Author's Note: I finally managed to update. I'm sorry; this one is a lot shorter, and it's mostly character play. I've been really busy, but hopefully the next chapter will be a more reasonable length. Hope you like it!
WARNING: This chapter contains dubious content, i.e: romantic scenes, and a strange (read: disturbing) relationship. I think that's all the warnings for this one.
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story from last time! You make this author a disgustingly happy person. ^^
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but the plot and OCs (of which, in this chapter, there are many).
Chapter Ten
"Why do you desire the darkness? Why admire that place of shadow and repute, where only the strongest are said to travel and return from? Because you're all fools. You don't see the treasure that lies in living beneath the sunshine, in peace. You're blind to the nature of the things that wait for you in the dark, because you want so badly to be like them; revered and feared.
Fools.
If you enter the dark, you will be nothing but dead. In that place, like devours like." -Ionicon
"Normal speech."
Inner personal thoughts.
"Comm chatter."
:Bond Speech:
Astrosecond: 2 seconds
Klik: approximately five minutes
Joor: half an hour
Breem: nearing one hour
Cycle: meanings vary; most often half a solar cycle
Mega-cycle: one human day
Solar cycle: one Cybertronian day
Vorn: approximately two months
Orn: five years
Mega-vorn: nine years
Mega-orn: twenty years
Mechnometer: Approximately twenty-four feet
At the Ark…
The Autobots and Decepticons had retreated, leaving the Ark to those who would use it. The Coalition mechs, what was left of them, returned to their own base of operations. This left Ionicon and his mechs (and femme) with an excellent new home of their own, all to themselves. Of course, there was too much to do for them to properly enjoy their prize.
Darkened optics stared unseeing into the shadowy ceiling space of the Ark's medbay. Once vividly colored plating (oranges and yellows and pale, creamy whites all streaked onto smooth armor) was darkened to a dirty, dull mess of rusty shades of sunset colors. The lithe frame lay limply, pathetically, on a flat berth, its middle torn and shredded, blue liquid seeping out. Other wounds dripped energon messily onto the once-immaculate floor, splattering the reflective surface with thick, glowing globules.
Daystar's body was not devoid of life. A light still flickered weakly in his spark casing, and the digits of one servo twitched with a series of clicks.
Beside the young mech, a dark, one-winged form sat on a stool. Amber optics examined the gaping wounds before them, carefully taking into account each detail - each scrape against paint and tear in glossy plating. Ionicon's black lips were pressed tightly together, a flat line on his otherwise emotionless features. His servos were still; they rested lightly on his thighs. The seeker was tense; beside him, on an adjacent berth, medical supplies and several suspicious-looking tools rested, seeming to mock him: Doesn't know how to use us, does he?
The amber gaze narrowed, no longer seeing the devastation wreaked on the twin before him.
Seconds passed.
A black servo suddenly left its perch on his leg, deftly plucking a welder from the pile. Sparks flew as he soldered the open wounds, his grip steady and firm. Red-hot lines brought the thinnest cuts together, sealing them closed. As soon as the last was completed, Ionicon's servos flew to the pile of tools once more, dark digits snaking between the massive rend in Daystar's side once they had claimed the proper equipment.
For a joor, the black seeker worked to save the life of his creation.
As that span of time was coming to a close, the medbay doors irised open with a hiss. Ionicon's wing twitched; the empty wing-socket beside it jittered noisily. But the seeker did not turn to see who had joined him.
Makeshift's sleek, pointed figure greased its way into the chamber, every move dripping with reluctance. Behind him, the door spiraled shut once more. The shapeshifter jumped at the noise, obviously on edge. His helm swiveled back to the black seeker and the body he tended, and the fiery visor dimmed.
"How is he?" Makeshift asked, his smooth voice echoing oddly.
Silence answered him for several seconds, before Ionicon let out a deep ventilation, leaning away from his patient's body and setting his tools aside. The work was shoddy at best, but it performed its function. Daystar's body hummed on, and his spark flickered more brightly than before.
