Pt. 37: Romantic tropes rewritten in not entirely romantic ways; how the hierarchy functions; MTMTE 47 spoiler; Vos goes down; an extreme body swap; an excommunication rite for a spark beyond salvation; capable Starscream takes over the Decepticons; Jazz dances in snow.
Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 37
Warning: Present/Past tense change from ficlet to ficlet. Violence, misunderstandings, and repairs. Mention of xeno. Psychological torture of Combaticons. MTMTE 47 spoiler. Petting? Religion.
Rating: R
Continuity: IDW, G1
Characters: Astrotrain, Laserbeak, Impactor, Megatron, the D.J.D., Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, Prowl, Chromedome, Sunstreaker, Jazz, Raoul, Pharma, Onslaught, Vortex, Rewind, Cyclonus, Tailgate, Bob the Insecticon, Starscream, Soundwave.
Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.
Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.
[* * * * *]
Astrotrain - "Fake dating"
[* * * * *]
Astrotrain was reluctantly dragging himself out of recharge when everything went to the smelter.
"What the frag?" Hands braced against the silent wave of energy that smacked into him, he swayed and blinked rapidly. The sleazy dive this hotel rented as a room spun dizzily around him. EMP were nasty, especially a blast at that power level, and the lights flickered as the power grid recovered, failure sweeping behind the wave and immediately popping back online as failsafes kicked in. Whatever hit him had knocked half his instrumentation offline and screwed up a few gyros. The horizon wasn't supposed to dip that way. It wasn't a nice experience anytime, but it was severely unpleasant for a mech suffering a hangover from engex overindulgence last night.
Locking his intakes against a purge, Astrotrain swung his feet to the floor and grabbed the edges of the bed to ground himself. It helped a little. The room still swam as his instrument panel reset. "Whoa. Hey, what? What happened?" Some kind of weapon, maybe? What kind of weapon sent out a pulse that big? Anything large enough to temporarily take out a city power grid qualified as a full scale attack, and he didn't hear any alarms.
The queasy energy flux passed as fast as it'd come, and that's when the sirens started. Of course.
"Uh-oh."
Sirens were bad news for him and his mission. He was usually nothing more than a glorified spacebus for troops, but sometimes he got more exciting jobs. Today's version of the same old scrap involved retrieval of an undercover spy, and keeping said spy's cover intact throughout retrieval. It wasn't as exciting as it sounded. Retrieval meant a boring mission, but until the sirens went off, he'd thought it a fairly safe one. Retrieval on the down-low meant keeping his head down and staying in a bargain-cheap hotel room in a lousy district of an alien city until the spy found him. Extraction involved more busting down doors, guns blazing, to get the little glitch back.
He was so not up for an extraction. His processors were so hungover they were processing memory files from last night, still. "Frag. Hope that wasn't us," he muttered as he wove across the room, staggering slightly. His head throbbed in time with the rise and fall of the sirens. Checking the door lock, he drew his gun and got ready for an emergency extraction. His passenger had become a wanted criminal. Sometimes, a mech just knew these things. The likelihood of a city-wide alert not involving his mission in some way, shape, or form was pretty slagging low.
His life had just become a lot more complicated than playing tourist and making his departure slot. Astrotrain didn't know how Laserbeak had gotten to the planet, or how long the little Cassette had even been here. It didn't matter. His job had been simple: arrival, distraction, then departure. He'd landed yesterday night, done some 'sight-seeing' in half a dozen Cybertronian-friendly bars, and crashed here overnight. Today was supposed to be filled by an eventful, pre-booked schedule of touristy stuff requiring him to travel all over the city, big and obvious and mostly sober. There was a café. He had orders to be seen at it, as it was a hugely picturesque place every tourist visited while in the city. There would be hundreds of pictures by other people taken with him visible in the background if anyone got suspicious, proving that he was there as a peaceful tourist, the exact opposite of a covert agent.
He'd insisted on Soundwave's booking him tickets to the Flight Museum, too. If he had to suffer through sipping overpriced frilly energon from fragile teensy cups, then he wanted to see the aliens' history of flight mechanics.
Anyway, the point was to be seen doing peaceful things far away from where Laserbeak was gathering intelligence. Vacation over, he'd head back to the spaceport in two days to depart, and nobody would be the wiser that the Decepticon with the interest in alien flight technology had picked up a passenger before he left.
A passenger he expected to squawk for help any moment now.
Astrotrain nearly shot the window when something hit it at high speeds. Since part of him had been almost waiting for it, however, he didn't take the shot. "What'd you do?!" he hissed as he opened the window instead.
Laserbeak wriggled through the opening. He gave the big Decepticon a glare, beady optics narrow, and a packet of information so organized it burned cold on his sensors hit Astrotrain's comm. line. It opened to a dozen pictures at wild angles.
They confused Astrotrain until one of the accompanying links opened to a text file of current police orders broadcast throughout the city. "Aw, slag, I hate assassinations." Laserbeak gave him another look. "I mean when we're not the ones doing them. These guys spotted you? Enough to ID you?" The Cassette flapped over to the bed, far enough away to train his own weapons on the window in case of followers. Astrotrain had the door covered. This wasn't their first time pinned down, after all.
Laserbeak tilted his head and sent another couple of pictures to the shuttle. Astrotrain squinted at them on his HUD. Between the excessive amount of gore - automatic guns using projectiles splashed those meatbag guts everywhere, didn't they? - he could barely see the assassins. If Laserbeak could barely see them, then they probably hadn't seen him very well, either.
"Are they going to try and pin this on you?"
Laserbeak fluffed his wings in a shrug. He didn't know. All he knew was that the assassins had come in, made a mess, and gotten caught. He'd escaped in the confusion, but the government was in an uproar. The sirens were only the tip of the iceberg. The military and local police were out in force looking for a small mechanical creature somehow involved in the assassination of their leader, and when that sort of description came up, everyone around turned suspicious eyes on Cybertronians.
Astrotrain came to the same conclusion a moment later. "They're going to question me," he muttered. A Decepticon in the city? Yeah, the police would hunt him down in hours, and while he could use the hotel front desk as an alibi, he'd bet his stabilizers he'd be kept under close surveillance until he left the city. "No way I'm getting off this planet with a passenger they don't know about." Shaking his head, he looked at the spy. "What do we do? You got a bolthole?"
Laserbeak ducked his head, beak opening in a silent cackle as he sent another set of pictures.
"…what the frag."
More pictures.
"No, I get it. They won't be looking for somebody out in the open. We're 'Cons. It's probably the last thing they'd expect of us. But…"
The Cassetticon cocked his head inquisitively. A wicked twinkle glittered in the optic he turned on Astrotrain. He knew what the big shuttle was hedging around saying. Their frametypes could be compatible, given some finagling and a few adaptors, but it wasn't something outsiders automatically assumed when they first saw two mechs like them together. This was going to require some major acting on both their parts to get past that hurdle, and that was going to get awkward real fast.
"Nevermind. You just keep Soundwave from killing me over this later, 'cause you know it's going to get back to him."
Laserbeak laughed that quiet screechy caw of his. Astrotrain blew air out his vents and resigned himself to getting pummeled by an overprotective carrier model. Somehow, he didn't think it'd be as easy as the birdbrain's pictures made it look.
Half an hour later, he was wishing it was harder. He hadn't expected it to be easy. He didn't know what to do about it being easy.
Leaning his elbow on the table, he held his hand at optic level and smirked. "Pretty birdie." Laserbeak's feet tightened threat on his forefinger for the cooed words, but his smirk widened. The pinpricks on his finger kneaded response to the increased thrum of his engine, and Astrotrain chuckled, crooning, "Aaaaall mine."
The Cassette preened under the attention. Metal wing flaps ruffled as he stroked a finger down the tiny Cassette's back. Astrotrain lowered his voice to a vibrating rumble and purred, "Who's a pretty birdie? Is it you? Yes it is. Yes you are. Who's my pretty birdie?" Laserbeak's beak caught his finger, and Astrotrain couldn't help but grin at the nibbling slide of sharp metal over his blunt fingertip, grooming him.
Laserbeak caught his expression and chirped a question.
"What? Just admiring you."
Ruffled flaps clicked back into place as he pet them down, and Laserbeak arched into the caress. The little mech was a warm, responsive presence under his finger, less than a handful, and Astrotrain felt caught between protection and respect. He knew how deadly Laserbeak could be, but then the Cassette cocked his head from side to side to focus on him, and it was utterly adorable. Astrotrain brought another one of the ridiculously small energon treats up to offer to the cutie perched on his forefinger, and the café staff sighed adoringly from the other side of the counter. Was anything so sweet as honeymooning conjunx endura?
One thing in favor of overpriced cafes where everything was too small: the staff was slagging attentive. The manager actually apologized when the city police insisted on interrupting the happy couple's meal, and every waiter in the place testified that the two Decepticons had been there for hours. Astrotrain did his best to look indignant that his honeymoon was in jeopardy. Laserbeak played the sad bird, drooping his wings and ducking his head, cheeping teensy sounds that had the other customers looking guilty and offended on his behalf. Tourists took pictures. The café manager pointedly dropped a receipt on their table in front of the police investigator, the entire meal complimentary as an apology for the rude interruption.
