~~MY IMMORTAL~~

By Ayngel

Fic Written for Robotbigbang 1012

Thank you, reviewers and followers!

Main Characters: Shrapnel, Hook, Kickback, Scavenger, Scrapper. Also: Bombshell, Bonescrusher, Mixmaster, Longhaul, Thrust, Dirge, Ramjet, Rumble.

Rating: NC 17

Warnings: The story contains Insecticon/Constructicon sex, sticky, P&P, tactile, oral. Explicit - please don't read if you don't like sticky. Also has a form of BDSM, violent noncon insecticon/conehead sex, prostitution, drug use and energon drinking in a quite vampiric style which some may not like. Notions of procreation, of the cloning type. Definitely not mechpreg, however. This fic has some dark 'moments,' I'm also warning for fluff/angst/romance - and crack.

Warnings, this chapter: contains angst, violence, prostitution and noncon sex

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or make any money from this story.

Summary: Not long after their reactivation on Earth, the Constructicons struggle with various issues, trying to become functional. When Kickback is admitted to the Decepticon medbay after an attack by the coneheads, Hook finds himself deeply attracted to Shrapnel, and swept into a realm of new possibilities. Meanshile Kickback and Scavenger also develop a liking for each other. Will this destroy the Constructicons?

Or could the Insecticon agenda and the new liaisons actually improve matters?

In this chapter: Scrapper and Hook argue, Scrapper unable to control his jealousy and Hook, the frustrations with his situation. Meanwhile Shrapnel exects his own brand of revenge on Thrust, and Long Haul tells Scavenger to get some fresh air.

PART 3

MIDDAY

From the Journal of Scrapper, Constructicon Leader, Decepticon Command Earth Contingent 1984.

I caught Hook with Scavenger this morning.

Hook wore a guilty look, but a satisfied one. I was convinced I'd found the true source of his previous desires. I was surprised, hurt - and furious. It showed.

He went straight on the defensive. "Oh come on, it was just a one-off!" he said, after Scavenger had made himself scarce.

"Intra-team sessions need to be scheduled," I snapped.

I tried not to show how much I knew the hypocrisy in this statement, the fact that I lacked the courage of my convictions; that this was not the reason.

He didn't buy it. "Oh yes of course," he said, smiling that smile he always does when he knows he's got the better of me. "All that recently with Bonecrusher and Mix and Scavenger. And you and Longhaul. That's been very scheduled. Hasn't it?"

"I'm working on things," I said. "In the meantime, I can't have you singling anyone out."

He threw his hands in the air. "I felt like a frag. Scav was there. Just like he's there when anyone wants a frag. At least he's useful in that respect."

That made me boil inside. "You know how important team order is!" I hissed. "And you know about Scav's vulnerabilities. He'll get attached. We'll get unbalanced."

"And what – so Bonecrusher's allowed to risk that, but I'm not?"

He was right, of course. My sheer hypocrisy burned inside. But I wasn't going to admit that. I did my best to fix him with a firm, leader-like stare.

A darkening smirk came on to his face. "You have to admit, this is rich, Scrapper. It seemed pretty much like you were 'singling me out' yesterday."

"It's different," I said matter-of-factly. "I'm your leader. It makes sense for myself and Devastator's head component to be strongly united." I said this so convincingly I almost believed it myself. Almost.

Hook didn't. "No!" he said. "That's not it." He pointed a finger at me. "This has nothing to do with Devastator. You want a 'relationship.' Nothing has changed."

It hadn't, of course. And neither had the ache of disappointment; another stark illustration of what he felt – or rather didn't feel. "Can't we just concentrate on each other for the time being?" I said. "It's important, Hook. I don't want us back in stasis."

I could not have said a worse thing. His face went livid. I could feel how much that frightens him. Just because he's like this doesn't mean I don't feel intensely what's really going on for him. There's a reason Hook's a medic. It interests him, yes. It's challenging. He also hopes that someday he'll find a way to extend his time in this universe. Indefinitely.

That's what makes this so hard.

"We are not going back in stasis!" He shouted.

"Look," I said, "if we work together on this we have nothing to worry about."

