Pt. 38: Vortex is wrigglesome when drugged; Prowl vs. Prowl; a brawl at the bar; Skywarp is speechless; realism in genital piercings; running the Combaticons like a McDonald's; Prowl deals out discipline; evil Decepticon tea parties; beastmode sex only; 'Toward Peace' in bed; explaining Starscream's voice; seducing Prowl; Swindle's history of customer service; kick-aft shrimp; various Autobots and sex; baby rape.

Title: Candy From Strangers, Pt. 38

Warning: Genital piercings, sex, spanking, tea, torture, rape, choking, history. And baby rape. I'm serious. It's the last ficlet in this chapter, so on your head be it if you choose to read.

Rating: R

Continuity: IDW, G1

Characters: Combaticons, Constructicons, Prowl, Swindle, Blurr, Motormaster, Skywarp, Pharma/Tarn, Sixshot, Overlord, Starscream, Soundwave, Mirage, Sunstreaker, Smokescreen, Sideswipe, Cliffjumper, Kup, Thundercracker.

Disclaimer: The theatre doesn't own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.

Motivation (Prompt): Various Tumblr things.

[* * * * *]

"Any character of your choice getting a little loopy from laughing gas like those wacky wisdom teeth removal videos. What could possibly go wrong?"

[* * * * *]

Not expecting a sudden armful of previously calm patient, Scrapper went over backward. Metal clonked against metal as he was nuzzled ardently, electromagnetic energy cresting like a wave to crash onto him in a dizzying rush. Surprisingly deft fingers explored his midriff, fumbling a bit but otherwise finding plenty to touch touch touch if they missed whatever they had originally been aiming for. Swamped by amorous intent, Scrapper's own EM field floundered helplessly, slowly tainted by the stronger, more pervasive (and persuasive) flood of energy drowning him.

Hook peered over the empty repair berth, visor wide and shocked pale by the violent fountain of lust rocketing toward the ceiling. This kind of loopy reaction wasn't that unheard of, but the sheer enthusiasm their patient was attacking Scrapper with was certainly unusual. "I'd usually recommend restraints at this point, but he's likely to get more excited. Mixmaster! What have you got on hand for sedation to work with the gas he's already high on?"

"Why sedate when you can party?" Mixmaster asked rhetorically as he rummaged for a canister.

It was a mistake to ask at all, rhetorical or not. Vortex took it as a suggestion. "Party!" he cheered. He stumbled to his feet and reeled toward the door, flailing his arms for balance. It turned him in circles, but the helicopter was strong with this one. The dizzy circling covered a surprising amount of ground. The Combaticon was out the repairbay door and away before Scrapper even thought about getting up from bed of carnal sin Vortex had been attempting to turn the floor into.

"Get back here!" Hook yelled, giving chase down the hall.

"I hate repairing him," Scrapper muttered as he got up to follow.

[* * * * *]

"G1 Prowl meets IDW Prowl."

[* * * * *]

"We have to get them away from each other," someone said. It didn't matter who, since they were all thinking it anyway.

Prowl had met Prowl. The meeting hadn't gone well. Instead of cooperating together, they'd taken immediate and intense dislike to each other, and neither could or would explain why. After an hour, it'd devolved into one single exchange the rest of the Autobots and Decepticons of Earth would forever treasure as how to tell their Prowl from the rest of the Prowls of the multidimensional universes.

"Those cogsuckers are mine!" the Other Prowl had snarled, somehow offended by the presence of the Decepticons, or rather, the Constructicons in specific. Scrapper had backed away uneasily from the poisonous glare attempting to stab him through the spark, and the rest of the combiner team clustered at his back as if hiding behind him. Fear and intrigue had stared back at the Prowl in equal measure. Under what circumstances did an Autobot lay claim to the entirety of the Constructicons?

Their dimension's Prowl had snorted, stepping in among the Autobot ranks to spread his arms. "Glitch, please. These are mine."

The Autobots looked at each other. Yeah, sounded about right. Sideswipe stepped forward to sling an elbow up onto Prowl's right shoulder as Optimus Prime laid a hand on his left. Cliffjumper and Bumblebee cut in front of him to grin fiercely at the imposter. Nonimposter. Other.

Speechless with affront, the Other Prowl stared at them united against him. Almost coincidentally, the way he stood blocked Scrapper from their sight. Five Constructicons peered curiously around him at the Autobots. It seemed fitting.