Eventually, the police went away, pressured by disapproval from all sides, but only after their investigator swore they'd be keeping a 'close watch' on the couple.
Let them watch. As long as they let Astrotrain depart on time with his passenger safe, he didn't care. He put his elbows back on the table and went back to cooing at Laserbeak. Laserbeak fluttered back at him. Astrotrain hinted at going back to the hotel room. Laserbeak stretched short, fragile wings, taking to the air in the world's most blatant Catch Me If You Can that kept just out of reach as the shuttle chased him down the street. People d'awwed at them.
The Cassette let himself be caught at the next intersection, coming to rest on Astrotrain's forearms with a massive hand cupped over him, thumb petting his head and back in a slow massage. Astrotrain knew the expression on his face betrayed how revved up the pursuit got him, but he kept his hold light as he strode toward the hotel.
Two days of this sounded like a great plan. Maybe they could go tour the Flight Museum tomorrow.
Astrotrain intended to have his vacation, one way or another.
[* * * * *]
Megatron/Impactor - "Time travel"
[* * * * *]
"Who was that?"
Impactor wiped his mouth on the back of his fist, not noticing or caring about the bright smear of energon it left across his face. Considering the state of the rest of his face, it hardly mattered. "No idea," he slurred through a split lip and broken nose. "An ex? Maybe? Dunno."
His current partner gave him a skeptical look barely visible in the dim lighting of the mines. "You let a mech like that get away?" His tone held all the disapproval in the known universe, because mech. Mech, really. Really? He let someone that shiny walk away? If the face wasn't handsome enough, they'd gotten one Pit of a good look at that aft as the mystery mech stormed away, and fraaaaaag, Impactor knew he wasn't all that good with relationships, but what had he been thinking to let that one get away?
Must have been a fling. Surface time. Drunk off his drill. Mistakes made and now regretted.
He wiped his mouth again, feeling the echo of that kiss burn into his punch-rattled central cortex. Primus. A mech who could kiss like that was worth getting into a fist fight with over whatever idiocy Impactor had committed while black-out drunk. Trading punches added a little spice to the affair, honestly.
"What're you waiting for?" one of the miners down the opposite tunnel called. Laughter came from the other tunnels. "Go after him, ya glitch!"
"Yeah." Impactor pulled himself back to his feet. A wild grin stretched his split lip wide. "Yeah, think I'll do that." He took off down the main tunnel, cheered on by miners whooping from every branch.
But Impactor never found the mystery mech. It was as though he never existed.
[* * * * *]
D.J.D. - "Casual lap-sitting"
[* * * * *]
The Peaceful Tyranny was a full ship. Not a shuttle, not a courier ship; an entire starship, complete with individual habsuites, an armory, and a roomy command bridge with all the amenities including cushioned seats and cupholders.
So why by all things Megatron did it have a messhall the size of a closet?
"'Scuse me."
"You are excused."
"Tesarus!"
"Sorry! Sorry, just gotta turn - "
"#)*(&%!"
"I said I was sorry, Vos! Yeesh. And frag you, you watch your own elbows before you say slag 'bout mine."
"…hrm."
" #)(****."
"It's fine, Vos. I should have expected as much." Tarn looked into the puddled remnants of his ration with something approaching regret. "Sharing meals together isn't doing as much to team build as I'd hoped. Ah, well."
The rest of the Justice Division exchanged somewhat panicked looks. They knew that tone. Whenever Tarn used that worn, weary tone, he inevitably spent the next day coming up with a Bigger And Better plan to help them bond as a team. While they weren't strictly against the idea of working as a close-knit team, he was disturbingly gung-ho about teambuilding activities. The idea before this one, there had been a chart. It had been color-coded. Various shades of purple, true, but still: color-coded.
Right. They needed to do something before he started thinking.
Helex grimaced at Kaon. Kaon shrugged at Tesarus. Tesarus threw up his hands, disgusted by everything, and gave Vos a similarly disgusted look. Vos looked at the Pet and hummed thoughtfully.
The Pet, having scrunched itself improbably small to somehow fit into Kaon's lap to avoid being trampled by Helex, didn't look at anyone. It was busy snuffling at Kaon's chest in wistful hunger.
Vos carefully, very carefully, stood up. With all the care of a bomb technician at work, he picked his way through the clutter of too many feet in too small an area.
Tarn blinked when the slender mech stopped in front of him. He blinked even more when Vos just as carefully climbed up to perch on his knee. "Ah…what?" Had he missed something? He'd been preoccupied thinking about teambuilding plans, and now suddenly he had a teammate in his lap.
He gave the others a baffled look, but they were abruptly busy relocating themselves. Kaon pushed the Pet away as Helex lifted them up, one per set of hands, and Tesarus claimed their spot, letting turbofox and teammate settle across his lap. Tarn stared.
Vos snapped two fingers in front of his face and pointed imperiously at his spilled energon once Tarn looked at him. There. Team built. Space managed. Time for the meal. No other plans necessary.
[* * * * *]
Megatron/Optimus - "Touching foreheads + Casually sitting on one's lap in a group scene"
[* * * * *]
Rodimus had been making remarks again. It was the only reason Ultra Magnus could think of for why Megatron apparently felt the need to up the ante in incendiary incidents.
Other than pure madness, of course, which was a distinct possibility but didn't explain why Optimus Prime hadn't immediately pushed Megatron out of his lap. Optimus Prime was many things, but not mad. At least, not mad in the same exact way as Megatron. Although now that he thought about it, Ultra Magnus could see how those two might share a mental breakdown. They did seem to communicate in a manner similar to telepathy.
Rationally, he knew that their ability to predict and respond to each other came from a long history of war wherein they'd become closer than two enemies rightly should be. Irrationally, he was starting to feel that nobody had gotten out of the war completely sane. Watching Megatron make himself comfortable in Optimus Prime's lap served as something of a confirmation of this feeling.
The disgruntled look of surprise on Rodimus' face didn't mean anything for Ultra Magnus' sanity. The urge to giggle at it did. He marked himself down for a psych-evaluation later.
In the meantime, he did his best to ignore how the Prime looped an arm casually around Megatron's middle, hand coming to rest on one thigh. It could have been an innocent gesture. It probably was. The two of them were likely playing along in order to make Rodimus spontaneously combust. Megatron was sitting in the Prime's lap to silently laugh at the captain's sputtering. Co-captain. Senior captain?
Ultra Magnus dragged his straying attention back to the conversation.
Only to derail spectacularly as Megatron leaned back in a relaxed slump against Optimus Prime's shoulder, head tipping to the side. At the same moment, no more planned than the weather and yet just as inevitable, the Prime's helm tilted to meet him.
Rodimus' mouth hung open, empty of speech. Ultra Magnus leaned across the table and shut it for him. Innocent. It was all innocent.
Megatron's hand somehow ended up covering the Prime's on his thigh.
Alright, maybe not so innocent.
[* * * * *]
Prowl - "Undercover as lovers"
[* * * * *]
It wasn't the first time Prowl had been called down to the precinct's Personnel Office, and it probably wouldn't be his last. He took his customary seat in front of the desk and folded his hands calmly in his lap. "You wanted to see me?"
Back Up eyed him with scant favor. "There's been a complaint made against you."
Ah, yes. He'd been waiting for this since Chromedome stormed out of the office last night. How ridiculous but predictable that his partner was so flustered he felt the need to file a complaint to soothe bruised pride. "May I ask who made it?" Prowl asked, cool as ice. He wouldn't be rattled by Chromedome's overreaction.
Back Up opened his hands in a plea for divine help. "Oh, for - who else?"
"I see." He nodded. He really did see.
The glare directed at him didn't faze him. "Okay, what's with the attitude? I don't think you understand how much trouble you're in right now. We're not talking a minor complaint. He's filed a full complaint against you, the whole department's lining up to back him on it, and you? You, what? You think you can just shrug this off? You're going to be lucky if you walk out of here with your badge!"
Prowl's optics reset. "I merely called a transparent bluff. Chromedome is the one blowing this out of proportion," he pointed out, slightly perturbed.
"You. Kissed. Him. Prowl," Bac kUp said. He emphasized every word, enunciating them for extra effect. "In front of everybody. What did you expect him to do?" He paused to frown. "Wait, what bluff?"
Prowl sighed. "Really, this is totally unnecessary. I'm sure you'll agree that in context, it made perfect sense. Chromedome's simply suffering from a pricked ego. I saw through his coy ploy." The wordplay pleased him. 'Coy ploy.' He filed that away to snipe at his partner once this complaint non-issue was smoothed over.
Back Up stared at him for a long moment. Prowl refused to let the silence pressure him. That would be undignified, and an interrogation technique he'd employed himself many times.
After too long, Back Up leaned back in his seat and waved a hand. "Alright. I'll bite. What's the context?"
So Prowl explained the painfully transparent set-up of the so-called uncover mission. An undercover mission that just so happened to put the two of them alone together, completely by themselves, for three weeks at a resort pretending to be new lovers absorbed in each other. They were supposed to investigate a drug cartel using the resort as an exchange point, all while using doting on one another as a cover. Yeah, right. Chromedome hadn't even bothered researching a plausible drug cartel. The name in the file he'd handed Prowl last night was from an offworld ring shut down two hundred years ago.
