What do a genericon with the voice of Megatron and a widower on the Warworld have in common?
A relationship with a Phase Sixer, and the Decepticon Justice Division.
Title: Dog Days
Warning: Spoilers for MTMTE, domestication, a very angry, grieving widower, BDSM mentions, and awkward robots.
Rating: PG
Continuity: IDW AU where Nautilator survived.
Characters: Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Sixshot, Fortress Maximus, Red Alert, Nautilator, and the Decepticon Justice Division. And Deathsaurus.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus, and Sixshot - Zoo.
Part One: Some Background
[* * * * *]
He knew he had fans, but he'd never had a fan get quite so excited about watching him fight. The way this guy moved, he must have memorized Black Shadow's best moves and made up a style from there, and it was working for him. Usually the Decepticons who wanted to see Black Shadow in action didn't survive watching. They took to the battlefield with him and generally became casualties of friendly fire if they made it past the Autobots. The kind of combat that called for one of the Warrior Elite wasn't kind at all to lesser Decepticons. It was a tad unexpected that his newest fan had not only made it this far, but seemed to be keeping up on the killcount. It was impressive. He'd been keeping an optic on the guy out of steadily increasing interest, throwing tidbits of advice for better fighting technique that he seemed to soak up like a sponge, incredibly eager to learn. It was flattering, really, and it didn't take much effort on Black Shadow's part to keep the worshipful stares coming.
A tip here, a slice of banter there, maybe a casual shot obliterating an Autobot or six about to overwhelm the mech. Black Shadow was still surprised the mech was alive every time he turned to check.
Plus, uh. That. That had just happened. That was plenty surprising all by itself.
"Did you just smack my aft?" Black Shadow squinted his optics, replaying the last few seconds in his head. He'd killed an Autobot, turned around to flash a smile at his self-proclaimed Number One Fan, turned back to the fight, and now his aft stung. Not in a bad way. Nothing was injured, but huh. Aft-smack? In the middle of combat?
Someone screamed as he smashed their face in, but the kill was made on automatic. He was paying more attention to the replay of a hand impacting on his aft.
A somewhat manic smile answered him. The guy shot past, headed for the next Autobot to maul. "Yeah! What of it?"
He blinked at the carnage. Oookay. That was different. Well, the the flirting - that was definitely flirting - not the carnage. Carnage was pretty standard, even if this mech was unusual enough to have survived what the Warrior Elite considered standard. "Tell you what," he said over the strangled howl of the Autobot he was choking the life out of, "you get out of this intact, I'll let you buy me a drink."
"Really?!" Internal parts went flying as the mech dropped the Autobot he'd been dissembling and started bouncing in place, optics brilliant and hands on his face like he could barely contain himself. Clearly, this was everything he'd ever wanted from life. "Yes!"
Black Shadow shook his head, unable not to smile at the enthusiasm. This was not his average fan. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Blue Bacchus!"
[* * * * *]
Nobody came for him. The metrotitan crushed him, armor crumpling like eggshells, and Sixshot stayed broken in his footprint. Metroplex moved on. He stayed.
Nobody had come for him, so Sixshot had attempted to go looking for help. He'd found no one. Fleeing hadn't worked, either. The thing about war was that it attracted scavengers. Those that didn't fight or flee pecked around the edges, feeding from the detritus left by battles or picking off survivors. Metroplex departed. The Autobots left soon after. Then, the scavengers moved in.
Left behind, Sixshot became a prize piece. The scavengers closed in on their payday, and it wasn't as though he could fight back. The first scavenger to find him straight-out tracked him down carrying a leash. No weapons, no pretense of sweet-talking him into cooperation by at least lying about good intentions. Sixshot could have bargained with someone promising medical care, but he never got the chance.
"Collectors will pay top price for something as rare as you," said the rusted old neutral who tracked him down.
He ducked his head and growled, but the old mech knew business. That business was evidently trafficking in 'things' like Sixshot. He had a muzzle and choke collar on Sixshot so fast Sixshot's head spun. They cut off his vocalizer and threatened to cut off the energon lines to his head.
"You'll clean up pretty." A satisfied pat between his audios made him crouch, bristling, but the hand just followed him down. "Don't fight it. I can make this a lot worse for you before it brings your price down. Remember that."
His audios twitched wildly when he couldn't crouch any further. His engines, damaged and leaking, howled protest. He snarled a warning, but what could he do? He had nowhere to go, even if he could have managed a faltering run away. The choke collar tightened enough to show him the old mech meant his threats. The hand stroked him between his audios and along his back, and Sixshot had to accept it. Injured as he was, he already knew how bad off he was, but it could be made a lot worse.
He stumbled after the old mech, half-limping and half-dragged at the end of the leash.
Later, enough of the damage self-repaired that he didn't limp so badly. Fat lot of good it did him, locked into a cage. An inhibitor claw between his shoulders kept him in his wolfmode. Choked, muzzled, hobbled, and mode-locked, he eyed the old mech warily. He remembered the threatening promise in the scavenger's words.
"Sit."
He paced in the cage, exaggerating his limp. Look at him, crippled and harmless. Open the door, old mech. Open the door to the hurt wolf.
The old mech grinned, teeth snaggled and rusted. He wasn't fooled. He'd handled intelligent cargo before. Trained them, too. "You want this?" He jiggled the dish of energon. "Start learning commands. Sit!"
Sixshot didn't sit. The dish was set down out of reach. No matter how he lay down and pawed through the bars, he couldn't claw it any closer.
"Sit," the old neutral said next time. Sixshot snarled up at him. "Not feeling cooperative, eh? Got a lot of spunk. Bet I can sell that, too."
He could. Sixshot had thought resisting the old mech's demands would make him angry, more likely to make a mistake, but instead the old mech took his defiance as a cue to magnetize him down and look for things he could sell. It was bad enough being awake while uncaring hands rummaged around inside him, but the small yanking stings of parts pulling loose started deep up under his armor.
"That looks valuable. Ha! They still build you with these? You don't need that to function. T-cog's worthless for you now; mark my words, it'd fetch a pretty price on the market. Don't make me take it out. What's this?" The hands in him paused, and Sixshot's spark fluttered in the first stages of what he'd soon know as fear. "Oh. Oh, you beautiful thing. You're gorgeous. That's a weapons system, that is. Oh, come to me, you beautiful, beautiful thing. You're going to pay for my next ship upgrade, you are."
Metal screeched across metal, and Sixshot passed out.
He woke up changed. It wasn't so much that the old skinthrift stripped him for parts. It wasn't that he couldn't transform, T-cog locked down. The threat to remove it entirely hung over his head, but that wasn't what changed. It wasn't even how weak he felt after he got back on his feet.
It was the cumulative impact of all of that hitting him as he stared through the bars at the dish of energon still out of reach. So much had been taken out of him for his defiance, and he was afraid of how much more could be yanked out. He already felt achy inside. His useless, mode-locked T-cog itched and burned. His armor couldn't protect him against this.
Nobody had come for him. After a while, Sixshot stopped hoping someone would. It occurred to him that one day he'd look through the bars of his cage and see someone he knew staring back at him, and the idea horrified him. So much had been taken out of him. And the things that had been used to fill him up...
"Sit," the handler at the zoo he'd been sold to said, and Sixshot sat.
Please, nobody come for him.
[* * * * *]