C.M.D: Like I promised, one extra update on this fic today. Featuring Shrapnel and Bombshell once more! Sorry I haven't been more active on updates here...
Title: Insectipuma VIII
Rating: M
The phone was heavy and awkward in his tinier servo, cold and uncomfortable when pressed to his ear. He didn't know how old this model was, but it was the only one available anywhere on the compound, in the almost completely abandoned vet's building on the west end. It didn't even come with a vid screen, like most of the standard phones in the city, and that in itself also made this situation strange. How had anyone been able to comfortably talk to a wall, with the expectation that their message was reaching somebody?
Venting weakly, Shrapnel again shifted the phone, hearing the pestering, spitting static thrum loudly in wait. Perhaps it was for the best that he wasn't using a vid screen... It was already a challenge to stand here, dialing Bombshell's number, that the added stress of seeing the other puma's face would have surely robbed him of the ability to speak. Just thinking of the mech was causing the knot in the youngling's throat to tighten, heat glazing his optics as a sob struggled to escape.
With shaking fingers, Shrapnel quickly entered in the number, flinching as the phone began to ring. It rang once, twice, several times before the line clicked and a mechanical voice politely informed that the recipient was unable to answer at the moment and if they would kindly leave a message at the beep. The Insectipuma wanted to wail when the beep followed but he drew up his sagging shoulders and choked for only half an astrosecond.
"B...Bombshell; shell," he said, soft and timidly. He'd never sounded so small before and that made the burning behind his optics flare even worse. "P-please; please... please, I-i; i... Return; return. A-a message; message... in pe-person; person... Allow me to ask of y-your forgiveness f-for; for... I-i never meant; meant... W-wouldn't; wouldn't... I-i'm sorry, I am ashamed; shamed! P-please, please c-come back; back. Y-you are m-my mate; mate... I r-realize that now, I k-know my error; error..."
All was silent on the other line. Uncertain of whether or not his words had been heard, the prince shakily set the phone back into its cradle; dropping slowly to his knees as he was overwhelmed by tears again.
xxXxXxx
It was a dark, grey door, with peeling paint, showcasing the rust beneath as pock-marked plating would. The door frame was no different, showing equal gouges of rust, half hidden by paint and grease, looking frighteningly better than the walls they were connected to. This was a filthy, evil place and Shrapnel didn't mean the smell alone. If he had a choice, the puma would be turning on his heel right then and there, leaving before he could contract something disgusting from the mere atmosphere.
But the door was groaning from the other side as locks were turned, taking such an option away from the youngling. Adjusting his grip on his robes, Shrapnel stood and waited, acting if his attention had not been on the roughened building and its dingy, asphalt lot.
"Ah!," said a vocalizer from within, its owner heavily obscured by shadows, as the door was only opened a few inches. "You are the Insecutipuma I was told of earlier?"
"Yes; yes," Shrapnel replied, mouth a flat line. He tried to keep his disgust and terror off of his face but he was sure one or both of them still showed. "Are you going to make me stand out here in this filth any longer or will you allow me in; in?"
The mech laughed, opening the door; revealing his kittycon heritage and the long, dark hallway leading to a shabby medical room at the end. "No, I shan't make you wait any longer. Come in, come in my dear cub! I know the condemning rules of your tribes so let's make quick work of our secrets, shall we?"
Shrapnel said nothing, striding quickly inside and down the hall, hearing the steel door clang shut behind him as the kittycon followed. Everything looked worse than the door on the outside -not even the medical tools were shined well, left instead with filmy, almost grease-like, streaks.
"You; you...," the youngling started, licking a fang as his anxiousness grew. He glanced around the room for comfort, but found only more stained walls and looming shadows from the dim lighting. "You can confirm if-?"
The kittycon cut him off quickly. "Yes, I can confirm and effectively remove," he answered, fangs flashing as he smiled; gesturing to the metal table in the centre of the room. "Please, lay down. I'll give you a mild anaesthesia for the pain and then we shall begin."
Hesitating only a moment, Shrapnel removed his outer robe and then clambered onto the chilly table, praying that the Deities grant him mercy for the sins he was about to make.
xxXxXxx
The last thing he wanted to do was be called into Wreckers' Headquarters that orn. Bombshell had spent the week in a drunken wreck, doing nothing more than angrily tossing back drinks, spread out on the couch, cursing at his porn and occasionally breaking things. His optics were still sore, his processor ache had yet to fade and he was aware he was wearing the same pants he'd worn for the last few orns and he didn't care.
