Reader's current ability: Phasing/Intangibility
In other words, vibrating your atoms so god damn hard you go through stuff.
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"Hi, welcome to Cwispy Cweme. What can I get you?"
Right, time to test the recited dialogue you went over in your head for the past 5 minutes.
"I'll have the uh-"
The number 9.
The number 9 large.
The-
"The number 6 with extra dip-"
'Way to go, (Y/n).'
"And a uh... and a large soda."
You didn't even want that, you'd realized. Alas, you were too far gone and decided that, even if their soda wasn't at all to your liking, you couldn't order what you actually wanted now - all thanks to your shining ordering skills.
"Great! What dip would you like?"
You got this one.
"I- BBQ."
You don't got this one - you don't even like BBQ sauce. You have to redo the order, try and get the number 9 large. It's a Cwispy Cweme for fuck's sake, just-
"Coming right up!"
Nevermind then. The cheesy cashier was already gone to get your unwanted order to the kitchen. Can't stall the line any longer, you'd told yourself as you moved over on the waiting side, allowing the next customer in line to order his sad, stale donuts. You crossed your arms over your chest, foot awkwardly tapping to the beat of 'Hot Stuff'.
Had you been paying attention to your surroundings - and not focusing on the 'Hot, hot, hot-' that was continuously blasting over the old speakers in the background - maybe you would have noticed the sounds of metal-on-metal accompanied by angry voices shouting something about boobies and turkeys. You were brought out of your blank wall-staring when a heavily auto-tuned voice smoothly yelled something about rumbling and ejaculating - that's what you guessed whoever-it-was said, at least.
Looking towards the window, your eyes got to witness a blueish-purple, roughly 2-meter robot drop from the skies about as graciously as a three-legged ballerina, his feet not-so-gently landing on the poor pavement - cracks appearing where he landed.
'One heavy bastard, ain't he?'
Ironically you didn't panic when he looked at the building, you didn't jump when his visor directed itself straight at your human self, and you certainly didn't scream when a smirk plastered itself on his faceplates - his arms morphing into-
"Pile drivers?" you'd asked nobody in particular. Your fellow broke Cweme customers seemed to be too frightened to answer your rhetorical question or dare move from their spots in fear of angering the somewhat well-known robo-terrorist. Before you could even look around some more, the heavy purple bastard rotated his body to face the building, bent over and-
A terrible earthquake - produced by none other than the rumbling tincan - broke out, causing the poorly-made Cwispy Cweme to begin shaking itself apart as bits of plaster and regulation-violating chunks of ceiling started to sprinkle themselves on top of you and your fellows' heads.
The ceiling sprinkles were probably better than the food itself, to be honest.
As soon as the cracks started appearing, however, people rushed towards the exit, closing the space between themselves and the sentient can of ravioli that was currently shaking the building apart. Pushing each other left and right - they resembled headless chickens.
You'd kill for some fried chicken right about now, robot terrorists be damned.
"Jinkies." you'd told no one in particular.
"Yea-haha! Run, fleshies! Run!" the purple walmart can said.
'He really had to have a Boston accent, didn't he?' you'd asked the universe, expecting nothing in return. Cliche, and you were very much tempted to facepalm at the absolute irony of a sentient cubeman shaking the shittiest building in town apart when you finally decided to get out of the house for the first time in eons and were just trying to get your god damn shitty corner shop donuts.
You just stood there like an absolute dumbass, staring the robot in the visor. Crosing your arms, your eyes narrowed and your lip jutted out in a pout that looked similar to a toddler about to throw a tantrum.
"Brave, aren't ya?" he'd asked you with a moronic smirk, continuing to pound the ground into mince concrete.
'Fuck him.' you thought - respectfully, of course.
You were about to make a comeback when a rather sizeable chunk of ceiling detached itself from the ruin of a building and came crashing down towards you. Only having time to look up and think, you watched as it fell and thought of nothing - emptied your mind as best as you could.
The chunk came down, and you should've gotten crushed - should've gotten squished, as squishies do.
But no.
It phased right through you - as if you were simply air or some otherwordly apparition.
It just- it simply passed through your organic body instead of crushing you to death and that caused Rumble to stop and oh Primus why didn't you get squished what the frag-
Looking down at the chunk which treated you as nothing more than stale air, you'd simply let out a light 'hmph', moving to step out of the useless rubble.
Sadly enough, you'd miscalculated when you should have started thinking again and a part of your shoe ended up not leaving the rubble and instead preferring to become one with the cheap drywall, thus causing you to trip and slam your face on the greasy tiled floor - as you do.
"Uh..." the robot helpfully said. How smart he sounded.
"Yeah, same." Relating to the robot seemed like a smart idea, keep at it.
You quite liked that shoe, you'd rather not give it up to some broken-off piece of shit from Cwispy Cweme. Looking at the drywall and back to the ravioli can multiple times, you'd managed to muster up enough courage to ask for help from your attacker.
Smart cookie, you are.
"So uh..." you began.
You can do this, you'd told yourself. You just revealed your phasing abilities to an alien terrorist and still didn't shit yourself - you got this.
