Pt. 33: Prowl and the Constructicons, Sixshot looking for the Terrorcons, Heretech looking for help, Overlord looking for Megatron's approval, the D.J.D. on good days and the D.J.D. on the Warworld, Megatron has a few bad nights, Brave Police: J-Decker, a Quintesson Santa Claus, Jenga Championship of the Universe, the Kupacolypse continues, and Tracks/Raoul.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 33
Warning: Stalking groupies, bondage, mnemosurgery, torture, awkward, religion, alien sex, xeno sex, sad.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1, TFP
Characters: Prowl, Constructicons, Sixshot, Chromedome, Overlord, Heretech, Fortress Maximus, the Decepticon Justice Division, Black Shadow, Blue Bacchus, Deathsaurus, Nickel, Megatron, Optimus Prime, Starscream, the Brave Police, Jazz, Astrotrain, Silas, Kup, Tracks, Raoul.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.
[* * * * *]
"Prowl, Constructicons "Never, ever say it could be worse.""
[* * * * *]
"Could be worse," one of them said, broken in the aftermath. Scrapper was a raw end snapped off their minds, still bleeding, but they were alive.
"Could be worse," somebody said as they looked at the Autobot Bombshell had chosen for them.
"How?!" somebody else said, because it was an Autobot, a mismatched patchweld over melted slag that had been a connection. They were making due in order to survive, and the Constructicons knew it.
Then Prowl joined them, and they swam in how lucky they were. He fit, he fixed, he tore them open and mended the hole. And maybe he kept the edges sanded rough so they never healed together, but at least his damage completed theirs. In the liquid level of shared circulation hoses and linked fuel tanks, they loved him as they loved themselves, and he was part of them, loving them back.
"Could be worse," they told each other, dizzy in the wreckage of their first disassembly.
He ran, Autobot that he was, and they pursued, gestalt that they were.
"Could be worse," someone whispered in the darkness of the wilderness, beaming in joy that they'd found him. Sure, he'd rejected them, but he hadn't gotten away, and he wasn't dead. He was still one of them.
"Could be worse?" they offered in hope when the only other option was annihilation, and he merged with them reluctantly.
"Never say that," the part of them that was Prowl said. "It always could be."
[* * * * *]
"Outside the window" - Constructicons/Prowl
[* * * * *]
Five heavy construction frames versus one frail window shouldn't have even been a competition. Really, it shouldn't have. The glass was lucky to have survived Shockwave's attack, but it wasn't set quite right in the frame anymore. One good punch would probably knock it loose even if the glass itself didn't shatter.
They didn't break the window, however. If they broke the window, they'd have to face the consequences of interrupting their gestaltmate's recharge cycle, and none of them were willing to do that. Prowl recharged infrequently enough. They didn't want him to lose whatever sense of safety had allowed him to retire tonight. Usually, some pressing urgency caused him to work through the night with only a short break taken with the door of his office locked against their greedy hands.
Their greedy hands had learned restraint. Tonight, they were gentle. They pressed to the glass carefully. They wanted it out of the way. They wanted their hands on him. They wanted to grasp handfuls of sleek black-and-white plating. Their fingers curled in longing for the touch of his electrical field against their circuitry, muted output of his basic structure unable to avoid mingling with theirs beneath the level of conscious thought. Their hands ached empty, longing for the deceptively smooth feel of his armor in their palms. They wanted to gather him into the center of the group where he belonged. He was one of them. They were Devastator more than they were individual mechs, and part of Devastator laid in front of them right now, out of reach but within sight.
For the sake of being able to see him, they refrained from breaking the glass. Better to see him rest than pace restless tracks outside a locked door.
Five Constructicons shouldered each other aside, quietly fighting for room to push their faces to the glass. Hook swore under his breath, working sensitive fingertips under the glass. This wasn't a window meant to open, but the frame was loose. Mixmaster and Scavenger held the top and sides of the glass pushed up as far as the loose frame allowed. Their vents closed, not daring to so much as breathe while Hook slowly coaxed one hand into the tiny gap.
Into, and gradually, a micron at a time, through. Hook's fingertips inched into the room, pinched but triumphant. The Constructicons stared through the window at the back turned to them. So close. So far. They could see him with the glass in the way. They couldn't touch him, although their hands itched to reach out.
Hook could manage this much, a crumb for starving mechs though it might be. He had his visor shut off, forehelm leaned against the windowsill as he rerouted all power to the barest tips of the fingers crammed through into the room. He batted at the hands turned on him, exploring his back and neck. Excuse them, but he was concentrating. He'd always had the most sensitive hands of the bunch, the hands of a surgeon, and right now his hand was close, so very close, close enough to just barely sense the outer ripples of electromagnetic energy given off by dormant systems.
When he was awake, Prowl held his energy field in to just above his armor. It made the air around him cold as ice to people accustomed to feeling another person's EM field once they came into range. Prowl radiated chill because of the lack of personal energy around him.
In recharge, that tight control relaxed. His systems radiated ambient energy, slow pulses of electric charge bleeding off him in warm waves. Hook's fans caught, and the surgeon froze, the very edges of his own field teased by unconscious recognition from Prowl's circuitry. Asleep, Prowl knew him for a fellow part of Devastator, and sleepy welcome pushed the Autobot's energy out to mingle with what was another piece of himself. Hook shuddered.
The glass rattled in the frame, and four pairs of Constructicon hands frantically fluttered around it, ready to catch it if it shook free. Hook simply shut off every other sensor and dwelled in Prowl's presence at the limits of perception.
On the other side of the glass, Prowl inhaled long and deep. His doors just slightly bobbed, and Hook's fingers reached, trying to meet the waft of Prowl-flavored energy halfway. The other Constructicons pressed themselves to the glass and whimpered soundless need for what was held out of reach.
A pity he slept with his back to them. In his sleep, Prowl smiled the smallest fraction, watched over and safe.
[* * * * *]
"Wait your turn" - Constructicons/Prowl
[* * * * *]
It should have been humiliating. He'd been collared. There was a collar around his neck and that was a leash. He'd been put on a leash.
The humiliation never happened. They'd seen into Prowl's mind. They understood. Prowl looked like an Autobot on the outside, black and white and self-righteous all over, but inside? Inside, Prowl was pure Constructicon green. Hook had bent his helm to allow small hands to buckle the collar at the back of his neck, and he'd looked up into a foreign-looking face with familiar thoughts behind it as it closed. He felt no humiliation. No embarrassment, no shame, not the slightest hint of distrust or fear that the cold metal locked around his neck would be used to harm him.
