C.M.D: I've been trying to keep on task with regular updates this year, but I'm also working on an artbook for my Kittycon/Autodog stuff so it's eating up more of my time. So much that I'm a couple days past update period... Anyhow, please enjoy this segment of misadventures for our fave stuntibabies!
There was nothing he hated more than mandatory participation for school credit.
Deadend twisted the book back and forth in his servos, flipping through the pages, feeling his aggravation triple each time he did. Romeo and Juliet... Such an insipid piece of fiction from an equally tacky playwright. Simpletons flocked to the literature upon the thousands, praising it for its creativity and wit -of which both the play and themselves had none. The renown this one-credit drivel garnered was maddening; it was so beneath the true classics that it should have only been ash in the fireplace. And yet, the hybrid was shackled to this repugnant drama as his only means of collecting a mandatory school credit worth nearly half of his grade.
Worse, he remembered, his olfactory sensor crinkling in disgust, he had to perform it.
As the lead, the dear, asinine Romeo.
Deadend sighed aloud at his dreadful luck, tossing the book onto the kitchen table top, wishing he could chuck into the trash bin. Recycling would be too good for the contaminated paper. His creators had been informed of the freshmen students' play, which had been an agonizing talk over dinner already, so now the youngling had no choice but to make a somewhat decent attempt at his role. It would do no good to disappoint his carrier or sire with anything less.
Pedesteps clacked softly as someone entered the kitchen, the uncertain catch of intakes informing the maroon hybrid of who it was before he turned his helm. "O-oh, hello, D-deadend," Breakdown greeted meekly, pulling his backpack straps tighter around his chestplates as his fingers wiggled nervously. "I-i'm sorry if I i-interrupted-"
"...No. No, not at all," Deadend quickly replied, trying to keep his expression neutral the longer he stared at his cousin. It was hard, particularly when those gorgeous lavender orbs sparkled merrily, shuttering temporarily as the other hybrid smiled.
"O-okay, good," the white youngling said. He hesitated a moment before walking across the kitchen, shyly pulling out a chair. When the shorter hybrid failed to protest, did Breakdown finally sit down, clasping his servos in his lap as he faced the other mech with another timid smile. "I didn't th-think you'd be here..."
The maroon hybrid shuttered his optics, puzzled at that. "I often am left here at Onslaught's, just like the rest of you. Additionally, my sire would prefer I do not lurk around the condo while no one is home. Wait...," Deadend continued, realization hitting him, "Did you come here alone?"
Breakdown ears jolted upwards guiltily, before smoothing in regular skittish fashion. "U-um, yeah," he answered, sinking into his shoulders anxiously, "M-motormaster an-and Wildrider h-have detention a-again. I-i was g-going to wait wi-with Dragstrip b-but she got r-really mad at m-me so I l-left..."
Deadend made a sound of displeasure at his cousin's words. He detested that the younglings were instructed to keep together whenever they could, especially since Motormaster was incredibly cruel towards Breakdown. The maroon hybrid knew what vulgar intentions the brute had in mind for the sweeter youngling. "Don't pay her any mind," Deadend responded, trying to be soothing, "She's still pissed that she didn't get assigned Juliet for the play."
Pissed was an understatement. The competitive hybrid had blown up on the others following her rejection; the worse of her fit leading to a broken arm for Motormaster and, supposedly, a destroyed berthroom at home. Deadend wasn't sure he was happy that Dragstrip's unnerving intensity had lost her the role. Certainly, the thought of kissing the yellow femme could drive him to suicide, but the alternative now meant he would have to partake in this experience with some starry-opticed femme from class that worshiped the very ground the hybrid walked on. A small shiver ran down his spinal struts in remembrance.
"Y-yeah, I g-guess...," Breakdown mumbled, dropping his gaze to the floor. A frail smile pulled at his lip components. "Y-you're really lucky to get a part. I bet i-it'll be really fun to perform! I... I'll be in the back. Doing stuff, 'cause..." He shrugged sadly. "Y-you know..."
"It's not that great," Deadend hurriedly spoke. To see the taller youngling so miserable tore at his spark deeply. Many nights he longed to reach out and hold Breakdown close, showcase to the white hybrid how special he really was, but he knew he couldn't. Circumstances would not allow it.