"Only time will tell." The black seeker answered his minion, watching the dancing spark in his creation's chest with an intensity that sent shivers up Makeshift's spinal struts. "Now," And the black helm turned calmly toward him. "Tell me what happened."
Makeshift's vents rolled heavily, releasing a gust of air as he slunk to a nearby berth and hopping onto it, servos falling to fold between his knees, helm bowed in recollection.
"I took on the form you suggested - thought the sparkling would like to see his savior's faceplates, right? Would make him easier to handle if it was someone he knew as safe. But the brat knew I wasn't on the up and up from the start."
If Ionicon didn't understand the "Earthisms", he didn't show it.
"It doesn't make sense!" The shapeshifter snarled heatedly, visor dimming to a murderous shade of red. "My disguise was flawless. The bot was his fragging savior! There was no way I should have been suspected."
Ionicon's expression was thoughtful, a slight frown on his lips and in his gaze. "Such an abnormality is to be expected, given what he is."
For some reason, this comment set a fire in the shapeshifter's processors. Makeshift suddenly jerked to his pedes, fury in his movements - reluctance long forgotten. He prowled back and forth, movements not unlike a caged predator. "No it fragging isn't!" He hissed venomously, leveling his anger at his master. "The truth is, we don't know what in the pit is to be expected, precisely because of what he is!"
Amber optics narrowed a fraction, but Makeshift went on. "Frag - I don't know what to expect from your brats, half the time! Why do you want Bumblebee alive, anyway? Why bother snatching such a troublesome burden - one whose limits we don't even fully understand - only to hand him over to the Coalition to get butchered?" Makeshift ended with a digit pointing accusingly at Ionicon's faceplates, his frame a tense tower of anger, confusion, and frustration. "Or maybe you aren't going to do that." He hissed, visor darkening to the color of coals. "Maybe you want to bolster that freak-show of yours. Maybe you want to add Bumblebee to your gang of abomina - hurk!"
Static sputtered from the shapeshifter, squeezed from his lips by the crushing grip on his intakes. He hadn't seen Ionicon move. His own star-spangled claws scraped desperately against the seeker's own sharp digits, trying to loosen the merciless hold.
Amber optics burned into him, heavily lidded. Beneath them, the black lips twisted in a scornful expression that held in it more anger than Makeshift had ever seen in his master's features before. Ionicon was a small seeker; delicately built. His slim, scarred arm should never have been able to lift Makeshift's larger bulk from the floor, holding the shapeshifter aloft in the air, pedes kicking out feebly beneath him. But the firm grip held, and the single arm that was holding Makeshift aloft did not so much as tremble.
His vision was flickering - Makeshift sputtered and writhed, desperate to free his agonized intakes. He barely heard Ionicon's voice in his audial as the mech drew him closer, somehow keeping him aloft and yet bringing them helm to helm at the same time. A second servo gripped his chestplates, curling under the lip of the plating that protected his spark. Makeshift froze, optics wide.
"Perhaps that is my intention." Ionicon's voice whispered, air dancing over Makeshift's sensitive audial covering. "But if it is, it's certainly no business of yours to know it."
The grip on his intakes tightened, and Makeshift felt his processors overheating, sending the world around him spinning in a dizzying spiral. He clicked feebly, his glossa trembling as it ticked against his dentas.
Then he was rolling - swallowing wonderful, cool air into his intakes. He lay on the medbay floor for a few moments, unable to do anything but shiver and choke down air. His processors cooled, and he heard Ionicon's next words clearly.
"Now get out."
He complied as speedily as he was able.
Ionicon watched the shapeshifter scramble gracelessly from the medbay, plating rattling in confusion and fear, throat sparking and dented. The seeker's optics narrowed as the doors irised closed behind the retreating mech. Silence reigned once more.
And then, from the shadows, Blackjack's voice drawled his customary greeting. "Sorry, sweetheart. Is this a - ah - bad time?" Ionicon spared the mech a glance. Blackjack lounged in the medbay rafters, two arms holding his balance, the other two held in elegant, but odd, positions in the air, as though the mech was some sort of Towers mech from the golden age. His long black legs were crossed at the ankle, and the heels of his pedes rested gently on the top of a light fixture.
