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“Let ’em run” – another Transformers story

I’ve been kicking around and noodling with this story idea for a while now: Ultra Magnus having one of those days where he has to make time for everybody else’s problems. The thing about Ultra Magnus is that he’s a kind, compassionate bot who will make time for everybody else, even if that means sacrificing the causes close to his spark. And even if he isn’t always aware of what those causes are.

This story sews together a bunch of minor plot threads that have been percolating in my personal post-G1 Transformers headcanon for the last few years, since I started thinking about writing in the Transformers universe again. Or, rather, writing in my Transformers universe, since the world I’ve created for them takes the original 80s cartoon, carves out a few end pieces, and relaunches into a sphere of my own making, ignoring a lot (most) of what happened after. I didn’t read all the comics. I haven’t seen most of the movies. I honestly don’t care that my alternate universe doesn’t fit in with or even outright ignores a bunch of continuity, characterizations, and events other Transformers fans hold sacred.

This is my universe to play in, and I’m happy with that. If you enjoy parts of it, I’m happy for that, too. If you don’t, that’s also okay. But please don’t let my little corner of Transformers fiction get under your skin. Imagination is for everyone. So, too, are the Transformers, in all their incarnations. Including mine.


Ultra Magnus stared at his monitor. The dots representing the bio-wrangling ground team moved in a spectacle of zigs and zags, each motion matched by a call over the field comm signal.

“Where in blazes is our air support?” Kup shouted.

Sideswipe laughed. “Who needs air support, when you’ve got a rocket pack?”

“Some of us don’t have a rocket pack,” Arcee bit back.

Despite their jabbering, the Autobot ground squad was holding their own against the bio, so Ultra Magnus tuned them out. He tapped over to the Decepticon tracking system. The air squadron was en route at speed, the dot with Cyclonus’s identification marker shearing atmosphere in front.

“Aerial squad inbound,” Magnus told the troops on the ground. “ETA, forty-two seconds.”

“Tell them to be careful,” Perceptor said, leaning close to the comm mic. Before Magnus could comment on their comrades’ proficiency, though, Perceptor clarified his concern: “This specimen should be taken alive.”

“My primary worries are for our own,” Magnus muttered.

The field comm lit up again with new chatter.

“You guys sure took your time,” Hot Rod snapped. “Were you packing each other’s missile bays, or what?”

Dirge gave a growl. “I’ll pack my missiles into your exhaust, wise-aft!”

Cyclonus’s deep voice ordered both sets of troops: “Initiate flanking maneuvers. Aerialbots, Seekers, on my mark—”

The signal fritzed, and Cyclonus’s identifier vanished from the screen.

Magnus lurched forward in his seat. “What the-?”

The comm corroborated.

“Cyclonus just disappeared!” Slingshot cried.

Thrust let out a panicked holler. “What do we do? What do we do?”

“We ram that thing!” Ramjet sounded delighted.

“No!” Perceptor shoved himself toward the comm control mic. “The biological specimen’s physical integrity must be preserved at all cost. Restrain at most.”

“I’d like to see you come out here and restrain this thing!” Skydive said.

Magnus left off scanning for Cyclonus’s signature – the air commander was capable of looking after himself – and barked into the comm mic, “Use the terrain. Air team, lay down suppressive fire along the coast; keep it from going back into the water. Ground team—”

“Way ahead of you, Mags,” Hot Rod replied over the telltale sound of transforming gears. His next words came over the rumble of multiple motors. “Let’s corral this crab!”

Whoops and hoots overtook the barrage of flight and drive directions. Beside Ultra Magnus, Perceptor clenched an anxious fist as they watched the spread of dots representing their comrades wind together as an orchestrated group to contain the biological anomaly.

A sudden screech filled the airwaves. The sound of metal crashing against what had to be rock broke across the comm as one dot went spiraling out of control from the rest.

“Kup’s down!”

“I’m going after him—”

“Stay in formation!”

The cacophony of voices made Magnus ground his jaw gears. “Someone, give me a sit-rep!”

“Under control.”

Magnus wasn’t sure he’d ever been so glad to hear Cyclonus’s low tones come in over the comm. The Decepticon’s identifier swept onto the monitor from one outside corner and zoomed toward the cluster of dots. The aerial team’s pattern coalesced. The ground team followed suit, buoyed by the precision of their brothers and sisters above.

After several minutes of more measured communications, Scrapper’s voice came online.

“Bio is secured.”

“Uninjured, I hope!” Beneath Perceptor’s testiness was a note of distress, and Magnus reminded himself to forgive the scientist his impatience.

“Don’t tell us our job,” Scavenger said testily, while Hook was more relaxed, albeit snootier.

“Our designs are faultless.”

Magnus allowed himself a brief hum of relief. “Dispatching Skyfire to help bring it in. Good work, everybody.”

There was some self-congratulatory chatter before Arcee said:

“We’re going to need medical transport for Kup.”

“It’s just a suspension wound,” Kup protested, but Magnus cut him off.

“Copy that. I’ll send First Aid along with Skyfire.”

Perceptor harrumphed and crossed his arms. “I suppose we can’t expect to advance our research progress without some minor setbacks.”

Magnus was glad he’d already turned down his comm mic. After alerting the mop-up team, he turned to Perceptor with a frown. “I know you’re fascinated with these creatures—”

“These ‘creatures’, as you refer to them, are the result of our tampering with the planet’s natural energy resources. They can’t help what they’ve become. Whereas we owe it to them and the rest of Earth’s inhabitants to find a solution to this dilemma that we created.”

“I’m aware of that. And Leadership agrees that we need to find an answer and put a stop to the mutations before they get worse.” Magnus tilted his head the other way and opened one large hand. “But these are our people out there, fighting against these things at a disadvantage to keep them safe. They deserve compassion, too.”

Silence dropped between them like a tiny bomb. Perceptor bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Ultra Magnus. I forget sometimes—”

Magnus turned his palm outward. “I understand,” he said, and he did. The troops stationed on Earth in Little Cybertron, nee Autobot City, were an eclectic mix of fighter, scientist, administrator, and strategist. While on the surface everyone shared the same goal – protecting the planet’s fragile ecosystem by counteracting and, hopefully, reversing the impact of their Cybertronian presence – they came with different priorities. Soundwave and his menagerie had chosen this assignment because it provided them with more high-level opportunities than they’d have elsewhere. Hot Rod and Arcee had strong emotional connections to the Witwickys, for whom Earth and Luna were home. For all his purported devotion to logic, Shockwave’s ego seemed to require he be in the forefront of this research opportunity, the same as Perceptor wanted to be. Some Cybertronians, like Tracks, Blaster, and Sunstreaker, simply preferred Earth’s culture over others.

