Yeah, I really gotta get over my Onslaught thing. And thanks once again to my co-writers who blithely let me flood the place with obscure cameos (Shadow Striker? Really?!?!)

Chivalry, by antepathy

Part One: A Knight in Battered Armor

Any hope Onslaught had of getting away from his…interesting evening with any dignity left was more or less shattered the instant he left the room. He'd given Moon racer a half-megacycle to make her escape, which she had finally accomplished after a fierce barrage of kisses and endearments that he would be mortified to have overheard by anyone. Strategic and tactful, he'd told himself, to wait. Decent. Dignified.

He opened the door just as Strika lumbered by. She gave him a salacious wink (disturbing enough, from the former General), and had thanked him for pointing out that 'szund-proving needed ze upgrades in zat room.'

He'd attempted, even so, to recuperate his image by returning to the bar--he wanted to know exactly how cool Vortex was playing it, and half suspected the pair of them, his kidnappers, would be enjoying the juicy details over yet another of the skinny bartender's froofy confections. But the instant he crossed the threshold, the strobing lights from the dance floor fluoresced against the transfluid spattered all over his lower torso (how had he gotten that much onto his winch!?), and…he had, cowardly, fled the battlefield.

By duty cycle, however, his philosophical stance had improved. What was his ego, after all? Compared to… the entirely unexpected event? Onslaught hadn't thought of interfacing in so long it was almost like discovering an old map--he thought he remembered the lay of the land, and remembered all the good features, but wasn't exactly sure how to proceed.

Especially in this circumstance.

Vortex must have been in on it--absolutely. It was his style entirely, if not his sense of humor. The failing in their plan (the failing in most of Vortex's plans, to be honest) was the presumption that the victim was stupid--that Onslaught would not put the pieces together about Vortex getting him the drink, his sudden incapacitation, and then…well, that which had followed. A sparkling could connect such big and obvious drops with a crayon. Onslaught almost felt insulted that he was supposed to not penetrate this far-from-cunning plan.

It made him more than curious how Vortex would try to play this off. And Vortex did not disappoint--he made no reference to the previous night, beyond saying that he was perhaps not feeling so well and it might have been the result of something he'd drunk the night before--just dangling a teeny pede into the waters of a possible, tissue-thin, alibi. Onslaught was sure that if he pressed, Vortex would come up with some sudden called-away-for-an-emergency-interrogation story.

A little frisson he couldn't quite explain or account for when Moonracer showed up at her usual time at the end of Vortex's dutyshift. He could feel, he swore, her eyes on him. For his part, he kept his optics staunchly averted, suddenly finding his datapad's reports infinitely compelling. Or at least hoping he seemed compelled. In truth, his cortex kept feeding him flashes from the night before: the slick feel of her thigh-armor against his audio, the sweeping curves of her back under his hands, that one visual flash of her head, thrown back, lips parted. He could almost feel her small frame shuddering in his arms again.

It made concentrating on the meteorology report in front of him difficult.

He had no choice, in away: after shiftcycle he found himself back at Inamorato. No appointment to meet Vortex or any of his contacts. No proper business at all. It was simply that he wanted to get closer to where it had happened. The velvet curtains which had seemed so louche and tacky a few solars ago now seemed heavy with pleasantly torrid invitation.

He nursed a mid-grade drink, leaning back in the booth, smiling quietly around at the groups pairing off around him. He couldn't remember why it had ever irritated him. They just wanted to feel good. That--maybe--wasn't so bad. As long as it didn't distract one from one's assigned duties. He had to watch himself for that. Odd how such a place had quickly become familiar to him. It felt…odd, but in a way he missed: vibrant, active, changeable. Just like a battlefield, really. Perhaps merely a different kind of battle.

Blackout ambled over, swinging his brassarded arm self-consciously. Barricade had told Onslaught how much this job meant to the copter: no one had ever trusted him with much responsibility before, and he was anxious to make 'Madam General Strika' proud.

"Uhh," Blackout mumbled. "Just wanted to, uhh, never got to really say thank you, y'know, for what you did for Barricade."