Yet, they were alone just now... An occurrence so rare, to be unbelievable.
The maroon hybrid straightened up in his seat, reaching slowly across the table- and grabbed the discarded book as his courage failed when lavender optics rose to look at him. "I-i," he stuttered momentarily, cursing himself in silent ire, "I could use someone to practice lines with. It helps me remember better."
Breakdown's face lit up, a whole universe unfolding in his gaze. It stalled the rotations of Deadend's spark from the sheer beauty of their glow. "I-i can d-do that!," the white youngling shouted excitedly, freezing immediately after. "...t-that is, i-if you w-want me too...," he corrected fretfully.
"I do," Deadend assured, a small smile appearing on his own face as joy returned to Breakdown's. Opening the book as the taller mech scooted closer, the hybrid slowly flipped through the bookmarked pages, pondering. It would be risky but he'd never have another chance like this...
Page held open with a thumb, the maroon youngling leaned toward his cousin, visor fixed firmly on the face of the other. "I profane with my unworthiest hand," he recited gently, reaching out with his free servo and sliding it under his cousin's prone fingers. They felt so warm and weightless in his palm, the unsurprising tremble soft as a butterfly's wings against his plating. "This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand. To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."
Breakdown flinched at the word 'kiss' but instead of fleeing, he forced his optics downwards, stammering out Juliet's lines with a little squeak. "Go-good pilgrim, y-you do wrong your h-hand too much. Which m-mannerly devotion shows in this, f-for saints have ha-hands that pilgrims' hands d-do touch, a-and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."
Deadend rotated their servos until they were held aloft, fingers sliding smoothly between the open spaces and folding, leaving their palms pressed tightly together, tethered by their conjoined digits. As he continued, he watched his cousin's face intently, marveling at the way Breakdown courageously tried to mumble out the following replies; cheekplates darkening with a blush and lower lip component being snared by peeking denta. Each word the maroon hybrid intoned with hushed passion, his own emotions projected through another's speech. He had mocked the superfluous nature of this play and all its sonnets earlier but this was the closest he'd ever gotten to voicing his own confession to the white youngling.
"O, then, dear saint," he whispered tenderly, the space between the two hybrids warm with their wrought spell, "Let lips do what hands do. They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair."
Breakdown's lip components parted yet the sound remained trapped. He did not, all the same, pull back or untangle their servos. Deadend did not wait further.
"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take," he recited softly, leaning forward. He longed desperately, as parched mechs in a never-ending desert do for water, to finally feel the press of the other hybrid's mouth against his own. Alas, it was a desire that would have to remain unfulfilled, as the shorter youngling laid his kiss on Breakdown's cheekplate, an inch shy of his lip components.
He heard the intake catch in Breakdown's chestplates, felt the minute tremor that racked his cousin's frame and still the other hybrid did not tear away from him. Deadend felt his own intakes begin to stall, caught by a sudden wonder. Vortex had ruined all the parts of his son that should have wanted to love and felt free to do so, replacing them instead with a fear so encompassing that any affection aside from that of his carrier's sent the white hybrid into fits of terror that never seemed to end. The maroon youngling had been certain even this action would have been short-lived given his cousin's trauma, and instead... Pulled apart for a moment, the pair stared at each other -Deadend temporarily awestruck and Breakdown showing signs of unease- but both surprisingly wrapped up in this enchantment. Perhaps, he really could-
The front door slammed open, banging against the hallway walls, forcing the younglings to rip away from each other; Breakdown scooting down the table top, closer to the sliding doors heading out into the backyard, while Deadend mutely shoved his copy of Shakespeare's play back into his bag. It didn't take long for the house to be filled with its usual cacophony as the remaining hybrids made themselves known, Skydive trailing after them, attempting to keep the general peace. Quietly, Deadend gazed across the room where Motormaster had plopped into a chair beside the white youngling, now timid and withdrawn once more as the black hybrid's arm circled his hunched frame possessively, stuttering when spoken to and frequently eyeing routes of escape.
