"Well, I'm really on the shitlist now, Sides."
"What'd you do this time?" came the Lamborghini brother's response.
"Well, ahh, I might have given another 'bot a good beat down. But this one deserved it!"
"Just like all the other ones, hmm?"
"He did! He not only insulted my paint, but put permanent dye in my wax! Can you believe that slag?"
"No. Not at all." Boredom rang out in an unspoken language.
"I'm bored." Or maybe it was spoken.
The Lamborghini twins were separated. Sunstreaker was determined to make his CO, Gasket, see that it was the worst possible decision he could possibly make. However, Gasket was determined to punish the slag out of the golden yellow twin to make him understand that he was CO and he decided what did or did not go, and that slagging cylinder head had decided it was best to keep the twins apart.
"So what's gonna happen to you this time?"
"I'm being sent off base, into the middle of nowhere for some slagged-up espionage mission. Basically a bunch of 'bots slumming it up in the middle of the woods, getting dirty for no good reason, except to watch the grass grow. It's slagged up."
"Well I guess you really are on the shitlist. Way to go. Is that cylinder head adding to the division period?" The yellow twin actually froze for a moment. He had totally forgotten that the slaghead of a commanding officer had that power. If it pleased the bot, he could extend the time he and Sideswipe were apart. Frag.
"Erhm… Y'know, I'm not quite sure about that… I'll have to ask. Actually, I probably shouldn't, or else he might… Frag."
The red twin on the other end of the line sighed. "Well, let me know what happens. And try to stay out of trouble! Please? I'd like to get off this rock some time soon." The yellow twin nodded, though the other couldn't see it, and they uttered their goodbyes, cutting off the link at either end.
It fragging sucked. That was all Sunstreaker knew. His paint was fragged up as it was, Now he would have to get really slagging messed up, and drive out into the middle of nowhere. The mission essentially entailed squatting around a teeny tiny Teletraan base folded out of a crate, in camouflage paint, getting dirty-nasty-gross, waiting for a sign of 'Cons that virtually everybody knew would never actually show.
The Lamborghini sighed, and moved away from the comm. room, where he'd been "borrowing" a slightly more steady signal to reach his twin on the Earth's moon. He was to report in at 2000 hours -2017, frag, he was already late- to his CO to get full details and prepare to ship out.
The camouflage Bronco was pissed. Arms folded, standing at the end of the small camp, the 'bot glared into the dark woods. Remembering the details on this new mech, Sunstreaker, the 'bot straightened up enough to ease the ache off well-worn leaf springs. Blue optics glared into the forestry. Audios were calibrated for even the slightest pinprick of sound coming from outside the camp.
Met with the crackle of numerous branches breaking, and painfully loud cursing, many hundreds of meters away, the 'bot burst into action. Not only was this mech late, two Earth-bound hours late, but he was louder than Pit, and bound to give away their position.
The Bronco darted between thick oaks and barrel-chested pines, all of them reaching high enough to scrape the clouds, leaping over felled trees with practiced expertise, and within a minute, was standing just outside of this "Sunstreaker"'s scanner range. Glaring between the trees, and ducking low, the 'bot swept along, sneaking close.
And nearly blew a gasket, suppressing laughter.
The Lamborghini was entangled in vines, snared in an inanimate growth that had never claimed one of the 'bot's own mechs. He kept twisting this way and that, shouting at the weeds that wrapped all around his limbs, prickers getting into all the tight joints that would prick and poke, until they were removed, one by one. The mech growled at the greenery as he twirled around, Idiot. , and ripped the plants clear off the trees they were originally preying upon, and simply piling them onto his own self more and more.
"What the Hell are you doing?" The previously-golden twin leapt out of his armor, and glared up to empty space. He looked all around, and up in the trees, visually scanning for any sign of whoever was calling out to him.
"Over here!" The voice echoed, and bounced off the trees, sending the Lamborghini spinning again.
Suddenly, the speaker's camouflage frame emerged from the trees, moving down the slope the twin had caught himself on. He glared up at the 'bot, and growled low, his engine giving out a throaty snarl to boot. The 'bot glared back, an ice cold stare that Sunstreaker was nut unfamiliar with.
"You're late." The 'bot thundered. "Two hours late. What the frag took you so long?" The sociopath roared at the unnamed counterpart and fought against the growth that held him back.
"I' was having a tea party! What the slag do you think? I've been caught in this slag!" The camo-bot snorted.
"You've only been stuck there a few minutes, at most. I spent the last couple of hours waiting for you. You were suppose to be here at 0400 hours! It's two hours past then. What? Couldn't drag your lazy aft out of recharge for us? It's light out! You could've blown our cover, trusting you haven't already!"
"Hey, it's not my fragging fault you picked the hardest slagging spot to reach! It's fragging impossible to get the slag out here!" The bot glared down on him even more. "Yknow, I already can't stand your attitude,-" The bot pulled a combat knife off their hip, turning it over in one hand, approaching slowly. "-and I can't stand your mouth, either. We may all be grown-ups but we're all fully-developed third-stages. You're a fresh, snide little brat, and you have a mouth like a rookie."
The bot now stood directly in front of the Lamborghini, and tapped the face of the knife against his chest plate repeatedly. "You're on my turf now. My camp, my rules. You are mine. That's how the chain of command works. I hear you have a "beef" with the chain.-" The twin bared his teeth, growling again. "-I have a right mind to put this thing through your chamber right now. Accidents in the workplace happen an awful lot during a war. So what do you think I should do? Should I give you one last chance, seeing as you've already blown two? One for being late, another for mouthing off to your superior. Can you follow my rules? Or are we gonna brawl for the entire term of your sentence?" The bot tapped the blade against his chest again. Flicking his glare away for a moment, he let out a sigh, flaring his nostrils, and snorting, pulling his lips into a tight, pissed frown and hiding his pearly whites.
"Good." The bot murmured, digging the knife into the vines across his shoulder, scarping paint of the edges of his armor as they went. "The name's Bronco. Or at least, that's what everybody calls me." Continuing to cut him loose, Bronco continued. "I am now your acting commanding officer, I am your superior, but I can't stand the saluting, yessir's, etc because I'm your superior and your friend.
"I suggest you take on a four-wheel or all-wheel drive vehicle, because there's no slagging way you're gonna get by in a ground-hovering alt. mode like you have now." Bronco jabbed him in the chest, against the Lamborghini crest just below the grey Autobot symbol. "They call me Bronco for a reason. Also, from now on, carry a knife. You're gonna need it, guaranteed. This forest is rough and tough and it'll kick your aft if you aren't looking." Bronco roughly cut through the last of the greenery, ripping it away, and shoving the knife into the Lamborghini's hands. He glared back, icily. The Ford began trekking up the hill, and after the few moments, the twin moved to follow.
"Oh! And one last thing." Bronco turned to him. "I am a femme." The Lamborghini nearly crashed on spot.