Ionicon's lip curled, and his optics dimmed to a fiery tint. Annoyance was read easily in his features. "What are you doing here?" The black seeker replied coldly.
"Coming to see my darling creation is what I'm here for, sweetheart." The torturer grinned cheesily, placing great emphasis on the endearment. Ionicon turned sharply away, and began cleaning the gore-covered tools he'd used to repair Daystar.
Blackjack gave a huff, his expression falling into a childish pout. His frame lost its elegance and became drooped, as though he were slung like some sack across the rafters instead of reclining skillfully.
"Oh come now," He wheedled, rolling in a series of swift, continuous movements until he dropped to the floor in a three point landing. Well, more like five point, since only one of his four arms remained separate from the gleaming floor. Soundlessly, he rose from his crouch, sashaying in a very feminine manner until he was able to lean provocatively against the table on which Ionicon's tools rested. "You aren't still sore about that whole thing, are you?" He coaxed, brow-plates waggling. Ionicon ignored him, but the next tool was set down with far more care and attention that it deserved. A sure sign of anger, when it came to the battered black seeker.
Blackjack pouted once more, but whirled out of his position again, slouching to Daystar's bedside. The torturer's pointed helm cocked to one side as he examined the repair work, glossa swiping over his lips in a strange display of interest. "You patched him up well, I'd say." He commented in a neutral tone, apparently no longer offended by Ionicon's cold disregard. The seeker gave a barely audible grunt in reply.
Blackjack's gaze grew distant as he stared at Daystar's faceplates. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its cheer and all its concealing familiarity. It was deep and rough - very real, as though Blackjack had been acting a part and had only now thrown off his charade.
"I remember how this one was born…" He murmured.
Ionicon's methodical cleaning did not pause. The seeker's features remained cold and emotionless. But his amber optics gleamed.
"Do not think too much of it." His soft, sibilant voice rolled out. "It was done by necessity."
Blackjack's faceplates were hidden from view, but his words were equal parts bitter and amused. "As is everything you do…" The torturer's own gaze rose and locked onto his companion's one-winged back. "…Sweetheart." He hissed venomously, a sharp grin slicing across his features, optics narrowed in an indiscernible expression. Ionicon had ceased moving, but did not turn away from the berth before him to look at his companion. He seemed almost resigned - but hardly submissive.
Slowly, carefully, Blackjack's pedes stepped against the glossy medbay floor. They brought his tall frame close to Ionicon's smaller figure until his chassis brushed against the seeker's wing, pressing past it until the edges of his chestplates tinked against Ionicon's spinal strut. He curled and bent his own spine, until his larger body surrounded Ionicon, his arms and servo's braced on either side of the seeker, digits clinking gently against the tools littering the berth's surface.
For a moment, neither moved.
And then, slowly, softly, both mech's optics dimmed in sync. Ionicon's thin digits slowly left the berth's surface; reached up over his own shoulder to brush against Blackjack's cheek. Blackjack's servos left the berth and skimmed over the seeker's sides, settling on scarred black hips, and he hummed deeply.
Unseen by his companion, Ionicon's optics lit up once more. They were no longer amber, but a deep, poisonous purple. The seeker's black lips spread in a full, sharp grin that looked wrong and distorted on his faceplates. His remaining servo slipped behind him, crawling over Blackjack's side until his digits could clasp at the torturer's back, bringing both bodies forcibly together.
Blackjack hissed, his frame tensing in pleasure.
Ionicon's uncharacteristic grin grew, and his purple optics glowed with a strange, malicious amusement.
In the Ark's Brig…
It was cold. Axelond's warm ventilations misted in the air, moistening his plating and freezing in artistic swirls of icy particles. The melted remains of an Autobot were chilled into a solid metal mound at the base of one of the prison cells. Axelond did not know the bot's name, and he could not care less what it was. The lights in the brig flickered and sputtered, their wiring damaged by scattered blaster fire during the battle. Sparks sizzled in the air from severed cable ends, hissing as they made contact with the pool of energon on the floor.