The entire charade was pointless. Cute, at least insofar as knowing his terminally shy partner had a crush on him the size of Luna 2, but it was mildly annoying that Chromedome needed hugely scripted deceptions to act on attraction. Prowl had also been irritated that he hadn't picked up on Chromedome's crush earlier, and even more irritated that his partner thought him such a fool that he'd fall for a trick like this. He'd decided to not play along.
"So you kissed him."
"I kissed him." Prowl didn't do shrugs, or he'd have shrugged. "It seemed like an obvious solution. Looking back on it now, of course, I should have chosen a more private location. The witnesses must have caused this backlash." Plus, a private location would have been conducive to interfacing the shyness out of Chromedome, and they could have reported to work this morning in a relationship instead of at odds.
Really, it was a shame it'd come to this. Prowl had spent the night planning out a more-than-partnership with his partner, and all the scenarios he'd imagined were lovely.
Back Up had his head cradled in his hands, however, elbows braced on the desk. "Prowl…you idiot."
What? "Pardon me?"
"Did you even bother reading the rest of the briefing packet?"
Prowl stared across the desk. "No. Why?" Why bother reading it? The mission summary had been so laughably silly he'd set it on the desk, stood up, and walked around to take Chromedome's head between his hands and -
"You owe Chromedome an apology like you wouldn't believe," Back Up said quietly. Without raising his head, he pushed one of the tablets in front of him toward Prowl. "Read the whole thing. The whole," he overrode Prowl's protest, "thing. Now!"
Prowl resented the waste of his time, but he kept his protests to a scowl and started to read.
Two pages past the mission summary, he began to sink down in the chair.
By the end of the request from offworld enforcement for a pair of the department's rookie investigators to use in the mission, he was upright in the chair only because his doors were caught on the armrests. A rookie request, used when a criminal had inside information enough to know the more experienced Enforcers, and that's exactly what was suspected in the resurrection of the drug ring. Prowl and Chromedome, the Enforcers' newest investigators and conveniently already partners, had been volunteered by the precinct captain for the mission.
Chromedome hadn't been informed of their role more than an hour before Prowl had returned. It hadn't been a trick. It hadn't even been his idea.
Prowl had kissed his partner in full view of the rest of the department on an assumption made from hopeful speculation and foolishness.
His hands shook a tiny bit as he set the tablet back down on the desk. It took resetting his vocalizer twice to make his voice clear. "This complaint…"
Back Up gave him a wry look. "Yeah?"
Prowl swallowed. Hard. "No contest."
"You're up for an official reprimand, two weeks docked pay, a black mark on your record, and I hear the captain's thinking about demoting you back to street-sweeps." Back Up shook his head at the subtle flinch the last one got. Prowl had worked hard to make the promotion to investigator. "Last but not least, Chromedome's put in for a transfer."
That last part was the worst consequence of all. "I…no contest." Prowl bit his lip and looked down at the hands clenched together in his lap. Maybe he could salvage something yet. "May I speak with him?"
Back Up shook his head again as he stood up to walk around the desk. "Does 'speak with' mean 'apologize for being a know-it-all exhaust pipe'?" Prowl gave him a miserable look, thoroughly chastised, and Back Up chuckled. "Yeah. Not supposed to do this, but the front office has been telling me your partner's been hanging around out there having second thoughts about filing a formal complaint. You convince him to drop it, and the captain'll probably let you off with a lecture about inappropriate professional behavior and the docked pay."
Prowl ducked his head in a nod as he scrambled to his feet and for the door.
"Oh, and Prowl?"
The black-and-white investigator hesitated at the door.
"You might want to actually stop and think about why the captain thinks you two can pull off an undercover mission as lovers. Chromedome might not be the transparent one."
[* * * * *]
Prowl/Sunstreaker - "wearing each other's clothes"
[* * * * *]
For all that they looked nothing alike, their bolts were the same diameter, threaded at the same angle. They were different sizes, different models with different shapes, but their insides had cross-compatibility. They were similar enough to swap parts when it counted.
Ratchet didn't bandy it about that Prowl could use Sunstreaker's circuitry, and Sunstreaker didn't say anything about the amount of times he was called in for an emergency organ transplant. Numbers were cruel things. They dictated how one life meant more to the war effort than another, and by their cold calculations, Prowl's life won the numbers game over Sunstreaker's.
The golden Autobot was a frontliner. He had back-ups installed for his back-ups by this point in the war. He didn't particularly like acting as a mobile organ bank, but better Ratchet tear an extra fuel pump out of his chest than Prowl die from lack of one. Sunstreaker, vain as he was, understood that.
He understood the value of repairing as well as destroying. He'd been at this fighting thing long enough to learn field repair. Emergency medical care wasn't something he enjoyed any more than being called across the battlefield to donate body parts, but it was something he could do, so he did it. He didn't talk about it, but he did it.
"Stay still," he snapped at Prowl. Laserfire streamed by overhead, beautiful but deadly, and the downed officer seemed captivated by the show. It was a sign of how much damage he'd taken. Sunstreaker let him stare. It kept him quiet while the golden frontliner worked.
The hood hinges were warped. He pulled the bullet-riddled chestplate off Prowl, tossing it aside like the useless garbage it was. Acid hissed as it continued to eat through the metal, safely away from internal parts. Frowning, Sunstreaker bent down to look for what he could fix. There wasn't much he could do with basic field repair. Vital parts sparked in Prowl's chassis, but most of it was beyond Sunstreaker's abilities and small field kit. He had to get the officer to a real medic to fix this.
That meant heading through the battlefield to the closest Autobot EM site. Sunstreaker frowned some more as he eyed Prowl. The brunt of the damage had been taken by Prowl's hood, which was what was supposed to happen, but leaving the vulnerable parts exposed wasn't an option.
His frown became a scowl. Only one thing to do, then.
Sitting up, he set to work at his own chest piece. The hinges were in perfect working order, of course. It came off without a problem.
The fight went on, missiles streaking through the colored lights filling the sky. Prowl blinked up at them. His was a slow return to awareness. In the time it took for his processors to reboot, Sunstreaker had clumsily but securely jammed his hood into place. It covered more than Prowl's chest, sticking out weirdly in front, but it was thick and strong. It'd take another wall of bullets to get through. Sunstreaker should know. He'd walked through worse and come out intact.
Prowl looked down at it as Sunstreaker tightened the bolts. Compatible, not the same. "Will it hold?"
"Long enough," Sunstreaker said. His voice had hoarse gruffness to it, a wary junkyard dog growl. With his chest armor missing, he was a dangerous creature made vulnerable, on the lookout for threats to tear apart before they got him first. His optics scanned their surroundings, constantly in motion as he forced a curve his own chest didn't have into Prowl's new makeshift hood. "It'll get you where we need to go."
Prowl accepted the hand held out to him, using it to pull himself to his feet. "Then we should get going." The bright gold covering his chest was a beacon calling to anyone searching for a target from above. They should move before anyone with missiles got any ideas.
Arm wrapped around Sunstreaker's waist for balance, Prowl started hobbling back toward the fight.
Sunstreaker didn't say anything about holding him up. He just did it.
[* * * * *]
Jazz - "Undercover as lovers"
[* * * * *]
"Don't suppose you could say something to him."
The human polishing Jazz's left fender hummed a noncommittal noise. Bending down, he eyed the shine for flaws. Nada. Perfect. Now for the windows.
"I noticed that wasn't a 'yes, Jazz, I'll save your aft.'"
Another hum, this one shading into a negative. Nope, that sure hadn't been agreement. Save Jazz? Why would he do that? He'd been conned into escorting one Porche with some nonstandard extras, Jazz by name, to a car show to pose as a total car lover. Which wasn't an inaccurate term in the least for him, but come on. Jazz, of any Autobot? They both knew Jazz had put himself at the head of the volunteer list for this show for less than crime-fighting reasons. Prowl was the one working with the FBI to nail the suspected thief scoping out cars at these events. Having an Autobot on the ground in the show was a just-in-case scenario. Anyone would have done the job.
Hence why the human tending Jazz right now was in no mood to play nice. The Autobot sent to the show was not the one Raoul had agreed to escort back when this plan had been hatched.
"C'mon, man. I swear I didn't know you were helpin'. Thought for sure it was Carly."
"She's got tests."
"Yeah, I know that now, but I didn't! Hand to Cybertron, I didn't know!"
A disbelieving snort, but that was all Jazz was given for his pains. Oh yeah, he was in the doghouse over this. He'd be safe the course of the carshow. He'd get his pampering. Admiring humans would fuss over him to his spark's content, and Raoul would give him mondo TLC the whole time, just like he would any nonsentient car.
And then he'd drive Jazz back to the Ark to face Tracks.
[* * * * *]
Pharma & Tarn - "Locked room or small space"
[* * * * *]
Flight-capable frametypes were full of themselves. However, Tarn conceded sourly, at times it would be a distinct advantage to be one.
