Song quotes are from Cheryl Crow's "You Don't Bring Me Anything but Down."
The work of any Autobot leader is never done with a smile. We go through long periods of no recharge, physical and psychological torment, and - though I have not checked with Optimus Prime on this one - we are forced to do the unpopular on a regular basis, even if it would be best for everyone. Especially for me. Right now I have to pick a team of mechs to go down to earth and render aid for Prime. He wants my more creative beings, now that the Decepticons are realizing that obvious techniques are impotent. A larger production to get these mechs into space is required: Shockwave has an amazing tenacity when it comes to keeping the Autobots grounded and wounded, and he has the success rate to prove it. We have yet to accomplish the task Prime has implored us to perform, and now I have to try again. As I decide the fate of some of my most talented but more pacific Autobots one name is searing into my spark with regret. Tracks.
I have carried many mechs in my trailer throughout many of our hasty departures from raided bases, primarily the wounded. Only one had the audacity to demand the space on the front top of my carrier, so that he would get minimal paint scratches. I transformed back to robot mode to glare at him, this new recruit with a posh aristocratic accent. His smirk curved lopsided like the tail of a comet come too close to our atmosphere and his optics seemed to dance without motion. I couldn't say anything, I was so taken aback by thoughts I'd not entertained in ages. As I stammered some order for him to take what was offered I could see his entire form in dark blue glory and it only accelerated my awkward fidgeting. It was perfect. When I finally stopped my rambling I saw why his eyes had so much animation in them.
Some may think Track's optics are the standard Autobot fare in blue. What few, if any, see is the tiniest glimmer of green specks inside of them glistening in certain moods and angles; pinpricks of emerald peeking through the aquamarine the way stars glow in the midst of all of the blackness around them. I never think of these poetic things until I'm lying in my recharge bed, trying to go offline. It's when I'm away from his startling presence these expressions paint their soft pastel shades around my black-and-white interpretations. When I'm near him the only thing I want to do is guide my hand across the smooth blue surface of his body. This lust is almost unbearable so I repress the urge to be near him, for all of the good it does me. It calls to me like some almost imperceptible wave of sound that is barely vibrating my solenoids, like a dark undercurrent in my energy flow. If I allow it to build up it will slowly raise itself into my conscious processor until I find myself pining for him to the point of insanity.
That is when, like now, I hide in my office and try to find something else to do besides think about him. It never works, but I still act like it does, as though re-reading Kup's latest report regarding Optimus Prime's need for more soldiers on an alien planet is fascinating material, or how about Blurr's four page run-on sentence declaring that we have nothing to sustain ourselves for the next few cycles? I have read everything in here, but I don't want to think about him any more, and I need a diversion. Nothing like the burdensome mantel of leadership to extinguish desperate fantasies from the tortured database. Now I'm being sarcastic like him.
"This isn't like me at all," I murmur to myself, a bad habit to get into and a harder habit to break. As I shuffle my paraphernalia around I employ my usual tactic of claiming I'm A Soldier And Can Deal With Any Kind Of Self-Control Issue. "I have to stop this. It is eating away at me like a bad rust." The torrent of desire washes over me a little harder, pushing him into my thoughts as hard as I was pushing him out. "Primus, give me a distraction!"
My door knocks and Perceptor walks in, smiling, to discuss the next wave of Autobots we are sneaking out to earth. He has a new plan, one that will work this time. It will require the use of high explosives while Sky Lynx takes his passengers away. Randomly powered space-charges, designed to go off in a pattern only he and Sky Lynx know would make the battle on the ground more confusing. With him being a passenger in Sky Lynx and being able to personally guide the large Autobot through the melee, we should have no trouble.
After a long-winded monologue Perceptor gets around to asking me for the list of the mechs who are leaving. I hand the datapad over and watch him read it. He does it quickly, glancing at it for only an astro-second. I almost miss his jaw drop slightly and his slow recovery, prompting me to ask him if there was a problem.
