A/N: So then. This was originally a four chapter story of Swindle basically getting his ass kicked post-B.O.T. in a depressing display of independence. Then I realized that all of the important, not-ass kicking information could be boiled down to the last chapter, and, well, if you can cut it out and not hurt the plot, it wasn't important in the first place.
As this is a one-shot, I'd like to thank in advance everyone who reads, reviews, and favorites.
Swindle chuckled, and the sound earned a small glance from the mech sitting across from him.
"Something funny?"
The conmech sighed, a tired smirk still pulling at his lips. He ignored Onslaught's pointed look at his pedes, and even wiggled one to tap against a stack of datapads on the commander's desk, though the almost-painful pull of recently repaired leg cables quickly put a stop to that. He briefly considered kicking the stack clean off of the desk, but then again, he wasn't Vortex. Riling people up was only fun if you were holding all the cards, and right now he didn't even have a matching pair.
"Just, you know. Thinkin' 'bout Crossways." One hand came up to rub at an imaginary smudge on his Decepticon symbol. "I should have cut and run after that job. Just... knocked the whole lot of you over the back of the head and took off. Would have saved me a lot of trouble in the long run."
He glared across the desk at Onslaught, who did nothing more than shrug and continue reading the report in his hand. It would be pointless to expect an apology out of the mech, now or ever, and Swindle knew it. Unlike the conmech, the only thing Onslaught regretted was the outcome of that fiasco, not the original intention itself. The jeep huffed and debated kicking the datapads again.
"What would you have done if you hadn't joined up with us?" The artillery truck didn't look up as he exchanged one report for another, and his tone was almost conversational. Swindle shrugged.
"Probably accounting. Hook up with a gang, maybe, or even do some legitimate work." He tapped the side of his helm. "Gotta play to my strengths, you know?"
This got a soft snort of amusement out of his commander. "Accounting. Really." His helm tilted slightly. "And how long until you decided that your talents were better used elsewhere and robbed them for all they were worth?"
The conmech shrugged again. He said what he could have done, not for how long he would have done it. And it hardly mattered anymore, anyway. Cybertron was gone, taking all the legitimate and illegitimate business with it, and he was stuck in a tiny base under the sea with a bum leg and a high card. "Look, Ons, I know you didn't call me in here to have a nice chat. What do you want?"
The Combaticon commander didn't even pause, hidden optics scanning the datapad in his hand. "What were you doing in the rec room?"
Ah. That. Swindle shrugged, readjusting his pedes again and looking completely nonchalant. Not that it would fool Onslaught, but he had to practice on someone. "Asserting my independence."
"'Asserting your independence.'" Onslaught's voice could not have been flatter if it had been stepped on by Bruticus.
"Mmhmm."
"By attacking a triple-changer."
All pretenses of being nonchalant were completely thrown out of the airlock, and Swindle glared at his commander. "Yeah, okay, when you put it that way." But what could he do? Rolling over and exposing your soft underbelly didn't exactly encourage other Decepticons to leave you the frag alone.
Granted. getting your aft handed to you didn't exactly inspire respect either, but at least it was slightly more acceptable.
Apparently not to Onslaught, however. The Combaticon commander finally set aside his datapad, propping both arms on the table and lacing his hands together in the universal 'I am about to dress you down so hard your grand-creations will feel it' posture. Swindle briefly wondered if commanders were handed a special datachip upon promotion that taught them all the subtle and not-so-subtle cues for scaring their subordinates back into line. It would explain why his pedes were suddenly on floor instead of insolently on the desk.
"It's time for a new deal, Swindle. The terms of our previous contract are no longer satisfactory."
The smaller Combaticon frowned, arms crossing over his chest almost protectively. "Maybe I don't want a new deal. Things have working just fine so far."
Onslaught said nothing in response, but tipped his helm pointedly at the conmech's freshly repaired leg. The frown increased, but eventually the jeep waved one hand in a 'carry on' motion. Even he could see when it was time to draw up some new paperwork, no matter how many loopholes he had left to exploit. And maybe his new hand would be more favorable.
Psh. Yeah right. Not with Onslaught as the dealer.
"Under the new terms, you'll be allowed off of probation, and your punishment detail will be reduced from six megacycles to two. In return, any scam you think of pulling, any products you think of shipping or bringing in, I want a full report on it, before it happens." The commander's visor flashed slightly, and his already flat tone took on a harder edge. "Don't think I won't have Vortex hack your processor to make sure you're keeping me in the loop."
There was a distinctly nauseous feeling settled in the bottom of Swindle's fuel tank, as if he had just chugged a few gallons of crude oil, and his attempt at a friendly smile was rather strained. Inwardly his processor was reeling, scrambling for a way to regain the advantage. "C'mon, boss. I can't exactly do my job with you venting down my neck. You know that. And having all of that paperwork laying around won't be good for either of us."
"You will let me worry about the paperwork. From my perspective, it seems as though you are no longer capable of doing your job unsupervised." The visor across from him flashed again, and Swindle had to suppress a flinch.
"That wasn't my fault, you know. You guys were overcharged too," he muttered, sinking back in his seat and scrubbing a hand over his face.
"I don't care." Onslaught's position hadn't changed, appearing completely at ease with stripping one of his subordinates to base metals. "Either get me in the loop, or get out. You won't be terminated, as Megatron still requires Bruticus, but how long do you think you can function independently of the team?"
Swindle was speechless. Well, of anything constructive, anyway. He was still grumbling aloud, various comments and profanities that described exactly how he felt about the new terms muttered in a tone almost loud enough to hear as his processor whirled through all of the available angles.
Given enough time, he could find his grounding again. This hadn't been his first breach of contract, and it probably wasn't the last, and he always managed to land on his feet. He could probably even find a way to work around the gestalt aspect. The problem was that he didn't have time. Earth was an active battlefield, where the time between skirmishes was measured in megacycles instead of stellar cycles. He didn't have the luxury of slipping off his chains and skipping to a new sector, slinking back when he had the credits and confidence to reopen burned bridges.
It was a royal flush against a high card. Onslaught had unlaced his fingers, one hand stretched across the desk in a mockery of goodwill. Swindle exvented with a hiss, optics narrowed in a glare as he accepted the hand.
"You're a fragger, you know that?"
Onslaught's helm tilted slightly in what was probably a smirk. "That I do. Welcome to the Combaticons, Swindle."