"No problem." Onslaught fully intended to make Barricade earn every minute of his freedom. In a way it was like fate had gift-wrapped someone so clever, talented and generally unprincipled just for Onslaught. Onslaught nodded at the data pad Blackout had stuck to his leg. "Getting good use out of that?" He'd signed the requisition for it. For Barricade. Allegedly for his job. Unprincipled little fragger. A less innocent mech than Blackout would have heard a host of insinuations.

However, this was Blackout. His beetly face lit up. "Yes! Thank you so much!" Onslaught shook his head. How did such a marshmallow end up with Barricade? "It's the most awesome thing ever. Madam Arcee says I can study during work--you know, not just on breaks and stuff, but run through my flashcards real quick whenever I need to." He beamed. Then his supraorbital crest lowered with the gravity of his next thought: "I get quizzes every night."

Onslaught took a sip of his drink. "Barricade?"

Blackout's eyes grew round. "He's TOUGH!! Like whoa! And I gotta do well on my quizzes."

Onslaught didn't doubt it. During the war, Barricade's mean streak had been notorious. None of his business to ask, but, "He's not…going too hard on you, is he?" Barricade had been known for some fairly paint-blistering invective that he deemed 'motivational' speeches.

"'Course not. He motivates me!" The copter got starry-eyed. "If I pass my quiz, we…uh, we interface," he looked a little embarrassed.

"That would motivate, I suppose." Depending.

"Madam Arcee doesn't approve. She says it's unsound pedagaggicidal theory or something."

"Is it working?"

"Yeah! I, uh, I did fail my quiz last night, which is why I gotta study extra hard tonight." He hung his head, looking devastated. What kind of legend was Barricade in the berth? Onslaught thought before he got disturbed the fact he was thinking about anyone that way, much less Barricade. He tried to blame it on Moonracer, but…of the many things he wanted to do with/to Moonracer, blame was waaaaaay down on the list.

"That would do it," he said, blandly, only half aware that his comment made no sense in context. Thankfully, Blackout was even less aware.

"I know!" Blackout said. The copter really, Onslaught thought, had no notion of boundaries. "And when he doesn't get laid the night before, he's super-crabby in the morning."

Oh so much more information than Onslaught needed to know. Time to get this conversation back in PG territory. "How badly did you fail?"

The copter hung his head again. "I only got a eighty percent."

"Eighty? That's failing?"

"Anything below perfect is failing," Blackout explained, looking a little nonplussed that he had to explain such obvious common knowledge to a former commander. "Barricade says if I want to be smart like him I gotta be 100% smart."

That cocky, arrogant little…. "Did he, now?" Onslaught drawled. He might have to have a few 'motivating' mentory words with Barricade. Though he did not even want to touch on Barricade's 'reward'.

"Yeah, so I get to retake yesterday's quiz along with today's, so I totally gotta study hard."

"I see," Onslaught said, blandly. There the little fragger was, leaning against the bar, rubbing one foot up and down the other calf. Onslaught looked around--sure enough, the Autobot foot perv was practically salivating. His facemask didn't hide it at all. Oh, Barricade, Onslaught thought, I will so enjoy getting you back for Blackout's sake. Damn copter didn't even realize you're taking such advantage of him.

"If I do good on both," Blackout continued, "he says he'll do my rotors." Onslaught was glad for his visor, so that Blackout couldn't see him blank his optics for a klik. That was NOT an image he wanted in his head. Especially not with Blackout's breathless narration. "He's the best thing that's ever happened to me," Blackout said, dreamily.

Onslaught thought it was more like the other way around: that Blackout was the best thing that had ever happened to Barricade. He'd seen how Barricade was willing to take the whole fall for that museum…disaster. Barricade had never stuck out his neck for anyone. He was about to comment on that when the data pad bleeped.

"Uh oh!" Blackout said, checking the message and whirling to look back at the bar, "busted!" He showed the message to Onslaught: 'Shouldn't you be studying?' Blackout didn't even seem to notice the achievement that he was actually able to even read the message. "I gotta go," he said, sheepishly. "And study and stuff. But I wanted to thank you. Barricade thinks you're just the coolest of the cool bunnies." Onslaught more than doubted that. Blackout scuttled off, scanning the crowd in his best Serious Bouncer fashion, his fingers stroking the sides of the data pad possessively. As if, just because Barricade had messaged him on it, it was even better.