I found him glaring at me, his expression still furious. "All right," he snarled. "Let's get a few things straight. One, I don't want to even think like that. Two, you and me getting it on to the exclusion of everyone else isn't gonna make a blind bit of difference and three …"

He was pointing at me again. "You are a hypocrite, Scrapper! If that orange Autobot crane shows up – and you know who I'm talking about – it will be like this conversation never happened!"

Well, I might have expected that. Attack, with Hook, is always the best defence, a sure-fire means of manoeuvring the spotlight away from himself.

"Don't bring him into it!" I snapped. Although, again, he had a point. And it brought on something else - a sly satisfaction that seeped through my awareness circuits. If Hook was still jealous of Grapple, it meant I meant something to Hook.

I did not let this show, however. And I tried to be as businesslike as possible. "Let's stick to the point," I said. "We need to get this Transfixatron done in time."

He threw his hands up again. "The Transfixatron! Like the Evaporator and the Pulveriser and more recently, the Power Transference Device. Like everything else that's going on here. Another futile quest!"

Now that really alarmed me. "For Primus' sake watch your thoughts!" I hissed. "That sort of stuff really will land us back in stasis!" For being Shockwave's creation, Soundwave cannot read us as well as other Decepticons, but that does not mean that he cannot decipher us at all.

Hook knew this; for he sat down, and had his head in his hands. I felt the depression descend again, the blackness that has been with him since our awakening. "I'm sorry," he said, "I just have to keep reminding myself there's more to life than this. Don't I?"

It's so bleak, and he's so empty, so full of bitter grief that he can't get things right, can't get the solutions he wants. I can't tell you how much it hurts. I just wanted, as always, to hold him and tell him things will be all right. But I can't. He doesn't believe me. And he won't let me anyway. If I had tried that then he would have shoved me away.

Instead, I feigned cheerfulness, far beyond the frail filament of optimism I felt. "It will get better," I said, "Once we get established, we will have more freedom. When that happens, then spontaneous team interface shouldn't be a problem at all!" I even managed a chuckle.

But he looked no happier. There was a long silence. Then he spoke, slowly. "I don't know if I can wait that long," he said, and his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't know if I can handle this any more at all. The uncertainty. Your rules, Scrapper. I need a change. Now."

The words pierced me like a shard of ice. Never had he gone this far. Never before had the coldness, the emptiness which filled my spark been so intense.

And then, I was angry. How could he say such a thing? And why did he have to be like this? His obtuseness, his helplessness in being unhelped, he made no effort. His - depression - he had himself to blame. At that moment, I had had enough of him too.

"Well fine," I snapped. "You're impossible to deal with. You put us all in danger, you selfish piece of pit. And you know what? If Grapple shows up – I might just replace you."

I never meant to say that. Truly I didn't. I won't say I don't have feelings for the other crane. A lot of feelings. But they're different, based on other things. Whatever else, Grapple wouldn't, couldn't ever replace Hook.

Hook was fuming, boiling with hurt and anger. Gathering up the pile of pads on the side, he ripped a datachip from the projector. At that moment, I think he hated me, and his hate was like a sickening, bottomless pit. I saw that the pads bore pictures on Insecticons. So much for that idea of a road to salvation.

His face was a furious mask. "Do what you like!" he snarled. And then he stormed from the room.

My spark burned. I nearly went after him. But I didn't. We'd have come to blows if I'd done that, I'm sure. It's happened before. I never meant to hurt him. I don't know what to do now.

….

Forest, Olympic National Park, Washington USA

Sunlight slanted through the forest as Kickback flitted his way between the thickets.

A good hunt was just what he needed. For despite the aeons since the Invasion, Kickback had never lost touch with the core function he had held on Electraan, the fourteenth world of the Pleiadian system: that of hunter extraordinaire, and spy.

Not that there was prey as challenging - or tasty - as Arachnid infiltrators here. Or what they encountered after the Exodus, on their long trek to Quintessa. Some of the larger Earth beasts hadn't been too bad; unfortunate that the Insecticons had made them mostly extinct. In recent times, he'd brought down human devices; planes and helicopters. These were tasty too.

But not any more. "Consuming humans will attract the unwelcome attentions of the Autobots. Consuming their transportation will appear to the Decepticons like cannibalism," Bombshell had said. "We have had enough trouble in the past with our reputation and we don't need to consume either. It will not do to put either offside. For now."

