Everyone in Praxus had heard of Seekers, the sleek, reclusive jets hidden away in their mysterious city. Seekers, it was said, were insatiably lustful; they formed harems and had orgies in the streets. Some elderly Praxians, drawing from the fairy tales of their youth, claimed that a Seeker deprived of interfacing for three days would die. There were more grisly stories as well—ones that said that Seekers kidnapped bots to satisfy their desires, that they were sadists who particularly enjoyed tormenting their victims to deactivation, even as they remained plugged into their neural feedback. In other tales the Vosians were less vilified, though still otherworldly; though they meant no harm, they proved too alluring for their lovers to leave.
Some of Grit's friends had grinned and nudged him when he told them where he was going; others had seriously feared for his life. One had given him a gun, "to protect yourself." (He had pawned it before leaving.)
Grit himself, skeptical by nature, hadn't believed the most extreme stories; the Vosians had a city's worth of skyscrapers and he knew what it took to build one of those; it just wouldn't happen if their work crews were constantly swapping cables on the work sites. And fairy tales were just that: fairy tales. There was one about winning a card game with Unicron, for crying out loud.
Even so, when he arrived in Vos he'd been surprised by just how normal the Vosians were. It was a relief in some ways, and a little disappointing in others. He'd enjoyed the romantic view of Seekers as jets so trim and kibble-free that they had an otherworldly quality. A bitter pill, discovering that the pretty, sleek Seekers were concentrated in the upper castes, while the lower castes were full of jets who wouldn't have looked out of place in the skies of Praxus.
The Vosians did have multiple partners on the regular—their "trine" thing—but other than that they seemed normal when it came to interfacing too, nothing like the single-minded pleasure-bots in the old tales and a million pornos. And the fantasy of Vosians going wild with desire over a broad-shouldered stranger was clearly just that—a fantasy. Various Vosians had regarded Grit with suspicion, indifference, skepticism, anger, and a superior sense of amusement, but none had shown the slightest interest in his body.
Except one.
Twice now.
The young Seeker had been more carefree the first time, posing on the berth with a hand draped over his hip and a sultry smile on his lips, offering flirtatious (Grit presumed) flicks of his wings as light suffused through the dirty window.
A far cry from Vermillion in the here and now. Darkness hung around them as the acidic rain hissed into the bucket, but Grit could make out his silver hands balled on his knees, an intense stare as he waited.
"Professor Airwave wouldn't like that idea much, I don't think," Grit said finally.
"He doesn't have to know." Swiftly, Vermillion leaned towards him, his hands unfolding to press against Grit's knee. "Just like he doesn't know I come down here. I can keep a secret, you know I can. You trust me, right?"
"Sure . . ."
"Good." The tense set of his mouth relaxed into a more natural smile as his hand slid up Grit's big square arm, silver fingers gripping the bumper that curved over the Decepticon's shoulder. "I trust you too."
Vermillion's pale, glossy face reflected the dim glow of their optics but his crimson topcoat melted into the darkness. He might as well have been a floating mask with two holes punched in it. The only other illumination came from two steadily blinking lights at the tips of the Seeker's wings. They seesawed as Grit felt, rather than saw, Vermillion tighten his grip and swing himself sideways and around.
Grit had had plenty of frags over the years. With partners who came and went, with work buddies, maybe with a hooker if he was out late and feeling horny. He wasn't cable-crazy like some bots, but everyone needed it sometimes and it felt good—not just the connection of a port and a jack, but the work-up to it, the awkward fumbles as kibble rubbed and caught, two bodies bending and shifting and claiming space until they could kiss without being blocked by an oversize shoulder or the blade of a bulldozer.
Vermillion did not fumble. He didn't scratch himself on the rough edges of Grit's kneeguards or get caught in the metal juts of Grit's upper legs, which doubled as the bucket of his backhoe alt. The Seeker's leg swung through the darkness, clearing all obstacles, and settled against the bedsheets, splayed wide in a straddle. His aft barely clinked as he slotted himself into place in Grit's lap. His ease was titillating, but shocking too. (How many strangers had he pulled into the bushes, how many sparks had ground into his own?)
"Vermillion—"
"Yeah?" The Seeker's fingers stroked along his wheel wells. "You have done this before, right? Interfacing?"
The nerve of this fragging kid. "What do you think?"
"Aw, don't get mad. I was just asking." Vermillion tilted his head and offered a coquettish smile, mischievous and well-practiced. His fingers tiptoed upward, hesitating at the edge of the wide rubber tires bulking Grit's upper arms. "Maybe . . . maybe things are different, where you're from." He brushed the treads with his fingertips.
"Not that different." Grit settled his hands by Vermillion's thighs (not holding them exactly, maybe resting beside them but not holding him) and studied his face.
This close, he could see Vermillion's irises were not set on a void-black background, but on dark, dark red glass. His gaze had slid from Grit's face to his shoulder. With lips slightly parted, his hand settled over the curve of a broad tire, and Grit fought not to twitch or rev as the rubber rolled under the Seeker's palm.
"It moves," Vermillion said, more breathily than such a discovery deserved. Tracing the grooves and sipes of the treads, he gave an experimental squeeze. "It's soft."
Strange thing to say, thought the corner of Grit's mind that wasn't distracted by sensation. His tires, like any construction vehicle's, were thick, sturdy, rugged, meant to bear weight.