Nor did he care for Yoketron or his annual physical training test. What the narcotics dealer wanted most right now was to head back home, drink himself into another stupor and maybe finally draw up the nerve to destroy something of Shrapnel's, rather than his own things.
"Hey Bombshell!," Blades jeered as he passed.
"Piss in your valve," the Insectipuma snarled back, marching on.
"What- FRAGGER!," the autodog shouted behind him. If it wasn't for the fact that the other mercenary was currently in Onslaught's company, the kittycon knew he'd have a dagger whizzing at his helm this very instant. He felt almost disappointed that wasn't the case- he wasn't stupid enough to start a fight, but the opportunity to pound someone's helm in sounded mighty good right about now.
"Just gotta do this slagging test...," Bombshell grumbled to himself. "Then I can ditch this place and not be-"
"Bombshell!," a vocalizer squealed, making the narcotics dealer flinch. The halls were exceptionally occupied this orn.
Cursing everything, from the door hinges to the ceiling lamps above, he tried to move forward, ignoring the caller diligently. A servo grabbed his arm before he could get very far though and pulled him back.
"Bombshell, Razorclaw told me about your forgiveness token!," Divebomb chirped, forcibly turning the Insectipuma to face her. The lioness was practically bouncing on the balls of her pedes, she was that giddy. "I'm so happy! Now you can consummate again with Shrapnel and-"
"I want nothing to do with that lil' trick!," the mech snarled suddenly, ripping himself free from the femme. Bombshell didn't care how suicidal an action it was; he didn't want to hear that name! He growled again when she looked at him in alarm, Razorclaw coming up behind his mate that very moment.
Turning his burning gaze to the other mech before the lion even had a chance to speak, Bombshell spat out, "Thanks for the great idea, by the way. I'll be sure to pay you back for all your troubles. You take authentic Insectipuma tribal furniture?"
Razorclaw glared back at the attitude, placing one servo upon Divebomb's shoulder as he gently swapped places with her. "What's with your hostility?," the lion demanded, leaning over the smaller kittycon slightly.
"Aren't you happy about getting back in your mate's favor?," the femme added, peeking over Razorclaw's shoulder, her brow furrowed in confusion. "He is your bonded; your other half! Your mate is the one that completes you and bears your children!"
Bombshell barked bitterly at that, almost tempted to correct the lioness on her skewed perception. "Frag off back to your dirt mound and your hundreds of incestuous children," he replied instead, calmly turning on his heel, hearing nothing but silence behind him as he walked off.
The crooked smile slipped off his face the moment he turned the corner into the next hall, and for an astrosecond, the narcotics dealer stood there -staring blankly at his pedes- before he cursed and punched the wall. Whatever momentary joy he may have felt at his cruel but witty retort to the two lions had already faded, leaving behind only the sickening black knot of complicated emotions, still stewing in his fuel tanks.
xxXxXxx
Despite his best attempts, they knew something had happened. Something not right.
Shrapnel stood at his berthroom window, staring through the slits, to his kin below. Most went about their business unfalteringly, but even from way up in his room, the youngling could see their frequent glances to the prince's self-made tower. His people were aware that something was amiss and now they were at an odds in the Tribe. A royal would never proclaim their personal troubles to the populace but a royal did not make an unknown journey to the city and still come back without his mate.
Idly, the prince wondered how many of them had figured out what the problem was and questioned his authority upon the throne. He was certain his personal guards and servants must have already come to some sort of conclusion. They still worked tirelessly, but their optics were judgemental as they snuck peeks at the youngling; glossae holding onto a secret that made their postures accusatory and curious. Had one of his escorts heard his numerous unanswered calls to Bombshell, Shrapnel wondered.
The Insectipuma shrugged the concern off an astrosecond later and cringed when a sharp pain pierced his side. It passed just as instantly as it had come but still Shrapnel stood half-hunched over the window sill; one servo on the frame and the other cupping his right side. This was not the first time he'd felt a jolting ache before. This orn alone it was about the third time. For a few orns now they'd been plaguing him -hardly a bother at first and only once, but then they started coming more frequently and even sharper. Was this punishment for what he had done?
Shrapnel tried to think rationally, but all he could feel was the terror from his sacrilegious sins, growing until his entire frame quivered and he felt coolant rising to his optics again. What was I to do, he shouted within his helm, knowing that he'd receive no answer and cursing the deities for their silence at the same time. A small sob escaped the prince, just before a floorboard creaked behind him.