*"Are you still down there?"*
Stuck in his altmode, buried by an avalanche, and taunted by an Autobot. Could his life get any worse today? "Yes, I'm still down here," he grumbled into his comm. pick-up, hoping the snow wouldn't muffle him past hearing. "You could call my unit and actually help me, you know."
*"Now that I know for certain you can't get loose on your own, I definitely don't think I'll be doing that."*
He wanted to smack himself for giving away how the layers of snow and ice had him entombed. It also blocked him from long-distance communication. He could almost see Pharma's smirk. That smug little flightframe was probably dancing about in the air over the settling avalanche, gloating.
Rallying his best persuasive tone, he purred his engine into the connection before saying, "You realize our agreement will be null and void with the next Tarn. I doubt you'll find an…appeasement that would spare your clinic."
*"No doubt."*
"Then why don't you cut the gloating short and call for back-up? I'm hardly in a position to stop you from bringing this up to lord over me until the end of time." He injected the humility he knew Pharma wanted to hear into his voice. Pride was a small price to pay in the present, since he could easily win it back the next time they met. "It's the price of being a groundframe. We're vulnerable to such things."*
*"Heh."*
"Pharma…"
Pharma sighed gustily, extremely put-upon. *"If you must know, I haven't called for your despicable minions because I'm allergic to small locked rooms."*
Tarn's treads ground, unable to spin in the snow packed around him. "Do tell."
*"Hmm, yes. I'm deathly allergic to prison cells, you see. Right now I'm attempting to think of how either one of us can get out of this situation without coming down with a fatal case of execution for treason. If I call for help, the miners will wonder who they're digging out, and I will come under suspicion. If I summon your lackeys, I assume they will be terribly curious as to why an Autobot is saving your life."*
Ah. Well, there was that. Come to think of it, Tarn had a similar allergy to his dear Autobot surgeon. Good diagnosis, doctor.
*"But don't worry. I'll think of something."*
Tarn rocked back and forth in the snow, sighing. That wasn't flightframe arrogance. That was all Pharma.
[* * * * *]
Onslaught & Vortex - " locked in a room or trapped in a small space"
[* * * * *]
His chronometer told him his body had been offline for less than three hours. Vortex wasn't sure if he believed it. It didn't matter if he believed it. Even if it was true, it hadn't felt like three hours.
It'd felt like a million years. Three million. A billion.
He'd been locked in The Box forever.
At his side, Onslaught shuddered back online in much the same way Vortex had: gasping and reaching for something to hold. One hand flailed out, hitting him, and Vortex had no fight left in him. It pulled, and he went. Sliding across the floor, he huddled on top of Onslaught in an awkward one-armed hug that he couldn't coordinate his arms enough to return. Limb control felt beyond him, at the moment. He was still twitching, rotor blades juddering as his spark reintegrated into his frame.
They clung together on the floor, shaking. The convulsive tremble gripping them eventually synced up, their armor clattering until the loud rattle became a rapid tapping and then simply the sound of their fans straining. Onslaught kept making those soft gasping noises as his visor searched the ceiling for something only he could see. Vortex had all but shut down in fear-frozen paralysis, his hands curled around Onslaught's shoulders. They didn't fit together well, not like this, but there was comfort in armor corners poking into uncomfortable spots. At least they could feel that.
Another minute ticked by, an entire eternity in sixty seconds. Vortex watched them fly by, morbidly mesmerized by the passage of time. It didn't feel real yet. Maybe he was suffering a delusion, one that would shatter if he moved, and it was cruel because he wanted it so much. He wanted to feel Onslaught shivering under him. He wanted to feel terror pulse cold coolant through him too fast, chilling him to the struts as his systems fought to calm him down. It was physical, it was sensation, and Vortex buried his visor in Onslaught's chest to hide from recent memory/non-memory of suspended functions. Of being nothing but a helpless, body-stripped spark in a box.
Onslaught stirred first, this time. His hands shook violently. He didn't push Vortex away, but he gave the rotary mech a nudge. They had to move. Vortex could no more let go of Onslaught than his fellow Combaticon could let go of him, so they sort of rolled and balanced themselves in a moving back-and-forth that gradually worked the both of them up onto their knees.
Where they stayed, clinging together like a picture of misery, heads bowed before their master.
His feet, all they could see from their position, shifted. They tensed. He merely chuckled. "I trust my Combaticons find following orders much more agreeable now?"
At the back of the throne room, cuffed and utterly scared out of their wits, the other three Combaticons nodded with frantic haste. Onslaught and Vortex cringed closer to the floor as they nodded twice as fast.
"Y-yes, Lord Megatron."
"We live t-to serve, Lord Megatron."
They sniveled, thoroughly broken, and they didn't even care. The Boxes were at the corner of their vision. They'd agree to anything if it'd spare them going back.
As far as lessons from Megatron went, the other Decepticons considered this one quite merciful. Onslaught and Vortex saw it as a sign of how ruthless the Lord of the Decepticons had become.
They never stepped out of line again.
[* * * * *]
Rewind/Chromedome - "finishing each other's sentences"
[* * * * *]
"We could go back to the beginning. Everything can unfold from the very start." Chromedome sank to his knees in front of Rewind, and their hands reached out that the same moment to cup each other's faces. Leaning forward, they set their helms together, visor to visor. "What would we change, given the chance? Where would we pause? Where would we fast forward? I can edit. I can tweak the past until it's what we want, and we can start at the beginning again. I can make it happen. Our history will become whatever will make you happiest. I'll make it happen, I promise."
Needles fanned out around Rewind's helm, glittering red in the light from the recording camera, and it didn't matter which one of them spoke the words out loud. They were both thinking it, and both could see the promise through. They had the power to change history, in their own ways, and a willingness to do whatever it took to make one another happy.
[* * * * *]
Megatron and Optimus - "undercover as lovers"
[* * * * *]
It wasn't often he conceded that Optimus Prime had a better idea than himself, but what Megatron wouldn't give to have a face mask right now. "Tell me again why I'm tolerating this," he said through gritted teeth.
"The Galactic Council has incredible influence and a lot of guns."
Two very good reasons, yes. Megatron fastened them to the forefront of his mind as if they were guidelines stapled to the inside of his helm. Organized, overpowering threat from outside Cybertron's borders. The Galactic Council's vote of exclusion had necessitated a ceasefire between Autobots and Decepticons since…three weeks ago, actually. 'Peace through spite' wasn't much of a slogan for the Decepticons, but it'd have to do.
The Prime nodded pleasant greetings to a delegation of alien freaks no true Decepticon should allow to gawp at his personage, and Megatron concentrated on the reasons he had to put up with it. No snarling allowed. He didn't have to smile, but Soundwave had coached and coached him on the lack of open hostility.
Come to think of it, Soundwave had a face mask as well. It was a conspiracy.
Starscream had just laughed at him and said, "Finally! Cosmic revenge for all those times I had to stand at your shoulder!" Then he'd snickered something about a betting pool on whether or not Megatron could rein in his temper long enough for the blasted PR campaign to get Cybertron out of the Galactic Council's sights.
Megatron was going to pull of this Lord Protector act if it killed him, just to prove - frag, he didn't even know what he was trying to prove to his treacherous Second, just that he was going to do it. Was it too much to ask that his own Air Commander look supportive and respectful of his authority while giving a speech? No. Of course not. So Megatron was going to stand at the slagging Prime's shoulder looking intimidating and not like he was actively at war with the road-muncher. Supportive and respectful might be outside the scope of his acting abilities, but he could manage neutral. Militant toward outsiders. Vaguely cooperative.
Look, he wouldn't haul off and punch Optimus in the masked face in front of a bunch of ambassadors. Beyond that, he promised nothing.
No scowling. It was important to look like an intelligent, reasonable sentient being. Radiating contempt and disgust apparently didn't foster good will. How shocking. See, this was exactly why Megatron preferred exterminating lesser creatures. They couldn't gang up on his planet if he killed them first.
Lacking the ability to murder the Galactic Council en masse, however, he'd have to settle for deceiving them. Hence remembering not to scowl. He could do this. It was acting. He could act. The whole thing stank of politics, but it was a stench he had to tolerate. It helped that Optimus wasn't any happier to be here than he was, despite the flawless composure the Prime displayed now.
Behold Cybertron's Lord Protector and Prime, joint military and civilian leader, showing up at the Council as diplomatic heads of state. Let the negotiations and mindnumbing social events ensue.
"Stop glaring," Optimus murmured between inane conversations with aliens. "They can tell you want them dead."
Megatron really needed a face mask.
[* * * * *]
"power tower"
[* * * * *]
It's a careful hierarchy. It's a military structure built on rules, regulations, political bureaucracy, religious belief, old traditions, and war. Mostly war, these days, but all its predecessors still flavor how the Autobot hierarchy works. Physical power doesn't make the system work. Respect does. The hierarchy is an artificial construct made of respect for those above, and obedience to the same. The few could not control the many without that respect in place, and the few in charge are interconnected in checks and balances to keep any one person from amassing too much power, becoming too corrupt, or taking rule via fear instead of leading through service.