"...How's your day?"
'Wrong question, dumbass.' you said as your brain metaphorically grew pile drivers and pounded itself in shame repeatedly.
"Yeah it's uh - it's pretty good."
Man he was hard to read. The fact that his replies were about as dry as Ghandi's flipflops didn't help your clearly socially adept self.
"Could you, uh-" You gestured towards the drywall which trapped your foot.
"Yea - couldn't ya do it yeself though?" He'd unhelpfully asked, deadpanning in the process. Man he made you feel about as smart as a pet rock.
"I'm currently trying to not shit myself, please just-" you left your sentence hang, not even bothering to finish it and opting for a tired sigh instead.
"Gross." he'd said, moving towards you regardless, probably ready to finish you off with his pile drivers. You couldn't even do the ghost trick again, you hadn't had time to recover enough energy to do it and oh my God he's getting the pile drivers ready and-
-Why in the name of Christ on a fuckbike did you ask an alien terrorist for help again?
To your surprise, however, his pounding was targeted at the drywall rather than your fragile skull. The piece of drywall helplessly gave out, releasing your shoe from its cheap prison and allowing you to stand up. Dusting yourself off, you turned around to thank him only to be met with a metal fist to the nose effectively knocking you on your ass.
That crack didn't sound very pleasant.
"Ah - what the fuck?!" you yelled, holding your probably broken nose with a trembling hand.
"Ye ain't air."
What a dumbass.
"Fucking hell, no shit... I'm so going to diddle your insides in a minute-" you'd angrily muttered to yourself, underestimating the robot's audio receptors.
"Woah-" he raised his arms as if to shield himself from any wandering ghosthands.
Had you not been angry and with a bloody nose, you would have probably passed out from fear at his sudden movements.
"-At least take me out to dinner first."
Looking back up at him, the bastard had a shit-eating grin on his face. He's about to get served a plateful of 'these hands' in a minute, you told yourself before realizing you'd probably just end up breaking your hands on his finely sculpted dumbass metal face.
"Rumble: Return." the auto-tune voice from earlier said, ruining whatever atmosphere there was. At this, your saviour looked up at what you assumed to be his name being called by Mr. Too-Much-Time-In-Audacity. Frowning, he let out what you interpreted as a huff before his visor once again lowered itself in what you assumed to be direct eye contact.
He looked kind of nice, you won't lie.
That's a thought for another time though.
"Fleshie got a name?" he'd asked, shit-eating grin half-returning.
Man he was annoying.
"(Y/N), Ravioli." his name is now Ravioli in the deep, dark depths of your jelly thinking organ.
"It's Rumble, not Ravioli - ya sayin' I look like a 'snack'?"
That caught you off-guard and caused you to gracefully let out a short guffaw at his shitty joke.
'Oh hell yeah, 100%.' is what you would have said if he gave you time to reply instead of rudely swooping you up on his coldass shoulder and carrying you towards a bigger, bluer robot.
"The fuck you doing?" you'd asked, expecting nothing but a shitpost in return.
"Takin' ya to Boss, hotstuff."
Judging by his tone, you were pretty sure his face looked very inviting for your fists right about now - bones be damned.
"Hey Boss, look what I got!"
The blue bastard looked down at his cassetticon, staring down specifically at the human that laid tense on his lackey's right shoulder.
"Inquiry: Psychic?"
"Nah, but she passes through scrap." he'd casually announced, bobbing up slightly to adjust your weight on his shoulder a bit better.
One of his wings was now poking your tit.
Pleasant.
"Order: Care for prisoner."
"Care for who?" you'd asked, hoping the big auto-tune man wasn't referring to you.
"Care fo' you, fragger."
Huh.
So he was referring to you.
And he's not going to use your name, is he? Great, now you were going to be 'prisoner', and 'fragger', and 'hotstuff'.
Hotstuff wasn't so bad, at the very least. You could live with that.
"Rumble: Return to Base." the big bad bluebot said before fucking off into the skies, Rumble soon following suit. Unable to hold in your screams as your internals proably left themselves on the ground, you flailed around before Rumble slapped a hand on your body and pressed harder to keep you still.
At least he didn't hurt you. Not badly.
"Ya glitched? Stop flailin'!"
And you could probably just phase through him by now, but that honestly wouldn't be the brightest of ideas seeing as you'd either splat on the ground or phase through the concrete and suffocate sooner or later.
You could just vibrate through their base's walls, no biggie. You were good as long as it didn't involve 1 mile thick walls.
Or as long as it was on land.
You pray the base is a land base.
On another note, apparently your dear ol' flightbuddy was perceptive enough to still sense your unease.
"I ain't gon' drop ya, promise."
Gladly, he wasn't perceptive enough to sense the multiple centers of your worries, although his statement did seem to ease you a bit - just a tiny bit.
You wondered if you would be even able to vibrate through enough walls to get the fuck out once you got there - wherever that was.
You wondered if you'd get killed in the end if you were unable to escape, and what the robo-terrorists would want you for.
But most importantly-
-You wondered if the weight you felt on your ass was Rumble's hand.