C.M.D: Cranked out another chapter pretty rapidly for these two (hopefully that will keep), which I am happy to present to you all this month! The scene is set, but we've still have yet to do proper introductions~ Enjoy!
Sore optics slowly onlined, the gentle blue light growing at a snail's pace. Sharp light met their gaze at once, but other than a short cringe, the watcher dared not tear his vision away from the glare. After several, long and heavy kliks, visual pixels and unspoken questions settled and the Autobot took in his surroundings with rapt attention. He was, he noticed in a plain room, lain opposite a medium-sized window, from which the dazzling afternoon sun poured in through intensely. It was not, the slave noted, the same bare cells of the trader's shop, or even the pantry he was locked in by his last master. A swathe of colour ran from floor to waist-height upon the wall; rich in its green hue and barely marred, a luxury not common in most households.
The presence of such a sight made the red mech tense, but as he swept his gaze around the room a second time, he found no bars or blockades. Neural net beginning to thrum with mounting excitement, the Autobot launched himself upwards- only to crash back to the dusty floor, yanked roughly downwards by his wrists and ankle joints. Features contorted in silent rage, the slave cast a glance to the offending limbs, cursing softly under his intakes. Iron bands were fastened tight around his arms and legs, and to them, three thick, long loops of chain were also connected, leading to a freshly hammered ring on the wall. He was good and bound once again.
Though now, he didn't even have the freedom to roam his cage.
The Autobot cursed again, rolling on his back and thrashing wildly against his chains. Neither the shackles or the lead showed any sign of breaking, but still, the red mech flailed, his stream of obscenities growing in volume.
The sound of grinding wood and stone brought the slave to an immediate stop; movement was thudding loudly on the other side of his room. Someone had returned. With great difficulty, he rolled back onto his abdomen, then his knee joints, trying to silence the chain as he carefully shifted to a sitting position. The steel still hissed across the floor as he moved though, forcing the stranger to freeze. In a desperate plea, he hoped that no one had heard the noise. Alas, thundering pedesteps were suddenly closing in on the door to the Autobot's prison and he hastened to relax his pose and lean forward submissively. By the time the door was thrown open, the red mech looked small and demure; his helm rising an inch in a manner of fealty, optics wide and scared.
Oh, how much more wider they did open upon the newcomer's appearance.
"You're awake."
Blackout stood, squished awkwardly into the doorway of the berthroom, peering down on the strange mech that he had purchased from the market that morning. Dented and covered in a layer of grime, the slave looked a lot smaller to the soldier just then; a contrast to the other's thoughts, which had derailed slightly at the monstrous size of his would-be keeper. The Decepticon canted his helm to one side, his dim processor trying to make sense of the Autobot, all the while scowling as his shoulders began to hurt from being squeezed by the too-small door frame.
"You know, ya looked a lot bigger this morning," he commented.
The red mech's brow twitched, his lip components pursing as he held an insult back just in the nick of time. It didn't keep him from glaring though- a fact that went completely over Blackout's helm.
"Hmm... You're a bit dirty too," Blackout continued, finally pushing past the creaking threshold and taking two, lopsided steps toward his smaller companion. With a grunt, he squatted down, aft brushing the floor heavily. "But you did start a good scuffle, so I guess it's fair. Maybe I should get a bucket of water to wash you with?"
A large, black claw stretched out towards the slave. Seeing his opportunity, the Autobot snapped straight for the digit; denta circling the plating and crunching down deep. For a moment, he felt accomplished... until he realized the big idiot was laughing.
The soldier gave his finger a soft tug, but never attempted to actually free himself. Only a hearty chuckle bubbled up as the smaller mech tried to bite harder. "That kinda tickles," Blackout said, his tiny optics twinkling in delight. "You're such a chewy thing!"
It took the slave all of one astrosecond to see that his action was having no real affect on the Decepticon, and instead, he had a fat claw laying heavily in his mouth. He ripped away as quickly as he had come, spitting and coughing in disgust. Blackout looked on, somewhat disheartened that the game had ended so soon, yet also baffled why his new pet was dry-heaving on the floor. He took his servo -wet claw and all- and grasped the red mech by the back of his neck, hoisting him up into the air (as far as his chain would allow) and staring sourly into the smaller 'bot's face.