Hurt him, yes. Oh Primus, yes. Hurt him, because their bodies were as different on the outside as they were the same on the inside. Hook's frame thrilled to the sting of bites, the hot gush of pierced fuel lines. It set his wires ablaze to be hauled down onto his knees by the leash wound tight around Prowl's fingers. The show of force turned him on where gentleness failed to. Scrap and rust ground into his knee joints, and the tubes in his neck pinched under the hard metal pull from the collar. Prowl backhanded him, and Hook gasped, engine revving punchdrunk pleasure for the sharp crack of impact. Beat him, bruise him, grind him under wheels. Force him to scream from the pain, and the pleasure united them.
Under their surface differences, they were the same, they were one. Prowl's hands inflicted the pain, Hook's body felt the pain, but their minds were Devastator's. One body gave, the other took, and both felt the pleasure. It was a complete circuit between them. Give, take; thrust forward, pull back; offer, receive; back and forth in a physical climb to the peak, a dance where one led and the other followed but each would get there at the same climatic moment as Hook howled release and Prowl growled, their forehelms pressed together, Prowl's bared teeth inches away from the soft, broken shape of Hook's parted lips.
The collar and leash might have humiliated anyone who didn't understand self-restraint, in the literal sense of the word. As it was, Hook merely felt a blush of embarrassment that he couldn't hide the wide, trembling smile beaming his adoration up at Prowl.
"Wait your turn," Prowl said to the other four Constructicons, uncollared and free of leashes but bound nonetheless, and they had seen into his mind. They knew what cruelty he intended their wait to be.
[* * * * *]
"Prowl: wild side."
[* * * * *]
This might have been their stupidest idea yet. Quite possibly one of their most brilliant, too.
Scavenger dodged under the bridge, pausing to heave air. The hot night air on Cybertron didn't help cool his overheated engine at all, but he couldn't stop to flare his armor for better heat dispersion. He had to keep moving, keep running, keep hiding.
Hunger sought through the gestalt bond, the murky sliver of Devastator active in the back of his brain module, and it had a hunter's optics. It peered at him with a predator's grin, and Scavenger bolted for the next piece of cover already knowing it was too late.
Blue and red lit the night up, and Prowl burst out of altmode at sufficient speed to tackle the heavier mech to the ground. Battle-honed reflexes went up against an Enforcer's skill with cuffs. Truth be told, Scavenger might have hesitated to fight back. Having a hot, panting gestaltmate pressed along him from chest to knee inspired all the wrong kind of urges. The last thing he wanted was to get away.
Cuffs slapped onto his wrists, stapled through to the ground to secure him. Scavenger bucked and fought them uselessly, but he was caught. Thoroughly caught. It'd been a good chase, but it was over.
The fierce kiss Prowl claimed him with told him this had been the best idea the Constructicons had ever had.
A second later, the black-and-white was up and running down his next target.
[* * * * *]
"Cybertronian language spoken to human ears"
[* * * * *]
Prowl didn't understand why Jimmy Pink kept warbling, "When the moon's in your eye like a big pizza pie, that's amoooooooooore!" every time one of the Constructicons checked in with him. He thought it was a particularly obnoxious comment on how obvious the gestalt's crush on him was, even speaking NeoCybex instead of English. He had no idea it was because of the NeoCybex itself.
The Constructicons thought Jimmy Pink had an atrocious accent.
[* * * * *]
"Phase Sixers Try To Socialize With Normal Guys and Fail. Miserably."
[* * * * *]
It was a bar. He could do a bar. Bars were easy to do. People did them every day. They went inside, did bar things, came out drunk and hanging off each other. Social magic happened during the drinking part, he was fairly certain. It was drink-magic. The more a mech drank, the more social happened. Surely. Yes?
Sixshot glanced over his shoulder, covering uncertainty with a cool check for snipers. He'd come all this way looking for rumors of the Terrorcons, and a place full of engex and snacks was the most likely spot to stake out for hungry walking fuel tanks. All he had to do was go inside and blend in, and his prey would walk right into the trap.
Seemed like an easy enough series of steps:
1. Find bar.
2. Walk into bar.
3. ?
4. Terrorcons.
Okay, so he was still a little iffy on what exactly #3 would be. He'd have to improvise. He squared his shoulders and walked in.
A room full of smirking, smiling, laughing faces looked up, spotted him, and congealed.
Sixshot regretted this plan immediately.
[* * * * *]
"Chromedome going through Overlord's mind when he spots something very weird even for Overlord."
[* * * * *]
He'd been combing through Overlord's memory for a while now, planting the subliminal trigger and searching idly. He wasn't in a hurry. He had the entire quest to familiarize himself with Overlord's mind. He'd find what Prowl wanted eventually.
Mnemosurgery wasn't a straightforward as running a search on keywords. A mnemosurgeon had to actively learn the individual quirks of each patient's brain module. Chromedome had been patiently getting to know the twists and turns of Overlord's memory archives over the past weeks. Following thoughts would lead him to what he wanted to know sooner or later.
Letting random thought association happen brought him into a lot of strange memory files. Most of them were combat-related, or starred Megatron. Some of them included Trepan, which unsettled Chromedome. Overlord had done a lot of things in his lifetime. Chromedome had thought himself experienced in digging through the most perverse of criminal minds, but Overlord still managed to unsettle him at times. Even a tiny prod from Chromedome's kinder thoughts retrieved disturbing images, sometimes.
One day after a particular stunt by Rodimus, a passing thought from Chromedome must have included the lithe ripple of his captain loosed onto an obstacle course: part race, part dance, part gymnastics, part fight. Rodimus gleamed like temptation and moved like sin.
And suddenly, Chromedome was in a memory of Overlord that didn't just compare but overwhelmed. He couldn't shut it down fast enough. For days afterward, the memory of Overlord dancing for Megatron was burnt into the back of his optics, playing on repeat.
He was more careful with his searches after that.
[* * * * *]
"So, what if Overlord got exceedingly drunk on G9 once, and started blubbering over Fortress Maximus.