That was after he and Shrapnel had devoured his catchings. Kickback grew cross again, thinking ofthem. No matter what they'd said, they still made all these rules. Then left him out. They didn't appreciate the full extent to which he, Kickback, had seen that their trio never suffered the fate of the hivers, had affirmed the continuation of their species in the quadrant.

Light dappled the tree trunks, and the carpet of pine needles below. Ahead, the forest grew thicker, its depths beckoning. No, he would not think like this today. He must be positive. Plans were afoot for a colony. That was exciting – even if Bombshell's attitude was annoying. In six or so million years they'd never established one. They could well do that now. And he'd get his clones in there – somehow.

The light dimmed as the canopy grew thicker. The ground between the trees became boggy, patched with dark puddles and pools. Kickback forgot the Coleopterans, soon reaching the place he'd been aiming for: a lagoon deep in the thickets.

The lagoon was in a clearing. Its base sloped gently up and away, so it was deep this side near the bank but became shallow, water giving way to mud some distance away. Beyond, a wooded hill rose steeply.

The opaque water rippled from time to time. Either end, gnarled trees and creepers hung like wraiths. It was something like Demon Swamp, where they had lived – colder, of course, and the vegetation much less lush. And no crocodiles, or eels, or turtles. That was algae, making the ripples.

Demon Swamp. Ah yes, Kickback missed that. The rainforest was like his homeworld. Kickback's spark gave a small pang. He still missed Electraan. Even after all this time. That they weren't at Demon was the Decepticons' fault. Morons like that Thrust. They'd spoiled the tranquillity, the Insecticon monopoly.

That made Kickback cross again. Anti-Decepticon feelings stormed through his processor. But then, he remembered that Scavenger was one. He smiled to himself. Ah yes – sexy legs. Perhaps he'd clean him a skull today? Those from the large antlered beasts that drank here were almost as good as the crocodiles'.

He really did hope he could show the Constructicon his crystal collection, at least. And his skulls.

Kickback skimmed across the water, then did a quick circuit, checking for unwelcome signatures. There were none. He was alone, a sole mechanical beast in a rich organic realm, light years from his origins, yet ever close in spirit.

Landing, he transformed. Opening his arm compartment, he removed the three components. Deftly, he assembled the crossbow. With a click, he fitted the explosive tip he'd nicked from the Decepticon armoury. He snickered. It would made a mess. But it was more fun. It just meant picking up the bits.

Holding the assembled object up to the light, he admired it. He supposed these weapons, along with energon and the nurse, made up for the 'down' sides to the Decepticon presence.

Holding the weapon, Kickback assumed a pose among the trees, his Insecticon senses acutely trained across the water. Like a statue he waited in the dank gloom, the slight twitch to his antenna the only movement to give him away.

...

Meanwhile at the Decepticon Base...

Shrapnel's processor whirred with purpose and plans. Yet, as he made his way towards the Conehead quarters, a calm resolve hung over the Coleopteran. Only his body, taut with the kind of tension present in a cat waiting to spring would, to another Insecticon, have given away his intent. That and his antlers, which shimmered with deliberately accumulated charge.

The Insecticon spared a moment to ponder the status quo, allowing himself a few fond thoughts about Kickback. He did hope the Orthopteran had overheard him talking to Bombshell. And he really would make it up. When he'd attended to the rest of the business.

For now, it was time for the first item on the agenda. As his feet clanked on the metal floor, the ghost of a smile creased the dark, beautiful face. He had called Thrust earlier. The red Conehead had, as usual, played beautifully into his hands.

"Your little friend didn't put out," the moron had growled. "So y'know what that means, bug!"

Shrapnel had feigned the usual fear and intimidation. "I do, do. I must apologise-ise. I will be there at all speed to service your needs, needs."

"Well make it quick. I don't feel like waiting."

Oh how well Shrapnel had acted this out; so well that Thrust had not believed what had happened at the oil rig, before the Coneheads arrived. He thought the Seekers were exaggerating wildly, 'stirring things up,' trying to justify their own failures. The consequent rift in Decepticon Air Command was an unforseen little bonus.