"Ya better stop that right fast," the soldier threatened, "Or I'm going to have to shove your face in the mess 'til you stop. It's awful rude to be spitting unreasonably."
The Autobot, with fire in his optics and a scowl on his fair face, spit again. This time, it landed smack dab in the middle of the brown mech's forehelm. A look of shock passed over Blackout's face; he returned the other's dark gaze, wiping the oral fluid off with one servo, as the other bent the slave down toward the floor.
"Naughty 'bot, goldie!," Blackout reprimanded, his other servo swinging down to meet with the slave's exposed aft. It collided with a mighty clang, ringing just as loudly as the shriek the red mech made at the contact.
"FRAG YOU TO THE UNMAKER'S PIT, AFT GREASE!," the slave yelled.
Surprised, the Decepticon released the Autobot.
Stumbling, knee joints suddenly weak from the unexpected pain, the slave hurriedly put some distance between himself and his master; coolant-heavy optics speaking murder up at the brown mech. "Do that again and I'll RIP YOUR FRAGGING HELM OFF AND PLANT IT IN THE GROUND FOR THE TURBO-ANTS!"
Blackout only shuttered his optics at the threats.
It was another irritant on his already raw neural net. "WHAT THE FRAG DO YOU THINK YOU'RE LOOKING AT, AFT-FACE!," the Autobot snarled loudly, shaking his chains in emphasis. "YOU THINK I'M JOKING?! THESE CUFFS WON'T KEEP ME HERE FOREVER! I GOT OUT OF THEM BEFORE; I'LL DO IT AGAIN!"
"You talk," the soldier bluntly said, hunching closer with sparkling-like curiosity. "I thought you were mute."
None of that was the response the red mech had been expecting. He paused in his tirade, confusion seeping into his glare as he stared up at the large Decepticon in turn. But after a lengthy moment, he realized what he was doing and he scrambled the last few paces to the wall; fists curling around the ring that held his chains in place. Blackout stayed as he was a moment longer before straightening up uncomfortably- or, at least, as best as he could. He still couldn't stand to his full height without putting his helm through the ceiling, so he settled for dipping his chin down toward his chestplates. The angle would have made the brown mech almost cute, if he wasn't so large. The stupidity, though, couldn't be so easily obscured by his size.
"I'm really glad you're not broken. I'm Blackout," he greeted. He paused for an astrosecond, then with a sound of remembrance, held a servo out toward the Autobot. "It's more fun that my first slave can talk, you know?"
The aforementioned slave only hardened his gaze, turning his helm away from the servo in revulsion.
Blackout held his arm out for another klik before letting it drop with a glance of uncertainty. He was sure he'd followed protocol correctly when it came to first introductions... In true fashion though, the soldier had already tucked it out of the fore-front of his processor before moving on to his next dilemma. "I guess I'll have to name you. You purchase a hound, you gotta do the same thing," Blackout mumbled aloud to himself, "But I dunno if 'Goldie' is a good one... Maybe 'Chewy'...?"
"NO," the red mech barked with vehemency.
The Decepticon turned his beady optics to the smaller 'bot, shuttering them dully. "What about 'Fang'?"
The Autobot's glare, if anything, got darker. "Not. My. Name!," he hissed.
Now Blackout was getting irritated. "Well, what is it then?," he asked, exasperated. "I gotta call you something!"
The slave's response was to turn around and sit facing the wall. He might not have been the sharpest block in a bunch, but the brown mech knew stubbornness when he saw it. It looked like his new acquisition had a slue of attitude problems, and honestly, Blackout didn't really want to strain himself puzzling this one out just then. He was still too hot from an orn out on patrol and famished to boot. Bending further, the soldier turned about and clambered back out of the berthroom, closing the door as he went. Only after he had lumbered loudly far away from the room, did the slave finally hazard a glance over his scuffed spoiler.