I mean, "Why doesn't Megatron just call me, MAx?! -Hic-"
[* * * * *]
This part of captivity never got any less confusing. It got easier, of course. Less than a year into Overlord's patented brand of torture, and Fortress Maximus found this particular quirk of his captor to be the easiest to tolerate. Didn't make sense, but oh well. A lot of what Overlord did made no sense to someone with rudimentary ethics or even sanity. Fort Max found it easier to endure once he gave up trying to understand.
A year into captivity, and the smell billowing ahead of Overlord into the torture chamber brought a shudder of relief to Fort Max's frame. No pain or interrogation tonight, that smell told him. Overlord indulged in the occasional celebratory drink to savor exciting matches or just for the taste, but when he wanted to get drunk, he went all out. The mess of a monster staggering into the room reeked of highgrade. His optics weren't just on different brightness settings, lenses dilated; they were actually different colors, he was so fendered. He must have forgotten how latches worked a while back, as every one of his gun hatches were flipped open with the barrels snagging on things like doorframes, control panels, and the table.
The funny part - in a twisted version of funny - was that Overlord had no control over his temper when he was sober, yet when fendered, he dropped straight through more turbulent emotions to dwell in melancholy. He wanted nothing more than someone to hold him and tell him everything was okay. Unfortunate, as a Decepticon superwarrior unable to walk straight scared everybody out of his path just by existing. That left the strapped-down Autobot on the table to weather the storm.
Legs missing, one optic pried loose, still recovering from the last hacking attempt, Fortress Maximus found himself making soothing noises. It beat screaming.
"I mean," Overlord slurred without raising his forehelm up off the table, "why doesn't he just call me, Max? I've been gone forever. He gave me an ultimatum, and I," his systems hiccupped, "and I turned him down. Why's he ignoring me?" Differently-colored optics peered woefully over one forearm at the Autobot. "He always does this. That - that jet snubs him, and he'll tear through planets to pound him back into place. I challenge him to his face, an' it's, heeeeeey, look, now's not the time, we'll talk later."
Disgust and terror iced Fort Max's fuel lines as a friendly hand patted his strapped-down arm. "It's what I like about you, Max. You're a - a - a captive audience!" Overlord attempted to stand up, grandstanding for attention, only to tip over and crash to the floor. A distressed system hiccup came from out of sight.
The Autobot stared patiently at the equipment overhead. It wasn't as though he had a choice in the matter.
Eventually, the thrashing from floorward became less upset. Overlord laid quietly on the floor beside him, probably face-down since his voice sounded muffled. "Wish I could take him captive. Wish I could tie him down like you. Hold him down where you are. Make him scream for me. Fight him every day until he admits I'm," he faltered, "that I'm worth fighting. That I might beat him." His voice fell to a mutter, talking to himself. Attempting to convince himself, perhaps. "I can beat him. I beat you. I defeated all of Garrus-9. Megatron's nothing."
Metal clinked and clanked as the big Decepticon sat up gradually. Mismatched optics came into view over the table, and Fort Max suffered the petting of his arm again as Overlord mumbled reassurances to himself. He'd had no idea Overlord had the self-confidence of a prison glitch. It was a well-hidden weakness, at least until the engex flowed.
Unbeatable Decepticon superwarrior's confidence shatters under engex, obsesses over one opponent! News at 11.
"Should just…stick with you. My captive audience," Overlord said. Drink thickened his voice. It slowed his reflexes, too. He underestimated his own strength as he stood up and accidently pitched forward onto his prisoner's pried-open chest. "Urk! Oops. I'll show him I don't need him. I'll show him, Max. Everyone will see. He'll come."
Fort Max grimaced at the new flash of pain in his chest and waited. Slowing fans stuttered and restarted. Yep, and there went Overlord, back around the depressive cycle. The Autobot added an extra note to his soothing noises. Overlord buried his face back in his arms on the table by Fort Max's hip, keening wildly. What a mess of a mech.
"What did I do wrong, Max? Why don't I deserve a call at the very least?"
Overlord always asked so earnestly. Megatron opinion meant so much to him. Fort Max just sighed and stared upward some more. None of this made any sense to him, and it wasn't like Overlord would listen if he said anything. The Decepticon came staggering in here looking for someone who couldn't run away or reject him. It was disturbing, but it didn't hurt.
Fortress Maximus: teddy bear.
[* * * * *]
"Heretech trying to get the Warriors Elite to cooperate."
[* * * * *]
Overlord was easy. Heretech commed him with a simple, "Megatron said you couldn't do it." It got done, and then Overlord demanded an evaluation report be sent directly to Megatron to be filled out, preferably in person, and Heretech pretty much just got out of the way of that trainwreck. It handled itself, most days.
Black Shadow was simple enough, if he got his bonus check. Heretech had a series of financial rewards set up in accomplishment tiers. Black Shadow happily met any goals set in order to get his shanix. A fast shuttle to the Monacus casinos, some leave time coinciding with Blue Bacchus, and Black Shadow was under control.
It took Heretech a while to get the hang of Sixshot. Sixshot didn't seem to want anything. He never seemed interested in anything but combat, and he just grunted at any attempt at conversation that didn't involve a mission briefing. Heretech ended up setting up a tab at a local bar. It seemed to work out okay.
The other Warrior Elite, believe it or not, were more difficult yet. Heretech could confidently say that nobody else could or wanted to do his job, despite the desperate way he attempted to foist it off on various people throughout the war.
So eons later, when the D.J.D. tracked him down and condemned him, it actually came as somewhat of a relief.
[* * * * *]
" Vos singing?"
[* * * * *]
"I should know this song." Kaon drummed his fingers on the console. "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star?"
"Bet Bet Black Shadow?" Tesarus asked at the same second.
"It's the tune for the glyph song," Tarn said, glancing over. "He's not singing the right words, though."
"What is he singing?"
"I can't quite make it out…" Tarn zoned out a bit, trying to listen. After a while, he shook his head in frustration. "I can't hear. The screaming's too loud to understand the tonals." Stupid List mech was too loud to hear over. It figured. Now it would bug him until he asked Vos later.
"It's going to be stuck in my head all day," Tesarus muttered.
[* * * * *]
" Tarn, Kaon, and fluff!"
[* * * * *]
"How do you feel?"
"I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"If you're filling out a blank on that blasted form, Tarn, I'm going to file it up your cannon barrel."
"…it's part of my job to report on the well-being of my subordinates after injury or - "
"Tarn!"