Life had set upon Breakdown a poor combination of events that had left the hybrid broken and terrified of everything. It would take a Primus-ordained miracle to correct the harm that those like Vortex and Motormaster had wrought upon his cousin. Deadend supposed his only consolation in all this was that, no matter their cruelties or machinations, the anxious hybrid's precious spark could never be claimed by these monsters.
But in the very same respect, the maroon youngling recognized somberly, it meant that Breakdown's spark would never be his own either.
xxXxXxx
"ARE YOU CALLING ME A CHEATER!"
Dragstrip rolled her optical sensors at her brother's bellowing, crossing her arms over her chestplates while he hoisted Deadend up off the ground by his sweater. It was a gorgeous orn in Iacon and the tiny set of hybrids were supposed to be playing soccer in Onslaught's backyard- but as usual, any of their friendly games were quickly ruined by Motormaster and his inability to play fair. "He called a 'foul', Motor-mouth," she announced over the other sparkling's choking gasps, annoyance growing as the black hybrid continued to shake their cousin violently. "It's part of the game, idiot. He's the referee; he gets to say what's against the rules and what isn't!"
"Well, he's WRONG!," Motormaster yelled, his helm snapping toward his twin with a snarl. It wasn't very threatening though with open gaps between his denta.
The femme scoffed, shoving Breakdown back as he pawed anxiously at her dress. "How would you know? You can't even read the rule book- Deadend can! Beating him up won't change your illiteracy," she returned sharply.
The black sparkling threw Deadend to the grass, kicking him for good measure, before he stomped his way back to his sister. He used his extra inch in height to loom over her, fists balled at his sides as he growled. "You can't stand that I was winning and I was doing it without pulling cheap tricks," he spat.
Dragstrip bristled at the taunt, pressing back up into Motormaster's face as her competitive streak was stoked. "I don't cheat. I have skill- unlike some thumb-suckers I know," she sneered in response, cruel glee in her smile as she saw her brother's face twist in outrage. "And being a better player has the added bonus of seeing how stupid you look when you mess up."
Motormaster raised both of his balled fists high above his helm, ready to slam them down on his twin, while the femme tensed in anticipation of the attack -rocking awkwardly on her pedes as a shriek broke the pair out of their trance. Dragstrip turned around to see Wildrider jumping down off the handle of Onslaught's shed, his shirt bundled up around a mysterious object and sagging to one side with its weight.
"I got it open, Mo-ma!," Wildrider crowed excitedly, bounding over to the rest of the group. "It was super easy like I said. You should see inside! It-"
"Shut up and gimme it!," Motormaster demanded, ripping the grey sparkling's shirt free from his grip.
Dragstrip felt a knot of trepidation begin to twist in her fuel tanks, growing in size as her optics followed the path of something silver as it thudded to the grass. Her creator's shed had been a static fixture in her life since the orns when she began crawling; an immovable object tucked into the back of the yard, nearly forgotten and never opened. Not even Brawl strayed near it during his play time. It was an unspoken rule in the house that the shed was forbidden. But now Wildrider had broken that sacred decree -at her idiotic brother's order- and she watched with mounting horror as Motormaster picked the rectangular object up off the ground.
"It's heavy," he grumbled, twisting the metal around in his servos. It's size was almost comical in the sparkling's diminutive grasp.
Wildrider leaned over one of the taller sparkling's shoulders as Motormaster finally held it by the black, textured gripping. "My mommy's got one of these," he said, merrily helpful. "You just gotta flick this thing back here and-"
"I GOT IT!," Motormaster shouted, elbowing the hybrid roughly in the gut. He turned his nasty grin to Dragstrip then, holding the metal contraption upright as Breakdown began wheezing somewhere behind the femme; an instrumental accompaniment to the sickening whirling of her spark. "You see this, Dragstrip! I'm finally gonna show you who is the best around-"
It was like a clap of thunder erupted right in her ears. The yellow hybrid rocked unsteadily on her pedes, every other part of her frame locked in place. It was as if her entire being had become encased in glass. All sensation was gone, just the view point of what laid directly ahead of her remained, and the echo of muffled screaming and warbling outside of her new-found prison. Then she shuttered her optics and suddenly her sire appeared behind the stunned Motormaster; his usually grey-blue optics glowing with a violent dark hue of red, casting their sinister attentions to the object of his summoning. His arm lashed forward, wrenching the dangerous item from her brother's slackened servos and depositing it as pieces into Brawl's awaiting servos.
