, the contrast between the raw metal scrapes across her armor and the dull blue of her paint standing out far greater in the light than before. He saw her optics flicker, slowly turning to gaze up at him, uncertainty and worry underlining the fear that shone through.

He locked gazes with her, reaching a sudden conclusion in his processor.

“I am not going to hurt you like that.”