Shrapnel thought of the Conehead. Thrust would be working himself up by now, a seething mass of ugly excitement about what was to come. He would be preparing to lunge at Shrapnel, to 'smack the Insecticon around' a bit; to land some blows, make a few requests for poses and actions he thought were degrading. He'd be picturing how he'd shove the Insecticon face down, and ram himself in.

Shrapnel smiled to himself. Thrust's spike was as disappointing as the rest of him. But that had mattered not; any more than did pain, or rape, or shame. These were simply not part of the equation – or not the Insecticon one.

The only thing that mattered was that Thrust – at the height of his antics - rammed his conventional connector into one of Shrapnel's data ports. This he invariably did, believing it 'overwhelming.' Shrapnel had done nothing to suggest otherwise.

For it wasn't that Shrapnel could not have overpowered Thrust. Such would have been easy. But for Shrapnel to plug into him would have yielded nothing; for the fear would have closed his firewalls. Beneath the façade, the Conehead was a coward.

Plugged into Shrapnel, however, copious data poured from Thrust, becoming more so the more turned on he got. Data about many things. Most useful things. All of which Shrapnel stored, carefully, and later gave to Bombshell.

The 'turning on' had been the key. Shrapnel would struggle, and 'give in.' He would make out that it hurt; that he had been 'broken.' Thrust would be ecstatic. Shrapnel would appear weak and vulnerable, transmitting back an impression of terror. Thrust loved this. It brought him swiftly to overload.

As more useful data streamed in, Shrapnel would keep up the 'act,' before overloading himself, something he could do quite easily on demand and with little real stimulation. Thrust would consider himself a star. Shrapnel would tremble and appear shattered, thanking him. It guaranteed another session, and more data.

He really had no idea.

Shrapnel considered for a moment keeping the role. They'd gotten much from this routine, so enjoyed by all the Coneheads. The pay was pleasing. Nice energon, freedom of the Conehead quarters, a wealth of information; even if the secrets of Dirge's success - that strange quality which infused Cybertronian processors with dread - had remained tantalizingly out of reach.

Rejecting it may mean relocation - far from the Decepticon base.

But no. There was Kickback to consider - and the Coleopteran Way would not make anything but retribution comfortable. Besides – he thought with a little surge – this would be fun. Much as it was satisfying to so completely have it over the Coneheads, it had lately become rather boring. Shrapnel needed a real energy release. And the forest was too cold anyway.

When he was done here, Shrapnel would frag someone who appreciated the true range of Coleopteran talents. And gather data in a much more pleasurable way ….

Shrapnel arrived at the door. It was a silly, fortified device which Shrapnel could only assume was designed to make Thrust look 'imposing.' Such a resounding failure was almost sad to see. But Coneheads seemed as immune to the laughter of the Seekers as to the powers of the Insecticons.

Thinking that Thrust really was far too much of a fool for the Program, Shrapnel rang the buzzer. The Way would prevail. Thrust was about to learn that harm inflicted on Insecticons invariably came back – a hundred times as hard.

Today, Shrapnel did not use his usual nervous and subservient tone as soon as Thrust responded. Nevertheless, Thrust let him in. Immediately.

Lust – the great truth obfuscator, Shrapnel thought. How Cybertronians let it rule their lives. If the Conehead had paid just a smidgen of attention, diverted his thoughts from his spike and connector just for a microsecond, he would have known something was different, at least.

But Thrust did know, soon after. Shrapnel wasted no time. There was a hum, as he activated charge, a sharp crackle as his antlers readied to channel. The Conehead got halfway across the room before the lecherous leer disappeared – abruptly. A blinding flash was followed by a scream of pain and surprise, as the room plunged into darkness.

It was a small bolt. A trifling effort, comparatively speaking. But the Conehead got the message.

Unprepared and with optics shorted, Thrust's instinct was to blunder for the door. Another bolt seared the lock and he screamed again, pulling his hand away.

Shrapnel remained calmly in the same spot. "We play by Insecticon rules today, today," he said.

A visible shudder went through Thrust. He groped wildly, stumbling, his cone banging into the striplight. Terrified optics stared, broken, seeing nothing; the horrified realization of one who realizes that rumours it was convenient to ignore are actually true, and about to become so with painful vengeance.