Axelond watched it all with an empty, uninterested expression on his dark faceplates - a shadowy coloring inherited from Ioniocon, his sire. His plating did not so much as sheen beneath the sickly yellow lights of the brig; it was painted a flat black matte that was intended for stealth, not show. Long legs ending in sharp, solid pedes hung over the edge of the step he sat upon, his spine unfurled into a relaxed sprawl that draped Axelond's lithe body over the stairway's three top ledges.
He was tall, for one as young as he. The others thought they were fully grown, adult mechs and femmes - even Nightstar, who was wiser than the others by a fair amount, was under this delusion. Axelond knew better. They were not even close to full maturity in any sense, and their accelerated growth in both body and processor was unprecedented.
This information had come to him mostly by chance. Axelond did not speak often. He rarely wasted any energy he could possibly conserve. But he listened, and his hearing was good. He'd heard stories from Coalition mechs; had caught whispers from his fellow 'neutrals' in New Kaon and New Polyhex, where Ionicon had stationed their base of operations. Ionicon and his creations - for that was what Axelond and the other sets of twins were - may have lived in the ruins of Praxus, but they could not operate from there. And so, the dance club had been created in New Polyhex, hiding secrets and ambition behind it's dancing femmes and colored lights. Their forces resided there, waiting for the plan to reach its zenith, and begin its soaring, downward strike.
The things Axelond heard from his fellow cybertronians told the lone twin much; enough to know that he and his brothers and sisters should never have existed. With the destruction of Vector Sigma, all hope of future life had been destroyed; no sparklings could be brought into existence without it.
And yet, here they were…they, and Bumblebee.
Abominations, just as Makeshift so often claimed.
Axelond shifted his position, spreading his legs further and laying his smooth, plated helm back against the floor, closing his optics. Blackness replaced his pale surroundings.
He heard her before he saw her. Soft steps made by the dainty, pointed feet only a femme could possess rang like soft musical notes in his audials. Her ventilations were gentle gusts in the frosty air; he could imagine them misting before her, forming patterns on the femme's emerald plating and amber optic lenses.
Axelond smiled to himself. It was a small expression, barely a tick at the corner of his lips.
The steps stopped just behind his head, and he could hear the tremble in her joints - taste the fearful apprehension in her every move.
"Axelond…?" Her voice was lower than most femme's, and slightly rasping; a tentative address.
His digit tapped a single note on the step beside him. She understood. Tremulously, but fluidly, she moved around him, seating herself on the place beside his digit with a clank of metal against metal - almost thunderous in the still silence of the brig. The warmth of her frame seeped into his left servo, and Axelond opened his optics. A pale ceiling greeted him, marred by the sight of a bent and battered ventilation duct just above. He did not shift his gaze away from the uninteresting sight.
Jade's voice broke the quiet again. "Axelond…Does Ionicon love Blackjack?"
He wondered what she must have seen. Usually their guardians were quite discreet. But whatever had put the idea into her head, the question was easy enough to answer.
When he shook his head, he was surprised to hear a disappointed sigh from the femme. "I wish they were."
It was so childish…but it was also endearing. He rolled onto his side, ignoring the uncomfortable edges pressing into his hips and chassis. His elbow braced against a step, and he laid his chin in the adjoined servo. His perplexed look spoke for him, and Jade laughed.
Now that he was fully looking at her, the femme's beauty was hard to ignore. Fiery eyes glowed with soft emotions, and silver faceplates puckered in pleasantly shy expressions. Jade's plating was sleek and her shape was thin. He wondered if she could dance…
"Why do I wish they were in love?" She interpreted. "Well…I think it's because I want them to be happy, like normal creators."
He decided to use his voice to convey his next point. "They aren't normal." Three words spoken in his sharp, clear vocals.