“Just try to remember: we need to work together,” Magnus said. “Morale is a significant part of that.”

“Of course.” Perceptor’s hips straightened. “I’d like to prepare my lab for specimen samples,” he said to leave.

Ultra Magnus nodded. “Keep us posted.”

As Perceptor walked out of the command room, Magnus stood, wincing at the sound of a grinding gear along his back; he’d have to find some time for a lubricant bath. He swung his focus toward the exit but stopped halfway on Wheelie, who sat hunched and petulant in a seat by the doors.

“What are you so glum about?”

Wheelie glared at him. “To hold me back isn’t right. Like the others, I can fight!”

“I know you can,” Magnus said, trying to placate. “But this was a special case.”

“They’re all special cases, listening to you. I’m never on the team.” Wheelie crossed his arms over his chest. “Your judgment’s skewed,” he grumbled.

Magnus lowered his shoulders. “Not every incident needs everyone—”

“Especially not me. To that, you see.”

As Magnus swung his head, more gears made straining noises. “Can we talk about this later? I need to meet the response team.”

Wheelie got to his feet. “Talk when you want. I don’t care.” He turned for the exit, though not without adding, “Don’t expect me to be there.”

Ultra Magnus slumped in his wake. Spike Witwicky had recently lamented about the mood swings of human adolescents, his son Daniel being part of that contingent. Magnus wasn’t sure if adolescent mood swings applied to Wheelie, though it certainly felt that way. The young bot had some issues with socialization, so Magnus had attempted to teach him, bring him into the fold as a kind of protege. The results had been mixed. While Magnus liked Wheelie, talking with him often felt like trying to talk with a wall.

At least Wheelie wasn’t so self-absorbed that he didn’t care about his fellow bots. When Magnus walked out to the receiving bay to meet the returning ground and air teams, Wheelie was already there, waving to the approaching dust runners.

Cyclonus and the air squad came in first, transforming to bipedal mode amid a cloud of particles from their subsonic journey through the stratosphere. A few of them jostled each other and exchanged some healthy ribbing, but Cyclonus’s distracted dourness provided an overall pall. He walked away from his fellow flyers toward the interior of the city.

Ultra Magnus stepped toward him. “Cyclonus?”

Little Cybertron’s air commander didn’t break stride. “I neither want nor need a lecture from you,” he rumbled.

Magnus grabbed his elbow joint to draw him to a stop. It worked, though just barely. “I’m not lecturing,” he said, sending his volume low for sake of the others around them. The ground team had started to arrive in a roil of dust, and Magnus knew that the sense of sometimes unhealthy competition between the two teams would only make Cyclonus lock down his mouth motors. The flyer relied on a firm stoicism to keep his own troops in line, and Magnus guessed he was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“What happened out there?” Magnus went on, keeping his voice hushed. “One moment, you were on target, and the next…!”

Cyclonus stared straight ahead. His red optics went dull, as if reflecting inward. Only his jaw seemed to move, though his mouth stayed closed. When at last he spoke, his voice modulator trembled. “I teleported,” he muttered.

Magnus pulled up in surprise. He knew the technical specs of everyone on Earth assignment, from Rewind in the comm cluster in the heart of Little Cybertron city to Beachcomber and Acid Storm in the Amazon and Snowcrash in the Arctic. No one in Autobot or Decepticon ranks, though, had the ability to jump space at will. “I didn’t think you could do that.”

“I can’t!” Cyclonus clenched both fists. Then he dropped his head, his tone swinging from frustration to misery. “I couldn’t. I shouldn’t,” he said, his voice no more than mutter. He almost seemed to collapse on himself, like there was a black hole inside his chassis. “It was something…he could do.”

The implication of those words itched at Ultra Magnus’s logic circuits. He’d known, fought against, then fought alongside Cyclonus for so long, he’d forgotten that the flyer had ever been anyone but. “You mean Skywarp?”

Cyclonus’s optics flared, and he straightened up, full of pride and wrath. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

“I just want to help—”

“You can’t.” Cyclonus hopped from his heels and transformed into his vehicle mode. He rotated about and pointed his nose toward the bay doors and open sky. “No one can.”

Magnus turned after him, but Cyclonus was already away. Standing beneath his invisible exhaust stream was the trio of Hot Rod, Arcee, and Sideswipe. Arcee and Sideswipe offered him sympathetic looks while Hot Rod stepped forward.

“Debrief delay?” the cavalier suggested with a spread of both hands.

While the offer tempted, Ultra Magnus knew that his troops had interests outside of meetings and logistics. He shook his head. “Now’s just as good a time as any.”

Hot Rod lifted his shoulder pauldrons. “Fine by me.”

Ultra Magnus led them into the circular conference room that doubled as the city’s staging room as well as his preferred office. It was bright, with multiple comms monitors and seats. It also had a locking safe that contained some of the best energon refreshments on this side of the galaxy. Opportunity for that later, though. For the moment, Magnus concentrated on the reports from the ground team.

“The bio had a unique signature, at least,” Arcee said in closing as she rose from her seat.

Magnus grunted. “That should make Perceptor happy.”

“Maybe not,” Hot Rod said with a chuckle. He stretched to stand with Arcee. “You know how he likes a challenge.”

“I think he’ll have his circuits occupied with figuring out this one as it stands.”

Sideswipe clapped his palms on his thighs as he got to his boots, too. “Well, if that’s it, I’m going to have a nice soak in the oil baths.”

Arcee hummed. “That sounds good. Mind if I join?”

Sideswipe gave her a welcoming leer. “Always room for one more.”

“Or two.” Arcee nudged Hot Rod, her optics flashing with something like mischief.

Hot Rod seemed to take the hint but said, “I’ll catch up.”

“Suit yourself.” Sideswipe crooked one elbow. “M’lady?”

Arcee took his arm with a smile and accompanied Sideswipe out the door.

Hot Rod stepped aside to let them pass, watching them go a moment before turning back to Magnus. “So,” he said by way of preamble. “You want to talk about what happened with Cyke today?”

Ultra Magnus looked at him. Insight wasn’t wholly alien to Hot Rod, but he’d been evincing a lot more of it since he’d relinquished the Matrix of Leadership to Optimus Prime. That felt like a long time ago already.

“He said that he…teleported,” Magnus got out.

“Huh,” was all the cavalier said.

Magnus had no reply.

Hot Rod crossed his arms. The stance was very Rodimus-like, and for the second time in a day cycle, Magnus was reminded that some of his fellow Cybertronians were much more than met the eye.

“Is that in his skills set?” Hot Rod asked.

Magnus shook his head. “No. At least, we didn’t think so. But it had been. Before.”

“Before what?”

“Unicron,” Ultra Magnus said heavily.

