Title: Lease or Buy
Warning: Pet play, cat barf.
Rating: PG
Continuity: G1
Characters: Swindle, Combaticons, Thundercracker, Astrotrain, Reflector, Soundwave, Constructicons
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): A kinkmeme request ( . ?thread=8406153#t8406153) + writing warm-ups and a need for something no-pressure to write.
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Part Six
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When Scrapper took out the first treat, Swindle hesitated.
It wasn't from real fear, but because that was his role in the session. He became a different pet depending on the client. Astrotrain paid for a rambunctious pet who sometimes transformed and accelerated excitedly around the base before being reined in again; Thundercracker wanted a cuddly, dumb pet with an occasional spark of attitude; Blitzwing favored a playful pet who had to be worn out before he'd flop down across the triplechanger's legs while football was on.
Well, Scrapper liked to tame a wild creature. Swindle's file on this particular client listed him as enjoying hard work for a suitable reward, less of a game than realism. He wanted Swindle to eye him warily and hide under furniture, not curl up in his lap and beg for attention. The wildlife of Cybertron was long gone, but Scrapper could have done well as a rehabilitator for damaged technimals. If, that was, he could have tolerated releasing them once they were repaired and trusting of him.
Lacking real wild creatures, he'd shell out a minor shuttle-load of credits and favors to buy sessions with a pet mech who'd act the part. Although it hadn't been as easy as just throwing money around. Swindle hadn't even started returning his messages until Mixmaster asked if the merchant would tag a second session on to the end of his usual one.
Mixmaster, and Mixmaster alone, still had purchasing rights. The chemist had always played nice when it came to business with him, and Swindle liked that about him. The other Constructicons? Frag that. They were lucky he still sold them anything, but his time definitely wasn't on their purchasing list anymore. After the scrap Hook had pulled, Swindle had made it very clear than the other Constructicons could sit on an axle and rotate before he'd sell a session to any of them again.
There had been electrical burns on his fuel pump. Electrical burns. Hook had gotten Swindle's chest open after Scrapper coaxed him up onto the repair berth, and the surgeon had spent the entire surgery finding small ways to hurt the toy mech. Nothing big. Very purposefully, nothing that couldn't be excused as an 'accident' if he'd been called out on it. Which he hadn't been, because the entire session went by without Scrapper reprimanding him on the abuse.
Swindle had played along, reacting with bewildered fear and flinching like a brainless beast, but he'd taken note of every 'accident.' Behind the confused whines and wide optics, he'd been adding them up as he patiently waited for the end of the paid time.
The second the session clock turned over, he'd sat up and shoved Hook away from him. "Get away from me."
Hook had sneered, "What do you think you're - "
He'd pinged both Scrapper and Hook with the timestamp for the beginning and end of the session, a receipt for services rendered, and crossed his arms over his mostly-repaired chest cavity. "Session's over. I want repairs, and I don't think you can tell the difference between play and reality, so get away from me. You want a toy to squeeze the stuffing out of, I can get you a drone for a good price. Don't bother asking for me again, because you and I won't be doing this business again. Now back off and let someone who can honor a contract finish my repairs. Mixmaster or Long Haul will do."
"How dare you." Pulling against Scrapper's suddenly restraining grip on his shoulder, Hook had taken a step toward the smaller Decepticon. Wrath made his visor narrow in threat even before he started speaking. "You throw big words for such a weak mech. When your body's unconscious on the slab next time, you'll regret slandering me. My word's worth twice what any greasy conmech's is. You sell out to whoever flips a few credits at you, and you think you have some sort of moral high ground? Ha! You're nothing but a piece of shareware, giving the right price to anyone with cash or credit. We all know you'd jump on the chance to offer yourself up for interfacing if you thought anyone would bid for a used, worthless program-slave. Frag, Megatron's probably got Onslaught begging for it. Everybody knows your shuttle's on bottom in every way over in the launch hangar, and the only reason Brawl's not a virus-ridden shell is because Soundwave keeps our firewall updates coming. Primus knows that Vortex would take half of us and be happy he's finally of some sort of use around here."
"That's enough, Hook," Scrapper had said softly, but his fingers had indented the surgeon's shoulder. "Long Haul can finish closing up here - "
"No," Hook had spat back. He'd yanked himself loose and advanced on the smallest Combaticon. "No patient's going to dictate to me how things get done in my repair bay!"
"He's not telling you; I am," the Constructicon team leader had said at the same time Swindle pulled a pistol out of a hidden thigh holster and set the barrel right on the tip of Hook's nose.