"I think I'll retire to my office. Call if your condition changes."
[* * * * *]
"Tarn playing a musical instrument?"
[* * * * *]
"I'm…more of a singer," Tarn hedged, looking at the electrobass in open unease. What was he supposed to do with the strings? He hadn't been to a stage show in ages, and he'd never been one for the kind of music that didn't have a full orchestra accompanying it.
Helex narrowed his optics at him. "We know that. But you're the one who made hobbies a requirement of our personal development plans, and Kaon likes music."
"Singing is perfectly acceptable music."
"Sure, but that still leaves the electrobass open. I mean, unless you want to nab the next guy on the List to play."
Tarn glared at him.
"Didn't think so. Come on. Give it a try. I have to try this thing, so give me a break." Helex hefted the circuituba. "You can't sound any worse than me. And Vos has that thing with the reed, so don't be too self-conscious. We get to listen to him squeak during the solos."
[* * * * *]
"Nickel waking up the DJD in the morning in true "mom" style."
[* * * * *]
"I have never," gasp pant, "run so fast," wheeeeeeeze, "in my life." Kaon braced his left hand against the wall, pressing the other to the center of his chest over his laboring fuel pump, which pounded hard enough to shake his already wobbling knees. "Oh, frag. Oh, no. Help. I can't. Stop. Cycling. In overdrive."
Tarn could hear the poor mech's ventilation system whirring away from all the way over where he leaned against the cargohold wall. That was sort of amazing, since he could have sworn he couldn't hear anything over the alarming clamor of his own pumps and fans. Lord Megatron have mercy, he hadn't even known there were that many red lights on his HUD. Where had they all come from? "I beat my own transformation record," he offered when Kaon fell to sobbed, pained breaths. "Didn't know I could change shape that fast."
Tesarus just continued to sprawl on the ramp where they'd hauled him, their combined efforts barely enough to heave his huge bulk up into the launching ship. He'd never been a quick runner, what with his stubby legs. He'd managed to throw Helex that last distance to hang off the lip of the slowly closing ramp by four hands and a prayer, and Vos had followed, whistling through the air like a spear to transform, hitting the ramp and scrambling spider-like toward the ramp controls. Kaon and Tarn had dragged them in the rest of the way.
Pelting pell-mell toward their own hijacked ship had been the worst wake-up call the D.J.D. had ever had, especially knowing the consequences if the hijacker actually got away with it.
"Am I going to have to place that call to Cybertron informing Lord Megatron that his elite internal police unit is so out-of-shape I beat them handily?" a highly amused and terribly acidic voice asked through the intercom.
Speaking of consequences. "Don't you dare," Tarn tried to thunder. It came out more of a whine as his engine sputtered.
"Please don't," Helex pleaded. Everyone gave him a slightly appalled look for stooping to pleas, and he lowered his voice to hiss, "Look, I don't want anybody else knowing she took us out. Think about it! If they know she can do it, somebody else will figure out how."
Good point. Tarn swallowed, suddenly very uncomfortable. Vos flattened himself to the nearest wall in paranoia. Tesarus just oozed somehow flatter.
"Am I going to have any more trouble giving you your maintenance checks?" Nickel asked, poisonously sweet.
"No ma'am," the D.J.D. mumbled, shamefaced and squirming. Health & Safety was important. They hadn't realized it capable of kicking their collective afts.
"Good." The cargohold door unlocked. "Then welcome aboard."
[* * * * *]
"Black Shadow/Blue Bacchus"
[* * * * *]
He knew he had fans, but he'd never had a fan get quite so excited about watching him fight. Usually the Decepticons who wanted to see him in action didn't survive watching. They took to the field with him and generally became casualties of friendly fire if they made it past all the Autobots. Black Shadow was a tad surprised his newest fan had not only made it this far, but seemed to be keeping up on the killcount. Plus, well. That. That had just happened. That was plenty surprising all by itself.
"Did you just smack my aft?" Black Shadow squinted his optics, replaying the last few seconds in his head. Kill Autobot, turn around to flash a smile at his self-proclaimed Number One Fan, turn back to the fight, and now his aft stung. Someone screamed as he smashed their face in, but the kill was on automatic. He was paying more attention to the replay of a hand impacting on his aft.
A somewhat manic smile answered him. "Yeah! What of it?"
He blinked at the guy. Oookay. That was different. "Tell you what," he said over the strangled howl of the Autobot he was choking the life out of, "you get out of this intact, I'll let you buy me a drink."
"Really?! Yes!"
Black Shadow shook his head, unable not to smile at the enthusiasm. This was not his average fan. "What's your name, anyway?"
"Blue Bacchus!"
[* * * * *]
"DJD adjusting to life on the Warworld"
[* * * * *]
Now that the formalities and requisite posing was over, it sure felt like they were being shuffled from the limelight rather quickly. "Is there a reason you're all but shoving us down the hall?" Tarn asked. He kept his voice light but threatening, letting the smoky rasp of his filters give the words a menacing undertone. Taking an explosion to the face had turned his usual silken voice rough anyway. He might as well roll with it.
"Yes," Deathsaurus said in a clipped tone. It didn't invite questions. It attempted to nip at their heels, as if they weren't hustling fast enough for his tastes.
Not that Tarn objected to knowing where the hand of his enemy-turned-ally was, but he wasn't certain he liked having that hand pressed to the small of his back. They were only just allies, after all. That same hand had been fighting him recently. It felt strange to have it urging him along. "And that reason is..?"
Nickel chose that moment to skate a weaving pattern through both their legs, emerging ahead of them just in time to nearly ram headfirst into the mech who'd rounded the corner. "Epp-epp-epp! Watch it, big guy! Little person, coming through!"
Tarn felt a rush of fondness for the tiny medic's oversized attitude, and a large portion of horror as he suddenly understood Deathsaurus' hurry to exit.
"That," the leader of the Warworld said somewhat wearily. "That's my reason." His hand fell away from Tarn's back. "Hello, Blue Bacchus. No murder, please."
"You."
"I said please, you notice. You did notice that, yes?"
"You!" Blue Bacchus didn't spare a look toward his commander. He'd been part and parcel to Deathsaurus' carefully downplayed welcome of the D.J.D. onto the Warworld, but now they were supposed to be allies. This was no longer playing reluctant lackey while waiting for Deathsaurus to strike Tarn down. No, all his hate-filled, rage-seething attention was locked on the Justice Division. They looked slightly pole-axed.