Hot Rod’s mouth fell open a little. “Right,” he said at last.

“Do you think you could talk to him about it?”

“Me?” Hot Rod’s sudden smile and tone were incredulous. “Talk to Cyclonus?”

“You’ve been through what he has.”

“Not exactly!”

“You were Rodimus Prime.”

“And now I’m not.”

“But he’s part of you. And there are parts of him that you still carry with you.”

“Like blistering self-doubt.”

“You understand what it’s like to be – to have been – someone else.” Magnus laid his hand on his chest, where the Matrix had once rested, briefly, despite him being unworthy. “I’ve always been just me.”

“A brilliant tactician and city commander who’s always put the lives of friends and comrades first.” Hot Rod snickered, waggling his fingers beside his head as he skewed his mouth for a sardonic drawl. “Yeah, you’re so far down the list of bots I’d want to talk to.” He shook off his sarcasm with a quick and dismissive judder of his head and what sounded like a sigh. “Cyclonus respects you a lot more than he respects me. Heck, you might be the closest thing he’s got to a friend around here.”

Magnus hunched over the desk. “I can’t understand what he’s going through. But I want to help him.”

“So, help him. Assuming he wants that.”

“How?”

Hot Rod raised both shoulders. “Let him decide. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a hot oil bath I want to slide into before the next crisis hits.” He inclined his head, offered a lackadaisical salute, and was gone.

Ultra Magnus pushed himself away from the desk and got to his feet. As soon as he was up, though, and ready to go look for Cyclonus, Kup stepped into the doorway.

“Magnus,” the older bot said. “Got a minute?”

Magnus paused, his hands still on the flat of the desk. What could this be about, he wondered, and gestured to another seat, setting aside for the moment his Cyclonus conundrum. “Of course,” he said. “How’s the leg?”

Kup took a second to swing the limb, testing the hip joint. It squeaked a bit, but he only smiled. “As if it never came off.”

Magnus nodded as he returned to his chair. “First Aid does good work.”

“He does.” Kup listed to one side as he took the seat across the desk. “Though, I’m thinking it’s time I put my days of going under his laser scalpel in my rearview.”

“Retirement?” Magnus said in surprise.

The old veteran’s back went straight, and he bristled with indignant offense. “I’m not sending myself to the scrapheap yet!” He quickly and quietly fell into a slouch then, under a rippling of exhaustion that Magnus was starting to feel himself. “But racing around the planet, trying to wrangle radioactive beasties? To say nothing of keeping up with the punk?” Kup shook his head in rueful remorse. “That’s a young bot’s game.”

“I understand,” Magnus said, and he did, more than he liked to admit. This change would mean more than just replacing a soldier from the ranks, though. “I’ll miss you at the front of the pack.”

Kup laughed. “I haven’t been at the front of the pack in a long time!”

“Regardless, I’d like you to stay on here, if you’re willing.”

“Oh, you won’t get rid of me yet. I’ve got ideas for this place.”

Magnus felt himself smiling despite the news. “Any particulars you want to share?”

Kup sat back, stroking his chin. “I was thinking about putting on my trainer’s helmet.” His optics glimmered knowingly. “Even born leaders need fundamentals.”

“No arguments from me. Have you told the troops?”

“Not in so many words. But they know. This has been coming for a while. Today was just more evidence it’s time.”

Magnus gave a single, slow bob of his head before attempting to lighten the mood with an offer. “A drink? I’ve got some good stuff,” he said, gesturing toward the safe set in the far wall.

Kup stood and waved him off. “Save it for my retirement party.” He stuck Magnus with a point of one finger. “Which I do want, by the way.”

“We’ll make it a blow-out.” Magnus rose to meet him and offered him his hand. “It’s been an honor and a pleasure, sir.”

Kup took his hand, his grip still firm despite his years. “For me, too, Commander.”

They shook with mutual strength and solidarity. As they released, Magnus felt a passing of energy in the air, as if this was a moment of import. But sentimentality wasn’t one of his primary functions, so he simply said, “Ground team’s in the oil baths.”

“Of course they are,” Kup muttered, once more the grumbling curmudgeon. “Kids these days don’t know how good they’ve got it.”

Magnus laughed softly. “Tell me about it.”

Kup started off, but at the doorway, he stopped to look back over his shoulder.

“Y’know, I know you want to keep everybody safe. That’s your job. But it’s a big galaxy out there, with lots of life worth protecting. You can’t take responsibility for it all. There are other folks ready to take up the challenge. Ready to fight, do what’s right.” He swung his head once. “You can’t make them spin their wheels forever. You’ve gotta let ’em run.”

Ultra Magnus watched the space where Kup had stood for a long time. Had the old veteran been talking about himself? Hot Rod? Wheelie? Cyclonus? He was doing his best, though maybe his best wasn’t good enough. Or maybe he was focusing on the wrong issues.

He sat down again amid a feeling of contemplative woe. He wasn’t a leader, just a commander. Those were two different things.

“But not mutually exclusive,” he said to himself, echoing some wisdom Optimus Prime had bestowed upon him when he’d first made Magnus commander of Autobot City. They’d still been at war with the Decepticons back then. Unicron had been little more than a myth. He hadn’t even met Wheelie yet. And Cyclonus had still been Skywarp, one of the deadly Decepticon Seekers out for Autobot blood.

How the galaxy had changed.

Hot Rod was right: Magnus was probably one of the few friends Cyclonus had, on this planet or any other. The Decepticon air commander was a perennial loner. Too bold to be a bootlicker, too clever to be a cog. Snooty, exacting, and officious, he’d set himself outside his fellow flyers, and while they respected his command, they didn’t count him as one of their own. Despite all of that and their bitter past, Magnus actually kind of liked him. Cyclonus had had leadership of the Decepticons thrust upon him due to Galvatron’s ongoing psychiatric rehabilitation. And though Cyclonus took to leadership well, he didn’t seem to enjoy it. He and Magnus definitely had that in common.

Ultra Magnus tapped his helmet comm. Leadership might be a heavy burden, but it had its advantages, too. “Cyclonus, report to my office.”

“What do you want?”

Magnus looked up toward the doorway, surprised to see Cyclonus already standing there, with his arms at his sides and that unfailing dour look on his face. “I…just want to know how you’re feeling.”

Cyclonus pulled a scowl. “How I’m feeling? Is this meant to be some sort of intervention?”

“No.” Magnus showed him both hands. “But you’re my colleague,” he said, turning his palms upward. “And I’m concerned for your wellbeing.”

The scowl shifted, ever so slightly. The cringing around Cyclonus’s mouth relaxed, though the furrow in his brow remained. “I do not know,” he said, lowly and slowly, “what this means.”

“We can talk it through, if you think that would help?”