Onslaught sighed. Please, he thought, may I never get that stupid. He desired Moonracer, but he would never--he hoped--stoop to acting so--oh he couldn't even think of words for it.

He settled for shooting Barricade a dirty look. Barricade merely winked at him.

*****

Onslaught had finally admitted that his drink was empty. It was probably time to go, but nothing seemed to slow down at the bar--in fact, things seemed to be heating up. Then again, Blackout worked on weekends--the whole shift-week was over, and everyone was in the mood to celebrate.

Including, he noticed, with a feeling like a solid thump on his winch, Moonracer. A whole gaggle of femmes, like a pastel rainbow, giggled their way across the bar and onto the small dance floor below where the house-femme was gyrating. There were four or five of the femmes, but Onslaught only had optics for Moonracer. Especially when she started moving to the beat. Dancing: such idiotic stuff, moving in odd ways to rhythm. But it was different, he decided, when it was Moonracer. Every sinuous motion of her spinal column, every twist of her hip, sent him shivering with memory. And, he admitted, hopes for the future. She had seemed receptive to the idea.

Another reason to feel he had a superior frame design: his visor prevented anyone from aiming his optics. He lowered his head as if he were staring at his hands, while his actual optics were locked on her like a targeting reticle. Oh she was magnificent. He supposed he'd noticed it, in an abstract sense, before, but something about having had that--and more, having that wanting him--that somehow changed everything. He could look at any of the other femmes with only an abstract, at most, attraction, but she was…oh, dangerous for his dignity. He was an old mech, and had no real desire to play the old fool.

Maybe he would get another drink. Stay a while longer. Just to watch. All right, maybe to fantasize. But with no expectations. And remember, he admonished himself, she does not know you know. If she knew, it would never happen again.

A gaggle of vocally appreciative Autobots ambled onto the floor, surrounding the circle of dancing femmes. It was, Onslaught decided, a tactically poor decision for the femmes to dance in a circle facing inwards, and the Autobots took full advantage of their tactical naivete.

In the crowd of bots, he recognized the one who had molested him in the Baths. His frown deepened, thinking of his boorish personality, much less his filthy hands, on Moonracer's sleek chassis.

That was, apparently, exactly where Rodimus's mind was. Onslaught felt the kind of rage he normally only felt when one of his plans was poorly executed. But this time, unlike the battlefield, he couldn't charge in and fix things. Not without revealing himself. Not without endangering another chance with Moonracer.

Which left….

//Barricade.// He hit his secure comm.

//WHAT!?// Across the bar, Barricade's four optics locked on Onslaught. Blackout wasn't kidding about the waking-up crabby.

//Duty calls, Barricade.//

//Frag duty. Too overcharged for it, anyway.//

//Barricade….// Onslaught chastised. //In the brig, they don't have mid-grade.//

He could see the obscene gesture Barricade threw at him. //Low blow.//

//Low blow, Commander Onslaught.// Onslaught corrected. //And I could go lower.//

//Really.//

//Oh, how sad do you think Blackout would be if…//

//Shut it. COMMANDER. What the frag do you want me to do.// A sigh.

//Those Autobots are harassing the femmes. One of them is Vortex's.//

//You want me to stand up to a gang of overcharged Autobots? What is this, some freaky initiation ritual?//

Well, it made almost as much sense as why Onslaught was really asking Barricade to do this. //We'll go with that, sure. But how bout…// Screw the second drink. Onslaught felt that itch in his servos when he wanted to get directly involved. //you just direct our Autobot miscreants into the alley.//

Barricade mumbled something about painting a targeting circle on his aft and cut the comm. Onslaught stood up, casually, not a concern in the world for the femmes, (who had stopped flirting back to the comments from the Autobots, and tried to close their circle), and ambled out of the bar.

*****

PART TWO: I'm Too Sexy for this Beatdown

Barricade knew he'd hate this job. Any job sucked, but this was twice as bad: one, he was working for Onslaught. Two, he was forced to do stupid slag like this.

For all he cared the 'bots could paw the living girly-goo out of the femmes. (And for all he knew, femmes actually had some strange girly-goo). But orders were orders. And he did not doubt that Onslaught would toss him in the brig faster than he could say 'go frag yourself sideways with a vorpal chainsaw.' So. That brings us to now. Enter, stage right, our titular hero, the dashing Barricade, wobbling to the slightly-overcharged rescue of some femmes who managed to make dancing into a dangerous pastime.