"Store it. Then lock the shed," Onslaught snarled out, the first he'd spoken since arriving.
Brawl nodded, giving their sire wide berth as he made his way to the shed with the dismantled weapon.
Dragstrip felt her lip components tremble -the only reaction she could muster since her unexpected rigor mortis- but before she was able to question the servals' timely entrance, Onslaught was pulling both sparklings over a thigh with one servo.
The initial snap of leather and shriek of pain broke the femme free from her remaining enchantment. She took a couple, meek pedesteps backwards, stopping as she nearly tripped over Deadend and Breakdown cowering by the porch. Trapped again, she stared on ahead; optics wide and servos shaking at her sides in horror as Onslaught laid into Motormaster and Wildrider with unrepentant, brutal force. It seemed to take an eternity before the belt slithered to the grass, lifeless as it once had been. Expression stormy, the older mech stood to his full height, his grip the only thing keeping the two sobbing hybrids aloft.
"Don't ever go into the shed again," their sire growled, the low sound reverberating over the set of broken whimpers and muffled wails that broke out periodically. "Inside. Now."
Dragstrip glanced one last time at the faces of her brother and cousin -their terrorized features drenched in coolant and oral fluid- fleeing back into the house, right behind Deadend and Breakdown. It took everything in her young spark not to collapse to her own knees and cry at the frightful glimpse into this unknown side of Onslaught.
xxXxXxx
Wildrider was doing what he did most nights: curing his nocturnal boredom by ripping apart some gadget or another. He was always so fascinated by what things looked like on the inside (they could have such a clean cut and plain exterior but be a twisting mass of colours and nodes within), particularly when he lit them on fire. Not everything had such a simple, short-lived reaction to the touch of flame, the jagged-mouthed sparkling had discovered, and that knowledge alone fueled his curiosity to keep experimenting. Would it smell funny like before? Or maybe it would sparkle and pop with an uneven colour as it consumed the new surface?
Little tail thumping away, Wildrider laid the pieces of the cable box on his berthroom floor, reaching excitedly for the pack of matches beside him. The hybrid's spark was already awhirl in anticipation as he dragged the waxed head against the packet's provided strip; cycling deeply as the tip combusted and that first hint of sulfur hit the air. As he sat, watching the tiny flame dance in the darkness delightedly, a sharp sound shrieked out through the condo, drawing his attention away completely.
Swindle groaned groggily from down the hall, answering his phone with a gruff, "Hello" on the fifth ring.
Wildrider froze, ears perked and listening curiously. It wasn't often his carrier got calls in the night; most would come in while he was still awake, hunkered over his laptop. The sparkling burned with an all-consuming need to know what things laid hidden on the screen and beneath its black exterior. Alas, Swindle was fiercely protective of both his phone and computer. Try as he might, Wildrider could never get his carrier's attention off his devices long enough to borrow them for a little study. It was almost as if the devon rex was glued to those specific electronics.
Something was off tonight though, the hybrid noted, snuffing out his burning match stick between his fingers. He could hear Swindle shuffling about erratically, his vocalizer echoing in short, distant responses -unlike the often soft and drawn out phrases he used with his late night callers- as lights flickered to life in the hallway. Wildrider tip-toed to his berthroom door, shoving his helm through the gap as the kittycon hurried past to the front door; a free servo grabbing coat and keys, the other keeping the phone pressed close to an ear.
"I'm leaving now," the devon rex was saying stiffly, not noticing as the grey sparkling slipped out the door behind him. "Do what you can."
Do what, Wildrider wondered, joining Swindle in the elevator and to the condo's underground parking garage. He clambered into the back seat as soon as his carrier unlocked the car doors, helm tilted curiously as the kittycon zipped down the deadened city streets and onto the highway. Where was the older mech going so late in the night?
A dull, nearly recharge-inducing cycle and a half later, they were pulling into a different metropolis; a few, short kliks after that, a big, bright building. A hospital, the sparkling realized, catching sight of the giant neon 'H' bolted to one side of the structure. But why a hospital? What was wrong with the big one in Iacon? Swindle screeched into a parking spot, jumping out only an astrosecond before Wildrider did. He didn't nearly jump twice as high though as when he spun about and saw his grey offspring looking back up at him with wide, inquisitive optics.