He took a step toward them, optics blazing and fists shaking at his sides. "You killed Black Shadow!"
Tarn coughed awkwardly into his hand. "Ah. Yes. About that." This was going to be no fun whatsoever, he could tell.
[* * * * *]
"More Warworld shenanigans?"
[* * * * *]
Tarn slumped wearily into a seat, feeling more than a bit diced around the edges. That had been exceedingly unpleasant, but at least it was over with. For now. Temporarily. Blue Bacchus was apparently one of the higher-ranked Decepticons they'd be working with as Deathsaurus' allies, and imagining working alongside Black Shadow's surviving conjunx unlocked a whole new level of awkward.
Right, well, on to the next crisis.
Helex muttered another snide comment about the general shabbiness of the Warworld, and Deathsaurus' many optics flamed. Tarn winced. That was quick.
"Excuse me for having a fleet full of warriors instead of support staff," the leader of the rebels snapped, and Tarn wracked his brain module for soothing words that wouldn't offend either ally or subordinate. "We rely on what we can cobble together, or passing hires! The last group we shanghaied into working on the waste system refused to sign up with us at all." Deathsaurus probably wanted to look sour, but he only managed put out. "The lousy scavengers said something about only desperate mechs with nothing to lose would join up with my crew. And one of them was a K-Class, too! I mean, what's the Cause coming to that a kamikaze mech has something more important to do than fight?"
The D.J.D. stared at him. He…really didn't seem to realize what kind of light he'd just cast on them.
Tarn mentally rearranged his list of importance in his head. The D.J.D. were coming up near the end of the list, sadly.
[* * * * *]
" The remains of a DJD victim found by someone who cared a lot about that traitor."
[* * * * *]
Tarn sat with the rest of his mechs in the Warworld's canteen, trying very hard not to acknowledge the silent pool of awkward surrounding their table. It was a difficult task made all the harder by their unwelcome table decoration.
Blue Bacchus had strode in and slammed it between their trays right at the start of the meal. "Here. Have some company. I hope you choke on it."
Since it wasn't an active attack, Deathsaurus had shrugged uncomfortably and allowed it. The D.J.D. would have moved tables or thrown the grisly memento away, but they could feel the mood of the room. Quite frankly, everyone else was of the opinion that Blue Bacchus was being entirely reasonable about the whole thing. If he wanted to make the murderers of his conjunx eat in the presence of Black Shadow's severed hand, then they should shut up, sit down, and be respectful of their new dinner companion.
The hand contributed nothing to the conversation but a tiny puddle of noxious fluid. Strangely, nobody at the table was hungry anymore.
[* * * * *]
" DJD's adventures in awkwardness in dealing with Blue Bacchus on the warworld"
[* * * * *]
"This won't end well."
Deathsaurus mouth tightened into a thin line. "To be blunt, neither did Black Shadow."
Tarn still had no rejoinder for that. At some point, he was sure, flinging Black Shadow's execution in the D.J.D.'s faces would cease working. That point would almost certainly come sometime after they parted company with the Warworld. More specifically, once working alongside Blue Bacchus stopped being a necessity.
"You asked for our best sharpshooter to wield Vos in order to free up your other mechs," Deathsaurus spat. "I gave you your options. You told me to choose the best and fastest instead of making the choice yourself," his tone gave his opinion on that, and no, Tarn wouldn't be making that mistake again, "and I chose. Blue Bacchus has the quickest draw and unerring aim. The only one better than him was Black Shadow, and Blue Bacchus aspired to do everything like him."
The more personal details Tarn learned about that particular relationship, the more uncomfortable the situation made him. Blue Bacchus had been on the List as well. He was beginning to think allying with Deathsaurus should have been postponed until he'd checked Black Shadow's conjunx off, too.
Quite frankly, it was unnerving to watch someone who wanted them all very, very dead pick up Vos and, calm and cold, snap off a series of deadly accurate shots that didn't miss a single target.
Helex sidled over. "You know how we executed Black Shadow first to terrorize Blue Bacchus?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes?"
"Don't think it worked so well."
No. No, it hadn't. Disturbed, Tarn watched Blue Bacchus turn the targets to ribbons. Usually the torture of one half of a conjunx pair turned the other to a wibbling mess. Rarely, he'd seen the other half ignite in a crazed rage. Either way, the other half was generally made easier, but not so with Blue Bacchus, it seemed. So far, he'd spent his time around the D.J.D. in emotional screaming anger or hissing spite, which was awkward to work but well within the expected behaviorisms of a surviving conjunx. Then he'd strode into the shooting range and turned into a sparkless killing machine, ignoring them all, including the rifle in his hands. His eerie, merciless focus down the shooting range chilled Tarn to the core.
When Vos finally clicked empty, Blue Bacchus turned to walk back toward his audience. He jacked the rifle's barrel to eject the spent casings, and the D.J.D. winced in shock at the complete, contemptuous disrespect in that gesture. People didn't do that to living weapons.
"Rude," Tesarus said, scandalized.
Tarn was slightly more concerned with the emotionless stare Blue Bacchus turned on him. Vos was thrust out in offering, and Tarn snatched at the rifle just before Blue Bacchus outright dropped him. "You know how much something like him's worth on the black market?" Black Shadow's conjunx asked in a monotone.
Vos stayed still in Tarn's somewhat protective grasp, and Tarn glanced at him. "No?"
"I do."
With that, he walked past the D.J.D. and out of the shooting range. Deathsaurus was the only one who didn't take even a tiny step back to clear a path.
[* * * * *]
" Black Shadow and being touchy feely"
[* * * * *]
This was not the afterlife the Decepticon Justice Division had envisioned. There were certainly a lot of their victims waiting for them, yes, and many of them had the eager expressions of mechs about to get revenge, but nobody surged forward to begin. Even Overlord - both of him?! - were standing back to watch, amusement splashed across his exaggerated features.
"Ha! You're here!" And here was Black Shadow, one of their victims. One of their latest victims, behind that ship of Autobots, except every one of them was standing about in the background grinning their damn fool heads off. There went the theory that revenge happened in chronological order.
"We're here," Tarn agreed slowly. He glanced around, waiting for the ambush. His optics kept coming back to the duo of Overlords. That was just not right.