He tapped a mech's shoulder. "Ummm, ladies don't look like they want to be bothered," he said. That sounded diplomatic enough. You know, open the doors of debate. Compare notes on the femmes' relative motivations, distract the mech from the ogling. Nice, gentlemanly, indirect speech acts. No accusations. Well, not much….

"If they didn't want the attention, they wouldn't be moving like that," the red Autobot said, in that tone that implied Barricade was more than a little stupid.

"Maybe you can give attention with your optics and not with your fraggin' mouth?" Do not talk to Barricade like he's stupid, Barricade thought.

"Maybe you wussy 'cons are too shy to show some proper appreciation to a hot femme."

Maybe I'm just not interested in femmes, Barricade thought. But that wasn't the point. He was a small mech and he'd had more than his share of uncomfortable attention. Sure, he toyed with Foot Perv the Autobot, but he was asking for it at this point. The femmes were just trying to blow off a little steam.

Another mech leaned over--he had a gold wing/flamey pattern across his chassis. He poked one finger hard in Barricade's head lamp. "Listen, buster, they don't like it, the femmes can always stop teasing us like that."

"Really!" one of the femmes huffed. "Fine. We'll stop then. After we go talk to that bouncer," she pointed toward the doorway, where Blackout had lumbered in.

"Hey," one Autobot snatched the femme's arm. "Don't be like that!"

The red femme glared at him. "Do NOT touch me."

Barricade cut between the two. "See? Ladies just want to be left alone." He knew he was making himself the target. He hated it. He hoped he could make it to the alley. And that Onslaught would take it from there. Barricade didn't get such a cute face from having it pounded into slag. He pried the 'bot's fingers off the femme's arm.

"Quit butting in," the flame-decorated mech said. "The ladies don't want us, they can tell us themselves."

"We don't want you," one of the femmes, pale grey, said.

"Come on, you haven't even given us a chance," one of the 'bots said.

The flame-chassis'd one said, "Ladies like to play hard to get. We like to play too."

Barricade sighed. "You want hard to get, huh? This hard enough for ya?" Good. Blackout was looking the other way. He jammed a thumb in the mech's groin, snarling with satisfaction as the mech doubled over, wheezing in pain. He zipped across to the exit. "Seeyoulaterathomeyou'dbetterstudy," he blurted at Blackout as he zoomed by.

******

It wasn't subtle. But it was improvisation. And besides, overcharged mechs didn't really do subtle.

Barricade dashed into the alley, skidding to a halt at the dumpster blocking the far end. Onslaught was nowhere in sight. This sucked. His processor raced, trying to figure out what he'd done in less than a deca that made Onslaught wish to visit this sort of punishment on him. The data pad? Was it the data pad? Blackout loved that fraggin' thing. He'd kept Barricade up half the first night playing a letter matching game with little space bunny graphics.

Fine. If that's what the price of the data pad was, Barricade was ready. He threw out his spoke weapon, determined to make a good show of it, snarling as three of the Autobots appeared, backlit, in the alley's mouth.

At least, Barricade thought, this was in the alley and Blackout wouldn't get in trouble for it. The leader mech limped up to him, his friends ranging behind him. "Cute," the mech said. "But you kind of fragged yourself, here, didn't you?"

One of the other mechs hesitated—the red one from before. "Rodimus, this isn't cool. Three against one?"

"You going to let a 'con disrespect us, Ironhide? Tell us what to do?"

"I-I don't know. It's not this big a deal. Besides. The femmes, mech!"

"Frag the femmes," the Rodimus one snapped. "This one needs to learn some respect."

"He does, but not from you," Onslaught's voice rumbled from above. Ah, Barricade thought, the old brace-against-the-walls-over-everyone's-head-like-a-canopy trick. Should have seen that coming. Obvious, really. "But before that, let's talk about what you need to learn, Rodimus." Onslaught dropped his grip, landing thunderously on the ground between Rodimus and the other two Autobots. Onslaught looked over his shoulders at the companions. "You want in on any of this?"

The one who had hesitated before threw his hands up. "Uh, no. Just…you're not going to kill him, are you?"