It's a careful social agreement, this hierarchy. Lose respect, and all support disappears. The network underneath the surface is kept in shadows and secrecy, knowing that. There are no open trades made or bargains negotiated over. Subtle petitions and vague connections navigate the spaces between in the Autobot hierarchy, and it's not talked about. It's felt out, and it changes depending on those involved.
Sideswipe doesn't barge into Prowl's office and sprawl on the desk, chest plates slammed open in blatant offering. Sideswipe's offers are done more quietly than Wheeljack's, but then, Wheeljack cashes in on the leeway his inventions buy him. Sideswipe's offers are more varied, and usually made in smaller chunks than entire battles won by whatever Wheeljack pulls out of nowhere. Wheeljack is more polite than to bust into meetings, throw down his demands, and whirl out in a rush of energy. He could, but he doesn't. His good nature makes him a bit of a pushover in internal politics.
Sideswipe isn't a pushover, but he has less to bargain with, most of the time. Sideswipe asks for favors in hints, sidelong offers made by the tiny crack he allows his chest to open while standing before Prowl's desk. Sparklight flickers a sultry promise if only Prowl might, maybe, possibly reduce Sunstreaker's sentence to a week in solitary instead of four, but he never outright asks. He never outright says, and afterward, no one outside the office will be able to say for certain why Prowl changed his mind.
Jazz doesn't put his glitches on a leash gathered around his feet in the common room, but he could. He could lean back in his chair like it's a throne as they fawn about him, hands on his thighs and faces upturned in adoration. If he said to, they would obey, because he owns so many, so much. He controls them through whispers. They walk freely but listen for the faintest call of their master cashing in what they owe him, and owed him, and will owe him in the future.
Optimus Prime never recharges alone. It's never obvious if his many lovers are sincere companions or business transactions. Those who can't put on the right, respectful act in the halls to support his image won't gain the opportunity to get closer. It's all about appearances.
The Decepticons operate on a different level. For them, physical power makes the hierarchy fluid. There is no shame in offering favors, much less accepting them. A person seeking a deal might be laughed at, but negotiating for however much is traded for what is an open process done by spelling out what's for sale. Pride is dearly bought and easily discarded when it comes down to bargaining. Skywarp will drape himself on Thundercracker, and both jets occasionally flirt at the Coneheads when they want something. Hook will step aside after surgery, face blank, and Scrapper will bend over Soundwave on the table, fingers tracing a delicate opening bid around the communication specialist's Cassette dock.
Not surprisingly, Swindle is a consummate dealer of favors, trades, and IOUs. Starscream, as well. Soundwave excels at tracking and exposing others' trading. The sneaks and the charismatic thrive as easily as the physically intimidating. Even Megatron has been known to abandon the threat of raised fist and fusion cannon in order to sweep his Air Commander's hand up to his lips, giving it a teasing kiss as mischievous optics peer up to charm Starscream's fickle interest to his favor.
The Decepticon hierarchy is a solid thing. It moves in concrete chunks slotting in where they are moved through clear negotiations or power grabs. It isn't an artificial thing respect makes soldiers play along with. Every Decepticon knows why they obey their officers, and they know what steps have to be taken to change circumstances to their advantage. Onslaught can call in favors Vortex has collected to counter Shockwave's influence on Megatron's opinion of his team. Scavenger can find anyone anything if the Constructicons need to pull Bonecrusher out of a bind, and he'll make his offer openly, bluntly asking what it will take to win his teammate free.
Among Autobots, such things aren't done. It would collapse the invisible fiction of respect and image keeping the Autobot ranks in line, but most of the deals work out to be the same. It's only the setting that changes how they're made.
[* * * * *]
"destroy all feels"
[* * * * *]
The world is light and noise. It is fear and seizing dread. It is the sound of rapidfire impacts on breaking armor, and it smells of burning energon.
The corridor roars, a hundred flashing streaks of light exploding on the walls around them, but the dull cracking thuds shudder through them like the beat of a fuelpump. No, faster than that. It's a panicked flutter at an unhealthy rate, a pace no one's body could sustain, and Cyclonus' body won't. Tailgate can feel the pulse getting stronger, strong enough to make them sway, or maybe the gunfire is tearing through the barrier made by purple armor and protective arms.
Cyclonus sways but doesn't stumble forward. Stoic as ever, he stands and endures. The arms around Tailgate close tight, holding him safe. Once, they crossed over the broad chest as if barring him from access, but Cyclonus opened his arms, opened them and gathered Tailgate up, and the wall they create protects the minibot inside them.
Tailgate huddles against Cyclonus' chest, straining to hold on as tight as he's held, and his hands curl useless between them. The needles scrape but don't pierce. He can't think of anyone less needing of an anti-villain virus, anyway.
A hole spurts into being on Cyclonus' chest, just missing Tailgate. The sudden gush of liquid pink spatters over white and blue metal like a gift of innermost energon, and Cyclonus jerks noticeably amidst even the pounding beat of impact.
The world is light and noise. It is terror building to realization of what he's done and what it's cost. It smells of something ending, and it is the sound of a soft whisper.
"Goodbye, little one."
[* * * * *]
Vos - "accept defeat"
[* * * * *]
"Sit down," Kaon whispers through the commlink. His voice is low. Raspy with damaged filters, breathless from a ventilation system without working fans, and soft, so soft, as his power generator winds down. He is stuck in altmode as he descends toward stasis lock, and he knows can't help Vos. There's nothing left to electrocute, no backup to call in, and he's losing power. Given enough time, he'll self-repair to the point his generator will kick back in. He'll be able to transform again, but that's at a point in the future past when his colleague will bleed out.
Vos can't make his joints lock. Loose-limbed, he wobbles toward Kaon, intending to collapse on top of him. Any other time, Kaon's seat is dangerous. A punishment. Right now, it's sanctuary. It's a place to rest. Not a place to recover, it's too late for that, but somewhere dignified to sit while he loses fuel. He's scorched and fading fast, but he has a few hours left in him. If he's lucky, the ship will return in time. Kaon will recover. Something will happen, and he won't die.
If he's not lucky, death will seep into him as vital fluids seep out.
"Sit down," Kaon whispers, but Vos' legs won't support his weight. "No. No, come on. You can do this."
He can't. Melting to the floor in a sprawl, Vos wryly consigns his dignity to the ether. He wanted to sit down, but it seems he must lie here on the floor. Ah, well. He tried.
[* * * * *]
"Body swap"
[* * * * *]
After two days stuck in this wretched freak's body, Megatron had come to realize the amount of things he took for granted in his processor. His regular processor, that was. The Insecticon's warped, regressed ruin of a Cybertronian's processor didn't have the capacity for what Megatron's normal brain module did, and it was making Megatron's life difficult.
He couldn't write. He couldn't read. The glyphs swam into a confusing jumble of lines that infuriated him because he knew, he remembered that he should know what they meant but he couldn't understand them any longer. He could even understand spoken words, which was enough to make him roar angrily. The processor in this body just could not take audio input and sort it into coherence.
Speech. Of course speech was impossible. The Swarm had more in common with technimals than mechs anymore, so Megatron hadn't been surprised that he couldn't speak anymore. Emotions were easy enough to convey, at least. The chittering, clicking growls coming out of his throat clearly told everyone around him that the bug in their midst was frustrated, angry, and liable to bite if touched, even if he couldn't actually yell at them to back off.
It'd also clued the vicious yellow Autobot frontliner that there was something wrong with his pet. Megatron had braced for a fight when the yellow mech - what was his name? - ignored the warning growl and strode toward him. Instead of violence, however, the mech crouched at his side to study him, a muted concern in shadowed blue optics. It disgusted Megatron. How could anyone become attached to one of the Swarm, much less a pathetic runt like this one?
The Autobot spoke, and Megatron found there were certain things the Insecticon's processor carried over. Apparently the attachment ran both ways. While he couldn't understand what the Autobot said, the collection of sounds cued strong emotional and physical reactions. A peculiar tone perked his antenna up despite himself, and he shook his head irritably, laying them flat again. The Autobot reached for his helm slowly, and Megatron tensed against a need to push up into the hand. He tensed, defensive, angry, and ready to bite, and the Autobot barked something sharp.
Megatron's aft hit the floor on automatic. What the frag..?
What had to be another command was spoken, and Megatron fought his first instinct to lie down. Distress sparked in his chest. It didn't belong to him. He wasn't upset because he disobeyed. It wasn't him. It was code-deep training that told him -
Told him he was being bad. Disobedient.
Megatron recoiled in absolute disgust. He was no pet, frag this Autobot to the Pit, and he refused to act like one! Let the Autobot punish him. He felt the fear in the bug's chest, a building dread the longer he resisted the commands repeated to him in increasingly stern tones, and he knew what that meant. He'd felt this fear before. He'd seen it in the optics of his fellow miners. It was the fear of a resistance, of a powerless being refusing to be pushed around any longer but knowing the consequences of defiance.
Let the Autobot do the inevitable. Megatron could tolerate pain. He would suffer it and fight back rather than lie down as a slave. All masters showed their true colors in the face of resistance.
The yellow Autobot stared at him, optics slowly narrowing. Megatron braced himself. A hiss, part fear and part anger, warned the mech away.