All the same, he attempted to talk his way out. "Now c'mon, it wasn't my fault," he cried. "It was Ramjet. He got – carried away. I was just having a bit o'fun!"

Shrapnel laughed, softly. The Conehead could not have made it worse. To attack a weaker one was one thing, but to shirk responsibility? It was the ultimate loss of face, worthy of nothing but contempt.

The ugly face was desperate. "Look - we can sort this," he was squawking. "What if I just pay you, and we don't do nothin'? I won't tell. Or about that just now!"

"I am sorry, but my coding would not permit this this." Shrapnel cocked his head on one side. "Perhaps you should not look at this as personal Thrust, Thrust. Your services have been useful-ful. But unfortunately, changes must be made, a message sent, sent. Don't frag with the Insecticons-icons. Be cheered, some Cybertronians enjoy this, this."

Although Thrust wasn't one of them. Of that, Shrapnel was certain.

And then, Shrapnel was done with talking. There was a sharp hum, a fritzing of electricity before a powerful bolt knocked Thrust to the ground. Then, Shrapnel was upon him, over him, ripping open his interface panel, plugging forcefully in.

Grabbing Thrust's hands, he pinned them behind his head. The other hand went over the Conehead's mouth as Shrapnel gathered his energy – then surged. Thousands of volts hammered into the Conehead's body.

The body lit up, flashing like a red beacon, Thrust screamed; and screamed again, his efforts muffled in Shrapnel's hand and the crackling static. The air stung, acrid with sulphur and singed circuitry.

Then Thrust was flailing, uselessly, black smoke rising from the edge of his fuselage. "Please…" he whimpered, his charred form jerking spasmodically. Shattered optics stared from a burned face under a blackened nosecone.

Shrapnel didn't acquiesce. He'd needed that. The Way was satisfied, his coding already more settled. Besides which, all the passive stuff - and thinking of that medic – really had built up charges he hadn't even known were accumulating. That, and not doing Kickback.

Very remiss and un-self aware, Shrapnel reproached himself. Bombshell would be disappointed. Well, he would fix things up now. Besides, it would save risking damage to Hook.

"Please …" Thrust was whimpering again.

Shrapnel smiled down at his victim. "Patience, patience," he said. "We have a little way to go yet, yet."

…..

Soundwave, passing the Coneheads' quarters, was surprised to hear conduit curdling screams, accompanied by zapping sounds. It was hard to determine the cause as pleasure or pain. Blue light flashed under the door.

The telepath paused, and scanned. It was the Conehead Thrust, and an Insecticon. The Conehead was distressed; in pain. Whereas the Insecticon? Soundwave could not read him at all.

Not even 'not very well' as with the Constructicons. Not at all.

More yells, and thudding sounds. A strong smell of burning. Soundwave chuckled. He disliked the Coneheads intensely, had disagreed utterly with retrieving them from storage. It mattered not if Shrapnel dispatched one now. Soundwave would consider it a favour.

He thought of the other Insecticon, Bombshell. His cerebroshell technology was most interesting, as was the mech himself. Quintesson modified. Impressive.

With a slight huff, the telepath raised an optic ridge and moved on. He must continue to advocate alliance with the Insecticons. This would be useful.

…

Scavenger shouldn't have listened. "Ain't a good idea to eavesdrop, kiddo. Y'almost always hear stuff you don't wanna hear." Longhaul had said. No – he shouldn't have listened, and now he only had himself to blame for having what he already knew confirmed – that he was nothing more than 'entertainment' when they felt like it.

That Hook thought this stung especially. That – what they just did – didn't it mean anything? Didn't their newfound 'kinship' count for something? Obviously not. Worse, all Scavenger had done was cause more trouble between Hook and Scrapper.

That awful shouting. Scavenger's energon chamber churned at the memory. Then Scrapper had talked about replacing Hook. He wouldn't really do that, would he?

The door had opened and Hook had stormed out, his face livid. Scavenger had shrunk into an alcove. Scrapper came soon after. Scrapper's face was ashen, his optics liquidy. Neither had seen him.