"H-how did-?!," the mech choked, glancing about, bewildered. His jaw stiffened quickly, the usual expression of frustration pinching at his face. "Never mind," he continued angrily, "Just don't cause any trouble that I will be held responsible for!"
Not waiting to see if his son would answer, Swindle hurried across the hospital's drop-off lane, past the ambulance bay and through the automatic doors of the ER entrance. Wildrider managed to keep pace despite his small stature; neural net crackling with barely constrained glee at all the sights, sounds, smells and displays of weird but fascinating objects all around him.
"H-hi, yes, I'm Swindle. I.D card here. I got a call. Where is he?," the devon rex was saying, his words quick and uneven.
Wildrider paused, his fingers already wriggled between the panels of some giant block of equipment sitting on a cart, his optics tracking back to his carrier. He wanted to pop open all the machines he was never allowed to touch back in Iacon! But... Something about the unnatural tone in Swindle's vocalizer kept drawing him away from his explorations. A mech in a white coat appeared just as the nurse behind reception was handing the kittycon back his papers; his lip components pulled downwards in a sympathetic frown as he asked Swindle to follow him.
The sparkling trailed behind, catching only snippets of their conversation amid the hustle and bustle of the emergency ward.
"-dreadful..."
"-was pulled-"
"-bandaged, but-"
"-need time to-"
They were moving out into sparser hallways now, where the groans and panicked murmurs of the previous department were replaced with a more unnerving silence amid a swell of machines. The pair of mechs drew to a pause outside an open doorway, yet instead of proceeding inside, they continued to talk just outside the room.
"We are sorry again to bother you so early in the morning, but-"
"N-no. No, no, it's fine," Swindle replied lowly, his arms hanging by his sides stiffly. "I-i... No, I s-should have known I'd be his only contact. You seem to have him stable, so I'm just confused as to-"
The vet opened his mouth hesitantly, but pressed on, his brow furrowing further in regret. " him was a... challenge, in and of itself, but we are unable to find any coverage on his person. Unless he has some sort of guarantor or relative, I'm afraid he can't stay," he informed.
The devon rex vented heavily, a servo blinding reaching for the hidden pocket in his coat's lining. "I-i see, let me..."
Wildrider was getting bored again. He didn't understand what the older mechs were discussing, but he knew the appearance of his carrier's wallet meant he was busy doing business again. Fingers twitching, the hybrid slipped into the ajar door as his carrier went with the vet to fill out some paperwork, eager to investigate this new area undisturbed. Instead, Wildrider found himself slowing to a standstill as he entered the dim room, neural net on alert at the peculiar scent tickling his olfactory sensor.
One machine beeped in a sharp, steady rhythm while its companion rattled beside it, an entrapped bag secured to its side, pulling and compressing with a gush of atmosphere every few astroseconds. An inter-weaving series of cords and tubing reached out from these devices, connecting to the bedridden frame on the medical berth. A few, shuffling pedesteps forward and the sparkling could clamber up on to the foot of the berth. What he saw made him freeze in place a second time.
"...Daddy?"
Lockdown laid on the berth, barely discernible beneath a heavy layer of bandages. He looked sort of like those 'mummies' from t.v, Wildrider thought with a grin, but his amusement faded as the tiger remained unresponsive. "Daddy. Daddy, wake up," the sparkling said, frowning in confusion as the mech still did not answer. "Daddy? It's me: Wild! Don't be sleeping!"
Huffing in perplexed agitation, Wildrider crawled to the other side of the berth, shifting the blankets about. He couldn't find his sire's trusty hook -just more wrappings covering his whole forearm and stump- which already left him feeling a touch unnerved, before he dug the stripped tail out of the bedding. Well, one good chomp on this should get the thug's attention! The hybrid stopped though, staring down cross-opticed from his open mouth, that queer weight in his fuel tanks doubling. Lockdown's tail was covered in soot and bits of debris, thin in places where the fur had been ripped out. Processor working sluggishly, Wildrider turned his gaze back up to his sire's face, servos slowly setting the tail back onto the berth.