[* * * * *]

"Swindle and/or Blurr handling a first big brawl at Maccadam's"

[* * * * *]

Oddly enough, Swindle was the one they called first. "Reclamation and Recreation!" he chirped cheerfully as he picked up the comm. An unknown frequency might mean new business, after all, and he was all about finding new business right now. The pickings for a retired weapons dealer on a post-war Cybertron were pretty slim.

So he was fairly optimistic about the call right until he recognized Fat Tankor's voice. He listened for half a minute, looked to the ground in a plea for patience from Primus, and managed a polite, "It's not my bar. You have fun with that." And then he hung up.

Tall Tankor called not a minute later.

"Heeeeeey, Octane, buddy." Swindle listened without actually paying attention as a bucketful of woes was poured out over the line, ending in a pathetic plea. Tall Tankor took his drinking seriously. Swindle wasn't taking him seriously, however. "What makes you think I can do anything? Good luck getting back in. Bye!"

Two Dinobots, Wheeljack, and fragging Waspinator later, Swindle had given up on actually getting any work done. He leaned back in his seat with his arm over his optics to block out the world in general. The door opening didn't make him so much as twitch.

"You realize your clientele's gathered outside the bar begging for you not to close, right?" he asked his visitor.

Blurr sullenly plonked himself down in the chair across the desk. "Let 'em beg."

"You're not really going to close."

Vents click-clicked in irritation, but Blurr didn't answer.

Swindle sighed. "So they started a fight. That happens in bars. You can't just lock the door and give up on a business just because someone throws a punch or breaks a chair over Slug's head."

"Swindle…" Blurr didn't look up at the merchant as Swindle peaked under his arm, curious at the apprehensive tone in the bartender's voice. The lanky ex-racer was leaning back in the chair, arms crossed and a frown on his face as he stared at the floor, optics trouble. "You ever read 'Toward Peace'?"

"Uh." Sure he had. Ex-Decepticon and all that, although he'd mostly skimmed through it to get a feel for how the market would run under Megatron's dictatorship. "I guess. Why?"

Blurr met his optics. "You remember how the war got started? Not the Senate or Functionalists or anything like that. The first real action that led to Megatron's arrest and everything leading to him going underground to start advocating violence instead of a peaceful revolution."

"Yeah, sure. It's practically legend." Swindle frowned and leaned forward on the desk, hand spread. "He went for a drink and - " He stopped, optics wide.

A grim smile crossed Blurr's face. "And got in a fight at a bar. So you'll excuse me if I'm a tad oversensitive about fighting in my bar."

Swindle had no ready reply to that.

[* * * * *]

"Motormaster and Skywarp arguing"

[* * * * *]

Skywarp stared. It wasn't often the base prankster was caught flat-footed, but it wasn't often that his prank suppliers were yoinked, either. Everybody on Earth knew better than to touch Supply Closet 19. That was his stash. Consequences were prolonged and devious upon those who messed with his stuff.

So he'd been out for someone's metal when he noticed his paint supplies were tampered with.

Checking the surveillance cameras had enlightened him as to the culprit, but bursting into the Stunticons' quarters hadn't ended in confrontation or violence.

Confused, he said, "You're not supposed to use that."

Motormaster glared at him just long enough to be sure Skywarp wasn't going to attack him before going back to touching up his paint. "Why not? It's paint."

"But it's…house paint."

"It does the job," the Stunticon commander grunted. "It's the right colors, it dries quick, and I don't have to keep it polished."

"That's because it's not supposed to be polished," Skywarp said. He blinked, taking in the truckformer's matte color scheme. Black and purple, like his colors, except Motormaster had apparently decided going to the Constructicons for paint touch-ups was too much of a hassle. The tint was strange, however. To Skywarp's optics, able to see many more wavelengths of light than a human's organic orbs, the paint looked as foreign as a coating of grass stain. "You don't look right," he said a little helplessly, wondering if he should do something. There was nothing technically wrong with using Earth paint on their frames, but it pinged him as all kinds of wrong.

Motormaster determinedly ignored him, dabbing paint over a chipped spot. "I look fine."

"No you don't!"

"Feh. Go back to the clouds, flyboy."

"You look like you used house paint!" Skywarp insisted. "Couldn't you have at least used the stuff the humans use for their cars?"

"This is what you had," Motormaster growled. "I'm not going to go out and get more just because you don't like the look of me. You already don't like the look of me. You're a jet. It comes with the territory. I don't like your paintjob either, but you don't hear my horn going off in your audio about it."

Skywarp shifted from foot to foot. "But…"

"Scat, airhead!"

[* * * * *]

"The fetish in the fandom seems to be idealized genital piercings"

[* * * * *]

This was the moment Tarn had been waiting for. He'd waited all this time to bend the arrogant Autobot surgeon over a table, bare his impressively decorated spark, and -

"Megatron dancing with the stars!"