"...your highness?," a servant called from the door.
"W...W-what is it?," the Insectipuma snapped, turning his helm to the closed door. He was glad for the barrier between himself and his kinsmech, but it hardly erased the sickening dread filling his fuel tanks. Had the other possibly heard his cry, as strangled as it may have been?
"It is lunch time, your majesty," the servant replied. "Would you like to eat in the dining room or your berth today?"
"Set a place in the-" Shrapnel cut himself off with a hiss, crashing into the window before him as his knees suddenly gave out from the pain. A servo fumbled blindly for his abdomen as the other fisted the sill, an actual cry escaping his clenched denta as the agony increased, feeling as if his fuel tanks was being ripped open by turbofoxes.
"Your highness!," came his kinsmech's voice, the door clapping loudly as it was violently swung open. "What is happening?"
"N-noth..." His words were tumbling over themselves, tripping and stuttering into nonsensical noise. Forcibly stepping away from the window, Shrapnel pulled his servo away from his gummy robe, seeing the bright fluorescent fluid coating his servo. A couple more, shaky, weak pedesteps and the youngling saw that there was an entire pool of energon shining brightly upon the floor, flowing toward him.
No...
From him.
"Your highness!," the servant gasped in alarm, seeing the gruesome sight finally.
Turning his helm, the prince stared at the mech with his wide optics, staggering as he tried to move towards the door. "G-get B-" Words were lost as a roaring wind filled Shrapnel's ears, optic sensors rolling up to the ceiling before gravity twisted upon itself and darkness took over.
xxXxXxx
His phone was ringing again when he entered. "Yeah, yeah, yeah...," Bombshell grunted irritably, setting his takeout bag onto the kitchen counter carelessly and throwing his keys somewhere else into the apartment. "Go to the fragging machine already."
As if on cue, the answering machine clicked on, allowing a moment of silence to descend, before the air was filled with squabbling, spitting static and a slue of panicked voices. "B-bombshell!," a vocalizer called out anxiously, louder than the noise in the background, "P-please, is this Bombshell?"
The caller sounded Insectipuma. Glaring, Bombshell marched over to the phone, almost punching the machine as he picked up. "Listen here," he snarled, "I'm getting fragging sick of being called several fragging times a DAY. You tell that lil-"
"I-it is his m-majesty!," the caller interrupted, having gotten over his momentary shock. Other 'bots could be heard wailing and shrieking in continued terror in the background. "H-His highness- Sh-shrapnel is... H-he is unwell!," the unknown mech wheezed, "The p-prince is d-dying! He is b-bleeding o-out! You must c-come at once! Please!"
It felt as if reality had tipped on him. Bombshell stood there in a stupor, staring at a crack in the phone, his processor attempting to absorb the words but failing as vertigo hit. "W...what," he finally managed to force out through a numb glossa, "W-what do you mean h-he's... he's dying? Hello? HELLO?"
Tapping the vid screen angrily, the narcotics dealer realized in that moment that the line was dead -whoever had called him had hung up mid-call. Cursing loudly, the mech turned away from the phone, staring like an idiot into his kitchen. He had a warm, grease-stained bag of fast food on the counter, right alongside a much cleaner bag of alcohol, teasing him with their delightful scents and sight. He should just go back to dinner like he had intended when he walked in.
But what if...
Bombshell's fuel tanks dropped to his pedes as he recalled the message. What if Shrapnel really was unwell? What if he was sick and dying and... and...
Spilling energon this very moment as he slowly died. The tribes didn't have vets on hand; they were miles away from the nearest towns or cities and it was late evening. It would take cycles before anyone could arrive to help and by then someone of Shrapnel's size would have-
The puma dashed through his apartment, scrounging around for his keys, before victoriously bursting out his door and to the nearest flight of stairs.
xxXxXxx
He hated hospitals. He hated their gleaming white walls, their plastic lumpy chairs, their sickening blend of sterilizers and actual sick mixing together, the monotonous P.A that crackled out garbled messages occasionally. He hated the way they were operated -whether by civilians or evil generals running experiments on captured prisoners- and he certainly hated this, the waiting. Hunched over, helm in his servos, Bombshell wanted to be anywhere but here.
He wanted to be angry and at home, wishing ill on his promiscuous bondmate, stuffing his face with fast food and cheap booze... Not here. Not tired, and anxious and so twisted up inside with unexpected emotion that he actually felt stressed enough to cry. What had Shrapnel done? What was going on?
