TF Prime: And If You Could Drive

Series: Transformers Prime

Genre: AU, mention of slash with Dead End x OC

Charas: Knockout , Dead End

Author: rumblebee25

A/N : Title is the song Little 15 by Depeche Mode. It fits Dead End and Knock Out's relationship. Part of longer fic, I just snipped this part out

With his tiny build and wide wingspan, Knockout was often called a butterfly by his creator's clients. Since that sounded like an Autobot name, the little jet thought that must be an awful thing. He wasn't like the vehicle alts and weak little jets with their high heel struts were useless in the tunnels and mines. Down here everyone had to pull their own weight.

He was supposed to be a Seeker style body type but he was skinny and small, even for a protoform. To Knockout, his face and paint job were about the only good things about his appearance and he inherited those features from his creator.

Even at his young age, Knockout knew his reds and silvers were nothing like Dead End's blood red plating and jet black armor. The muscle car was sleek and tall, with a powerful upper body and the armor on his shoulders flared outward like shards of onyx. The curves of chest and front end always caught attention and his headlights formed a V which drew attention to his spark casing. His helm had points that curled back like horns and his little pointed audios swept back close to his head.

Dead End's delicate features was complemented by gold toned plating. He wore a black visor around his clients but that was removed when he was with his creation. Knockout was happy that his creator only let him see his optics. They were dark rubies that slanted upwards and he chose to hide them like treasures. The little jet wanted to be like his creator, to be beautiful and strong instead of small and wobbly.

A flier was awkward unless he was in the sky and Knockout didn't see much of that in the tunnels. When they went up to the planet's surface, high winds would make him teeter on his heels and he had to be carried or he'd be blown over by a sudden gust. His creator always kept a tarp around little jet and tried to protect him from the wind and dust.

Needless to say, Dead End didn't like taking his little flier topside if he could help it.

Knockout was at odds with his body, it was weak and ungainly. His helm wasn't smooth like the jet alts he saw on view screens, his helm had ridges and his audios were little points. His heels would stick in rock crevices and his upper body had no strength. He was geared for flight, not strength and his creator lamented this fact when there was any lifting to be done.

The only thing Knockout could do was attract attention; he'd learned early on that he could get big mechs to his bidding. At least until his creator showed up and then they fawned over him instead. Dead End gleamed in the underground city and he was sought after by many.

His creator always stressed grace and poise, correcting the little jet's posture and gate with a disappointed look. That was almost as bad as a rap on the knuckles and if the little jet sulked, Dead End would say, 'Stop that, you're being ugly.

That always made Knockout run and hide in his bed.

Dead End wasn't trying to be cold to his creation, but he was distracted and distant. His mind was elsewhere with work and other things. That made it hard to get his attention sometimes. Knockout adored him though.

The little jet would climb on his creator's lap when it was late and the last mech had left their garage. In those quiet moments, when his creator would hold him, Knockout longed for praise when he was petted instead of being called a 'poor little thing.' Early on, Knockout surmised that he must an ugly creature for his creator to be sad about him.

If anyone had bothered to tell the little jet that he was cute he would have died of sheer happiness. On the surface world, jet alts would have clucked their tongues and said he would be a great beauty someday.

The long lean muscle car still had the lines and shape of his former alt mode. Few knew of his secret, that he'd been a jet before going AWOL. With his blood red armor, sleek body and curves, Dead End surpassed any Seeker for their vanity. His air of detached disdain would melt in the arms of his clients, making them think they'd accomplished some great feat. Really though, he was just a great actor, he could care less about them or even interfacing for that matter.

Knockout's creator was a favored mechanic in the underworld racing circuit. While he could repair anything, Dead End's type of body work took place behind closed doors and went on late into the night. Strangers coming and going was perfectly natural to the little jet.

It was ages before Knockout learned that interfacing was meant for those in love and that spark sharing was only for bond mates. He didn't still think spark touches were something sacred. The clients weren't particularly pious or devout and the sounds they made weren't words of love.