Unfortunately for Tarn's ego, the one yelping the high-pitched blasphemy wasn't Pharma. Pharma startled so badly his cockpit screeched across the table. "What? What?!"

Tarn grimaced behind his mask, both hands scrambling to pin the squirming mech down. "Don't move, blast you!"

"What? Why?" Pharma twisted, one of those improbably flexible moves Tarn would have admired under any other circumstances. Right now, it did nothing but give the piercing caught just beyond his valve rim a sharp tug. Tarn yipped like the Pet. "What the…are you caught?"

"You said you didn't have any mods," Tarn blurted in his own defense. He fumbled between them to ease the barbell free, twitching as the pain stopped.

Pharma managed to prop himself up on an elbow to look back at the flustered, angered Decepticon. "That's not a mod, it's just regular valve mesh."

"Ah. Well. It, ah, happens." Tarn reset his vocalizer. Awkward. "Shall we?" He reached around to take advantage of something he'd taken note of at the front of the surgeon's valve, hoping to slide past the issue, but Pharma got a strange look on his face. "What?"

"That really doesn't do anything for me," Pharma said, almost detached. Tarn's fingers paused, delicately pinching the captured ball ring between them. "I got it for looks. My…lover at the time had a thing for piercings, and since I'm not very sensitive there to begin with, it seemed like a good idea at the time to get it pierced."

Well, that was disappointing. "It looks nice," Tarn said dutifully, because it was true, but, "What if I rub harder?"

"Ow!"

That answered that. "Nothing at all?" he asked a touch sadly as he withdrew his hand.

"No!"

"Hmm."

Pharma gave him an exasperated look. "If you must know, get a vicarious glee from watching new nurses search endlessly for where the jingling comes from as I walk by."

Oh. That did sort of fit his prickly Autobot's personality better than a node piercing for pure pleasure. Tarn smiled, oddly pleased by the answer, and Pharma chuckled at his amusement. Somehow, that threw them back into the interrupted mood, and Tarn was more careful navigating the rim of Pharma's valve with his spike piercing this time. Things were getting truly heated, all huffing and grunting and the whine of flight engines. Excellent. Wonderful.

A little too good, as Tarn grew too enthusiastic in plunging into Pharma's tight valve.

This time, they screamed in chorus.

Catching a barbell on a ring? Not fun. Not fun at all. The mood was effectively ruined.

But then, as they untangled themselves while sniping sourly back and forth, things got even worse.

tink

They both froze. It was a tiny sound, the tiniest plink of metal falling to the ground, but their audios were fine-tuned to hear that sound in pitched battle, if necessary. Horrified optics met for a split second.

Autobot and Decepticon tumbled apart, gazes locked on the floor and fingers feeling up their equipment even as they searched. There wasn't a moment to lose. Barbell ball or captured ball for the ring, those suckers could roll forever if they let them escape, and good luck finding another piece of jewelry out here on Messatine. It wasn't like that stuff could be mined for, and anything they could confiscate from anyone living out in this isolated region probably wasn't up to sanitation standards. Sticking unhygienic ornaments into interface equipment resulted in graphic illustrations in a medical textbook somewhere. And like fun were they going to let the holes close. Good piercers were rare, and good piercings cost a lot in time and money, an investment in short supply during a war.

They did find the barbell ball eventually. Tarn shifted uneasily as Pharma knelt to carefully screw it back on. It should have been an erotic experience, what with Pharma handling his spike, face only inches away, but mostly it was nerve-racking as the ball kept slipping. "I hate how the angle has to be precise," Pharma muttered, breath warm on Tarn's spike. "I've done surgery that's been less precise than ah-ha! Got it!" He tightened it, and Tarn squinted through the tweak of pain, a necessity to get the thing as tight as possible.

The surgeon climbed back to his feet, and Tarn sighed. "Next time - "

"I'm not taking out my ring. That thing's a glitch and a half to put back in."

"You already said you don't get anything from it."

"I like looking good!"

"Oh, come on. You don't really want me to take out this." Tarn thrust his hips forward proudly. "You loved how it felt inside you."

Pharma coughed, looking away. Tarn snapped to attention, suddenly suspicious, but the surgeon shrugged. "It felt fine. Good, I mean!" He put his hands up against Tarn's narrow glare. "I'm not complaining about that. But, uh, every time you tried grinding against me…"

Tarn stared at him for a moment before covering his mask with a hand. "Right. Not sensitive?"