To his surprise, the warning was heeded. The yellow mech stood up and backed away, going to the other side of the room to rummage in a cupboard. Megatron watched him warily. Who knew what kind of punishment tool the mech used on his pet to force obedience. It was probably a whip. Maybe a chain. He'd discovered through studying his reflection in the mirror that this Insecticon body wore a collar.
If body-instinct weren't so insidious, Megatron would have never hidden away from the Autobots in this particular room. He hadn't realized it was where the yellow Autobot lived. Now the door was locked, and what had originally reassured him as a safe place now felt like a trap. He backed into a corner, growling as the mech turned around. Here it came. Pain and punishment, slavery all over again, and he couldn't even vent his helpless rage through written word later once he'd been left to 'learn his lesson.' Poetry was stripped from him, words and language out of reach of primitive processors, and this stupid Insecticon body and mind wanted to cringe on the floor, whine its distress for disobeying its master, and creep to the Autobot's feet to repent.
Said Autobot crouched again and reached out, brandishing a -
His thoughts stuttered to a halt, shocked quiet by a sudden, swamping wave of desire. A tiny, glittering bit of pink pinched between thumb and forefinger, offered just out of reach, and Megatron's foreign, oversensitive nasal sensors flared their vents to their widest. Fans whirred a deep inhale of an absolutely divine scent that went straight to his tanks. His mouth dropped open behind the guard grill without his consent.
The Autobot watched him carefully but didn't get any closer. He said something, coaxing.
Megatron didn't want to respond. He truly did not want to.
Except that he really, really did. The Autobot was offering him energon, a concentrated bite-sized thing that smelled delicious. The Insecticon's memory core flung out pleasure-filled files connected to the scent, tagged with amorphous sensation instead of words, and every tag promised the tiny bit of food tasted as good as it smelled. This body's sense of taste seemed to be on par with its enhanced sense of smell, and Megatron couldn't say he wasn't tempted.
He knew it was a trap, a way to get him to walk tamely into the Autobot's hands for punishment, but his tanks rang empty and his mouth champed at nothing. He had to maintain his strength. He had to get out of this room. He could endure any pain. All he had to do was cooperate through the Autobot's demeaning demands. If he got energon out of the deal, all the better.
He hated himself even as he reasoned his way into the trap.
The body he was in wanted to creep close to the floor. Megatron forced it to stand straight on all four limbs, marching forward to growl his own demand at the Autobot. Fine. He was here. Feed him, punish him, get it over with.
The Autobot sighed. Raising the treat out of range, he said something in a quiet voice. Megatron felt his antenna flatten without knowing what it meant, or why a shamed rush filled him. One finger rose, and the Autobot's voice suddenly cracked like a whip, full of authority.
Megatron's aft hit the floor again.
Frag it!
The Autobot said something else, however, praise in the tone of his voice, and Megatron froze as an almost-physical tidal wave of pleasure rippled down his back.
He didn't have time to recover from the unexpected reaction to obedience. The treat descended in immediate reward, praise and positive reinforcement. The nodule of energon was held out to him on an open palm, and he lunged forward before he could think.
Pit and smelters, it tasted every bit as good as body-memory promised.
He didn't even know he was purring, multiple optics off - and hadn't those been interesting to adjust to - until the Autobot spoke again. He blinked his optics back online a little fuzzily, blearily braced for the pain that had to follow, the yellow mech had to be ready to punish him now. He'd disobeyed and knew what mechs like this one did to helpless subordinates.
Another treat glittered between thumb and forefinger. Megatron choked on a needy whine.
The Autobot chuckled and used the coaxing voice again.
Megatron resisted the urge to lie down. No. He wasn't that weak. Hunching his shoulders around his audios, he ducked his head and growled. Now would come the first blow.
The treat hiked further into the air, held that much higher out of reach, and the Insecticon's body lurched after it as though pulled by a chain. The whine repeated, louder, and Megatron was appalled to realize it'd come from him. He had no control over it. What was going on?! He'd held in screams through beatings that left him unconscious on the ground, and here he was whimpering because he wanted a tasty tidbit? It was a treat!
It was a blasted torment. The Autobot patiently held the treat above him. He didn't change expression as Megatron gave in and jumped on him like a beast. Attempting to climb yellow armor got Megatron nowhere. The mech stood up, stepped back, and pushed him down, but he still didn't hurt him. The Autobot simply repeated the command, over and over, holding the treat there to be seen.
Seeing it but not being allowed to eat it was torture! Not painful torture, just - it had been so good, and this body loved it so much, and the longer the Autobot stood there wearing that disappointed look, the more Megatron felt the tightness in the Insecticon's chest screw into a fearful knot. The slagging bug wanted the treat, but it wanted this mech's approval just as much, if not more. It wanted the words of praise. It wanted the Autobot to feed and reward it.
It had been trained, Megatron knew, but there was something off about its reactions. He couldn't quite pin down what was pinging him as strange.
In the spirit of experimentation, he finally laid down. No other reason. No, really.
The fluttering rush of pleasure flooded down his back again as the yellow mech bent right away to praise his obedience, and the treat tasted wonderful. It was obscenely good how praise and food felt in conjunction. A hand was held out, bare of energon, and Megatron eyed it warily.
The fear he was waiting for didn't manifest. That was the strange thing. That was what he'd been expecting. That was the instinct this body should possess, and it puzzled him that it didn't. The Insecticon should want to cringe away from the Autobot's hand, knowing what was coming, but it didn't. If anything, the urge to push into the hand kicked up another notch.
Megatron didn't like it, but he allowed the hand to descend toward his head. Best to get it over with, whatever was coming.
Braced for pain, he had no defense against an antenna massage.
[* * * * *]
"Excommunication"
[* * * * *]
The Autobots will retreat from Iacon in the cold hours before sunrise, in the densest darkness just after moonset. It won't conceal them from targeting lasers or the Decepticon satellites glinting up among the stars overhead, but their armor will be at its coolest. The ruins of the highways will have cooled all night, and cold metal against cold metal blurs on thermal scans. Not even Decepticons can see perfectly in the dark. The Autobots are counting on that.
Iacon is finally falling. It isn't a violent triumph with Decepticons storming through the barricades, kicking aside hastily constructed walls made from collapsed buildings and public transports rendered useless from the rail bombings. Megatron won't enter the city at the head of a brigade of ruthless warriors slaughtering the Autobots left and right.
Combat thrilled the Decepticon, as if a body count was their method of measurement. The Autobots won't give their enemy the kind of victory used to rouse morale before the next battle. Dusk falls over the city quietly, and by dawn tomorrow, the fall of Iacon will be complete. They will abandon their last city stronghold in a silent retreat, spending no lives and leaving a hollow victory for the Decepticons to venture into at their own peril. Traps riddle the city everywhere, mines under the streets and explosives wired to the doors of old apartment buildings. Megatron will take the city, but he won't dare occupy it. If the Autobots can't have Iacon, then no one will.
The Decepticons brought down the Towers first. Mirage survived, and the noblemech's grim optics never waver as he sets the charges, hands steady. He fumbled, back when the Towers came down, shaking with nerves and inexperience, but not anymore. He's survived too much, and determination holds him stable. His city will not be a Decepticon fortress. It'll be a hole in the ground before he allows that to happen.
It is Mirage's calm mask Optimus Prime holds in his mind. So many Autobots lived through so many terrible things, and the Prime asks them to perpetrate this one themselves. They no longer have the numbers to stand up to the Decepticons in open war. It's time for different, more ruthless methods: slash and burn, hit and run, acid pit traps and carefully weakened support pillars under key structures. Guerilla tactics that give their enemies nothing to shoot at but ghosts as trickery nibbles away at the Decepticon ranks.
Traps, misdirection, and small strikes. No victories, but no defeats. The lack of outright fighting will do more to Decepticon morale in the long run than the Autobots. The Autobots will stay alive, after all. A single operative sacrificed to take out a supply train kills more than one Decepticon.
Perhaps that's why the Prime has come here, picking his way through the burnt-out remains of what once was the High Temple of Iacon. Tactics meant to demoralize the Decepticons are little moves in a wider strategy. A thousand tiny markers collectively shifting into a pattern, like the subtle flickers of emotion across Prowl's face as he bends over the holographic projector. Assemble the pattern, follow it, and one can see the wider effect, a trickle starting an avalanche far down the line, and some day fiercely hungry optics will look up from the glowing map, and Prowl will smile. Then, and only then, will all the pieces make a picture, and they will be ready to topple Megatron.
But that is the future. This is now, and Optimus Prime is here.
By itself, the ruined Temple is a worthless location, already destroyed. It reeks of the priests who died here, their lives spilled to seep into the cracked floor tiles. Smoke lingering like silent mourners among half-fallen pillars. Further down where the fire missed more, drips of energon glow dim between the staircase joints. A large splash provides gruesome illumination at the base of the stairs, a wobbly outline of a body gravity brought out of the fire to leak to death. In the end, the priests had nowhere to run.
The Prime pauses at the edge of the stain to bow his head in respect. A cynical part of him wonders how long it will be before the Empties, the Neutrals, even the Decepticons scrape the partially processed fuel from the wall, lick it from the floor. No one has dared, yet, or more likely, no has gotten this far into the otherwise ransacked Temple. Everything else of worth has been taken. Desperation will drive the starving back in at some point, however, and this last evidence of what had been will disappear down someone's throat.