Lately, Dead End was seeing fewer night time clients now that racing season had started. Though he complained about the work load, Knockout's creator was always less unhappy when he was in the garage and in the company of vehicle alts who didn't want him in their bed.

Today there was an offworld visitor and he needed a guide down to the lower tunnels. The mech was an SUV named Swindle and he wanted to do business with Motormaster. That wasn't easy. First off, one had navigate the tunnels that lead to the Stunticons compound and THEN they needed an introduction before they could do business...or even leave the tunnels alive.

Dead End and Knockout traversed this road often, not that they were telling the arms dealer that. Swindle cajoled, pleaded and tried to sweet talk the red muscle car. Dead End simply crossed his arms and projected regal boredom as Swindle blathered on.

On the other side of the store room, Knockout listened in as he worked, numbers and parts swimming through his processor. He was cataloging the supplies the dealer had brought in. Shock absorbers, heavy thick suspensions, mud tires; all of it was just fascinating. Most fliers would be appalled by Knockout's interest and would have discouraged it.

The guttural roar of super charged engines and the squeal of tires were part of Knockout's life, as much as own his plating or running errands. He smiled as he ran the backs of his fingers over thick heavy treads of the tires. The young jet imagined how he would look in them and how pretty he would be as a vehicle alt.

Daydreaming aside, he did catch some of the conversation from the other side of the room. Knockout peered around the shelves laden with parts and a data pad in hand. Dead End quirked his mouth in contempt as the dealer tried to bribe him and it was a cheap bribe on top of that. Tacky.

"No one knows the tunnels like you do, " Swindle said as Knockout listened in, "If I don't have someone to lead me down there, then-"

"Your lack of planning does not constitute an emergency on my part," Dead End said. He was a mechanic, not a guide and he added, "Don't bother asking my assistant either. Those tunnels are too small even for him, his wings will just get stuck."

They looked across the room, in Knockout's direction. The jet stood behind a row of tall industrial shelving, his wings sticking out the sides. Knockout gulped, he hated being singled out but Swindle went over to him instead. The SUV frowned at the pretty little jet.

Dead End kept his offspring hidden from Con troops for a good reason. The kid's looks would draw the wrong kind of attention from older fliers. His wings were huge and he was too small to make a decent air warrior. He'd end up as a recon jet, meaning he'd be less than cannon fodder.

"Guess you're right. He'll just get wedged in something," the dealer said, "I'd hoped one of you could sneak me down there. But this couldn't sneak up on anything."

"No, he couldn't fly past the Stunticons' defenses if that was what you were hoping for. And he certainly can't drive across their pathways," Dead End replied.

He was just stating a fact but that always broke his creation's spark. Once the dealer was gone, Knockout stepped away from his tasks and he went to his creator. The older mech frowned, finding some fault in Knockout's appearance. He wiped away some dust off his creation as if the dirt had personally attacked his offspring.

"Are we going to the garages or up to the booth's tonight?" Knockout asked. He just wondered since his creator had been tired lately. Usually that meant more 'late' work and not garage duty.

"We'll be down in the pits with the racers," Dead End said and he sighed, " Just don't call me 'creator' in front of clients. It's bad for business."

"Yes, sir," Knockout said.

"And don't talk to anyone unless they place in the top ten," his creator warned. Knockout groaned and his shoulders drooped.

That disregard for his personal appearance made Dead End quirk an eyebrow. He was now officially annoyed. Knockout winced, knowing a lecture was coming. His creator…no, his mentor went on to scold him about everything, from his posture to slumming with truck alts.

The youngster tuned him out and nodded in the right places, waiting for Dead End's natural apathy to kick in. Finally the muscle car ended his little rant with, "But don't listen to me. What do I know? I'm only your creator."

"I understand," Knockout sighed in dejection, though he'd only been halfway listening. But Dead End lifted his chin, slightly impressed that his offspring was paying attention this time.

"Just as long as you know why this is so important. The right bots mean more money for your reformatting," Dead End said and he cupped his child's face. He sighed, "If only you would were taller. We could make a proper muscle car out of you."