The whole room had frozen. Arms merchant. Right. In case Hook had needed a reminder that the relatively tiny grounder on his repair slab sold weaponry to the already armed and dangerous for a living.
"And no client's going to dictate to me how I sell my product," the merchant had said in a voice of cold steel. The ruthlessness of an open market had stared down the two Constructicons, one seething but helpless and the other now studiously neutral. Scrapper's body language had said clearly that he wouldn't interfere in this showdown unless Swindle took the shot. "Especially not when the product's my body. I will sell how I want, when I want, to whom I want, and only on my terms. Think what you want about my unit. Say what you want. 'Everyone' can spread rumors about me whoring myself out, for all I care. But you try and lay a hand on me that isn't contracted, and I'll take it off you. This is business, nothing more or less, and that means you abide by the rules."
Still staring levelly down the pistol, refusing to acknowledge the aching of his chest, Swindle had proceeded to go through his standard session end follow-up. Usually he'd have given the customer a couple days to soak in the experience and think about the session before reviewing it for satisfaction levels and overall impression, but this hadn't been done for customer feedback. He'd read off his list of what Hook had done to him, checking off every violation of Scavenger's verbal agreement with him prior to the session start. Every pain had been listed.
Fists shaking at his sides, Hook had stood there and listened while glaring bloody murder. Every word had been a direct blow to his pride. He'd attempted to skip the contract violations by implying that Swindle likely gave the goods away for free, but the Jeep hadn't gone chasing the bait. If they'd gotten into a nice, distracting argument about honoring agreements made to perceived 'lower' mechs who bargained away their bodies, Hook could have claimed that the contract hadn't been valid in the first place. Maybe he'd have even tried to claim that paying money for free product meant the Combaticon owed him more.
However, Swindle had experience in this sort of word-weaseling. He's gotten this slag thrown at him in the past. Mechs tried to play lawyer on him without understanding that he wouldn't get riled enough to forget that business was business. Instead of arguing over whether anything to a 'mech like him' had to be honored, he'd just listed the ways a mech like Hook had failed to honor a business contract.
He'd finished by resting his arm in his lap, pointing the pistol at Hook but no longer directly in the face. "As I said: I want someone to repair me who knows how to honor a contract. That someone isn't you."
When Scrapper had pulled on Hook's shoulder again, the surgeon had silently turned away and strode toward the door.
Swindle had called after him, "By the way, Hook? Frag Vortex hard, and he'll enjoy it. He likes it when mechs are stupid enough to link into his systems. Something about being a professional interrogator, I'm sure."
The surgeon had stopped in the door for a moment, all but vibrating with rage, before leaving without a word.
Scrapper had waited until he was gone before turning cautiously to face the Jeep. "Don't," Swindle had said curtly. "You knew what he was doing. That's as much a contract violation as causing me pain in the first place. I'm holding you responsible, and I won't be doing any more of this sort of business with you, either, not unless the offer comes with an apology and a penalty fee. Since Hook'll never lower himself to apologizing to me," that flashing smile had a cutting edge, "don't bother contacting me about anything but our usual business deals."
That had been the end of that. Long Haul had been sent in to finish his repairs. That had been an awkward silence.
Giving Scrapper a taste of what was on the market had practically guaranteed he'd be back. Swindle had known it. He'd ignored any messages from the Constructicon leader, waiting for niggling need to turn into the sort of addicted craving a few of his past clients had felt. Sending Mixmaster to do his dirty work had only told the merchant how much Scrapper wanted it.
Trying to eel around his terms hadn't made Swindle any more inclined to open for business. "No, and if he happens to 'just show up' during our session, I'll consider it a cancellation on your part and keep the fee."
The chemist hadn't replied to that message. Point made.
The next day, Swindle had received a message from Hook. He was tempted to have it printed out and framed. It was a formal, stilted letter of apology. The stiff words were a recognition of poor business practices on the part of Party One, who admitted to the wrongdoing and offered sincere regrets to the offended Party Two. It'd obviously been a form Hook had filled out at the request - and only because of the request - of his gestalt, as the nasty, bile-filled footnote tacked on at the end had snidely informed him.
The merchant had laughed and started negotiating with Scrapper for a second session.
Which led to today, after Mixmaster had finished feeding him the new Alaskan oil-derived energon samples. Swindle had really enjoyed that. He'd run his engine enthusiastically, crouching on the floor in the middle of the Constructicon's quarters while Mixmaster cleaned up around him. The chemist had worked slowly. He'd mostly just watched Swindle lap from the bowl in front of him, tongue flicking quickly in and out of the best blend offered that session. The smaller Decepticon's expression had been one of contented bliss.