Jade froze in shock, but he ignored it. It would wear off. He waited for her to reply, staring deeply into her gaze and noting the delicate sensors behind her optic lenses. After about five seconds, she spoke.
"Why do you say that?" She asked softly, and her optics widened and creased with confusion. "They aren't very different from the other couples I've heard of…"
Axelond couldn't help but snort, and turned reluctantly away from that captivating gaze. If he looked any longer into it, he might find himself doing things he would later regret.
"Axelond…" It was as though she tasted the name; he could imagine her glossa wrapping round the syllables and stroking his designation into life. He smiled to himself, and let her continue. "If they aren't normal, that would mean we aren't either. After all, something strange can't give birth to something ordinary - it doesn't have anything ordinary to make it with. What makes us all so different?"
Axelond turned slowly to regard the femme, and maneuvered his frame into a crouching position. His joints hissed together loudly, and Jade shifted nervously away, scooting sideways until her lithe body was pressed against the opposite wall. Axelond did not pursue. That would have been foolish.
Instead, he let his smile fade, letting a blank facade fall over his faceplates. "Where's your twin?" He asked.
Jade blushed with sudden anger - her cheeks flushed dark blue. "W-where's yours?" She whispered defiantly in return, optics narrowing. But her fear was obvious. Her digits, clenched around her shins, trembled violently.
Axelond stared into her slitted optics, reveling in the life they held. He could see her wariness; her caution and terror; there was defensiveness there, as well, and a fiery independence. All in two large orbs…
He grinned, not releasing her gaze. "He's dead." He gritted out, and successfully ignored the storm of agonizing instincts and emotions the words woke in him. He had become quite adept at that. The lifeless bond that had once tethered him to his twin felt like a rope without an end, floating listlessly in black, somber space.
Jade looked terrified, but she soldiered on. "Why did you kill him?" She quavered, and he could tell she had been wanting to ask this question for quite a while.
He answered honestly. "I hated him. And he was a burden."
For some reason, the femme seemed to crumble. Her gaze grew distant, and her lip trembled. "I think that's what ebony thinks of me." She murmured, so quietly he couldn't be sure she had meant him to hear. Nonetheless, Axelond did hear, and he was holding her chin before he knew it, turning her face sharply toward him and centering her attention on himself. Her plating flat smooth and warm beneath his touch.
He ignored the sensation, and bared his teeth meaningfully; expressing everything his words could not. "He will have to go through me."
She looked dazed, but her focus was undeniably upon him - or rather, his lips. "I wonder why none of us work well together…" She whispered. "Wouldn't you think twins were meant to be together?" Her optics flicked up to look into his. "That we would love our other halves? None of us do…I don't even think Swipe and Streaker like each other much."
"Maybe our sets are improperly matched." The words were out before he realized he'd spoken. Jade blinked, confused, before a comprehension lit up her features.
"Oh…" She breathed. "So, we need to find our match? We've been jumbled, and we have to find which one we belong to?"
She smiled, and it was like the sun rising over a dark horizon. "I think like that…"
If he was honest to himself, the idea was quite pleasant.
In The Rustlands...
It would be easy to imagine the military base of a capable force like the Coalition to be impressive. One might picture soaring watchtowers, thick walls, and small windows of thick, reenforced glass. It might perch like a bird of prey on a massive ledge in the side of a sizable mountain; a smokey gray fortress filled with war-hardened mechs, determined to save their nation and planet. The sky above would be awhirl with acid-green clouds full of sizzling tears, droplets that would cascade in a dismal, deadly rain on barren ground darkened by craters and pock-marked by space-artillery guns.
This image, while true to the idea of the Coalition and in keeping with the facade they struggled to maintain, would be so far from the truth that their backs would collide.
The HQ of the Coalition forces was little more than an abandoned medical facility; a square, squat building set on flat, smooth ground. Around it there were the ruins of what had once been a neutral refuge during the Great War; living quarters crumbling into rust on a low hill sat not five mechnometers to the west, and, true to its designation, a mess hall lay in a jumbled heap of broken beams and shattered walls to the east.