"What if just turned truck instead?" Knockout said, with a little smirk. His creator shuddered.

"Just break my spark, why don't you?

Finally Knockout was starting grow into his frame. He was no longer a twig and he had some curves to his blade like body. He was still fairly useless though, his thin limbs were weak and ineffectual in the rough shod caverns and tunnels. He still wasn't much better on the surface either, he could fly but he was too small for cargo transport. Not that he planned on making a future of that.

Dead End always said they'd get out of here someday. That they wouldn't have to hide with all the Empties and Neutrals. They were Decepticons and they served no one but their own needs. It wasn't fair that they lived like rats and they would leave Cybertron if they could. They had nothing to keep therm here.

The surface world was a wreck, full of ruins and bands of roving fighters and above that, the sky was an ugly and poisonous thing. Flying was for suckers, Knockout thought. He didn't care if that was what he was protoformed to do. It just wasn't was him. At the back of his mind, he never got that fact that catastrophic failure could happened at any moment.

Flier were never as free as they liked to think, all of them were chained to their master like dogs. Jets were called to duty from the moment they came online. His creator avoided that fate by deserting his post and reformatting completely.

If his identity were ever discovered by a ranked officer, Dead End would be imprisoned and Knockout would be pressed into service. The young jet would confined to a warship for the rest of his days and forced into battle. That was a fate worse than death to his creator.

Here they had shelter, fuel, they had a shop. And all it was because of Motormaster. The diesel truck was boorish and just plain mean, his size and strength matched by his short temper. He was power and the city belonged to him and his Stunticons. Dead End was considered one by association, though he scoffed at that.

They benefited from the Stunticons' protection and their leader was an object of fear and respect. Motormaster was authority, Dead End was comfort, those two extremes dictated Knockout's young life.

During important races, Knockout fairly beamed when his creator was at the Motormaster's side, the little jet couldn't help but bask in that bit of reflected glory. When he came of age, Knockout used to fear he would called to their leader's bed since Dead End was often chosen.

That never happened though, the boss said he didn't want 'some skinny aft glitch.' Instead he told the young jet to stop mooching off Dead End and pull his own weight. Knockout was doing that already so he didn't see why Motormaster would even care. At least the wretch never hit him or his creator, though it burned him when Dead End was yelled at for something trivial.

Though Motormaster would beat the slag out of anyone for looking at him funny, he wouldn't strike Dead End. He'd handled him roughly but never punched him like he did with Wildrider or Dragstrip. That was the way the boss showed 'mercy'. One of these days, he was going slip though and he was bound to target them as well, Dead End was certain of it. They planned leave Cybertron and they were almost ready.

The underground city was in an ever eternal night and it's mismatched lights gave it glow of a permanent red light district. This the slow time, late afternoon before shift changes. The bars below were fairly empty and the upper levels housed various dens for all kinds of vices. Knockout sat on the wide steps leading to the private clubs, waiting for his creator to come back.

Locals and a few off worlders walked by him, some snickering at him. The young jet ignored them and examined his claws for dirt, then he polished the tips until they were gleaming. When he grew bored of that, Knockout sighed heavily and rested back on his palms, waiting for his creator to return. Dead End was with a client and he would be finished soon.

Knockout waited …and waited.

And when it went past the normal booking time, his brow creased with worry. Just as he was about to message his creator, Dead End pinged him instead. The client had paid for another go-round and had turned chatty. The youngster groaned, that could take forever.

It was always strange to Knockout, why clients would waste time ( and money) talking when they could just talk to someone they knew for free. His creator preferred the ones that did their business and got out of there. Dead End HATED small talk. He'd rather shove a knife into a customer's spark than feign interest.

Though he was just an adolescent, Knockout already knew too much about what happens in rented rooms. Hardly easy work, his creator had complained, especially when the client yammered. Life was just so hard for them and it was so tough, nobody understood them, nobody cared.

Oh, boo hoo. Well...guess what, sunshine. Whores don't care either.