"Come on, come on. Join us! We thought we'd sit down, get to know you." Black Shadow beckoned, jovial and bright, and the menacing crowd of evil smirks sort of herded the nervous D.J.D. forward. "Take a seat." A dozen hands clamped down on each mech's shoulders, just in case they had any ideas about not sitting where they were told.
The seats were plush. Comfortable. Kaon flexed his hands, twisting against the wrist manacles, and swallowed in uneasy recognition. The jolts of electricity didn't happen, however, or any other torture. As soon as they were situated, the D.J.D. were left to their comfy seats. They faced a big blank screen. It didn't look too threatening. The surrounding area faded to darkness, and the screen lit up.
"What's this about?" Helex asked, since Tarn was glaring at the Overlords in confused silence.
Black Shadow flopped down beside him and slung an arm around him, smiling cheerily. "It's about getting to know me! And everyone else, but we figured we'd start with me since, y'know," he clicked something in his hand toward the screen, and a grainy picture popped up, "my slide collection is the largest. But don't worry, we'll tell you all about our many, many vacations. Now, this is me and Blue Bacchus at the Grand Heights Casino. Or was it the Celebration Casino? We had the best time, let me tell you…"
[* * * * *]
" Megatron and a party"
[* * * * *]
"Well, you do have to admit it. They throw one Pit of a party."
Megatron couldn't actually tell which one of his paralyzed soldiers gave the wry comment, but he would hunt the fragger down and make him eat it, one word at a time. As soon as he got loose of these blasted restraints, of course. He had an entire party agenda laid out for after he broke the restraints around his wrists…and ankles, neck, knees, elbows, and pretty much every point on his body capable of bending. The rest of the Decepticons were paralyzed with inhibitor claws and stasis cuffs, staked out for the cameras like captured butterflies on a giant display board, but not Megatron, Lord of the Cosmos, Tyrant of the Firmament.
No, he had to be mobile enough to be moved, unlike his pinioned soldiers. He had four guards all his own, just in case he thought he could do something with the wiggle room his pinkie finger had left. Any moment now, he'd hop to freedom.
"Wish they'd share the high grade," another soldier said, whining unattractively as several drunken Autobots sloshed their beverages out of reach of the thirsty prisoners. "No disrespect intended, Lord Megatron, sir, but if there's going to be a party, I'd rather go with it."
Megatron growled low in his muted vocalizer. He didn't want to admit it, but the first impudent soldier had been right, and he was slowly coming around to the second's way of thinking the more the inevitability of his situation sank in. This was a tear-up of a party, and he'd rather be completely fendered by the time it hit the highlight of the night.
Being drunk would make his execution easier, if slightly less dignified.
[* * * * *]
" A childish argument between any universe Megatron and Optimus on the battlefield that has everyone amused."
[* * * * *]
"I can't believe you painted yourself like that."
"What? I thought you liked black."
"You deliberately did this just to annoy me, didn't you?"
"Stop thinking you're the center of the universe, Megatron. I painted myself for reasons all my own."
"You did it because those are my colors."
"Primus alive, how arrogant are you? You can't own colors!"
"You did! You did it on purpose!"
"Oh, I did not."
"You! Tell me why he painted himself black and purple."
"Don't involve my officers in this!"
"I demand a straight answer!"
"What are we even fighting over?"
"Repaint yourself immediately!"
"I like these colors."
"Ha! You're a Decepti…con sym…pathizer. Er."
"The automatic accusation doesn't work so well against me, does it."
"No. No, it doesn't."
"I hope you feel as foolish as you sounded."
"…I might."
"This is what I meant. You can't own two colors. Painting myself black and purple changed nothing about my sympathies. Your perception, perhaps, but - "
"So you did do it on purpose!"
[* * * * *]
"Conveniently" invisible gods"
[* * * * *]
Early on in the war, Megatron managed to obtain the Matrix. It was before Optimus Prime gained his almost supernatural fighting ability, you see, and there was an ambush. The Matrix was torn from his chest by a unit of particularly enthusiastic Decepticons. The Autobots fought them off, but the Matrix was promptly carted off into Megatron's clutches.
Optimus Prime merely sighed, almost relieved. "It'll be back," he predicted.
He was right. Two months later, a demand - never a request, Megatron never requested - for a temporary ceasefire came down the line, and Megatron informed the Prime of where they would meet to exchange certain Autobot concessions in return for the Matrix. Optimus cheerfully informed him that he'd be taking the Matrix back, no concessions made thank you very much, and Megatron could just suck it up. Stony silence was the only reply.
"Maaaaybe you shouldn't be twisting his tail, eh?" Jazz said. He seemed a little nervous at the continued silence from Darkmount. The frontlines were as hot as ever, but the big player was Megatron, and Megatron had been absent from public appearances since the Matrix had been taken.
Optimus leaned back from the meeting table and stretched, hands above his head and back arched in a long, leisurely display of actively not caring what had Megatron's gears in a bind. "Mm. Don't worry. He'll be there."
He was. Megatron looked downright haggard, too. He tried to pull off impatient haughtiness, standing there alone at the meeting point with his arms folded and foot tapping, but Optimus knew him too well. The leader of the Autobots pulled up and transformed, but made no move to begin any sort of negotiations. He knew what this meeting was really about. The Autobots wouldn't be making any concessions here today.
"How can you stand it?!" Megatron burst out after half an hour of stubborn silence.
"It accepted me." Optimus shrugged. "But if you're referring to the constant watching: I grew used to it."
A mutter that sounded like, "I tried that," came from the Decepticon leader. His clenched fists betrayed how well that had worked out for him.
"If you were less concerned with amassing personal power, you could have allowed a more worthy vessel among your followers to take it up," Optimus said mildly. "Surely there is someone the Matrix pulled to among the Decepticons."
If there was, Megatron either wouldn't say or, more likely, had destroyed. The silver mech's lips thinned in displeasure, but strain showed around his optics. "It refused to release me."
"I'm sure you tried to destroy it."
Megatron looked away.
"I see. Well, if it won't release you, then there's no point in me being here…" Optimus feigned turning to leave, and Megatron's cannon whined online. The Autobot leader's optics crinkled in a laugh as he glanced back. "Oh? Was there a reason I'm here?"
Megatron forced the words out from between gritted teeth. "Take. It. Back."