In the absence of the Decepticon, he cautiously clambered back onto his pedes and crept as far as his chains would allow to the humble window. The lead stopped short a couple meters away, but it was close enough. Blue optics could just make out the hedged tips of a fence; from outside, drifted the hubbub of an active street in the dying orn, while soft thumps emanated down from the ceiling.
The slave frowned.
It wasn't the market space, but he was still deep in Iacon's walls. In an apartment, to be exact. Quietly, he returned to his previous spot by the wall, fingers clutching at his iron shackles and trying to rotate his wrists. He ignored the hunger and soreness of his plating, processor working away as he idly played with his bonds in the growing darkness of the berthroom. Plotting his next escape.
xxXxXxx
A cool mist covered the city as the night sky finally began a slow bleed to pink; dawn approaching, but still well over a cycle away. Leather creaking and buckles clinking, Blackout climbed tiredly over the valley pass, his large pedes making little work of the rough terrain. Before long he had over taken many of the Empire's guard back to the west gates of Iacon and was stumbling into the first of the morning rotation heading out.
"Good morn, Blackout."
"Heyo, Blackout."
"Praise be the Empire!"
Blackout waved off each greeting with a weary flutter of his servo, managing a small smile for his shorter comrades. It was a grin that broadened as he finally passed through the posted forces at the heavy, wooden doors and was welcomed by the ever familiar wide, dirt paths leading onto cobbled streets between staggered domiciles. Better yet, he could hear merchants started to gather their wares for the orn's trade and fresh baking permeated the air from somewhere close by.
A fellow soldier noted his sniffing and patted the brown mech on the abdomen as he passed. "Hard night, eh, friend? Plenty to feed, I bet!"
"Yes, plenty," Blackout answered distractedly, leaving the other mech laughing in the distance.
He longed to chase after the succulent smell so early in the dawn, but his leathers and cloak were beginning to grate against his plating. He would need to drop his gear at the armoury anyways for cleaning and sharpening, so, Blackout headed there, hoping for a quick trip. He was already undoing the buckles on his shoulder guards when he entered into the perfectly matted soil of the Emperor's barracks; excitement for a hot breakfast growing until-
"BLACKOUT!"
The brown mech flinched at the booming vocalizer. Fingers jumped away from his armour as he turned about face, saluting at once. "Hail, lieutenant Strika!," he recited strongly. With his backstruts straightened firmly, he could not see the femme as she approached, but he could certainly hear her.
"Always so slack with your patrols and your dress... I should have you put in the stocks for your disrespect!," she snarled, slapping her halberd into the soldier's hip. She harrumphed at how little he flinched, clasping her weapon back to her belt. "At ease, maggot!"
Blackout dropped his arm at her command immediately, relaxing his stance only a smidge. Strika's reputation exceeded her bondmate's, Lugnut, who had served the Emperor for many vorns as commander of his forces. Or, co-commanded, if one were to listen to the gossip on the training fields. Being lax at any point within the femme's area guaranteed a 'bot punishment of quadruple their usual practice reps- and Blackout was too hungry to risk that this morning.
Strika, thankfully, didn't let the silence hang between them very long. "Report?," she demanded.
"Quiet. Storm clouds on the far, north-west, but nothing passed the mountains," the brown mech shared, crisp and rapidly. "Several sightings of wild flock. No 'bots or torches other than that."
The mauve Decepticon glared. "What sort of wild flock?"
Blackout felt his processor grind to a halt; optics shuttering in slow, stupid horror. He didn't have an answer for his superior.
A cruel chortle rendered the air, both soldiers turning their attention to the mech striding out from under the awning. Without the cloak, Oil Slick was a lot less threatening, and certainly thinner looking. He had a broad, white helm, with a mouth easily larger than his two, narrow optics. Once, Blackout had mentioned that his comrade reminded him vaguely of a sharkticon in appearance. That had not been very well received. But despite how easily his frame seemed to disappear inside the Empire's standard armours, Oil Slick's presence invoked a sensation of ill-ease at all times; his gaze always seeming to follow you around, watching and analyzing every action. A fact that had garnered him some attention from Strika.