The medical facility itself had been a dilapidated husk when the Coalition had discovered it. Compared with their other options though, repairing it had been by far the most cost-effective plan - and since weaponry was rare and expensive in peacetime…
Killjoy snorted at the memory of the many contorted plans they had concocted in order to stay alive and capable as a military force. The shuttle-mech looked over the place he had called home for several vorns now, and concluded dismally that, while it had been the best available to them, it had only just barely been worth it.
Behind him trailed his contingent; the mechs and femmes that had followed him in the raid on the Ark. Several wounded were being carried bodily into the base, their faint ventilations and laboring systems a chilling sound amid the otherwise commonplace bustle that accompanied disembarking their crafts. He himself had carried seven damaged mechs, being a middle-sized shuttle with medical supplies on board. They were already inside, and Killjoy was glad to be free of them.
The raid had been close to a disaster, despite being, in the end, successful. He'd lost many soldiers, and far more had been wounded. The superior battle experience of the Autobot and Decepticon mechs had been staggering…and crushing. They had seemed so at home amid the blaster fire and singing scream of blades through heated air. It had been one of the single most disturbing things Killjoy had ever seen, and it only strengthened his resolve to destroy both factions. Both sides spoke of peace and formed alliances, building a new government and placing their own alongside neutrals in managing it, but no mech who was so at ease and comfortable with battle - who had fought and lived in it for the majority of their lives - could possibly adapt to peace.
Even if they could, the peace itself was unacceptable. Decepticons allowed to govern and rule? The Autobots had doomed themselves when they made the agreement, siding with the enemy. Peace would not - could not - be achieved until the last Decepticon had been destroyed; the price they must pay for their crimes, as well as a necessary destruction of mechs who could never be redeemed. With their alliance, all Autobots had become no better than Decepticons themselves.
Killjoy strode through the opening front doors of the Coalition base, ignoring the sputter and wheeze of their mechanisms. They'd have to get one of the engineers to have a look at that…
Amid the chaos of disembarkment, a voice called out to him. "Commander!"
Killjoy turned to answer, recognizing the femme that approached as Captain Flareup; a seasoned femme veteran. One of the few that had left Elita One's famed squad. She was colorful and attractive; her plating was angular, painted with smooth, glowing reds and oranges. Her optics were still blue, tying her to her Autobot past, but they were narrowed with a fire few Autobot's could boast of. Killjoy straightened, and acknowledged his fellow officer with a salute. One was supposed to make optic contact in the Coalition salute, but she was quite small, and came up to about his middle, so he didn't bother.
Not that Flareup seemed to mind; he suspected she was used to it. "Commander Huffer wants a report." She informed him cooly, gracing his battered and discouraged mechs with a frustrated glare. Killjoy nodded, a flare of indignation lighting in his spark. She didn't know how hard they had fought, nor the circumstances of their victory, and yet still she watched them with contempt. The arrogance of the femme gnawed at him, but he remained silent on the point. Instead, he asked where he was to report - Commander Huffer had many haunts within the base that he visited regularly.
"The training room." She replied, a flash of vindictive amusement in the words. Killjoy scowled openly at her. Everybot knew what happened to officers who joined Huffer while he was training. Killjoy knew the femme was enjoying being the one to tell him, and that fact only fueled his rage.
"Manage this mess." He snarled at her, jerking out of salute and stalking angrily away, forcing mechs to dodge out of his path.
Behind him, Flarup sneered. "It certainly is a mess."
But he was too far away to make a reply. He stepped out of the main entrance chamber into a narrow hallway, ignored the wide-eyed soldiers that made themselves scarce at his approach. He had a commander to answer to, and he hoped the medbay had room for one more when it was over.
Author's Note: So there it is. A few more tidbits and some romance! (not all of it pleasant... :p) Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Please review so I know if it's terrible or not. I love my reviewers...They're so helpful, and I have great fun reading and responding to them. Thanks again, you guys. ^^