Perceptor shifts uneasily, realizing his mistake was caught. "No, Ultra Magnus, the list seems complete. I was wondering about one of the individuals you have appointed to accompany us on the journey. I am sure he is well qualified, or you would not have selected him-"
"I know that there were a few changes and last-minute additions, but I assumed you could deal with it," I reply warmly, grinning while trying to butter him up, since the last thing I need is someone with high explosives at his convenience unhappy about the way things are run around here. "You're very good at sudden changes. I hope this isn't too much for you."
He assures me it isn't and smiles back, carefully inching out of the room as he babbles about the plan and its greatness, and how much he has enjoyed working with me, and that he hopes that we will see each other again soon, none of which makes me feel any better about his opinions. Simply put, Perceptor is fine with anything thrown at him, but having to take two of our most maddening Autobots on the mission irritates the slag out of him.
"So why did I do it?" I ask the empty room. It echoes slightly. At the last minute possible I ordered Tracks and Red Alert to be remade into earth vehicles and accompany Perceptor, Blaster, Hoist, Grapple, Beachcomber, Powerglide, Warpath, Cosmos, and Inferno to aid Optimus Prime. All of them had to be altered into earth vehicles before they left, and since these two took the longest there was a lot of grumbling. Tracks turned himself into a 'gorgeous' earth car-A Stingray Corvette-parading it around for everyone to see. I saw it. All blue, now with some custom paint that showed off a fantastic form I wanted to bury my face into. This did not help me concentrate on planning our attack tomorrow. The obsession comes back in a warm rush like spilled energon reaching the floor, ending all processing abilities. "I can't wait any longer," I sigh, opening one of my secret desk compartments to find the coveted object that would gain me access to a private world.
"Must be half past our shift change," a cheerfully malicious voice mocks as I hurry down the hall.
"Magnus?" inquires his fellow sentry.
"Man, he's a rollin' country song!"
That pegged voice #1 as Blaster, our resident earth music/culture researcher. Voice #2 was Red Alert.
"Or that bawling woman you play."
I hear them giggle. Blaster begins playing the song and I recognize it. I debate letting them know I know they know...but they're leaving tomorrow. And I really can't wait any longer. The song echoes in my processor. It's too true.
"I bring you everything that floats into your mind."
He opens the door before I finish knocking, predatory grin twisting his magnificent features for the barest second before he rearranges into a more pleasant greeting. This expression is stifled with an alacrity Perceptor should have learned. "Ultra Magnus," he says, smooth voice trying to stay friendly but still sounding delightfully dirty. "What brings you down here?"
"I made a small discovery, and it reminded me that you had mentioned your supply was low. Iacon's finest," I explain, proudly pulling the pilfered polish out of subspace. That red face, the one that I can see offline, bestows a grin that makes me forget how different I am from him. It's the ultimate equalizer.
"Why, thank you. A going-away present like this is hard to come by." He really wants the polish but knows it comes with strings attached. "To whom do I owe this particular generosity?"
A dead vain Decepticon I ransacked during one of our last battles, Tracks. I've stooped to stealing from the non-functioning. "I have my connections," I respond, trying not to beam too hard, since he's told me more than once that it makes me look 'goofy.' I can't help it. He makes me happy just letting me look at him. When our optics meet it's this incredible rush that floods my circuits with racing electricity. I hate what I have to do next; it's mortifying because after the first time he never requests I do it. He won't, since it's bad enough I'm the only one willing. "Do you need somebody to put it on you?"
His smile never falters. "Certainly. Come in, please." I walk in and feel like I'm on my way to meet Primus. At least I don't shiver anymore like I used to. Tracks transforms into his new Corvette mode and asks me to be careful this time. Last time he had deep enough scour marks that they marred the paint.
"Everything just crashes to the ground when you come around."
I apply the polish to the soft buffer and gently stroke his second favorite spot: the hood. Newly applied is a giant flame leaping up from the middle near the headlights, jumping up to kiss the windshield. I trace it with the cloth and feel him tremble a little. Very nice. I trace the inside of the flame pattern I just followed and hear him moan, gently. I realize I've stopped.