That was the cheery pep talk that Dead End wanted to fling right in their faces. He didn't care much for anything not even fun and the only thing he liked was being polished and pretty. Knockout liked a lot of things though and the bar on the corner was calling his name. The little jet wanted to some of his newly earned credits. He deserved to have some fun too after all.

The night before, Knockout had sold his virginity and while the experience was profitable, it was also odd and rather dull. That was on purpose for his own safety. Dead End settled on a rich old mech with bland tastes, one who happened to be fleeing Cybertron with his ill gotten gains.

So Knockout went with the stranger and made him do all the work. Having his wings and 'bits' pawed at by some old bot was boring. It was all grunt, grunt, push, push, stare at the ceiling and squeeze at the right time. The client even slobbered all over his stabilizers too. Yuck.

The mech offered a chance to go with him and be a spoiled little pet...as a Decepticon conquest. He would pampered and taken care of as long as he wore a collar. Knockout wanted to scratch out the old fool's optics. Instead he sweetly declined, claiming his spark belonged to Motormaster. Really, he about heaved on saying that.

One had make the best of things for survival's sake. Those sacrifices weren't dwelt on by either Dead End or Knockout. Both creator and creation had a dream, something they kept very close to the spark and it would be expensive. Every little credit helped and it wasn't like they could ask Motormaster for help. No way, no how.

Someday Knockout was going to have a complete reformat and then they were was going leave the planet. That second goal would easier than first. An alt mode change would more invasive than an upgrade and would be very expensive for an Empty or a Neutral.

Now if he were a ranked Decepticon warrior, then it would be an easy process. Anyone else would have to find a surgeon and pay handsomely for the privileged. It wasn't just a simple switch out of parts. Frame and mass were at stake, neural nets and wiring could be badly damage.

Dead End might be self centered and one who cared only for his own needs. But he was adamant that Knockout would have an expert do this and not suffer from some blunt and crude chop job. That's was reason for Dead End 'entertaining' so early in the day and why Knockout had sold his virginity.

His creator wanted him to study, to be a real medic, that could take him anywhere. Knockout wouldn't have minded staying as a mechanic. He was hooked on the thrill of horsepower and speed demons who raced in the illicit tracks. Down here pit fighting wasn't a viable sport, a fighter still had to work. Racing offered a competition that was less fatal.

Besides when it came to fighting, no one could take down Motormaster or his lackeys. Megatron could...back when he was still fighting. But those days were long gone and the Golden Age had given to rust and ruin. Total anarchy was halted in a few places by strong armed 'enforcers' like Motormaster and there was a semblance of normality.

Even such things as racing went on since betting and competition were almost ingrained here in the ruins. Cybertron was dead for all intents and purposes, yet pockets of fighting went on and the cities dwindled. Eventually this colony would dry up and blow away too.

Knockout wanted to see places beyond his home. Many of the clients talked of other worlds, of starships and the city that Knockout had been created in. Kaon seemed mythical to him and he wanted go there even it was in decline.

He had other dreams too and those were more frivolous. He longed to be on the tracks, where big money races brought outsiders to the colony. The events brought all kinds of bots, to off roaders to beautiful, cocky, Autobot sports alts.

Oh, if he could only be one of these those beautiful machines. He would something sleek and powerful with a big engine and tight precise suspension. To feel of his tires biting into the track and roar an engine vibrating through his frame.

Flying wasn't the same, it didn't even compare at all. Jets were untouchable, cars were down and dirty, right on the road and their bodies low to the ground. The heat and roar of their engines as they warred on the track.

His little fantasy was interrupted when a bot started up the wide steps. It was an older long bed truck alt, with rugged features and no insignia. Knockout sat up, his spark buzzing in his chest. He loved the big bodied mechs that drifted into the shop and anybody had to better than the bot he was with last night.

Knockout tried coughing to get the mech's attention and the truck alt merely tossed a credit at him…like he was a panhandler.

The mech walked past the young jet, not even giving him a second glance or a wolf whistle. Knockout frowned, he wasn't a bum and he was pretty, plenty of his creator's clients said so. The young jet was about to throw that the credit back at the mech when someone whistled at him.