Household Squabbles
Quickstrike folded his arms smugly. "Nope."
"Pleeeeeeazze?" Waspinator tried to give the fuzor his most adorable look. Quickstrike remained unfazed, looking down at the wasp with the amused contempt of a bully. Waspinator hated that. It was the same look Terrorsaur used to get, only Two-Head Bot wasn't his friend and had no right to look at him like that. Or to be hiding his flower stash. "Wazzpinator wants flowerzz!" he whined.
"Well, ain't that a shame?"
"Wazzpinator wantzz flowerzz!" Adorable was starting to be marred by the occasional spasm. He'd worked on storing away those flowers ever since he'd figured out that the local area had a cold season. When it was cold, no flowers grew, and he had to feed his addiction for bright objects and sugars somehow! Megatron didn't let Tarantulas synthesize sugars for him anymore, no matter how he buzzed and begged. Given that his luck with explosives tended toward dismemberment and amusing himself otherwise usually ended the same way, flowers and sugar seemed like the safest route. Now all his work came up against the cruel amusement of Two-Head Bot, and Waspinator was annoyed.
Quickstrike just looked smug. "Ya ain't gettin' 'em."
Two-Head Bot was starting to anger Waspinator. Not in the way Maximals did, but in the way Terrorsaur used to. Of course, Terrorsaur knew what he was doing when he gave that little push that popped Waspinator past the point of his usual good-natured self. "Two-Head. Give. Wazzpinator. FLOWERZ!"
He didn't seem to sense his imminent danger. "No."
There was an almost audible pop.
Rampage glared out the open door of his assigned quarters, his eyes blazing emerald in the red-tinged darkness. The heat in the lower levels was a deliberate insult on Megatron's part, but Rampage wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of complaining about, of all things, his living space. It was dry, it was hot, and it was torture on his beast mode, but he'd climb into the Pit himself before he admitted it. That blustering tyrant would learn soon enough that there was nothing but his spark standing between them. He had quarters, and he'd stay in them until Megatron forced him out. He may have to be a Predacon, but Megatron couldn't force him to socialize. Without socializing, all he knew about his fellow Predacons was from the files he had barely skimmed. Cooperative fighting? Combining firepower? Effective fighting strategy? Not going to happen as long as he stayed isolated in here.
Without leaving his quarters, he could effectively cripple any battle plan the tyrant had, and Megatron knew that he knew it, and theirs was a contest of wills. Hence, the Quarters From the Pit. No lights, no recharge berth, no water in the air whatsoever, enough heat to dry roast him, and some casual comments to let him know that 'bots HAD been known to fall through parts of the floor that had melted. If he wasn't so stubborn, he would have left just to give his beast mode some relief, but now he was settled in. There hadn't been anything out there to tempt him into leaving. All his fellow Predacons were cringing idiots, anyway.
"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!"
A scream. A buzzing roar. Distant, but coming closer.
Rampage sat up, reaching out for the emotions and blinking in surprise as he found a roiling mass of hatred and anger pursuing fear. Who..?
"Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelp!! Boss-bot, 'ferno, Sugar-bot, heeeelp!"
The noise grew to a crescendo, and two blurs shot by the open door. Rampage stared. He'd recognized the voice of the fuzor, but the black and yellow streak--that was that LAST person he'd expect to generate that much hatred!
His joints creaked in protest, too dry to move comfortably, but he got up anyhow. Maybe there was something interesting out there, after all...
.
.
Two ideas that needed exploring: how Quickstrike fit into the Predacons as compared to everyone else Waspinator was used to, and how Megatron got Rampage to actually cooperate with the other Predacons.