"Go on," he beseeches in this taunting way that makes me sound like a naughty underling about to get into trouble. I follow the inside of the trail I just made, small noises emanating from his vocalizer. He speaks again. "You're wearing that stupid grin again, Ultra Magnus. I can see it from here."
"Sorry," I mutter, embarrassed. In any other time and place he would be rebuked for insubordination but in here, I'm all his. Every time he shudders exquisitely it's like I've aroused some kind of music deep within him.
By the time I've reached the doors he's struggling to keep quiet. Like all of us, Tracks has a roommate, but fortunately for me Powerglide's ego and his never come within 20 meters of each other unless they have to, so he's gone a lot. The walls are thick enough to keep us from being crushed if attacked, therefore sturdy enough no one would hear him, but Tracks has never been known to let go of his emotions for my benefit. His whole carriage is rattling as my giant hand moves into a circular pattern around his back end, the smallest part of my fingertips sliding around the tiny crevices of the undercarriage. I can feel his energy field intensify and it warms my hands, rising closer to me until it almost meets mine. He can't stay still.
I can see my own optics staring at me in the Autobot symbol resting in the gleaming yellow square on his roof as I carefully glide one palm around the edge where the windows meet the metal. How will I react to this image years from now when it's more of a faint memory and not a living, functioning need that haunts me like a broken circuit loop? The shaking stops.
"Don't do that." he says sharply. His sultry timbre is slightly muffled in car mode. "That's still vulnerable from your last clumsy endeavor."
"If you don't like it, I'll stop," I reply slyly, my hand retreating. I know he wants me to finish this. It's the only leverage I have in this situation. He rocks himself sideways, his gesture of impatience. When he's teased by me he speaks sharply.
"Hilarious. Just like the idea of sending me to earth for safekeeping."
I shrug, trying not to let his sarcasm bother me. "You asked to go. I thought I was doing you a favor."
"I didn't know getting me out of Shockwave's crosshairs and into Megatron's was a 'favor' but I suppose I'll take you word for it." He transforms back to his robot mode to look up at me. Blue optics and a perfect curve for a smile, to demonstrate that he is kidding. He crooks his finger for me to come closer and bend down, telling me it's time to polish his wings. Oh, Primus, I can't move.
"Maybe I'm not the perfect kind...maybe I'm not what you had in mind. Maybe we're just killing time."
He prostrates himself on his recharge bed, complaining that I should have left the part facing down undone so as not to ruin the polish while I do his back. When he realizes I'm inert he pushes himself up and the sight of his head propped on one hand makes me drop the buff. All I can hear is my own energon pump screaming at me, going so fast I'm getting hot and cold at the same time in different places. My optics are programmed to search and find details and use them to process likely scenarios for battle, like any good soldier. When they scan Tracks they find only perfection, spurring my processor to create much happier images than the ones that haunt me in real life.
Tracks...you are beautiful. With all of the death and ugly around me all of the time, with the mech fluids dripping from my friends as they expire at my feet and the fire and smoke and destruction and pure evil that is in this world a small, smug, awe-inspiring collection of striking features on one mech is almost a gift from a deity. I rub a chemical compound on your perfect body and all of my internal pain dissipates. I leave here with polish-stained hands and a goofy grin on my face, happy that I get to stroke my fingers around every line and curve you posses while you sit there and enjoy being worshipped.
Tracks, you are addictive. I come here every night I can, watching you react to my touch a million different ways. Sometimes you love it, other times you back away from me in disgust, and one amazing morning you wept in my arms. Almost never repetitive, I'm never sure where I stand with you and I'll never discover it, but I'll be a pile of scrap before I can stop myself from coming to you.
"Ultra Magnus, you are quite the enigma," he interrupts the thoughts that only come out when I'm alone but are repeating in my processor now while I'm stunned, on my knees where he left me. "I thought you were going to polish my back. Instead you are staring at the wall behind me as though it might turn purple." His sly wit escapes me until I see the peridot glittering inside of the sapphire.