Now, offered a similar treat in gel form, Swindle peered out from behind a chair at it and downshifted to let his motor make a lower, warier noise. An hour made all the difference when it spanned two totally different sessions. Mixmaster wanted a pet to test his concoctions on; Scrapper wanted a pet to tame. Good thing Swindle was good at playing different parts.
"Come here," Scrapper called quietly. He stood, deliberately slow, and retreated a few steps back to his berth in order to sit. It made his bulk look less threatening. "Come on out, Swindle. Come on."
Swindle had spent thirty minutes cowering and hissing so far in this session. He'd responded to Scrapper gradually inching closer by tolerating the approach right until the Constructicon moved wrong in some way. Then he'd skittered across the room to find somewhere else to hide. Under the berth. On the berth, crammed into the corner. Under the desk. Scrabbling at the door trying to get out. And now hiding behind the chair.
Changing tactics was a smarter idea than continuing their slow-motion chase around the room. Swindle decided to go with it, even if his tanks were pleasantly filled already from Mixmaster spoiling him. Treats were treats, after all, and anything made by the Constructicons was better than most of what the rest of the Earth-based Decepticons made for themselves. He slid out from behind the chair and sniffed delicately at the treat on the floor.
"That's it. That's a good Swindle."
Something smelled wrong. The Jeep cocked his head to the side to eye Scrapper while giving the treat another sniff. His sensor suite feedback came back clean, chemical receptors registering nothing but the rich aroma of concentrated energy, yet there was a cautionary pop-up on his HUD. He crouched close to the floor over it and growled, optics narrowing and armor sleeking close to his body when Scrapper shifted slightly. The engineer stopped moving and continued talking nonsense in that soothing tone that Swindle tuned out. He had an alert to pin down.
What was it? The treat smelled fine, except it didn't. He didn't know what was setting off alarms, but he knew better than to ignore them. Still staring suspiciously at the Constructicon sitting on the berth, he lowered his helm to give the treat a little lick. The in-vent from Scrapper didn't go unnoticed, and Swindle's client file updated a note about Scrapper's preferences. Drawing out accepting things from the Constructicon's hand evidently met with approval. Scrapper wanted the tension and subdued victory of winning a pet's trust.
Even as the client file auto-saved, Swindle had his answer. The standard chemical receptors Starscream had built into him had been augmented by Swindle's own sources in the years since coming to Earth. He'd added specialized equipment for business purposes, since 'taste-testing' some of his more lethal wares worked surprisingly well for evaluating their potency. The standard sensor suite could tell him chemical composition, not how long ago elements had been mixed or the exact composition. That could be important in his line of work. Not in this line of work, at least not prior to this, but right now that nonstandard equipment told him the energon treat he'd licked had been tampered with.
It was laced with something tasty in small amounts, delicious in larger amounts, and reacted badly with processor plants no matter the amount. If he ate this thing, his tanks would seize up in reaction now or later. When exactly they were meant to rebel depended on whether this was intentional or not.
Pretty purple optics gave Scrapper a doubtful look. It didn't make sense that the Constructicon would poison him after going to this extent to get another session. It made even less sense that Scrapper would hand-feed him treats meant to make him sick. Swindle could make the obvious connection between treats and illness. If it wasn't Scrapper trying to poison him, that implicated Mixmaster or whoever had made the treats in the first place, and that seemed equally foolish. It was possible that the saboteur didn't know about Swindle's self-upgrading; since most mechs didn't have the sensors to detect anything beyond a good taste, his ability to sense the additional ingredient might be unexpected. But even if he himself didn't make the connection, surely Scrapper would realize something was wrong.
Possibly, but that balanced on how many treats Scrapper planned on feeding him from that box. Timing made all the difference in sabotage. By Swindle's calculations, more than five treats would reduce reaction time until it was within the session itself. Anything less than five treats, and the session would finish before his processor plant started rebelling against what he'd fed it. A mech without sensors to catch the tell-tale additive might not make the connection between treats and illness. The saboteur likely wanted him to think it was just a reaction to too-rich energon hitting his tanks all at once.
The merchant weighed pros and cons. He had an idea of just who would want poison him. His theory depended on whether or not Scrapper kept giving him treats, because he didn't know what the frag was going on if Scrapper was doing this deliberately.