"From a certain angle it can feel pretty good once I get going, but rutting like that, it's just pressure." Pharma shifted from foot to foot. "I'm feeling kind of abraded. I think we probably should have talked about this beforehand."

"Agreed."

It seemed the moment should have been waited for a bit longer.

[* * * * *]

"Good leaders"

[* * * * *]

The Combaticons, it should be noted, did military hierarchy well. Contrary to popular thought, all their individualistic quirks smoothed into a cohesive whole when slotted into a unit. Onslaught's strategies required thought, sometimes too much thought, the kind of thinking that could trap someone in their own mind, and it balanced against Brawl's tendency not to think at all. Blast Off's chill disdain for everyone and everything in existence gave Swindle's slimy shmooze substance, firming them both. Vortex filled in the cracks like the random, easily-distracted maniac he was.

There was a reason their plot against Shockwave nearly succeeded. They worked well together.

Shoving them into a combiner team did things to that hierarchy, however. The military hierarchy cemented into place around them, but the internal structure of the team became strangely...liquid. Inside the structure of the military, their unit had become a prison cell containing only them, and they were inside each other, doing whatever it took to keep their odd group going. Bruticus turned their team into something more permanent and consequently more intimate. Whereas before they had voluntarily worked together, now they had no choice. They couldn't go their separate ways if there was an argument. They couldn't be reassigned, either. They had to make it work.

Before, losing Onslaught as their commander would have meant Blast Off taking over the team, uncontested. Worst case scenario, the Combaticons would have fractured and gone their separate ways. Which, given Blast Off's apathy toward leading, would have happened fairly quickly.

Now, they had to stick it out. And that meant ignoring rank. Technically, Blast Off was next in command. In reality, Blast Off wanted absolutely nothing to do with the job.

"I hate you," he said to the common room in general. He turned and left without another word.

The remaining three Combaticons blinked after him. "He really doesn't deal well with forced social contact, does he?" Vortex asked drily. "I guess that means he doesn't want command."

"He couldn't lead us out of a paper bag," Swindle muttered.

"Well, I ain't doing it!" Brawl said. Nobody had looked at him, but he felt the disclaimer was necessary. He wasn't great at planning, but even he could see where this was going. "I'd have to talk to Megs, urgh, Lord Megatron, and file reports about everybody instead-a just me, and 'k, ordering people around can be fun, but, uh, think we all know I can't get Onslaught outta this." Unease filled his visor, because he was Decepticon and hated admitted exploitable weakness but he was a Combaticon and knew they already knew what honesty compelled him to admit. Gestalt links sucked, sometimes. "Somebody's gotta come up with a plan. I ain't good with plans."

Plus what would likely be weeks of being in charge before they ever got a go-ahead to go after Onslaught. Weeks of leading three other Combaticons, and representing the Combaticons back at Decepticon HQ, and weeks of the small busy-work required to keep the Combaticons functioning. Half a week on their own, and Soundwave had already reamed Blast Off for failing to submit an after-action report, a medical requisition list, and completely missing the fuel pick-up. All the little details Onslaught managed on automatic, only keeping them in the loop if it involved them.

Well, Onslaught was gone. It was just them. Individually, then one-to-another, they had pooled some of their knowledge and figured out some of what they should be doing. It was chores and duties broken up between them, all of them functioning on their own under Onslaught's supervision, while he did frag-knew-what-all in his office like a hub coordinating them.

Blast Off wasn't any good at being a hub. It involved too many people for his limited patience.

"He has to do it," Brawl complained. "He ranks us."

"Yeah, but nothing's gonna get done if we rely on that," Vortex said. "You want Onslaught back? Then we gotta work on working together."

"Then you take charge!"

"Um."

Swindle was already out the common room door before Vortex had come up with a response for that. The mildly panicked look in Vortex's visor told him the answer, anyway. An interrogator by nature, irresponsible for fun, Vortex had no ability to command. He abused power too easily. Given subordinates, he'd spend more time tormenting them than getting anything done.

Something that Vortex realized, fortunately. If it were under any other circumstance with any other unit, he'd be positively gleeful taking command. That didn't work so well in a situation where he had to take the job seriously. He didn't want to admit the gestalt links locked him into giving a frag about the other Combaticons, but they did, so he had to.

Explaining why Swindle got a knock on his door late that night. He didn't answer, of course. He wasn't stupid.

The 'copter outside sighed, forehelm thunking against the door. "Swindle...come on. You know what I'm gonna say."

Silence from inside.