Are we even on the same planet anymore?
"You with your silky words and your eyes, so green and blue."
I lean over him with an old, decomposing buff and ancient polish purloined from a dead soldier, but it is the only weapon I have in this war between my desires and my self-control. I hate him for having this power over me. I adore him for the kindness he has shown in not exposing my weakness to the other Autobots (obviously I've revealed it myself), but it cycles back to loathing when I see him using me for better treatment. He's gotten at least one promotion through me. What was I supposed to do, tell him no? Then the feelings fluctuate again when he moves his shoulder with a grace none of the klutzes around here can dream of possessing. He purrs slightly, making me want him so bad I'm shivering again, and the odium grips me once more. How can I, someone twice his size, rank, and sense of reality, allow myself to be his servant? What would he do if I stopped this holy reverence and took him? Not merely scooping up the svelte body and carrying it off to my room, but what if I held him down and listened to his whimper of pain until I was satisfied?
He knows I won't do it. And he loves every minute of my internal torment.
A sigh escapes. "Why do you want me to leave?" he asks capriciously as the buff caresses the dark blue of his back. His weakness is his wings, something Perceptor once mentioned (in a different conversation) as a flying mech's vulnerability. I leave them for now.
How do I answer that? I wait to respond until I've moved down to his legs. They're lean and tapered and nicely lacquered, leading to barely larger feet with red and yellow accents that have already been polished. His lower half elicits the same fulminating reaction as his roof, thus my job is gentler but requires a little concentration, giving me a legitimate pause as I consider my options. I take even longer as I pour the last of the compound out of the can and place it under the plate with the other empty containers he's accumulated. "Every Autobot has a purpose. Several of us are better suited elsewhere. The group I picked for this mission is more...useful aiding Optimus Prime."
He chuckles in that low laugh he has when he thinks he knows something everyone else doesn't. "I'm leaving because you can't stand the temptation, and I find your creepy stalking less than amusing."
"Stalking? Who invited me in here and threw himself at me ages ago? Who keeps reminding me when he's out of polish?" I demand sweetly, trying to keep the mood lighter. We have done this odd dance for so long I was unable to retrieve the particulars of our first encounter from the miasma of other visits. Confidence in my memory buoys when Tracks reluctantly nods. He changes the subject by asking me if I am putting an even coat on his wings. Taking the pointed hint, I respond that "I'm getting to those" and ease the buff up from his left leg to the base of the right wing, making small figure-eights on its outside surface. My hands trace the area with a practiced pattern, one that makes him grip the sides of the plate until they crinkle slightly. The energy field radiates, and he is a sun. I lean in to absorb the rays.
"Harder," he manages to gasp, before moaning "like that! Just like that!" his helmet scraping against his blue helmet-hood audibly. All of my work comes to a head in the wings. Tonight he has relinquished his self-control at last, crying for Primus with an urgency that makes me half-jokingly hope the god does not hear him, or I might be mistaken for an assassin and killed.
"The wings!" He has somehow flipped himself over, the yellow square with his Autobot symbol staring at me as I am slow to comply. "Magnus! Don't make me beg!" I place my giant hands on his wings and squeeze lightly. Our energy fields meet and his optics flash like laser fire. I feel his gray arms encapsulating my head, bringing it down to stare into the optic of the Autobot symbol and its yellow home as his entire body shakes and a bright blue glow surrounds him. I can hear the antennae on my helmet bend. "Primus! AUGH!"
The glow has surrounded my head and I'm blinded, immersed in Track's self-indulgence. It intensifies, allowing my own release a few moments later as the two blues swirl like a plasma vapor, their heat flaring around my face, shoulders, and neck. Underneath me the red symbol shudders delightfully as Track's air intakes accelerate to cool him off. Everything is silent, perfect-the howling rapids of loneliness are smoothed by a flash flood of pleasure. My head is squeezed in his impeccable arms and not relinquished.