Cyclonus just stood there a long moment, a silent violet monolith in the doorway. Magnus wondered if he’d fly off again, draw on him, or simply shut down. But then Cyclonus took a step into the room, and another, and another. He approached the desk, sat in the seat across from Magnus, and said, “Do you have anything to drink? Preferably something with strength.”

“I’ve got some fermented fusion,” Magnus told him.

Cyclonus nodded. “That will do.”

Magnus got up from his chair. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“It’s your reserve. You can do with it as you like.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Magnus opened the safe and pulled out the good stuff. Into two containers he poured the thick, iridescent fusion extract. He passed one to Cyclonus and kept the other to himself, raising it in salute.

Magnus expected Cyclonus to drink his straight in one swift knockback, but the flyer took a moment to savor the drink’s warm glow before tipping it gently to his mouth for a controlled sip. He raised his brows and looked across the desk.

“That is good.”

“Rank has its privileges,” Magnus said with a little smile.

“As well as its problems,” Cyclonus said, and sipped again.

Magnus felt his smile slip. “I won’t argue that.” He took another taste, too, leaving neat the space and silence between them. Sometimes, patient quietude worked better than active prodding.

Cyclonus sat back, keeping his eyes on the drink he rolled in its container. He didn’t raise his head as he said, “Do you miss the war?”

The question wasn’t one Magnus had anticipated, but he felt the urge to reply honestly. “Not usually. But sometimes, yes. War is…easy, in its way.”

Cyclonus nodded in agreement. “Everyone has their place. Soldier, commander, innocent, fodder. I was forged a soldier.” He looked up then, his optics shimmering, and added: “Just like the time before. That life once lived.”

“Do you remember?” Magnus asked him. “That other life.”

“As if a dream,” Cyclonus said, and Magnus started.

“Dream? You mean, you don’t just shut down when you recharge?”

“If only that were so. At least from the dreams I could wake,” Cyclonus went on in a pained voice. “On waking, I was me. But this…!” He scowled again and crushed the container in his fist, sputtering fusion extract over his clenched digits. “What does this make me now?”

Ultra Magnus set down his drink. His spark felt suddenly heavy. That was a mystery not easily solved. He’d asked the same thing of himself during the long, lonesome hours when he’d sat monitoring comm channels or reviewing status reports. The answer was, he didn’t know. What he did know was that, while he might not have chosen his fate, he had a responsibility: to protect, to aid, to provide. During the war, that duty had been straightforward. Less so now, but no less important.

Magnus took his responsibilities seriously. Cyclonus seemed to do the same. That was part of being a commander. It was also part of being a sentient in this dangerous, glorious universe.

“More than a soldier,” Magnus said.

Cyclonus stared back. A flicker in his optics broke the grim stillness there, and a strained but sly smile cracked faint lines in his face. “Indeed,” he said before frowning again as he set the crushed container on the desk. “My apologies.”

“I can pour you another,” Magnus said easily, but Cyclonus rose with a deliberate shake.

“No. I need to think.”

Magnus smiled up at him. “Perchance to dream?”

The human reference was lost on Cyclonus, who only frowned. “Hopefully not.” The elusive smile reappeared, briefly. “Though, if I do, I may need to return for that second drink.”

“My door,” Magnus said, gesturing to the space in the wall, “is always open.”

Cyclonus bowed his head. “Thank you,” he muttered.

When the flyer was gone, Magnus got up from the desk to clean the container and spilled extract. Down on his haunches while he wiped up the spots, he heard the ground team walk by in the corridor. They seemed to be joined by some of the aerial group – or maybe it was the comms team – who challenged them to a friendly game of fire hockey, a dubious offshoot of lobbing developed by one of the Combaticons that involved sticks and a timed fireball grenade.

Ultra Magnus allowed himself a short, beleaguered sigh. The arena was going to be a mess in the morning. But that was a concern for later.

He finished cleaning and stood, still mulling over this strange city with its cohabitants of former enemies. Many of them had managed to set aside their differences in favor of the grander experiment of camaraderie. Factions remained, such as scientists, fighters, scouts, and intelligence experts. But the animosity and bloodthirstiness had transformed into competition for bragging rights.

Another commotion from the corridor pulled his attention. It was the cassette-bots shouting and growling as they raced toward the arena with their fire hockey sticks.

“Hey!” Magnus called out after them. “Don’t swing those in the hall.”

“Bite me, square-jaw!” one of Soundwave’s contingent – Rumble or Frenzy; Magnus had trouble telling them apart, especially since they’d started swapping paint jobs as a prank – shouted back to him. That got them a round of jeers and laughs as the rest thundered away.

Wheelie, coming up the rear of the group of smaller bots, came to a jogging stop at Magnus’s office door. He didn’t have a stick.

“Not playing?” Magnus guessed.

“Too small, they say,” Wheelie told him, and shrugged. “But that’s okay. They let me keep score. That’s close to the floor.”

Magnus felt a pang of protective feeling. Fire hockey was dangerous and destructive, but he didn’t like hearing that Wheelie was being left out of something that he might have enjoyed. “But do you want to play?”

Wheelie paused as if in consideration. After a moment, he said, “Quintessa was lonely because I was an only. I prefer having friends. It’s a means to that end.”

“I don’t want you to be lonely.” Magnus frowned in a search for the right words. Kup’s sentiment – Let ’em run – echoed in his head. “I’m sorry I was short with you before—”

“No need to explain. You’ve been under strain.”

“That may be, but…! Listen.” He set his hand on Wheelie’s shoulder; the small bot nearly disappeared beneath it. “I know you’re a fighter. A survivor. But life is about more than just surviving. It’s about kindness and compassion, friendship and family. I want you to know that you have that here.”

“Friends – family – are worth fighting for,” Wheelie said, as if to agree. But then he clenched a fist and put it to his orange chest. “That means being a warrior. I want to fight, be a warrior true.” His optics shimmered. “I want to be as great as you.”

Magnus shook his head. “I’m not great,” he said, but Wheelie laughed.

“You’re Ultra Magnus! You never settle.” He became serious again, his modulator dropping in pitch so that his voice sounded almost severe. “To you, I want to prove my mettle. I can make you proud, if you give me a chance. I’ll wield a shield, a gun, a sword, a lance—”

Magnus raised his palm for pause. “I get it.” He got down on one knee, to be optics-to-optics with Wheelie, whose blue gaze was bright with expectancy. “But I don’t want that for you.” He gripped Wheelie’s shoulder again and said softly, “I’ve seen so many – too many! – of our kind hurt or killed. And I don’t want that to happen to you.”

“It won’t,” Wheelie began, but Magnus shook his head, cutting off whatever rhyme Wheelie had in mind.