Only one way to find out: he drew it out. He retreated and hid some more, dragging the treat back to his safe spot behind the chair before he ate it. He made Scrapper toss more to lure him out. He nibbled. He sniffed and licked. Wiggling fingers holding treats were eyed with deep suspicion. The Jeep paced and whined, sliding closer to the berth inch by careful inch as the Constructicon's soothing monologue lulled his wariness, but it was the treats Swindle the pet was after. Close to the floor, he oozed forward to paw at the floor in Scrapper's direction, frustrated by the energon held just out of reach. Scrapper enticed him closer yet, coaxing him along with tidbits fed in teensy morsels, rewarding him for every inch.
Eventually, forty minutes and twelve treats later, Swindle hopped up on the berth at long last to tramp in a small circle on his hands and knees while Scrapper watched in delight. He then took great pleasure in starting to gag as his tanks signaled intent to purge. "Gluurk. Hoouuurk! Ulgh-ulgh-glurk-urk!"
"Swindle?" Scrapper shot to his feet and stood there, hands hovering anxiously over the pet mech.
Swindle coughed thickly and hunched, shoulders shaking as gagging became terrible horking sounds. He grinned around the automatic, semi-pained grimace. Scrapper's voice held a note of panic he'd never heard before, and it was hilarious. He intentionally opened every stopcock between power plant and his main tanks, letting the tainted energon trigger an the auto-purge on everything without resistance. Scrapper might not have been the one who'd poisoned him, but he'd have no choice but to find out who had. Not if Swindle made a big enough scene, which he thoroughly intended to.
Cleaning up the messes and dealing with the consequences was part of having a pet, after all.
"Swindle, are you - hold on, wait, don't - " The engineer leapt for a disposal can. "Wait! No no no, wait, not there!"
Luckily for the role he played, it was hard to gag and snicker at the same time. "Bluuarrrf!" came out instead of laughter as he barfed all over the berth. When the first purge finished, he smacked his lips together and licked his teeth, still making little unhappy noises. "Blech bluh gak-kaf." The second purge hit, and he retched violently, back struts arching up and vents heaving as his intakes forced opened in ugly, hacking coughs. "Kaf-kaf-kaf - glaaauurk!"
That wasn't so pleasant, but the satisfaction he derived from Scrapper's dismay made it worth it. "What…in Primus' name…" The Constructicon just stood there, disposal can hanging from his hands as he stared at the puddle spreading across his berth and dripping onto the floor. Spray had gotten on the walls. "Swindle, are you - of course you're not okay, but is this - did you mean to - "
A quick status ping highlighted his power plant's involuntary purge-reaction for Scrapper, and the larger Decepticon winced. "I…see. I suppose you couldn't help yourself, then." He blinked as the ping hit him again, the highlight insistently brighter. No, he hadn't been able to help himself. Being poisoned wasn't something mechs did intentionally.
Not without good reason, anyway. Swindle had one. He'd eaten the tainted treats, and now it was Scrapper's problem what happened from here. In the meantime, he whimpered and hid under the desk, playing sick toy mech to the hilt. He managed to upchuck some scummy tank cleanser on Scrapper when the engineer tried to draw him. Again, not pleasant, but wonderfully fun. The look in the engineer's visor was priceless.
He had more fun listening to the argument when Mixmaster came in to take a sample off the floor for analysis. "Well, I didn't do it! I know exactly what goes into my blends, and there wasn't anything in them that would cause this."
"Look at him! He's obviously not doing it intentionally." Scrapper winced when Swindle moaned like a dying thing and puked up another few liters of used tank cleanser. The auto-purge emergency scour tasted like soap and wet electricity. Yuck. Swindle was exaggerating his misery because the client hadn't canceled the session, but yeah, he wasn't doing this intentionally.
Deliberately throwing up as messily as possible, over as many things in Scrapper's room as he could? That was intentional. He'd been curled up on the chair when he'd lost it this time, and Scrapper wasn't happy.
Half an hour passed. Scrapper fretted over him while Mixmaster tested his purged energon.
The merchant could actually see when Mixmaster passed on his test results. Swindle had the pleasure of witnessing Scrapper storm out of the room and return hauling Hook by the crane arm. He truly did have to wonder about the internal dynamics of the Constructicons. Hook looked ready to chew glass, but the surgeon mutely set down the bucket he was carrying and started cleaning the mess up using a squeegee and a mop. There wasn't a sullen look or single peep of protest for the rest of the session as Scrapper gathered Swindle up and stroked the Jeep's tires, murmuring soothing nonsense as he coaxed the pet mech into drinking a fresh cube of plain energon.
Swindle made sure to vomit a couple more times, just out of spite.
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