"Mag-nificent," he sighs, allowing the play on words to be a sweet tune. I want to tell him I love him, that he doesn't have to go to earth, that I'll go with him, that we could run away tomorrow and never be seen again, but none of these are true; I'm glowing with an elation that has washed away the icy lustful craving with a warm, clean, fresh feeling of satisfaction. I could say anything right now but don't. Instead Tracks babbles strange sentences, telling me he'll miss me and how evenly the Cybertron Academy has taught me to polish mechs and what would earth be like and I had made him happy countless times, what could he do for me that would be anywhere near what I have given him?
The answer is so obvious, so daring, I lift my head in its clenched gray prison and look into the optics I've seen a million times, conscious or not. "Kiss me good-bye," I say. I put my head back down for fear of the reaction.
"You with your steel beliefs that don't match anything you do."
He won't do it. No mech is willing to do that unless they are ready to share sparks, it is that much closer to the ultimate expression of love. It is also the absolute transferal of power; a relinquishing of the hold he has on me. I hate hope. It has me knelt over an undeserving Autobot in adulation, waiting for him to decide if I merit surrender. Tracks...don't make me beg.
The condescending chuckle comes after a shocked pause. The whole atmosphere chills. "I was expecting you would like my polishing-can collection," he delicately sneers. "My mistake." He opens his arms to release me. "A very personal gift, even for what we do." I do not respond. I am standing up, my internal chronometer telling me this recharge cycle is almost over and our projected time to attack is coming. My destiny stands in front of me like a giant crystal wall, showing me the other side but providing no means of conquer and no way to avoid it. Tracks is the crumbling ground below me. I have to move or die.
A cold wave of misery washes over me, more vicious than usual because it is now tinged with despair. Every time I push you away, Tracks, you push back. This time I'm stepping aside and letting you fall.
"You're right," I respond, turning to leave. "It would only complicate things."
"It was so much easier before you became you."
"Ultra Magnus!" Perceptor is calling me from Sky Lynx over the commlink in the middle of a battlefield as I creep around various piles of debris to get better shots of the swooping Decepticons above me. "Come in, Ultra Magnus!"
"Perceptor, this is not the time for contact!" I respond, and sure enough, the Decepticons jam our frequencies immediately. He doesn't hear me. No one hears me when I get shot in the leg and request repairs, either, and the feedback is getting worse. There is a tremendous pain coming from my knee, making it hard to concentrate.
I wonder what he wants to talk to me about. The charges went off well, impeding enemy attacks as Sky Lynx wove his way among the explosions. I'm crawling on the ground and I can't see much, but I make an attempt to look into space to see if they're gone yet.
They're not. Sky Lynx is weaving after a smaller vehicle, one that at first I thought was a jet but now believe it is somebody who should be gone by now. One I purposely avoided contact with by plunging myself into the skirmish to sidestep any messy or disappointing farewells.
"What is he DOING?" I ask no one in particular. I can't think about him right now, I have to do what the Autobots need me for. I am a soldier! I can overpower anything that hurts me and get the job done. Shockwave is somewhere in this mess, and I'll find that Decepticon and tear him to pieces instead of allowing any more hope to suggest the impossible. He's not trying to find me. I'm crawling on the ground, being shot at from every angle, no communication to ask for help, and the only thing I can process is that Tracks is leaving. It stops me right where I am, overwhelming me. Someone's shot hits an invulnerable spot on me, and I easily ignore it. If that was effortless, then I know I can do this. The undercurrent in my subconscious is a typhoon as it howls at me.
The smoke makes everything appear different. I could swear I can see gray feet with yellow and red accents. I tilt my head up to see that, as usual, I am at Track's feet. He smiles and his optics are as beautiful as space. While the cloudy mess of ugly swirls around us he crouches down to me and forces his red lips onto mine. The cold and suffering are gone, replaced by ecstatic release, like a sigh of relief. Every night of blue light pales in comparison to this golden moment. It's the last thing I remember thinking before an immense pain tears at my back and forces everything into excruciating darkness.