But then what did Vermillion have on his frame that had any give, any flex? Those wings on his back shifted with his mood, manipulated by joints and hinges, but they themselves didn't bend. A hand pressed hard against the flat of one wouldn't make the metal bow.
Grit didn't think it would.
He lifted a servo, then forced it down again. "Why are you doing this?"
"What?" Vermillion's hands slid off him so quickly that Grit's tires rotated with the withdrawal. Thin silver fingers snarled together, pressed above his cockpit. The two lights behind him quivered. "What do you mean?"
"What I mean is, this is a dramatic shift from shouting at me and running off."
"Oh." Vermillion let his fingers slide apart as his wings lowered. "Oh, that. I was just— It was just a bad week." He frowned a little as returned his attention to Grit's arms. "Just forget about it. It's good you didn't watch me fly. I wish no one had."
"C'mon." Grit's thumbs stroked the smooth metal of Vermillion's thigh. "It can't have been that bad."
Vermillion made a high, thin sound, like the start of a wild laugh. "I botched the landing. I tripped." He picked up one of Grit's hands and traced his digits, but he wore a distracted frown. "Professor Airwave said I was lucky not to chip my faceplate."
"Vermillion, that guy—"
"I don't want to hear it," he snapped. "At least he was— " He exhaled a long vent and, coaxing, guided Grit's servo over his waxed topcoat, to the silver, octagonal grill tucked beside his cockpit. "I don't want to hear it," he repeated, this time with a strained smile. "Let's . . . let's just do this, okay? It'll be fun."
"Hm," Grit said, mouth twisted skeptically. But he slowly strummed his fingers over the thin bars of the grill. When his thumb reached the panel's edge, it shifted. Just a little. Just enough to catch a glimpse of a port, the rim twinkling with lights eagerly calling Here! Here! "Vermillion."
"What now?" The Seeker was searching Grit's chest in the dark, looking for a catch or clasp.
"When I run out of money—and that's gonna happen sooner than later—I'll be gone."
Vermillion's fingers paused. But only for a moment. "So?"
"So I'm not here to rescue you."
"I know. You're here for the factory-bots or whatever. That's okay. It's just a rough patch. I don't need rescuing."
"Right." Grit watched Vermillion's finger teasing at his transformation seams; it felt good, but probably would have felt better if the Seeker hadn't been wearing a tiny frown. "I just think—I know—it's easy to get more invested than you mean to, when there's feelings involved."
Vermillion looked up. "Grit, I'm not some dumb kid looking for romance. I just want—" His mouth twisted for a moment. "Professor Airwave has a full trine, did you know that? He's with a radiologist and a medical supply guy. There's a picture of them on his desk. I even met them, once, at an awards ceremony. So I can . . . I can separate that stuff, you see?"
"Yeah," Grit said, because it wasn't worth the fight. Vermillion's fingers, at last finding the interface panel on his chest, were stroking and prying at its edge. Grit looked down at their shadowy movements, feeling an odd combination of aroused and somber as the protective panel finally creaked open.
Leaning in, Vermillion tipped his helm to get a better look; the dim light highlighted two streaks running from his optics to his chin, gleaming paths recently washed clean.
"Vermillion, hey." Grit caught his wrists;.the Seeker looked up and, the streaks down his smooth flawless face were invisible again. "Go to bed."
"What? But we're in the middle of—" With optics wide and incredulous, he nodded to Grit's equipment, the cable he could feel half-unspooled, sparking with interest, the circular port that was surely glowing as brightly as Vermillion's. "I can see that you want me."
"Go to bed." Grit accentuated the words with a shove that pushed the Seeker off his legs. He fumbled to close his interface panel, tightening his jaw at the sensation as he manually respooled his cable. "You're tired."
He had braced himself for a further outburst—tears or shouting—but Vermillion just stayed where he'd landed, with legs akimbo and arms clutched close to his chest, and somehow that was worse.
"You called me Eye Candy," Vermillion said. "It was the first thing you ever called me."
"It was just a nickname. Primus—have you been sticking around all this time because of that?"
"No!" Now a little of the fire came back, red optics narrowed into a glare. "No, but . . . But, like, I don't know any other gr— any Praxians. So, I thought, since you were interested—"
"But I'm not," Grit said bluntly. "Go to sleep."
Vermillion stared for a moment, then shoved himself back to the edge of the bed, swung his legs around, and stood. With his back to Grit he was nearly invisible, a presence known only by the blinking lights on his wingtips and the sound of his vents heaving violently. The twin lights blurred suddenly as he bolted towards the washrack; the door slammed.
Grit dragged his hand down his face, listening to the rain hissing and popping as he waited. The washrack was silent.
Finally he got up, bumping his way across the room to tap on the door. "Hey."
"What?" It was toneless and soft.
"You can— You should stay. It's pouring still."
"Okay."
Grit hovered for a minute more, but what else was there to say? He returned to the berth and tried to sleep.
At least an hour passed before Vermillion slunk out of the washrack and crept into bed. Grit, on the cusp of recharge, felt a vague sense of relief.
"Grit?" Vermillion whispered after a few minutes.
"Uh?"
"Is it because of my caste?"
" . . . nuh."
"Oh . . . okay."
Ten, fifteen minutes drifted by. Grit's consciousness loosened from its moorings, gradually engulfed by dreams, so that he hardly heard the next query, softer and more tremulous than the first:
"Is it because I'm a jet?"
Grit thought he responded, gave some grunt of reply. But maybe he didn't after all.
Because from the other side of the bed came nothing but silence.