Optimus' optics crinkled further. "Very well." He stepped forward, hands up. "Shall we?"
Invisible to all but them, Primus' many, many optics watched as Megatron reluctantly surrendered the Matrix to its rightful holder.
[* * * * *]
"Do Cybertronians dream of turbosheep?"
[* * * * *]
Megatron dreamt of peace.
He dreamt of silence, the ringing quiet after bombs dropped and guns emptied. He dreamt of the last of his foes fallen at his feet, dead or surrendered, and it was peace. Peace through tyranny, but a peace that lasted. It was the peace that didn't dissolve into bickering, backbiting chaos leading to conflict. It was the peace of one road instead of many divergent paths. He dreamt of that peace. He dreamt of everyone following in his footsteps, even if he was the last one standing and he strode across endless graves.
Starscream dreamt of triumph.
He dreamt of the last shot, the glorious final word, the ultimate action that would give him the recognition he deserved. All would turn toward him. He would lead, bathed in adulation and admiration. They would aspire to be like him yet despair because reaching his pinnacle of being was impossible. He dreamt of being invincible and wholly visible, someone no one could ignore or cast aside, doubt or criminalize. He would be the end-all authority on everything, even if he had to end everyone else.
Both of them woke very confused from dreams of fluffy steel-wooled creatures frolicking through battlefields. It was a strange day for everyone in the Decepticons that day.
[* * * * *]
"Mars is a treasure planet of energon because reasons and is cyberformed into a new home for Transformers. Humanity reacts."
[* * * * *]
"This is the best show." Thrust shoveled foil balls into his mouth and chewed vigorously, spilling bits of foil everywhere.
Ramjet didn't care. He was busy stealing a handful for himself to gobble just as sloppily. "I know, right? What a disgusting bunch of ugly critters." He thumbed the remote, and the purring narration for the documentary - Tarn was a lot of things, but Soundwave had the right idea using him for voiceovers - turned up until the rest of the rec room looked over. There was an immediate scramble for seats now that Swindle's Game Show was over.
"Nature channel's awesome."
"Starscream says we might be able to set up a zoo."
"I thought Earth was some kind of nature reserve already?"
"Yeah, but it's hard to visit."
"Oooo, look, that hive started another war with the bigger hive."
"They've got spunk."
"Nukes, too."
"I totally want a zoo. Or a Mars Rover of my own. Megatron's got that one on a leash, and it's sooooo cute."
[* * * * *]
" Cybertronians react to the Brave Police."
[* * * * *]
They were like the Rescue Bots, only Earth made. Like the Protectobots, only less experienced. And Earth made. They were like Cybertronians, only Earth made. And without the whole Great War thing, too. So sort of like the Dinobots only far, far cuter. And Earth made.
Oh, Primus, they were adorable. The humans had attempted to mimic Cybertronians, and somehow they'd landed on adorable. They had made adorable. Earth-made adorable. The adorablest adorables that had ever adorabled.
"I want all of them," Wheeljack squealed, bouncing on the tips of his feet. He had both fists pressed to his mask as he stared with glowing, excited optics at the screen.
"No," three Autobot officers and Teletraan One said as one.
[* * * * *]
" Decker actually telling a joke"
[* * * * *]
"I'm tiiiiiiiiired," Power Joe whined, flinging himself into his seat.
Decker barely looked up. "Hello, Tired. I'm Decker."
Power Joe's sputtering couldn't be heard over everyone else losing it. It'd been a long day.
[* * * * *]
" someone young and impressionable being told religious stories for the first time"
[* * * * *]
"I…I am honestly shocked that this…I…" It wasn't often Prowl floundered for words, but the Witwicky's had the honor of seeing him reduced to flummoxed staring. After too long, he seemed to realize their disapproval was only growing. Religion was no laughing matter among middle class Americans in their day and age, and oh frag how was he even supposed to navigate this? Religion was a minefield of sociopolitical tension on Earth!
Jazz stood behind the offended parents making stifled little desperate motions urging him to do something, and Prowl shook away the surprise, scrambling up from his chair. He came around his desk to kneel down closer to their height. "I can only offer my most sincere apologies, Spike, Carly," he nodded to them in turn, too distressed to keep his dignity. "Our apologies, as Autobots and your friends. We apologize to you both, and to Daniel. I will speak with everyone involved, and I can promise that there will be - ah - " His optics darted toward Jazz, begging for help, but Jazz threw up his hands. Frag if he knew what could be tendered in return for giving a five-year-old crying nightmares for a week.
"I think we've been fairly accepting of your religious beliefs," Carly started, practically spitting ice, and both Autobots cringed at her tone, "but I draw the line at telling our child your version of Earth religions."
"Or about religion at all!" Spike amended, because he knew Wheeljack and loopholes. "Leave religion to us, the parents. You know, the ones who have to live with no sleep all the damn time, now?" The Autobots nodded, shamefaced.
Carly glared at them harder, willing her sleepless nights and terrified child upon them. "I don't care what you believe about Quintessons and their meddling ways taking over vulnerable worlds. It is Christmas, and you will not corrupt Santa Claus or his elves for any other child. Is that clear?!"
"But Santa Claus isn't even a religious - " Jazz started, only to gulp and take a quick step back as Carly whirled around.
"My child currently believes that a slaver alien exists on the North Pole waiting for him to be naughty so he can be abducted!"
"Right. Right, I'll just…shut up now."
"Damn right you will!"
[* * * * *]
" Astrotrain wasn't even SURE how he and Silas got into this situation in the first place"
[* * * * *]
"What do you mean you've never played this before?" Astrotrain hissed, red optics ringed orange in panic. "It's like a universal constant! I know Earth had it! I mean, I kinda suck at it," hello, brick fingers here, "but I know how to do it! How can you not know? Do you at least know what the rules are?!"
"Of course I do." Silas had a vague idea, anyway. More importantly, however, "Explain to me how exactly Jenga's a universal constant."
Astrotrain's shoulders slumped in something like relief. "Okay. Okay, we can work with a newbie. You've got little fingers. Good…ish balance for your species, right? Right." He seemed to be talking to himself, ignoring the irate little human's question with all the nervous energy of a clumsy-fingered oaf handed the Jenga championship deciding the fate of the universe.
Good, because that's pretty much what had happened.
And Silas was his partner. How had this happened, again?