“It will, if fighting is your only purpose. And the blasted thing of it is, it doesn’t need to be. We did that to you,” he said, moving his other hand to his own chest, like Wheelie had done, “with our Great War, and the wars before, and I am so, so sorry for that.” He thought again of the brief time he’d carried the Matrix within him, and how he should have used its carried wisdom to forge a better path, one toward peace, for the soldiers under his care. He didn’t have the Matrix anymore, but he could still do his part to break the cycle of destruction.

“Most of us were forged as soldiers,” he went on, thinking of Cyclonus, and Kup, even Hot Rod, Arcee, and the rest. “Everything we do is tinged by war. But it doesn’t have to be that way for you. I don’t want it to be that way for you. I want you to be able to study, and play, and do all sorts of non-lethal things that we never gave ourselves the chance to do.” He squinted against his own emotions and said in a quiet, hissing voice, “I want your world to be better.”

Wheelie had tilted his head to one side during Magnus’s short speech. Now, he tilted it to the other. “You say to play,” he muttered, his words shuddering. “But you work all day.”

“Well, yes,” Magnus said, shifting back. “That’s my job.”

Wheelie cringed both hands. “I don’t need to fight. I just want you to see…!” He glanced to his boots, paused a moment, then looked up again, straight into Magnus’s face. There were lines of anguish on his own. “You make time for everyone but me.”

Magnus felt his spark flicker. “You…You want to spend time with me?”

Wheelie’s mouth twitched. Then he said, “Yes.” That was all. No complexity, no rhyme. Just that single word.

“I-! I’m sorry.” Magnus tucked his chin, rumbled the lubricants in his voice box. The sputtering of his spark became a more consistent hum. “I’ll make time. Now, if you’d like that.” He smiled. “I’d like that.”

Wheelie started to smile, too, when the comm gave a fast, insistent ping.

“Ultra Magnus?” Perceptor sounded harried. Beneath that vocal agitation, Magnus could hear excited shouting from Skyfire and the Constructicons. “The creature’s awake. We could use some assistance with restraint.”

Magnus groaned and held his head. He opened his fingers and looked at Wheelie, whose already feeble smile had faded. “I should get to the containment lab,” he said in a pained voice.

“No need to fuss,” Wheelie replied, shifting away. That all-too-familiar veil of self-preserving aloofness once more began to descend across his features. “We can later discuss.”

Magnus started to get to his feet when a new thought occurred. “I could use some help,” he said, leaving the rest open in case this was a boundary pushed too far.

But that precious smile lit Wheelie’s face again, this time more brightly. “I’ll watch your back if you’ll watch mine. Then, together, we’ll both be fine.”

“I like that plan,” Magnus said with a nod. He rose fully. “Wheels, or run?”

“Run,” Wheelie replied, grinning now. “It’s more fun.”

Magnus nodded and kicked off, grinning himself. The pressures of the day were neverending, and there would be new and more pressures tomorrow. But for this moment, he could do right just by running to his friends with this little friend by his side.

BonusParts A to Z: F is for Fanfiction

F is for Fanfiction

A topic near and dear to my heart: fanfiction! I’ve talked about it before. Here’s me talking about it some more.

What are your feelings on fanfiction? Do you write it? If you’re an original fiction writer, how would you feel if someone else wrote fanfiction of your characters or world? Let me know in the comments!

 

Why I Stopped Writing Fanfiction (for the most part)

Let me start by saying this post is not to pooh-pooh fanfiction or the many writers and readers who enjoy it. I believe fanfiction is a valid and important writing form that produces many wonderful stories that bridge borders and offer opportunities for readers of all types.

That’s not what I’m going to talk about, though.

 

My Fanfiction Writing Life

I think the very first story I ever wrote was a fanfic. For those unfamiliar, fanfiction is stories about characters and worlds already established through media like television, movies, comic books, and videogames. From the rebel hideouts of Star Wars to the high school hallways of Persona 4, I loved wandering through them all. Moreover, I loved the people in them. Their stories sparked a light in me that would often keep me up long into the night, when I would scribble out side stories of my own leading them into new adventures and romances.

Over time, I took an interest in creating my own characters in those worlds: people who could support, antagonize, romance, and challenge the pre-existing characters I already adored. In the fanfiction realm, we call those homemade creations “Original Characters”, or OCs for short.

In the beginning, my OCs were supporting characters only. I felt like readers wouldn’t want to read about my original characters butting into the lives of their well-known favorites. For the most part, that held true. Feedback from readers showed that they didn’t care about the side characters I was creating. Some readers got so offended by my OCs that they wrote me hate mail! I decided the hassle simply wasn’t worth it.

But there was more to my leaving fanfiction than just some petty reader backlash.

 

What Changed

The more I wrote my OCs, the more attached I became to them. I realized I loved many of them more than I liked the pre-existing folks. My OCs started to take on lives, loves, and destinies of their own, sometimes completely separate from their source material. After not very long, the fanfiction roots for many of my OCs started to lose their luster. I wanted my characters to be my characters alone, with no ties to someone else’s (read: some company’s) world or story.

In 2017, I began the process of taking down most of my fanfiction. Two years later, only a handful remain on public sites like Fanfiction.Net and AO3. With only 1 or 2 exceptions, nobody seemed to miss them.

Now, it’s not like I don’t care about those stories. I’d spent time and effort – weeks, months, sometimes even years of my life – writing, crafting, drafting, and editing. Still, it felt good to reclaim them from the cavernous depths of the Internet*. Now, they’re just mine. Their being mine allows me to go back and rewrite, repurpose, or just reread at my leisure without the pressure to make them match my current level of skill. That means a lot of them stay ugly and amateurish, but I’m fine with that.

 

What’s Next

I haven’t completely given up on fanfiction. At the same time that I was taking down other fanfiction stories, I wrote a completely new one based on the Metro:2033 series. I recently revisited my “Doctor Who” Songbirds stories for sharing here. I’m sure my joy will be sparked by some pre-made world or character again in the future. I look forward to it! Until then, I will enjoy and take pride in the worlds and people of my own creating.

To those still writing fanfiction: Keep writing it! There’s a lot of joy and support to be found in the fanfiction writing community. I found and made good friends through sharing those stories.

And for those looking to move from fanfiction to original fiction: You can do it! Your fanfiction writing roots will serve you well in creating your own worlds and characters.

* Nothing is ever completely gone from the Internet, but the stories aren’t easily accessible anymore. That said, there are some stories I’ll never share again, for varying reasons of time, file size, and text.

 

What about you?

Have you ever read fanfiction? Written it? What are your favorite fanfiction genres, series, or characters? Let me know in the comments below!