Rushing to the Insectipuma compounds had only brought him to an empty room, a pool of energon almost completely dried on the floor, and a whirlwind of servo and pede prints across the room in matching colour. Bombshell was ready to kill the first mech he'd come across, if the servant hadn't been able to tell him where Shrapnel had disappeared to. Of course, saying an ambulance came and took him to one of the hospitals from somewhere outside the tribes didn't really help the narcotics dealer. But it was a start.
The Insectipuma was just lucky that the youngling had been taken to one of the three closest hospitals within a fifty mile radius. With shaking legs, Bombshell rushed into the waiting room, only to be told to take a seat and wait for a doctor to come and find him. After pacing for a couple cycles, the mech had collapsed into one of the empty chairs and had remained there since, fighting back the urge to purge.
"You are here to see the youngling Shrapnel?"
Bombshell's helm snapped up at the sudden question, being greeted with the sight of an autodog vet standing but a few feet away from him and holding a clipboard. "Y-yes!," the puma answered quickly, jumping to his pedes. "What happened? What's his condition? Is he...?"
"He's alive...," the autodog replied. It took the kittycon a moment to notice that the vet was being wary of him, almost as if... as if he thought Bombshell was at fault for Shrapnel's condition. "I'm sorry, but what is your relation to the patient? We don't have anything on file."
"I'm his bondmate," the narcotics dealer supplied, the corner of his mouth curling upwards irritably. He didn't like being judged, especially by strangers that were currently in control of Shrapnel's overall health, and he had no plans on taking such unfounded discrimination. "I demand to know of his status!"
The autodog merely shuttered his optics, appearing unaffected. "His bondmate, you say? Do you have a copy of your marriage license to verify that claim?," the other mech asked. "The patient is underage -he would need guardian consent to be romantically involved with someone of your age."
Rage flared within Bombshell and he shook as he desperately refrained from grabbing the mouthy vet by his throat and choking him. "Of course I don't have a marriage license on me!," he snarled. "We were married by tribal decree; I haven't had the time to send the paperwork into the region's municipality to authenticate it outside of the clans. If you need to verify our marriage, speak to any of the Insectipuma from his reserve, but you better tell me what his condition is NOW!"
The kittycon caught the motion of two security guards stepping forward out of the corner of his peripheral and he quickly took a step away from the vet, capping his anger for the time being. It would do him no good to get kicked out of the hospital, not when he had no clue as to where or what had become of Shrapnel. "...I'll go," Bombshell grumbled submissively, "Just... just tell me what's going on with the kid. I deserve that much after rushing out here in a frenzy."
The vet stared at him for another klik before he finally vented softly, shifting his clipboard as he glanced at the file upon its face. "Shrapnel's currently in stasis, suffering major energon loss and critical stress on his surrounding internals. He has perforations in his reproductive tanks, which led to him suddenly bleeding out, which we take as a clear indication of a botched abortion. Probably supervised by an underground vet who preys on poor tribesmech desperate for help," the autodog informed, his tone stiff but sympathetic. "The damage is severe and there is a high chance he may never be able to carry again if the tank walls do not mend together correctly. As well as that, we have reason to believe that an infection may have set in, endangering not only his systems but also Shrapnel's spark; which is at an irregular pulse rate due to the stress of this imperfect procedure. We don't know much more beyond that and won't know more until he wakes from stasis. If he wakes from stasis."
As the other mech had spoken, Bombshell had fallen into another chair, staring with wide optics at the tiled floor of the waiting room. There was a faint ringing in his ears, almost drowning out what the vet was saying, but the words still registered. In broken, muffled joints... but still heard. Looking down upon the narcotics dealer, the autodog finally softened his neutral gaze, venting sadly.
"The youngling is lucky that he didn't die. He'll be with us for a while yet, so, until we can confirm your identity, please don't worry. We'll contact you should everything check out and you may visit him then," the mech said.
The Insectipuma couldn't even nod his helm in answer. Waiting a klik longer, the vet eventually turned and left; one security guard remaining at the edge of the waiting room, patient, ready to escort Bombshell from the hospital once he arose from his daze. It must have been at least a cycle before that happened, but in time the kittycon did rise to his rubbery knees, slowly shuffling out the front door, watched by the ever diligent security guard. Bombshell though only went as far as his car; climbing in and staring up at the hospital from the driver's seat as night turned to dawn, unable nor wanting to leave the youngling barely hanging on behind concrete walls.
C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?