Under a second scrutiny he could now see the patches of dried energon peeking out between the layers of bandages; an odd, orange cream oozing onto whatever visible plating remained, smelling as acrid as its colouration made it appear, alongside a light dusting of ash and multiple scratches.
Lockdown smelled almost like the remote did when he put a lit firecracker inside its casing...
Rapid pedesteps were echoing loudly down the hall, heading directly for this room. Without a moment's hesitation, Wildrider jumped back down off the berth and hid swiftly out of sight behind a privacy screen; listening with rapt attention as the door squeaked open, the newest guest falling back to a slower pace as he crossed the threshold.
"...you're such an idiot," came the familiar grumble.
The grey mechling peeked inquisitively around the corner of the screen's frame, his red optics landing on the sight of Swindle standing by the unconscious tiger's berth. His arms were crossed over his chestplates and his purple optics were narrowed with his scowl -an expression that Wildrider had seen often whenever Lockdown was involved.
"I just- I don't hear from you for weeks and the first time I get a call, it's from a Protihex ER vet!," Swindle hissed in ire, glaring down at his silent companion. "You're supposed to be taking Wildrider every other weekend; show some responsibility! And just what the slag are you doing out in a place like Protihex anyhow? What sort of job requires you to find yourself in a factory warehouse full of highly combustible chemicals, huh?!"
"Idiot!," the devon rex yelled, his vocalizer cracking at the word.
Wildrider felt his brow furrow at the queer sound, watching as his carrier twisted away from the tiger, arms dropping heavily to his sides. "I-i... you s-should never have been i-in that building. A f-few feet further i-in and they wo-wouldn't have found you u-under all that burning rubble until it was too late," Swindle murmured, sitting on the edge of the berth.
When the kittycon turned his helm back around, the sparkling was stunned to see the optics flooded with coolant. "Y-you gotta pull through," the tan mech softly cried, a sob breaking apart his words as he grasped bandaged fingers tightly between his two servos, "Don't l-let some stupid fire take you away fr-from me... P-please, Lockdown..."
The sound of the life machines thrumming away dutifully felt too cacophonous as Swindle remained hunched over the tiger's berth, the other's servo clutched in a death grip as he silently wept. It was a sight that made Wildrider's insides squirm uncomfortably. He'd never seen his carrier cry before. Angry, annoyed, irritable, exasperated, upset, excited, modestly pleased... The sparkling had been privy to glimpses of those expressions over the eight stellar cycles of his life thus far. But never sadness.
He thought the older 'bots couldn't get sad.
The grey mechling wasn't sure when he had stepped out of cover, but the tiny gasp from the nurse passing outside the room caught both the attention of him and his carrier.
"S-sorry, sir," the femme said apologetically, stepping up to the doorway, "But minors are not allowed on the ICU after visiting hours."
Swindle, who had managed to school his face into a look of indifference at her arrival, twisted around now; taking notice of his son near the foot of the berth. "...I understand," he addressed to the nurse after a beat of silence, standing to his pedes and laying Lockdown's servo gently back on the sheets. The devon rex headed for the door without another word, Wildrider trailing a step behind his pedes.
This time when they got to the car, Swindle opened the back door for the sparkling, bending over to make sure he actually was buckled in for the ride. Then the kittycon took the driver's seat and steered them out of the parking lot and back onto the highway home. The dark interior of the car and the quiet did not perturb Wildrider -he was used to it at home, where Swindle was often too busy with work to spend time with the hybrid- but tonight the same atmosphere felt stifling. His little helm was buzzing with thoughts and questions; replaying the scene in the hospital room, and the snippets of conversation he'd overheard, again and again and again.
After a lengthy moment, the sparkling reached into the small pouch stitched to the front of his pajama shirt, twirling the pack of matches between his claws.
Fire had always entranced him, fascinated and soothed him.
….fire had nearly killed his sire...
Optics dimming, Wildrider dropped the tiny packet to the floor of the car, watching as it disappeared from view entirely. The lesson of what flame did to Cybertronian plating was a harrowing revelation to bear.
C.M.D: Angst, angst, angst... My specialty!
Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?