Songbirds Series: “This Lonely Angel”

A sort-of “Doctor Who” story; first in the Songbirds Series. Doctor Who and all associated character names and likenesses are owned by the BBC. Used here without permission.
Based on characters presented in episode 3.10 “Blink” written by Steven Moffat and produced by Phil Collinson, Russell T. Davies, and Julie Gardner. Spoilers for the episode “Blink”.


The first time Sally Sparrow comes to Larry Nightingale’s bed – the old double bed shoved against the wall among crates spilling over with digital discs and random cables and remote controls – it’s because he takes her there…but only because she’s exhausted. They both are, their panic-induced adrenaline high long since faded on the winding walk back to his house.

They go to his house because it’s closer than her flat, even though he doesn’t know where she lives. Not that it matters. She mentions along the way she’s been awake for the last two days straight, and now she’s almost falling over from her weariness, so the sooner they can get someplace safe for her to rest, the better. And she is weary: she leans against him as they move up the stairs, nearly hip-to-hip, his arms wound around her just to keep her upright. Though, his arms haven’t left her since they walked – half-stumbling, half-looking back over their shoulders – from the overgrown old Wester Drumlins estate.

He lowers her onto his still-unmade bed because he can’t go into Kathy’s room, not yet. And of a fumbling, stuttering sudden, he scolds himself for letting this pretty young woman settle herself upon sheets that haven’t been washed in over a week. But she’s asleep before he even starts to make his bumbling apology. So, from the floor, he watches her for a long time, almost not blinking, until he falls asleep, too, propped against the hard plaster of the wall.

The second time Sally comes to his bed, it’s nearly a month later. Of course, it isn’t really to his bed she comes, but to Kathy’s, to help sort through Kathy’s things. But amid the poking and poring through dressers and closets and containers full of clothes and bling and shoes (When did his sister get so many bloody shoes? And what is he supposed to do with them all, now?), Sally comes across a ratty, weather-beaten paperback copy of The Phantom Tollbooth tucked between a pair of faded jeans and a maroon pullover.

She looks up at him and asks if he wants it, or if she can take it, as a memento of his sister.

Looking at it, the wide brightness of Kathy’s smile flashes behind Larry’s eyes for just a second, and he blinks. Sure, he tells her; he’ll just find her a bag to put it in, because it’s raining and it’d be a shame to let the old book get any more damaged than it already is. Although, Sally has a coat under which she can tuck it, and a purse with more than enough room for a child’s story book, and she didn’t even say she wanted to take it with her today, anyhow. But he goes into his room nonetheless, holding the book in his hands, to look for a suitable satchel.

He never quite makes it to the closet, instead swaying somewhat woozily to the top of his bed, where all he can do is think of his sister and try to remember what she looked like, and sounded like, and how very lonely this place feels without her, now.

Sally comes to him a minute after, asking if he’s all right. He doesn’t know how to answer, except to lapse into a pointless story about him and Kathy bunking off as kids, to go on a silly child’s adventure to find Paddington Bear’s house that makes him laugh at how stupid the two of them used to be.

Sally doesn’t laugh. Instead, she sits down on the narrow bed with him, one leg folded beneath the other, and tells him a story of Kathy, too: how one girl once asked her friend to come with her to read some strange writing on a wall, and how the team of Sparrow and Nightingale was almost formed, but for the touch of an angel.

Her words bring him little joy…until she tells him about The Letter she knows by heart, that tells another story of Kathy Nightingale, one that makes him smile and chuckle and remember the sister gone but not forgotten.

The two of them sit across from each other atop his lumpy duvet, to trade other stories and more laughter. And, over the course of the warm afternoon, the house doesn’t feel so lonely to him, anymore.

The third time Sally comes to his bed, it’s because she’s crying.

It’s past midnight when she rings him, with tears in her voice, asking if she can come round. He doesn’t hesitate. Of course she can; she always can. They’ll have some tea and talk it out, like they’ve done with growing regularity for the last three-on months. He doesn’t mind. It’s good to talk to her. About Kathy, mostly, but also about all the things he doesn’t know but for which he’s more than willing to sit and listen, if only to have…something…with the pretty blonde miss with the charming dimples and hazel eyes.

Those eyes are teary and glassy when he meets her at the door, where she tumbles into his arms, crying about how she still can’t make sense of it. How can she make sense of anything anymore, knowing what she does? About all the regret, and all the death, and so much potential of life just plain lost -! And how she doesn’t think she can handle the weight of all that knowing and all that not knowing – about what could have been, about what should have been – alone.

Except, Larry wants to tell her: she’s not alone. He knows what happened, too. He feels the same ache in his gut for the missing and the missed. But as he sits her down at the foot of his lonely bed, he can’t quite say that, not with those words. Instead, he presses his lips together and blows a soft, shushing breath.

He pushes her temple from his shoulder and cranes his head down, to look into her deep and shining eyes. “We’ll sort it out,” he murmurs, and strokes the tear-dampened flaxen curls from the corner of her soft mouth. “I’ll help you sort it out.”

She stops, sniffling up a line of hitching snot from her cute, upturned nose, and blinks curiously at him. After a long moment, she actually smiles. “You, Lawrence Nightingale?” she asks, and he cringes at the sound of his Christian name said aloud. But then he nods and feels a smile come to his face, too, because he can’t imagine doing anything else when he looks into her eyes, anymore.

“Yeah,” he tells her. “Me, Sally Sparrow.”

The fourth time Sally comes to his bed, it’s to help him there, though he barely registers it, his senses dulled by the punch of too many bitters…not to mention the still-aching swell of his cheekbone, which – when he glances briefly into the mirror above the toilet sink – is already turning a very un-pretty shade of purple.

Sally wipes his perpetually messy hair from out his face as she helps him lurch from the loo to the top of his equally messy bed, where she lowers him as carefully as she can. She’s stronger than she looks. A lot more scathing, too, because even while she’s visibly troubled by his state – her pale brow furrowed and her pink lips pressed together – she still chides him for letting Banto goad him like he does. Through the haze of alcohol-induced earmuffs, Larry hears her scolding: Can’t he just ignore whatever it is that the self-involved prat mutters to him over pints and twiglets at the pub?

But he can’t. Not when it’s about her. Not when Banto starts in about how Sally’s not worth the time or effort; about how she’ll never give up her circular theories and puzzle-piece musings and girl-detective hypotheses about doctors and angels and other such nonsense. And about how daft Larry is for thinking nobody notices the stiffy he gets every time his little blonde slag comes round the shop.

It’s the word slag that makes Larry throw the first punch.

But he can’t tell Sally that. So when she asks him what could be so bloody well important to make him take a swing at his boss, he rolls onto his side and barks at her to just belt up about it and let him alone. Her response is to get up from the bed and slam the door behind her, making him wonder if maybe Banto isn’t right about her, after all, and maybe Larry should just give up on ever unraveling the wondrous mystery of one Sally Sparrow.