Onslaught laughed, which Barricade decided was the creepiest sound he'd ever heard. "No." Onslaught said, flatly. The Autobots backed off.

"Ah, Autobot loyalty," Onslaught sneered, at Rodimus. "Either that or another classic demonstration of the famed Autobot leadership charisma. You'll notice my mech is still here."

Your mech is still here because you keep threatening to toss this mech into the brig until his aft rusts and he starts talking to stains on the wall, Barricade thought, but he'd decided he wasn't this Rodimus's number one fan, so he'd let Onslaught have his little version of reality.

"You!" Rodimus said, turning his back on Barricade. "I remember you."

"Surprised," Onslaught retorted. "Thought I'd fragged you scrambled."

Barricade snickered, then stopped, more than a little weirded out by the image of that one. Onslaught interfacing. That was like some obscene phrase right there. Holy lugnuts! Well frag mah processor! Onslaught interfacing!

"Maybe second time's the charm, huh?" Onslaught's hand landed on Rodimus's shoulder. "What do you think?" He signaled for Barricade to get the Autobot's shoulders from behind. Barricade complied but…well, just like that Autobot, Barricade hadn't signed on for this. He was a perv, but he draw the line at consent. He winced at what he was getting himself into. And prayed Blackout stayed inside. He didn't mind being a roboschmuck, just…not in front of Blackout. Fraggin' copter was turning into his conscience. Thankfully, in this case, a detachable conscience. With a job.

Onslaught purred, running his hands over Rodimus's torso. The Autobot shivered. "Don't touch me," he whispered.

"Huh. Can't think why not. The femmes didn't want your attention and you gave it to them. You don't want my attention but…? Nah. Makes no sense."

"I'll report you!" Rodimus blustered.

Onslaught paused, tilting his head. "Yeah, maybe. And then I'll simply call as witnesses all those mechs and femmes from the baths the other solar who saw you forcing yourself on me and we'll see what even your Magnus has to say about that." Onslaught tsked. "Ruin your chances at promotion, flat out."

Rodimus looked horrified, then determined. "Do your worst," he said, through gritted teeth.

Onslaught snickered, another of an apparently growing repertoire of menacing sounds. "I'll try…," he drawled. He leaned over, his battle mask retracting, coming in for a kiss. Rodimus's blue optics were wide with fear, but his capacitor was racing with obvious arousal. He licked his lips, arching out of Barricade's grip toward Onslaught.

At the last instant, Onslaught turned his head, pulling Barricade into a kiss. What the…?! Barricade's mouth opened in surprise, which was the wrong fraggin' answer: Onslaught's glossa slid against his. Barricade moaned into Onslaught's mouth, his talons digging into the Autobot's shoulder, Onslaught's hand against his head, preventing his escape. Rodimus whimpered, leaning in to lick Onslaught's face, trying to wedge his way into the kiss.

"Right," Onslaught said, breaking the kiss with some reluctance, giving one last nip at Barricade's lower labial plate. Barricade was blasted beyond sense enough to even close his mouth. He cleared his vocalizer. "I think you've learned your lesson, Autobot."

"What?!" Rodimus protested, as Onslaught bent down and straightened one of the Autobot's hip panels that had been knocked askew. "That's IT?!?!"

"That's all you get, you impertinent puppy."

"Come on!" Rodimus squirmed in Barricade's grasp. "The Rod is feeling frisky. You can't leave me like this!"

"I can't?" Onslaught stood up to his full height, looking down on the Autobot Prime. He gestured for Barricade to release Rodimus's shoulders. Barricade complied, a little numb, to be honest. What the frag had just happened? He was beginning to long for that other scenario--the 'Barricade gets the coolant whipped out of him by a gang of hostile Autobots' one. That HAD to be easier to deal with than the 'Barricade plays glossa-knotsies with his boss'. Barricade stepped carefully around the two of them, edging his way out of the alley, so he could go somewhere to be weirded out all by himself. And tell himself definitively that what had just happened was so incredibly NOT hot.

"You can't do this!" Rodimus howled. Barricade looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Onslaught toss the Autobot bodily into the dumpster.

"We separate," Onslaught advised, blandly, dusting off his hands with a 'job well done' air. "You go back inside."