[* * * * *]
"Jazz vs. Kup"
[* * * * *]
The Autobots had a general consensus about Jazz. The consensus pretty much centered around his dangerous rep as Head of SpecOps, with a large side portion of how that fed into his smooth, suave persona off the field. He was the coolest mech, shiny as all get out. He straddled the perfect balance between scary and desirable.
Basically, everyone figured he was the best lay in any given base at any given time, natural talent spiced by training that had no name. His various lovers had nothing to contribute to the discussion but vigorous nodding.
So when Jazz attached himself to Kup's side like an adoring, hopeful limpet, puzzled optics gave the old timer a one-over trying to figure out what the deal was. A leave of absence apparently took place the moment Kup arrived, self-assured spy and saboteur, officer and unofficial morale cheerleader disappearing into the distance. The more Kup impatiently pushed his black-and-white groupie away, the closer Jazz stuck himself. Dignity didn't seem important. Nobody had seen somebody so thirsty for interfacing since the Decepticons did the prisoner exchange for Octane.
"Y' don't understand," Jazz said when somebody finally scraped up the bearings to ask what was going on. "He's…Kup. He doesn't have th' generators they installed in mechs like us. He's got his originals from the assembly line." Jazz licked his lips in unconscious lust. Brilliant blue, his visor looked off into memory, fantasy, or both. "He's still a sergeant, yeah? He's at that kinda connection level. He can power a whole unit when slag starts slinging. He's like ol' Ironhide, except that generator output doesn't go directly int' weapon mods. It just builds up, an' - an' he's got these batteries." Definitely memory. Jazz didn't seem to realize his hands were making unfocused groping motions in thin air, sculpting the shape of battery packs crammed to the brim with stored charge ready to be accessed. "He doesn't like hookin' up 'less he thinks he'll have time to recharge 'em, but awwww mechs. Mechs, I gotta be there when he's in the mood."
He smiled a wide, wistful smile. "Y' don't understand 'til he's pumping you so fulla charge your generator shuts down an' he's your life support an' it's overflowin' into the berth, and he's pullin' six other mechs into the hook up but it feels like he's still so deep inside y' nothin' else matters." Worrying his lower lip, he dimmed his visor and shuddered in remembrance. "He didn't even touch my firewalls, but he owned me."
If he hadn't been so blatantly into it, the description would have skeeved off most of his listeners. As it was, his words spread like a horror story. Autobots who heard it for the first time recoiled in fear, scared by the control aspect. Horror tempered to caution in people who'd been around long enough to see Jazz nestle up beside Kup in the common room, hand grasping the old timer's in open plea. Caution heated to something liquid when Jazz took Kup's hand and brought it to his throat, both of his own hands holding it wrapped around the vulnerable tubes and cables. Open want filled Jazz's face as he pressed into the light hold. A brief squeeze made him squirm, bliss turning his visor gleaming blue.
Kup gave him a few minutes to make a spectacle of himself, panting as he eeled into the old mech's lap, but eventually the hand on his neck let go.
"I'm busy," Kup said in brisk dismissal.
"Y' won't be busy forever."
"Not now."
"So later, then?" Jazz fixed a hopeful look on him.
Kup seemed more amused than exasperated, which fed the hope. "I'll think about it."
Jazz shut off his visor to shiver. "So'll I."
And now so was everyone else.
[* * * * *]
" Tracks - the morning after"
[* * * * *]
Helpless amusement filled Tracks' voice, however much he wished to hide it. "You won't have any sort of reaction. It's merely another type of mechanical fluid. I doubt you can purchase it as you do motor oil at an auto parts store, but Spike and Sparkplug have handled it without adverse reaction." Raoul gave him a look with the whites of his eyes showing all the way around, and Tracks tried very hard not to chortle. "Ratchet did not tell them what they were topping up in us, I believe, but no. No reaction. I would suggest washing your hands before eating, but your skin should be fine."
"Yeah, sure." The man still seemed unnerved. "You enjoyed that, right? That was, like, coming? Acabada? 'Cause that's the weirdest face I ever seen you make, man. And you, like, gurgled."
He was going to laugh and laugh on the drive back to the Ark. "Yes, it was very enjoyable." Praise Primus but yes, yes indeed it had been.
"You shut down, Tracks."
"That is a common reaction."
"I ain't never seen anything like that."
"You don't have sparks or circuitbreakers, so I would sincerely hope you haven't."
"You gurgled, man. You gurgled, and your face, like, I don't even got the words." Raoul gestured, hands hesitated between the familiar jerking motion and the strange twisting pull now trained into his wrists, forearms corded by heavy lifting now turned to a different purpose. Tracks had a flutter in his tanks remembering it. Raoul's small hands had already been in his fantasies lately, but last night had given him fuel for future dreams. He'd expected warm, but for some reason it'd utterly escaped him how the softness of skin would feel rubbing, attempting to pinch and twist, failing so many times but when Raoul got it right, oh, yes.
From the way his human more-than-friend was frowning, however, it might take all of Tracks' persuasive skills to make next time more than a lustful wish. It wouldn't help his case if he laughed. No laughing.
*Thanks for Shibara for translation.
[* * * * *]
"Prompt: Jazz actually being uncool"
[* * * * *]
He thought he'd done the right thing. It was freakish, right? Totally uncool. Against the laws of nature, be that nature of man or metal.
So he'd intervened, done his officer thing, made a judgment call, and laid down the law. Humans were neat, don't get him wrong, but they weren't from Cybertron. Open practice of xenophilia was pushing the adaptation protocol too far. He passed the word for mechs to chill that slag back to cold metal before anything heated out of shape. Somebody would get burned if it went too far.
Humans didn't even have sparks. Seriously, that just curdled his tanks. It wasn't his thing to the point where he couldn't even picture it being somebody else's without wanting to shiver and rinse his filters.
Years later, he looked at the request form on his desk. Time had passed. Things had happened. People had changed. The facts hadn't, but his perception of them? Maybe. Jazz looked at the request form and pondered the right thing. The right thing would be to support the no-contact rule he'd put into place years ago. Consistency was part of military life.
Tracks wasn't allowed to see or contact the human, not since…well. And he wouldn't, technically. Never again. It was a funeral, closed-casket.
Jazz hesitated over the request form, thinking about it. In the end, he marked it denied, and hurt for how wrong the right thing could be.
[* * * * *]