In the morning, he wakes with a hammering headache that’s compounded by the sound of council workers complaining outside the window about the summer heat. He gets up and staggers out to the loo, wondering just how he’s going to apologise for being a right git to Sally last night…when he smells the wafting, warming aroma of freshly-brewed tea coming from the kitchen.

Bleary-eyed and sleep-blanched, he follows that smell, to find who else but Sally – plucky, perky, wonderful Sally – sitting at the table, with one steaming teacup in her hands and another in the empty place across from her.

She blinks at him in the doorway, then smiles that familiar cheeky smile he’s come to look for every time she steps into his sight as she says, “At least you remembered your pants, this time.”

The fifth time Sally comes to his bed, it’s in celebration.

The loan for the shop – their shop, Sparrow and Nightingale’s Antiquarian Books and Rare DVDs, an homage to Kathy but also so much more – finally comes through from the bankers’. In honour of the occasion, Larry invites her to the house, to split a bottle of champagne his sister bought on a whim last Christmas and that’s been sitting untouched in the kitchen bottle holder for the last ten months. He doesn’t think Kathy would mind his taking it, in this case.

Still dressed in his old business school interview suit – the one with the stifling collar and tie – he gets two mismatched glasses from the hutch while Sally crowds close to him, with her hair tumbling in loose blonde curls around her shoulders and decked out in a flowing but fitting dress. She takes the glasses with a grin while he makes a corny little toast about the future of the team of Sparrow and Nightingale before opening the bottle with an explosive pop! that makes them both hoot before they realise it’s spilling over in a bubbly eruption, splattering on his trousers and her skirt.

He curses but she laughs, setting the glasses on the table so she can hand him a towel from the oven door and slap another at her legs. He says she should change, wash her dress before anything sets. (Does champagne set? He doesn’t know…but he also doesn’t care. Not when faced with the alternative.)

To his heart-stopping surprise, she agrees and asks him – twice, because at first he can’t quite think straight to get his mouth to work – if he has a robe or something she can change into. All of Kathy’s clothes were given away or consigned months ago, so he stammers something incoherent and goes to his bedroom, to find her something appropriate. The best thing he can scrounge from his wardrobe is a long suit shirt he hasn’t worn since the days of post-graduation interviews, but it hangs long on him and should be enough to provide her with some modesty.

He turns back to the door with the shirt in his hands, and blinks when he finds her already there, holding the half-full lowball out to him with a smile.

The bubbles will fade before she can change, she says, and they should enjoy the excitement of this brief moment of endless possibilities while it lasts. So he takes the glass from her and raises it to eye level between them, just as she does, and drinks.

When he lowers his glass again, she leans over to kiss him softly on the cheek. She laughs at his sudden mute stupor, then sits down on the cramped bed before raising her glass to him once more. He’s mesmerised by her dimples as her smile turns wider.

“To the shop,” she says, as though nothing has happened, even if he knows different.

The next time Sally comes to Larry’s bed, they stumble there, together: Sally wrapped in his arms, Sally pressed to his mouth, Sally in his every sense and thought, just as she’s been for what feels like his every waking moment for the last three, six, nine months. Since the mystery of the bespectacled Doctor and the strange message hidden on the seventeen DVDs. Since the creaking, creepy halls of the dilapidated Wester Drumlins estate and its fanged, clawed angels. Since the loss of Kathy, the only other person in the whole world he ever thought willing to stand with him against the enigmas and conspiracies and conundrums of his imagination.

Until Sally.

As they turn and twist and tumble up the stairs to his bedroom, she feels so soft and smells so good and tastes just like the sweet cherry balm she rubs across her perfect lips in the chilled winter air, that Larry can’t help but sigh against her smooth cheek with every turn of his head for every lonely, love-starved kiss.

It started at the shop, as they’d put the last finishing touches on the last finished shelf of books (“Sparrow’s Choice!” proclaimed the placard she set there) for the official opening tomorrow morning. He placed the open/close sign on the door and they looked at it together, both of them grinning like dizzy fools. When he turned to her, she jumped into his arms, squeezing him around his neck with a joyful little giggle; he squeezed her back, laughing around the wonderfully-smothering folds of her hair. Breaking away for just a moment, she kissed him, quickly…but pulled away again just as quickly, her beautiful eyes blinking at him. Without waiting for her to maybe cover it up or maybe apologise or maybe do something he would never even think of to make them forget that marvellous and sublime moment, he closed his eyes and kissed her back, shutting out everything else in the half-lit shop in one desperate effort to make the moment last forever.

She didn’t pull away.

With barely a word said between them, they almost ran, hand-in-hand and in silent, smiling anticipation, to the house, where now he cups the back of her head with particular care even while he pulls at the bottom of her pullover. But when he breathes her name into the flawless skin of her neck and whispers to her the reasons why he doesn’t want to wait anymore (“Life’s too bloody short!”), she pushes him off of a sudden, shaking her head with a low gasp.

He eases away from that troubled, lost look in her eyes. “Sally…?”

“This isn’t right,” she says, shimmying up from beneath him, her boot heels catching on a fold in the duvet. “I can’t just-! We have the shop-”

“Bugger the shop!” he tells her.

“Larry,” she begins, but he cuts her off:

“Sally, I want you!”

But she scrambles up from the rumpled bed and gets to her feet, blinking too quickly to let her eyes focus on him.

“I’m sorry,” she says, even if she likely knows that’s the last thing he wants to hear. From the bedroom door, she turns back to him and shakes her head again, blinking tears from her eyes. “There’s just- There’s too much…I need to sort out.” And, with a trailing whisper of blonde hair, she’s gone.

She’ll be at the shop tomorrow. But as for this moment, their moment, there’s nothing left, save for the lingering imprint of her form on the top of his bed, and of her voice in his ears, and of her kiss on his lips.

There is one more time that Sally Sparrow comes to Larry Nightingale’s bed, but it’s the last time.

It’s been over a year since the ancient angels and the old phone box-that-isn’t in the basement of the Wester Drumlins house. Over a year of questions and half-formed answers, of tears and laughter, of memories and speculation. Over a year of her leading him through old book shops, dropping recommended titles into his hands while he moves his hip close to hers as they meander through the stacks. Over a year of him playfully pressing a finger to his lips, to shush her in cinemas showing brilliant double-feature classics of their time while she leans her head against his shoulder after the lights go down, her soft hair tickling at his cheek. And over a year of guarded glances and tentative touches, of impetuous kisses and blurted declarations, from which he wonders and worries for a long time that they will never recover.