If it will keep someone from stasis lock a few minutes more, he won't begrudge the cannibalism. The priests of the Temple probably wouldn't approve, but they didn't approve of much of what Optimus Prime did in the brief time they knew him. The High Temple burned soon after his ordination.
As Jazz said: "Good riddance."
Of course, the saboteur followed the spat comment up by noticing the Prime standing in the doorway and nearly falling out of a chair apologizing in frantic haste. Seeing him lose his suave smoothness was a rarity, but so was insulting the religious institution that the Matrix-Bearer represented on Cybertron.
Optimus Prime neither forgave him nor agreed with him. In either case, it wasn't his place to say anything. The Matrix chose him, not the priests. Given their way, the holy relic would have been pried from his chest and passed to a more politically correct candidate. The Temple became synonymous with corruption well before his time. He feels no connection to the Temple that stood in his way at every opportunity until it fell, freeing him to act as the leader the Primes were meant to be.
But he doesn't hate them. If nothing else, they are dead. He pities them for how they died.
They're not why he's here. He's here for something they left behind, part of the institution. Every institution has rules, regulations, order. The Autobots live by military rules, now. Some thrive inside it. Some rebel against its constrictions. Optimus Prime isn't used to the conflict-centered approach of the structure yet, but he's used to functioning within a framework of laws. Everyone is adjusting. Even those who don't enlist know how the regs work. The war has woven into the life and culture of Cybertron in a pervasive web of complicated knots tightening every day as peace grows a more distant memory. One doesn't have to live by combat to be affected by it.
The Temple operated in a similar manner. Religion underlay so much of Cybertronian life that years after the priests died or took up arms, medics still mutter prayers when the medibay doors slam open. Atheists know basic rites, everyone swears by Primus and the relics, and while only active practitioners might know the words to the verses, every soldier can sing the chorus.
Religion is a formality more often than not, a nod given to past ideals, but it's there. One piece, potentially part of a larger whole.
Optimus Prime uses his headlights in the dark under the Temple, one hand on the wall to guide him along. He doesn't have to go far. Despite rumors from treasure-hunters and the great dreadful weight of solemn ceremony, the Altar to Primus isn't hidden. The Temple is built on top of it, but there are no doors. The guards are long gone. The hallway stretches on forever from an illusion built of darkness, not reality.
The ornaments that decorated it before the fire are slag, puddles of melted and hardened metal dotting the surface and running down the sides. Optimus is somewhat glad for how his headlights fail to show more than narrow spots at a time of it. The dribbled pools look disturbingly like the remnants of the priests he stepped over to come down here.
He keeps his gaze fixed on his work, lighting the flare and putting down the tablet. It doesn't hold a holy text of any kind. He wanted it to, but downloads are risky these days. Soundwave's viruses eat mechs' minds as easily as computer files. Instead of the Book of Primus, the tablet holds a copy of Toward Peace.
Like religion, in its purest form Megatron's rhetoric seems like something Cybertron can live by. By creating an institution around it, it became corrupted. Its leader has used it to rule, not guide. Absolute power has corrupted Megatron absolutely.
It could have been holy. The Prime rests his hand on the tablet almost sadly, his fingertips trailing sorrow and regret over the words filling the screen.
He draws in a deep vent full of dust. It smells of old smoke.
Holding it, he draws himself up to his full height, squaring his shoulders as he speaks into the listening silence, voice a low rolling baritone as solemn as Mirage's vow of revenge, as purposeful as Prowl's plan, and as damaging as Jazz's words. He holds the audio of Him who has come before and will never leave, and as the voice of his god, he speaks to the audience of their entire world.
"Wherefore in the name of Primus of Cybertron, Creator, Matrix, and All-Spark, of the Blessed Primes, thirteen in all, and of all the Matrix-Bearers," Optimus Prime recites in all due ceremony, "in virtue of the power which has been given us of binding and loosing in the Matrix and on Cybertron, we deprive him and all his accomplices and all his abettors of the sanctuary of the All-Spark and Matrix of Our Creator, we separate him from the society of all believers, we exclude him from the spark of our Holy Union as One in the Matrix and on Cybertron, we declare him excommunicated and anathematized and we judge him condemned to eternal smelting in the Pit with Unicron and all the reprobate, so long as he will not burst the fetters of war, do penance, and satisfy the Temple; we deliver him to Unicron to mortify his body, that his spark may be saved in the day of peace."
The flare sputters as he finishes. Optimus Prime bends his helm over it. Exhaustion, bitterness, and a strange horror mingle in his chest as he cups his hand over the small flame. White light softens and dies in his palm. Once it's extinguished, he takes the tablet up. He reads the first line, shakes his head, and sets the flat of the screen against the front corner of the altar. The Altar of Primus isn't much to look at, but it's strong enough for this. He shuts off his optics as he pushes. The tablet snaps in half.
Kneeling in the dark, he sets three bombs on the floor before the altar, lining them up among the rough puddles of destroyed decorations. They're not powerful, but they don't have to be. They just have to be loud. Setting the timers, he turns and strides away down the dark hallway, back toward the dim distant hint of light. He has plenty of time to leave.
The Autobots will be gone by dawn, and as the Decepticons move in to take Iacon, three explosions will rock the city, one right after another.
Far away, Optimus Prime will whisper three times, once for each distant knell closing the rite, "Until all are One."
And maybe some day Megatron will understand what he has lost in winning.
[* * * * *]
"capable Starscream"
[* * * * *]
Starscream is self-centered, cruel, an egotistical nightmare. Stripped of sheer power and raw charisma, much the same could be said of Megatron.
Could have been, which was the point. Soundwave sets a reminder to take care in self-editing. Slipping up and referring to Lord Megatron in the present tense would do nothing but dig into an open wound. The Lord of the Decepticons is gone. Past tense is both more accurate and more appropriate, for the king is dead - long live the king.
Bringing him back to Starscream. Soundwave considers the Air Commander.
Of course Starscream declared himself leader the moment Megatron disappeared. Mockery and subtle sneering followed his declaration, but telling was the fact that mutiny has not. Soundwave surprises himself by realizing even he hadn't contemplated a power grab. This is the turning point, he supposes. If he doesn't want leadership, and no one else dares rebel against Starscream's, then Starscream's power is as real as the arrogant jet believes it is.
Well, maybe not quite so solid or grandiose in scale, but power is power. Soundwave can contemplate it now that he allows himself to think about it. Megatron's total control of the Decepticons didn't lend itself to true planning for succession. What is prudent planning now was treason then.
Yet it seems obvious in retrospect that plans were unnecessary. The heir to the Empire has always been there, waiting. He takes the throne naturally, and although it was made to fit Megatron, it is a seat anyone can take if they're willing to face the comparison. Starscream has faced that comparison every day. This is hardly the first time Soundwave's considered him in the context of Megatron.
Starscream lacks the brute power that bled off Megatron, but he uses precision to destroy, a single accurate sniping hit instead of an overwhelming barrage of ammunition. Megatron's natural charisma had a flavor: a sharp, coppery tang of fear in the back of the throat. His confidence was as magnetic as it is intimidating, and he rumbled in a low, rasping voice. Starscream's charm is so different as to be incomparable. Starscream's smooth patter is practiced, persuasively slipping threats in among the promises of reward and slick reason. Thin as his voice is, the words he says are rich and full.
Both leadership styles get the job done. Both Decepticon leaders could seduce their worst enemy into picking up a gun to fight for them. And while the Decepticons won't follow Starscream into the Pit, they will indeed follow him. It takes something to be a leader, and Starscream has it. Soundwave has analyzed him many times, but he can't pin down what it is that set the Air Commander on the pedestal a step below Lord Megatron, eternally poised to take the highest position and make it his own. Is it the ruthless capability when he takes to the air, streaking through quicksilver tactics as his mind clicks through the wider strategy of the battlefield as a whole? Is it how he stepped in perfectly counterpoint to Megatron, diverting intimidation into alliances before fear could send fellow Decepticons running?
He has been Megatron's balance for so long Soundwave fights to separate the two of them in his mind. Every flaw mirrors Megatron's own, every advantage an echo of their fallen leader's.
Megatron obsesses - obsessed - over Optimus Prime. It was a weakness Soundwave dares acknowledge in the absence of present tense. As he pores over the thought, it occurs to him that Starscream's overinflated, over-compensating ego digs a channel just as deep in the new Decepticon leader's emotions. Starscream has won, he has triumphed, he now leads the Decepticons, but reacting to doubt, mockery, and threats to his rule can undermine him the same way as the Prime had led Megatron around by obsession. Damaged pride is can cripple Starscream.
Megatron is gone. Whether or not he will stay gone, Starscream now rules. The Decepticons will follow him, grumbling perhaps, but he is their leader. It behooves Soundwave to ensure their leader is acknowledged. It may apply a patchwork weld to the exploitable crack in Starscream's otherwise brilliant mind.
