Holding Patterns
8:00 PM
If the sun hadn't dipped below the mountains just three minutes before, if he hadn't been exhausted and depressed from yet another failed high-altitude flight attempt, and-- most of all-- if he hadn't been so slagging wanting, Silverbolt would never have gotten into that truck trailer when "Prime" offered him a lift home. He wouldn't now be spread-eagled against the walls of this shallow desert ravine in the dead of night, lit only by the limned glow of Motormaster's headlights, while said Stunticon plays delicious havoc with his systems as Silverbolt approaches his third overload of the hour.
7:45 PM
He only realizes the ruse once the trailer door slams shut and he finds himself squeezed into an impossibly tight space, about a third of Prime's size, and no Roller inside. There is only one other Transformer semi on Earth.
"Motormaster!"
A chuckle from somewhere in the dark. "Was waiting for you to figure me out, sweets."
As suddenly as it shut, the trailer door retracts. Silverbolt staggered back into the cool dusk, gasping, before Autobot reflexes get the better of him and he whirls, guns drawn and wings flexed for transformation.
"Don't ever do that again, Decepticreep, or--!"
"You sure?" Motormaster drawls. "Word on the street is, you'd like yourself a chunk of big rig. 'Bigger the better,' 's what I hear."
Silverbolt ignores the sarcasm and tries- less successfully- to stop drinking in the sight of Motormaster's Prime-camouflage: The bold red and blue paint job, the massive six wheels, and most painfully the voice, so achingly calm and dignified and infinitely knowing. He cocks his gun and aims it at the truck's vulnerable axles.
"Easy, easy, flyboy," the darkness-voice coos. "I don't mean nothing. See? You're out. You're free. It could've been the other way, easy. I just wanna talk. Nice and slow. Nice and easy."
"You don't deserve those colors. Take them off."
"After I gussied up all special just for you? Seriously? Besides, I think you like me better this way. Or more to the point-- you like him."
Silverbolt backs away, unsure of how he'd fare in a one-on-one fight with the massive and heavily-shielded 'Con. A scan of the surrounding desert concludes- unbelievably- that Motormaster had come alone. Why?—not that it matters. He should take this chance and fly: fire his jets into the night and speed the hell out of there, out of that dizzying spiral that was fast coalescing into an unbroken circle.
Motormaster steps forward, retrieves his gun and sword from subspace, and drops them on the desert gravel. He raises his palms in a gesture of surrender.
"What do you want, Stunticon?"
"Just wanna talk, flyboy." He smirks. I hear you're good for that sort of thing."
8: 15 PM
Despite the holo-paint, Silverbolt knows something's not right with the red and blue semi. He can't put his finger on it, but the syntax, the mannerisms, the engine's rumbles weren't quite right for Optimus, and it wouldn't have been very hard to realize that this "Autobot" was an impostor.
It doesn't matter.
Silverbolt desperately wants to believe in the charade. He wants to believe, no matter how delusional, that Optimus cares enough about him to drive the several hundred miles from Oregon to their loaned Nebraskan airstrip to pick him up after flight practice. He wants to believe that it's Optimus's arms caressing his wingtips, Optimus's unmasked teeth grazing his lips and describing, in his low and patient voice, the banquet of depravities spread before them.
8:25 PM
He wasn't sure when his fantasies of Optimus began seeping from recharge cycles into fully-conscious daydreams, but they felt as inextricable from himself as his fear of heights or his leadership of the Aerialbots.
Only Skydive had an inkling that the adulation and respect that the Autobots universally held for Prime- yes, even Slingshot (though he loathed to admit it)- were somehow intensified in his Commander and bordering on worship. Prime's strength, his ease of command, and unshakeable self-confidence were natural draws to a young and untested lieutenant, of course, but when Silverbolt confessed to a more physical attraction, the dynamics altered considerably.
Optimus Prime did not couple with his subordinates- an unspoken rule around the Ark. Skydive hoped that when Silverbolt accepted this, his feelings would receded to their proper place, but as the months rolled by, Silverbolt's ardor only intensified. What neither Aerialbot knew then was that desire feeds on unfullfillment: the space between the lines, the glances averted, and the innuendos brushed aside, the invitations unaccepted or unextended. These observations, though spiced with concern for Silverbolt, were mostly received with the same unabashed curiosity with which he studied flight maneuvers. Their dynamics reminded Skydive of certain thermal drafts which fed upon their own spinning energies, or a futile holding pattern above an empty runway.
8: 30 PM
On the ravine floor, Silverbolt struggles out of overload haze.
He must've blacked out. Thermosensors detect a temperature drop of at least forty degrees and dropping by the second. Motormaster's bulk looms above him-- all jagged black and skeletal gray edges, vaguely gruesome in the way his true dark colors melt into the surrounding darkness. When had he dispensed with the holo-paint? Noting the Aerialbot's confusion, Motormaster chuckles. Silverbolt climbs to his knees and remembers to feel ashamed.
"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall," sings Motormaster. "Humpty Dumpty had a great fall."
Silverbolt has lost his taste for "talk". His main concern now is that long, limping flight back to the safety of the Ark. That, and he's now really starting to doubt the sanity of the Stunticon now quoting nonsense. He should really radio for back-up. Sure, and have the entire Autobot corps stumble on his tête-à-tête with a Decepticon maniac in Optimus Prime drag? No, Silverbolt's on his own. He fires his engines, for once fearing the ground more than open air. He's nearly clear of the ravine's ridge when Motormaster grabs his ankle and slams Silverbolt against the rock wall.
Silverbolt reaches for his gun but it's already thirty feet above his head, knocked away by Motormaster's huge fist, and now the fist comes crashing against cranial plates, agony though it mercifully silences the alarms burning up his internals. Radio!—he thinks, split seconds before the Stunticon rips them from either side of each optic. Motormaster head butts him for good measure. Taking lessons from Ramjet? ---The thought flashes before optic lids shatter from the impact and the world vanishes. Silverbolt crumples.
Motormaster's grip on his throat constricts energon flow to his head so that it's a struggle just to stay online. Another grip, this time on his left hand, followed by metal's shriek as a something long and sharp rips through his inner palm and into the ravine wall above his head. He'd scream if Motormaster weren't crushing his throat. As it is, he can barely manage a squeak when the Stunticon nails his other hand to the wall.
8:45 PM
Blinded, crucified, silenced, and damaged--perhaps terminally- and leaking a coronet of energon from his cranial wounds...Silverbolt remembers a popular human image depicting a man in a very similar pose. Has Motormaster taken an interest in human art? Well, Why not? Nothing makes sense anymore. He ponders the lack of pain: perhaps delirium caused by rapid energon loss; emergency stasis onset; sensory blockers doing their job. He's poised on the edge of stasis, disconnected from every sensation beyond the force field now pressing him against the ravine wall. Then he feels Motormaster's mouth against his cheek, feeling the words more than hearing them:
"All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again."
"Unless he's King of the Road," Silverbolt gasps.
That earns him a slap, but it's a light caress next to the existing damage. But then the caresses are for real this time. Fingers roaming his plating with confident dexterity over
his neck and wing flaps. The u-shaped bolt above his waist. The slits of exposed circuitry between his legs. Silverbolt groans, Motormaster chuckles, and somehow minus the pain and grievous bodily harm they're back to where they started.
"Say my name, flyboy. Nice and slow, nice and slow…"
"Motor—agh--!"
Motormaster bites his lips. "No. Say my real name."
"O-Optimus Prime…?"
Motormaster chuckles and nuzzles his cheek.
Silverbolt is pleasantly surprised to find himself approaching his fourth overload of the hour.