"You expect too much from the idiot. His IQ drops to a single digit with the sunset," the black mech said, striding easily toward the pair. "It's a wonder he even could tell the animals apart from other degenerates."
"I expect nothing," Strika replied, sharply. "I demand it. I refuse to allow any failure in my barracks; this army thrives because I will it. In the Empire's name!"
"Hail!," both mechs chorused mechanically.
Oil Slick rolled his optical sensors as the conversation settled back on track. "Still," he sighed, "This oaf is currently more interested in breakfast than details. Is your new slave making your meal this morning?"
Blackout, not expecting a question to be directed at him, glanced blankly at his smaller comrade. "Huh?"
Strika was the first to speak, disgust in her tone. "You have purchased a slave, Blackout? What a waste of coin!"
"Hmm. An Autobot one, no less," the other soldier added, digging a speck of dirt off of his claws. "Vulgar lil' thing with too much will."
The femme left small dents in his plating as she jabbed the brown mech with a stiff finger. "You -a respectable 'bot of the Empire- purchased yourself a tainted ware such as an Autobot?! And you leave it untrained? A blight upon his magnificent Eminence!," she boomed in offense.
Blackout tried to control his fidgeting, but the poking was a greatly unpleasant experience. "I-i-i thought it w-would be fun," he explained lamely, grunting when he was slapped again with the halberd. "O-oil Slick said I s-should decorate my new home w-with stuff..."
"I didn't say buy cheap scum, though," Oil Slick frowned back, taking a cautious step away from their lieutenant.
Strika froze him from fleeing further by a heated glare. "You two should have continued bunking here, at the barracks, like the rest of your comrades. You will get fat and lazy, rotting away among such undisciplined swine!," she snapped. Despite her smaller size, she managed to reach up and yank Blackout down to his knees by his cloak clasps, staring deeply into her subordinate's face with a passionate fury. "And you- put that filthy beast in line, or bring it to my pit! I'll see to it that the disgusting creature is enfeebled before the orn's out."
Blackout started to nod submissively, but stopped, his processor just catching up with the black mech;s earlier comment. "Wait, slaves can cook?," he asked dumbly, befuddled optics flicking to Oil Slick.
"Yes, they can, you-" Oil Slick's annoyance tapered off, pausing for just a moment, before a smirk began to make its way to his face. "You didn't know. Tell me, Blackout, did you even leave the rust-bag a bowl of kibble to feed on while you took a three-orn hike across our valley?"
His smirk became a guffaw as the brown mech shook his helm.
"Well, no need to worry then, lieutenant," the thinner soldier sneered loudly, "Our dear, oversized moron probably already starved the thing to death!"
Strika released her underling with an aggravated grunt, jabbing the black Decepticon in the chestplates with her sword's pommel. "Enough!," she barked, more than done with the other's grating laughter. "Blackout," she called to the brown mech clumsily clambering back onto his pedes, "Get yourself sorted for the orn and fed. I expect you back here before tomorrow's dawn for training- no exceptions! And get rid of that useless Autobot scrap, while you're at it!"
Blackout only nodded, hastily jerking off his buckles and dumping this load of armour into the tailor's outdoor bucket. He was sure he had torn a couple straps off or loosened them entirely in his haste, but it was off and he was finally free to leave- an action that the large Decepticon did so gladly. His fuel tanks growled loudly, unable to remain quiet when the waking city was beginning to flood with a hundred kitchens at work, yet his hunger was already trying to swallow down the seed of worry his comrades' conversation had lain.
The Autobot couldn't be dead... could he?
The brown mech tried to think, but three orns was so long ago in his processor, especially when he had so much important Empire business to memorize and report back after. Surely the little mech was fine; he must have eaten, Blackout assured himself, but just to be nice, he would get some extra bread for his new slave. They could even eat together while he pondered on what name would suit the red mech!
And so, a bit more jubilant and definitely a lot more ravenous, Blackout made his way to the town square, sweeping a vendor clear of most of their early morning food and heading back for his insula.
C.M.D: Be kind; give me your mind~ REVIEW, please?