Until, one day, somehow, the wild-haired Doctor finds his way to them again, on the street in front of the shop, of all places. With only a few words from him (“Good to meet you, Sally Sparrow,” is all that Larry catches), the clasp of Sally’s hand isn’t so cautious anymore, the look from Sally’s eyes isn’t so clouded anymore, and – perhaps most wonderful of all – the press of Sally’s lips is full of such a liberated and untroubled joy, such that Larry has never felt from her before.

So the last time Sally Sparrow comes to Larry Nightingale’s bed – his old, narrow, lonely, messy, cramped, rumpled double bed in the second bedroom on the second floor of the house near the shop – is for the first time they make love, sweetly and quietly, with nothing between them save a new and welcome feeling of hopeful possibility.

Afterward, with their skin cooling in the April air, they lie together in his bed, facing each other, silent and staring. He blinks first, and when he opens his eyes again to her, she smiles, so dear and tender and beautiful that all he can think of to say is:

“Thank you.”

She giggles, her slender shoulders shaking beneath the light cover of the blanket, and her soft breasts and belly quivering against him where they’re pressed so close, and her hazel eyes twinkling at him in the darkening room. “For what?”

“For this,” he says, squeezing his hand between them so he can stroke at the fine strands of her hair. “For staying.” He drops his eyes and blinks again, because he can’t quite look at her when he whispers, “I think… I want you to stay.”

The springs of the bed give a tiny squeak as she mimics him, shifting closer to raise her hand to his face, her fingers catching a little on his stubble as she fondles his cheek.

“I want to stay, too,” she says, and he can’t help the smile that breaks across his face as he looks up at her again. Though, a moment later, she shakes her head. “But, I can’t.”

“What?” he mutters, his eyes going wide at her. “But, I-! Everything we’ve-!” His throat starts to close, as he blinks his eyes, rapidly, trying to force the next words from his lips: “Sally, I-”

She places her hand against his mouth, hushing him before she giggles again. “Not until we find ourselves a bigger bed,” she tells him with her clever, dimpled smile.

For a moment, all he can do is blink. Then, behind her small, smooth fingers, he laughs, and takes them in his hands and holds them to his lips, kissing gently at them. She rises up against him with a matching laugh, pulling her fingers away to take hold of his face and trade her hand for her lips, muffling both of their laughter with new kisses as she pulls him on top of her again.

So, the next time Larry Nightingale goes with Sally Sparrow to bed – aiding, easing, taking, or tumbling; to talk, to listen, to kiss and cuddle and love and slumber – it’s to neither his bed nor hers alone, but to one they share, together, like all the days and nights as yet unwritten with potential.

.


AUTHOR’S NOTES:
I’ve always enjoyed imagining the lives of secondary and supporting characters, and these two – written so well by Mr. Moffat – captured my interest in, shall we say, the blink of an eye.

Everyone in the episode seems to fall in love with lovely, spunky Sally Sparrow, and Larry Nightingale is no exception. This is just my take on that. Not your cup of tea? That’s fine. But I ask that you afford me the same consideration of opinion, and let me have my little Sparrow/Nightingale love story.

World building

World Building in Fan Fiction

I enjoyed the first Pacific Rim film. Watching it, I wanted to learn more about that world. For that, I did a little bit of reading and poking around the Internet (mainly the Wikipedia article). While that gave me a gleaning of information, I wanted to do something a little bit more.

I didn’t always like world building. It seemed tedious. But as I’ve started to create my own worlds, I’ve come to appreciate the craft of others’ worlds. It’s just that some worlds lack the specific piece I’m looking for, which is why I write fan fiction.

In the first Pacific Rim movie, I loved the design of Cherno Alpha, the Russian robotic monster-hunter Jaeger. Cherno’s pilots had a great fight scene but were handed a raw deal in the script (along with the Wei triplets and their Crimson Typhoon Jaeger, which had to be one of the coolest ideas for a robot ever). I was in the shower one morning when I got the main ideas for the Kluge twins, competitive brothers caught in the swirl of war with the Kaiju but somehow still distanced from it…until it becomes personal to one of them.

I wrote a drabble based on this personal connection (“Worth Dying For”), but here’s the backstory for the brothers, written in a world-building buzz of one sitting almost 5 years ago…

The Brothers Kluge

Ein and Albert Kluge are fraternal twins from Ulm, a city in Baden-Württemberg in Germany, born September 23, 2000, to parents Inge and Erhard Kluge, a chief engineer at Zwick Roell Group. Brash and competitive, especially with each other, the twin boys grew to adulthood in the far-reaching shadow of Kaiju attacks, each one always trying to one-up his brother for skills and smarts. Their father desired them to stay in Germany and continue their work with him at Zwick, but when they came of age, they enrolled in the Pan Pacific Defense Corps Jaeger Academy. They believed their close genetic bond would make them excellent candidates for the Ranger pilot program (q.v., Gage twins, Wei triplets). However, while their mental and physical scores were significant, they failed out in first cut, being particularly incapable of successful Drifting with one another or anyone else.

Morally winded, the Kluge twins resigned themselves to returning to Germany and their “disappointingly conventional” heritage as material testers like their father. Before they were dismissed from Kodiak Island, though, first-generation Ranger and instructor Stacker Pentecost suggested that, while their competitive nature with each other would prove disastrous in a Conn-Pod, it could be highly beneficial in a research capacity:

“It’s not all about piloting Jaegers, you know,” Pentecost said. “J-Tech Engineering needs checks and balances, too.”

Ein looked at his younger brother. Albert looked back at him with the gleam of a new grin. They turned to Pentecost at the same time, and at the same time said, “When do we start?”

Having agreed to training and assignment at the Vladivostok Shatterdome, the Kluge twins soon became Jaeger Engineers. They contributed to upgrades in design and armor on Jaegers Nova Hyperion and Cherno Alpha. During their assignment at Vladivostok, Ein developed one-sided and mostly-hidden romantic feelings for Ranger Sasha Kaidanovsky, one of the pilots of Cherno Alpha. Albert advised his brother to steer clear of both Sasha and her husband Aleksis, but Ein remained devoted:

“You’re a fool if you think you have any chance with Frau Kaidonovsky,” Albert said, snorting under his breath.

Ein wilted. “I know she will never be mine. But I cannot ignore that which beats in my heart. So I will do everything in my power to help her. With or without you, Brüderchen.”

When the Vladivostok Shatterdome was closed in 2024, Cherno Alpha and her J-Tech team, including the Kluge twins, were relocated to Hong Kong. On 8 January 2025, Hermann Gottlieb’s predicted Double Event occurred. Kaiju Leatherback and Otachi attacked, destroying the Jaegers Crimson Typhoon and Cherno Alpha.

On hearing the news of the Kaidanovskys’ deaths, Ein Kluge was never the same. Neither was his brother Albert.