"No more playing seek and hide. No more long and wasted nights. Can't you make it easy on yourself?"
With Perceptor going to earth we are down a medic, but fortunately there seems to be an abundance of intelligent replacements. First Aid's masked countenance is the first I see when I come back online. With his usual cheerful demeanor he explains that Shockwave shot me in the back, and that despite of our lack of radio Kup found me and fought the giant purple nuisance off, keeping me safe until other Autobots could take over and send me here. The battle is over.
"Kup said you thought Tracks forgot to tell you something," he carefully suggests when I inform him I can't recall anything that happened before my radio gave out. He won't look at me.
"Something Tracks forgot..." I have no idea. Then realization hits me like a hot dry wind scorching space dust into my face. I am free. I am completely unfettered from the mutually parasitic relationship we endured, independent from the internal misery that Tracks provided. It's liberating and scary at the same time. It's also unbearably painful. He's gone, and just as I failed convincing myself I could defy my desire to be with him, I am unsuccessful in believing this emptiness will be filled with other aspects of my life. But wait, he...I must have imagined...but no, he was there. I KNOW he was. Maybe he changed his mind, and now he's outside of the medbay, waiting for me. I ask First Aid about Tracks' location. He gives me a startled look and glances at my chart, probably to see if my processor got hit.
"He's on Sky Lynx," he explains gently. "I saw him board with the others before I came back here." He gives me a suspicious expression.
First Aid must think my memory is affected. Tracks was with me; he kissed me. It was not a dream. "Were there any problems with departure?"
"I don't know, Ultra Magnus. I'm sorry, I was down here before they took off."
When I ask him if he'll radio Kup, he replies that he can, in a second. "Could you do it now? This is kind of important."
"So is you energon level," he replies with the cool detachment of a member the medical community when they are dealing with unreasonable patients. "Wait a few astro-seconds. Kup is supposed to come here for a shoulder wiring problem."
"I'm here," rattles a gravelly voice. The old mech smiles warmly. "Look who's up!"
"Kup!" He is a reasonable mech, one on top of everything that goes on around here. He's also a good friend. I ask him once the pleasantries are over if Sky Lynx and company are on earth yet.
"We got a call from Perceptor telling us that they passed Jupiter about six cycles ago. It's our first call since their radio died before they left."
"Six cycles? I've been out awhile," I comment as he nods. First Aid takes off one of Kup's shoulder plates as he clumsily jerks it into a more comfortable position. "This may be unusual, but after takeoff...did all of the Autobots...stay on Sky Lynx?" Kup nods again, uncertainly. They're not sure. A lot of the charges produced a great deal of smoke. It helped us win the battle, but kept us from seeing anything in the sky above 300 meters. "None of them got out for any reason?" Grimacing over his shoulder repair, Kup asks why, what did I see? He's fearing Decepticon interference. "Nothing," I reply, the disappointment settling in. It must have been a hallucination. He wasn't there. He'll never be there again.
First Aid, concerned over my mental health, asks me to go offline and rest and I do, seeing green specks glittering in blue before total blackness closes in.
"I've got some wishes of my own"
P.S.
Kup flinched as First Aid's soldering iron scorched his shoulder. Circuits were being repaired but the process was not his idea of a pleasant pastime. He regarded the offline Ultra Magnus and chuckled.
"What is it?" the medic asked, replacing Kup's plate and asking him to try rotating the cuff. His patient complied easily.
"Look at his expression. He must be having a heck of a dream, if it makes him grin like that. Wonder what it's about."
"I don't know," First Aid replied, reaching for the box under Magnus' plate, "Maybe it has something to do with this. I found it in his hand when you brought him in." It had been an eventful day. First Aid noticed small things, and Ultra Magnus' questions brought back the image of Tracks waiting by Sky Lynx until departure time and transforming to hide that something had upset him before racing into the transporter. "I can't even recognize it."
Kup regarded the object and tossed it back into the box with his new ability to shrug dismissively. "Just an old can of polish."