Soundwave silently strides through the halls, tapping the communication network to check where he must go. Starscream surrounds himself with syncopates, symbols of power, and Soundwave sets another reminder to himself. The dependence on visible, material paraphernalia and courtiers can be taken advantage of. He can use it now, but he'll need to wean the former Air Commander and new Supreme Commander off the trappings of power. Although maybe not. Megatron had shunned the garish symbols of reign, but then again, he'd founded the Decepticon Empire. Everyone knew his power. Starscream might have the right idea making his new position obvious to everyone.
Hmm. Soundwave set it aside to think on later.
For now, he'll give Starscream the show his insecurities need. Let the new leader cling to such things. They cost Soundwave nothing, and they strengthen the Decepticon hierarchy.
He waits to be seen amidst the minor chaos, patiently listening to Starscream's scratchy tenor dictate the mood and direction of the entire room. Wings scatter everywhere. Armor fluffs, displaying to attract attention. Wheels lower, out of favor and deferential.
At last, Starscream deigns to notice him. "Soundwave. Lurking in the shadows, hmmm? What do you want?"
By then, much of the room has emptied. The new leader assumes Soundwave approaches him for business only, as he's done since Megatron's gone missing. Soundwave is loyal to the Empire, not to him; the message is clear enough. Soundwave believes Megatron will return. Soundwave won't support Starscream's regime.
Soundwave kneels before Starscream, lowering himself gracefully to the floor at his leader's feet. Red optics widen. As the jet stares down at him, Soundwave captures one hand in his own and brings it to his mask, then his forehelm.
"Lord Starscream," he says, very simply. "Leader, Supreme Commander of the Decepticon Empire. Soundwave: at your command."
[* * * * *]
"Starscream - go down in flames"
[* * * * *]
Whatever else Starscream is, cowardly is on the list.
Woe betide those who forget the rest of the list exists.
"Keep an avenue of retreat open…here," the Supreme Commander of the Decepticon Empire says sotto voice as he drags markers about on the holographic battle simulation, and if he doesn't want to be heard speaking of potential retreat, it's understandable. Caution, prudent planning, and remembering past failures has never been rewarded. Megatron favored the bold and scorned those who brought up defeat.
Starscream knows how to play at confidence even while planning for fear. This mech of all mechs knows what it's like to stumble back in disarray, begging as a last resort because all other lines of retreat are closed. Given his head, he pushes strategy forward but always reserves a route for a tactical retreat. His position of power isn't so secure he can afford to be out of sorts when the challenges inevitably come, and they will. Megatron screamed, "Decepticons retreat!" and smashed aside any complaints in the chaos afterward. Starscream is determined to make his turn more organized, at the very least.
Soundwave doesn't call him on it. The barest nod acknowledges the low order without drawing attention to it. To bring it up for others to hear would undermine Starscream, calling back to former times when mocking the Air Commander kept Starscream in his place under Megatron's thumb. It was Starscream's job to point out flaws and act as Megatron's opposite, prodding their leader into brazen attacks when Megatron was cautious or advising stealth when Megatron grew too arrogant. What concerns Soundwave holds about the plan will be brought up later, in privacy. Here in public, he preserves Starscream's image as he once did Megatron's. He'll show nothing but support. It's his role, and his duty.
This is the leader he chose, the successor to Lord Megatron's throne, and although Starscream revels in acclamation, Soundwave has groomed him to recognize the subtle approval inherent in small signs. Little movements of his hands, held ready over tablet or console keys in readiness to input commands; the steadiness of their gaze when Soundwave meets his optics, noticeably different from the evasion as Megatron's most trusted officer kept working to avoid acknowledging Starscream's words or presence; the drop of his visor before his new Lord after dismissal, a full bow in the body language of someone famous for his reserved behavior. They are specific things, small behaviorisms, but Starscream is eternally a devil for the details.
Starscream favors the obvious signs of support. He smiles down at Soundwave, sly and gloating as the stoic mech kneels to him, but it's to be expected. He's too used to interpreting the twitch of Seeker wings instead of their words, or slow-burning sarcasm laced through a sweet smile. He sees things where they aren't. He misses things that are there.
Soundwave is patient. He gives his leader what is expected, what is wanted, but trains him to need what Soundwave alone provides.
He has cultured Starscream's trust like a spined, wicked vine that pricks and stings even as he coaxes it to grow. It will be worth it in the end. It is reluctant to respond now, cut back so far there isn't much left but the hidden, protected roots, but Starscream clings. He is greedy, covetous, and a hoarder. There isn't much difference between being a subordinate or a precious item, not when the Lord and collector equates belongings and power. The trappings of power have been taken away from Starscream for too long for things not to be important to him.
When the vine grows, Soundwave knows, it will envelope him. Starscream will own him, perhaps because trust can only be given if Soundwave can't escape its clutches. Soundwave doesn't mind. It's a different method of ruling, but no more different than how Starscream leads. Either way, Soundwave's position is secure.
Besides, Starscream is extremely responsive to approval, if given appropriately. Trust acts as puppet strings. The more the painful restraint of it wraps around Soundwave, the more Soundwave can use it to direct his leader. He knows Starscream uses it against him just as much, but it's a mutual manipulation. They are, after all, Decepticons.
Starscream continues to move holographic markers, and Soundwave twitches. Red optics catch the tiny movement, narrow, and turn away. The marker is shifted to another position, and Starscream doesn't look his way again. Soundwave takes note of the changed tactic for multiple reasons, only one of which will be shared among the other officers as a battle tactic later.
The escape route remains open. Soundwave tweaks the plans to ensure it. Some day, no matter how clever the plan, Starscream will grit his teeth and echo Megatron's angry scream of, "Decepticons, retreat!"
There will be panic. There will be chaos. The Decepticons will scramble to disengage in desperation and defeat, but such is war. Starscream's cowardice will plan for going down in flames, however, and it will be a controlled burn.
He will bring Soundwave with him as he flees.
[* * * * *]
"First snow"
[* * * * *]
The world doesn't exist until Jazz dances. It is muffled, smothered, buried. A blanket of clouds covers the sky, and silence coats the world in dim, frigid flurries more danger than beauty.
Then: let there be light. Spotlights, headlights, biolights, the pearlescent white light reflected from a frosted moon overhead, turning the night sky to diamonds and twinkling sequins dotting the stage that is Earth. The grey clouds roll back, loosing fluffy, dazzling snowflakes like glistening jewels that float lazily to the ground as if in apology for the fierce storm, and the air is crackling crisp, sharp and hard to inhale.
Black and white whirls amidst snow that glitters and glimmers in his headlights, a dusting from the clouds that already moved on, and Jazz gleams among the snowflakes. He is night and snow under starlight, a picturesque scene when at rest but right now a glorious force of nature spinning in the wind like a leftover piece of blizzard winding down. Silver steam billows in languid trails that trace his motions like afterimages in blurred photos, a dozen vents opening and closing on cue to release heated air into a pattern using the winter chill. His fingers flick, his arms snake, cutting through the sparkling ghost of his breath to shape whimsical arabesques, artwork alive for only seconds before it disappears, simply vanishing off his plating as if revealing him emerging from the ether, and it is unreal. He is unreal.
Heavy breathing to cool internal systems pushed to their limits beads moisture around his vents, freezes, melts, and slowly the stop-and-go drips crystal icicles in sprayed patterns that adorn him in fragile gilding as ethereal as the backbend he throws himself into, arching back to an impossible angle, silhouetted against the snow. Blue flashes, his visor suddenly brighter than the moon, mirrored in a thousand falling snowflake facets, and he drops into altmode to swirl the moonlit snow up into the air to sift down over him again. He is dancing, moving, never still.
Black ice glitters over the road as Jazz drifts along it, turning a spin-out into a lithe quicksilver transformation, in and out in time to the rhythm of traffic, or perhaps to whatever tune he hears in the harmony of his pounding fuelpump and pulsing, excited spark. Hands and tires touch down just long enough to slide off frictionless ice, and there's a timeless moment where the world holds its breath, caught in the split second where he might not save the move, but it isn't a move: it's an entire unchoreographed acrobatic show of long limbs and effortless grace. He launches back into the air almost before he lands, feet kicked up to play in the falling snow as much as on the ice, but it is on the dark, glassy, frozen surface of the road that he shines. He twists and skates, metal sleek on sheer ice and rubber skidding, but he never falters, never fails, always one step from falling, but falling and missing the ground is flying, so he dances in defiance of gravity.
He spreads his arms and turns, embracing the endless expanse of starry midnight, the shimmering moon above that paints him in obsidian and milky pearl. His visor and accents are picked up in startling clarity by the lights, the lights that seek him as he stars in them, steals them, belongs to them as much as the shadows. The attention, he basks in. He dips, one leg sweeping out and then up, bent behind him so he can twirl on the tip of his foot where it seems no one could balance and yet he does.
The heat built up under his armor escapes in wisps, angel wings evaporating off his doors as he rolls his helm back and laughs at the universe. It is giant, larger than comprehension, but he is here, he is now. He's brought this one world, this one moment into being, and the universe is his audience, his lover, his enemy. All that and more, every potential opportunity hidden but waiting for him to dance them into possibility in the empty voids between the lights, the lights, the lights.
Jazz dances, and winter comes alive around him.
[* * * * *]