Oh, that was the last thing Barricade wanted. All those other Autobots in there. The femmes. BLACKOUT. How the frag was he going to face Blackout after having his boss tickle his intakes? It was different when it had been the freaky clone: that was his fault and he'd brought it upon himself. And he made a second-job of taunting the Autobot foot perv. But this time--he'd done nothing to attract Onslaught's attention. Damn. Too sexy for his own good.

Still, orders were orders and when he thought about it, going the opposite direction from Onslaught right now seemed like a smart idea for his sanity.

*****

Barricade slipped back into the bar. Hoping to skulk around until he found a nice shadowy place at the bar. No such luck. Damn you, Barricade, and your ridiculous amounts of charisma and animal magnetism. Can you be too damn alluring? Answer: yes.

Blackout caught him first, yanking him behind a curtain, pushing his shoulders against the wall. "You'd better be ready to do my rotors," Blackout taunted, rubbing one of his forearm guns on Barricade's interface panel. "I've been studying hard." Barricade felt his spike lubricate at the same time as he felt really really bad.

But he hadn't done anything to make Onslaught do that--why did he feel so guilty? Should he tell? No. It would ruin the moment, and Blackout's cheeky grin was just too fragile. The copter was so used to thinking of himself as stupid that any sort of intellectual self-confidence was about as sturdy as a micron of glass. He summoned a matching grin. "We'll see."

"Oh yes," Blackout said, "You sure will see." He pecked Barricade's lips. Barricade turned away--his mouth felt…a little weird and unkissable right now.

Blackout squeezed him "Huh, gonna make me earn that, too?" He licked at Barricade's audio. "And thanks for getting rid of those Autobot creeps."

"Uh, yeah." Please don't ask any awkward questions.

"Glad to see you're safe. Uhhhh, not that I was worried or anything. I mean, you're plenty tough and you can kinda take care of yourself. Sometimes--". Barricade clapped a hand over the copter's mouth. He shook his head.

"Not helping."

Blackout nodded, then licked at Barricade's fingers. Damn, the copter was frisky. Might have to make the quiz a little easier tonight. What? Barricade might be a creep who just kissed his boss, but that didn't mean he was going to punish himself so much that he wouldn't take an interface from the copter. That punishment would not fit the crime. He had a…thing for rotors.

"Also not helping," Barricade muttered, but without any real force, as Blackout sucked the length of one of his talons. "Besides. Not done with your shift."

"I know. But you just watch yourself! My rotors are waiting…." The copter winked coyly at him as he exited the curtained nook. Barricade couldn't stop a grin from blossoming across his face.

Which grin lasted until Barricade our hero headed upstage on his way to the bar for a little celebratory (or memory-erasing) beverage. Three femmes assaulted him--that was the only word he could use for it—yanking him back into a booth guarded by the fourth. Moonracer, Firestar, Windrazor and Shadow Striker, jerking him off his (slightly too sexy) feet and draped over him in a pile of curvy scrawny limbs. He never appreciated the sturdiness of Blackout's arms quite so much.

"Here he is," Firestar said, nuzzling against him. "Our hero."

"Uhhhh, didn't do much."

"Put those mechs in their place," Shadow Striker ran a hand down his thigh.

"Poked one in the groin. Not exactly mortal combat." He tried to pry Shadow Striker's fingers off his leg. Windrazor climbed over the others, stroking a hand over his helm, tweaking his facial crest.

"You stood up for us," she said, huskily. "We're so grateful."

"Uhhh, appreciate the gratitude," he said, weakly. "But it's unnecessary." Because it was either that or spend the immediate future in the brig, thanks to Onslaught's awesome employee motivation benefits plan.

"We know," Moonracer said. "That's why we're doing it. All the mechs out there," she narrowed her eyes for some reason, like she was pissed at someone, "and you were the only one to stand up for us."

"Really," he croaked, "no big deal. Just doing my job."

"Awwww," Shadow Striker said. "So cute, all this honorable stuff. Sooooooo hot."

Barricade whimpered in sheer terror. One day, he told himself, I'm gonna have to figure out how to turn all this hotness off. In the meantime, he just wanted to slither down to the floor under the table and get back to the cube. He had plans for some rotors.