Title: If You Can't Stand The Heat

Warnings: A heat virus is loose on the Lost Light, and thus, here there be heavily implied acts of sexual nature. Don't read if that's going to scandalize you.

Rating: R

Continuity: IDW, set in the middle of Season 1 of MTMTE.

Characters: Fortress Maximus, Whirl, Tailgate, Cyclonus, Trailbreaker, Pipes, Ultra Magnus, Chromedome, Rewind, Siren, Cosmos, Powerglide, Blaster, Rung, Skids, Perceptor.

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): I blame Shibara.


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Part Four

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Mouths were a privilege. Whirl resented that fact but acknowledged its immutable nature. Those who had a mouth could have it taken away as a punishment, and everyone who wanted a mouth couldn't have one. Although technically, Whirl could have a mouth. Ratchet had outright said rebuilding Empurata victims was a possibility now that the war wasn't draining resources, then followed that up by aggressively 'suggesting' Whirl get his head out of his cockpit and sign up.

Yeah, well, Whirl knew enough about his own fragged-up mind to take a pass on the offer. He didn't know what he'd blame his anger on if he ran out of excuses. C'mon. He might not be a stunning example of a post-war Cybertronian, but at least he was functional.

Of all the reasons Whirl had tossed out in the last ten minutes of blatant distraction, that one seemed serious enough to actually fit what Fortress Maximus knew about the nutjob. As a result, he avoided treating it seriously. "You mean you don't want to get your head fixed."

Look, mechs didn't stick their fingers into other people's tender spots. That was just common courtesy.

"Hey, my head's all kind of fixed. Topnotch cosmetic surgery, here."

Right, he'd almost forgotten. Common courtesy unless that mech was Whirl, in which case he didn't have fingers anymore and he considered poking his pincers into his own open wounds a point of pride. Fort Max shook his head, exasperated, and dryly said, "Not what I meant and you know it. You don't want to seek psychiatric care."

"What?" Whirl's voice went a little high pitched a moment before dropping back into his normal register. He pulled his antenna out of the hand fondling it and turned back to the conversation twice as determined to ignore current events. "Frag no. I'm going to be all over those appointments from now on. Care for me, doc, mmhmm, aww yeah, care for me harder."

Whatever shred of sympathy Fort Max felt fled. Not that he didn't understand the odd, lusting admiration filling Whirl's voice, but he didn't need to start thinking about how he'd be handling his own appointments with Rung from now on. Primus, no. He bent further over the workbench. "Do you really want to be thinking about that right now?"

Whirl gasped, pincers twitching a rapid tattoo against the wall he was pinned to. Fort Max's choice of distraction wasn't working so well anymore. "Don't know what you're on about. Will you get a move on?!"

It was exceedingly hard to operate power tools with his hands cuffed, especially since he was attempting to use said power tools to saw through the cuffs. "I'm trying. These aren't made to disconnect, you know!"

Whirl snorted. Fort Max didn't know how that was possible without a nose, but there it was nonetheless. "Know that, moron! Yeesh. I might actually know more about those cuffs than you."

Fortress Maximus, prison warden of Garrus-9, maximum security prison, chose not to argue. It was entirely possible it was true, knowing Whirl. "If you have any advice, I'm listening." Everything in the room stopped for a split second. Fort Max worked his mouth. Vocal records indicated he'd actually said that sentence aloud. His mouth had betrayed him. "Delete that."

"Nope! Heard and," Whirl whined thinly and breathed hard, interrupting himself. His antenna flicked rapidly up and down in reaction. "Witnessed," he whimpered after too long.

The pause wasn't mocked. Fort Max pretended it hadn't existed, allowing Whirl his macho image. The ex-Wrecker deserved to hold onto a smidgeon of pride, under the circumstances. Besides, Fort Max kind of felt a reluctant awe for how well the lanky glitchhead was holding up. Primus knew he didn't think he'd have done half as well in the mech's place. He was the one in the cuffs, after all, and defending himself was consequently harder.

Somebody had needed to be sacrificed for the cause. Whirl hadn't wanted to be the sacrifice. He'd known exactly what was waiting for them in Lab 12. He hadn't wanted to be the offering to the virus, yet he'd marched in anyway. Perceptor had to be challenged to keep him occupied while Fort Max worked on the cuffs, and, being that he was the loose one, Whirl was the bigger challenge.

They'd come to the conclusion that it was easier to cut a step out of Whirl's master plan by cutting through the cuffs than hope they could escape Ultra Magnus' amorous intentions with the cuff keycode. Fortress Maximus had stopped caring if that meant disobeying orders from the ship's captain sometime around the point he was knee-deep in an orgy, and Whirl seemed relieved they weren't playing prisoner-escort anymore. That simplified things greatly for both of them. They still had to deliver Atomizer to Cosmos, of course - Whirl had fourteen cautionary tales about promising mechs in heat things and not delivering them - but Perceptor had already knocked the poor guy out through one Pit of an overload. How convenient. Frightening, but convenient.

The scientist-sniper's feral interest in a new partner had nearly sent Whirl backpedaling the second they opened the door. Blurting out, "I'm immune to all this 'facing. Why?" had ignited interest into an unstoppable inferno. Perceptor had a vested interest in investigating the cause of Whirl's supposed lack of interface drive. He'd set out to science the rotary mech's connector's online without a second thought.

Leaving Fortress Maximus free to dig through his lab, find a sonic cutter, and sit down to saw off the blasted cuffs. He owed Whirl like he couldn't believe. Perceptor was intimidating when he was set on fragging a mech.

Hence the attempt at a distracting conversation. An offlined interface drive wouldn't delay Perceptor for long.

Whirl's legs kicked at the air, paddling a frantic beat that got him absolutely nowhere. Air whistled out of his overworked fans as he dragged his attention back to their topic. "Also! Also! Having a mouth would make this a lot more awkward! Gaaaah."

Fort Max didn't look up, but he had to nod agreement. "Good point. Very good point. I concede. You win. Keep your ugly lack of face. We're all better off not having to watch you get your throat intakes inspected."

The insult didn't work. Whirl didn't even notice it. He was too busy making little helpless bleating noises. Perceptor might not have his tongue down his fellow ex-Wrecker's throat, but he was doing a thorough external evaluation of every nook and cranny. With his teeth.

"Your temperature shows a distinct uptick based on physical manipulation of circuit clusters," the scientist-sniper breathed over a wet patch left by his tongue, and Whirl shuddered against him, "but that is a purely mechanical reaction to tactile input. Your interface drive is indeed offline. However, since your initial statement was phrased in such a way to indicate you feel left out by your lack of interest in interfacing, I believe I've found a solution to your problem. Analysis of your behavior suggests prolonged deactivation of interface protocols." Strong hands accustomed to holding a rifle found similar grips on Whirl's chest guns. He closed his fingers one at a time, relishing the hum of Whirl's systems jumping to attention. The gangly legs tossed over his hips locked straight, toes pointed. "Reactivation is a relatively simple procedure. Shall we begin?"

"Maaaaaax?" Whirl sounded a little desperate. Perceptor pumped at guns roughly, and his voice went funny. "How you doing on those cuffs, buddy?"

Fortress Maximus sawed faster.


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