Devastated, Scavenger had snuck back to his room. Now, as the usual collection of sea creatures swirled outside the window, he sat miserably on the berth, his tail tucked beside him. This was all his fault.

"There y'are!"

Scavenger looked up to see Long Haul in the doorway, his expression grim. Scavenger hung his head. This was bad. And he didn't have to tell Long Haul he'd disobeyed his orders, hadn't cleaned the corridor as asked. Long Haul would already know.

But Long Haul didn't chastise him. Instead, he came and sat beside him. There was a long silence as the truck stared across at the window. Long Haul sighed.

"You know what the problem is?" he said. "This place. Ain't no good, us couped in here. Be so much better when we got us a place on land. In the meantime, we oughtta get out more."

Scavenger nodded . He supposed that was right. He failed to see how it figured momentously – beside his catastrophic contributions, his ineptitude. But it was worth considering.

"Yeah, it doesn't help," he muttered.

Long Haul was looking at him. Not unkindly. "Tell you what, why don't you get some fresh air? You could go for a fly." He raised his gaze upward. "You don't wanna get caught up in their drama, believe me. That's my job."

He sighed again. "Y'know - it's always Long Haul to the rescue. Good old truck'll sort it. What I put up with? Scrapper don't pay me a fraction of what I'm worth!"

But Scavenger was reeling, barely able to control the twisting in his circuits as awful truths bombarded his processor. He's trying to get rid of me! This had to be the case. He knows its all my fault. And everyone knows I'm no good at flying.

"I'm – er – not very good on my own out there," he whimpered. "I'll crash." And then he was overwhelmed with the need to throw himself on Long Haul's mercy. "Look, I-I'm sorry!" He stammered. "I know I shouldn't have faced with Hook. It's just that – well he was there, and I wanted it, and so did he, and we …."

Longhaul patted his arm. "You ain't done nothin' wrong," he said. "And I ain't sendin' you on a mission of no return, either, you paranoid idiot."

Scavenger relaxed. Of course Long Haul had read him through the bond. Long Haul was best out of all of them for that. And Scavenger believed him. One thing about Long Haul, he didn't tell lies. What you see is what you get.

Long Haul stood up. "I'm serious!" he gestured to the window. "It's a nice day up there. I'd join you if I didn't have other things to deal with."

Scavenger did feel better. But his shoulders still hunched. "I don't really like flying," he protested.

"Garbage! It'll do you good." Long Haul's hand was on his shoulder. "There's an island near here – go dig some holes. Now get your aft outta here."

Long Haul had made up his mind. The word had spoken. It wasn't a request.

...

In his quarters, Hook removed another picture from the green wall. Determinedly, he stuffed it into the open crate already half full of paraphernalia on the purple-covered berth.

This was it. First Aid had been right. He was worth more than this, had always been worth more. Well - now Scrapper's feelings were clear, Hook would leave. He would inform Megatron he was 'going out on his own' – and he wasn't hanging in to watch that crane. Oh no way. He would get off this Primus-forsaken rock and return to Cybertron.

Too bad if Megatron bucked up about the Autobot. Scrapper should have thought of that.

Yes! This was just the excuse Hook had needed, the final push to make him make the move. He would free himself from the fetters of having to play in a team. No more would he put up with Scrapper's emotional insecurities, the garbage which was this relationship thing. Or with Scavenger's neediness, or Mixmaster's ineptitude, or Bonecrusher's over -impulsive behaviour, or Long Haul's complaining.

He checked the time. A little after 12.30, Earth LT. He should comm Astrotrain, really, or go find out about the spacebridge times. But there was still a bit to pack here. Then medbay, and all the equipment from there. Maybe get this done first …

Hook's optics fell on the pile of datapads, the one with Shrapnel's innermost bits transcribed. Would he take those? Yes, Hook decided, why not. There was no reason the Insecticons shouldn't come to Cybertron. It was a cheering thought, more incentive to go; the thought of an association, free of admonishments from Scrapper.

Indeed – Hook would be a free agent; independent, and with the whole universe at his feet. He would do what he liked, when he liked, and have whoever he wanted. As it should have been eons ago.

First Aid, if he showed up, would see what a success he was.

With this in mind, Hook started to gather the pads.

More soon ...