"I'm not Onslaught. I can't make up answers on my own. I can get answers from other people, but that's not what we need. We need somebody who can do the everyday stuff, and make big plans. It's business, right? You're good at business. You can look at us like employees and run the unit like it's a McDonald, and I know you already think of reports to HQ like sending letters to corporate."

More silence. Stubborn, unanswering silence.

Vortex banged his forehelm lightly against the door. "Come oooooooon. It's not permanent! Blast Off will do all the ranking stuff as long as somebody's handing him everything he has to file and whatnot, and I talked to Brawl, he's fine with taking orders as long as we get ammunition shipped in on time, and fraggit, I don't want the job! Swindle!" He pounded on the door with one hand. "Swindle, get your tires out here so I can salute you!"

But the silence continued until Vortex finally just broke down the door. Not surprising, since Swindle wasn't actually in the room. No, he was a little too clever for that.

Vortex looked around, visor narrow. "...right." See, this? This, he could do. He knew how to lay a trap. Run a unit, not so much, but cornering mechs, he could do.

He also knew how to make the mech in question want to stay in the trap.

"Here," he said grimly as he stalked through the door of the common room. He shoved a bucket onto the table between Brawl and Blast Off. "Spare change. Now."

"Uh..." Brawl exchanged weirded-out looks with Blast Off, then shrugged and dug into his storage. "I've got sixty bucks and twelve shanix."

Blast Off wordlessly poured a handful of miscellaneous alien currency into the bucket.

Vortex emptied his own limited funds into the blasted thing, too. It wasn't much, but it was something, and he left a note with an IOU promising double the amount as a completion bonus once they got Onslaught back.

Six months later, their commander walked through the door into his office looking entirely disoriented by the whole rescue experience. There was a tale there, one of hostage negotiations carried out by a smirking, ruthless little glitch he'd barely recognized as one of his teammates, but it was a tale for another day, preferably after he had time to defrag. For now, Onslaught had more immediate concerns.

"Where's my chair?" he asked slowly, glancing around his office. It was frighteningly organized. The chair behind the desk was too small to belong to whom it should.

Blast Off stood stiffly in the doorway. "Common room."

"Where's your chair?"

"Not here."

"I...see that. Is there a reason it's not in here?"

"Because I wasn't in here."

Onslaught stared at him, processing that. "Does this have to do with why Swindle was the one negotiating for my release?"

"Yes."

He really hadn't missed trying to pry information out of Blast Off. "Am I going to have to check the unit's budget for embezzled money?"

"Likely."

"And you allowed it to happen."

Blast Off looked away. "He at least knows how to balance a budget."

Well, there was that. "Anything else I should know?"

A strained look crimped the bottom edge of the shuttle's visor. "If you see a large entry marked 'command bonus,' it's supposed to be there."

Onslaught slowly felt a few dots connect. "Did you bribe Swindle to do your job?"

"Perhaps."

He stared at the shuttle. The shuttle avoided looking at him. "Does this," Onslaught said at last, "have anything to do with the...new paint job?" He gestured gingerly at the red and yellow color scheme. There were few things more strange than coming back home to a combiner team painted in bright, cheery colors. Red and yellow assault tank. Red and yellow shuttle. A smirking red and yellow Jeep. Red and yellow helicopter with friendly little 'M's painted on the tips of his rotor blades.

Blast Off heaved a sigh. "In a way. Vortex might have said something he regretted later."

Onslaught was quite sure they all regretted it. "I see." He nudged the too-small chair out from behind his desk out and took a seat. There was a very low, sarcastic mutter of, "I'm lovin' it."

Blast Off hated him, too.

[* * * * *]

"G1 Prowl - numbers, calculations"

[* * * * *]

In times like these, Prowl tended to run the numbers slowly. It wasn't from an overwhelming amount of input. The rec room was a wreck, chairs skidding out of the main fight to slam into walls beside brawlers already out of the fray, but Brawn was still going strong. That was to be expected, however. As often as the high-strung Autobots of the Ark riled each other up, Prowl didn't find loud, furniture-breaking arguments made with fists and feet to be particularly alarming. He'd been tracking the rising emotional tide in the ship all week. It wasn't surprising in the least to walk into the midst of the breakage as everyone angrily, joyously, explosively let off steam in one rowdy no-holds-barred fight.

The numbers clicked over slowly because Prowl enjoyed running them. They added up in neat, proven totals well within in the spread he'd predicted. Nothing had gone wrong. Nobody had done the unexpected. Everything was within parameters, and he savored the glow of satisfaction that he'd read twenty separate personnel files right yet again. He knew what these people would do. He knew what to expect from them, in this at the very least.

They, in turn, had played this game with him before. They knew what to expect. His reaction was as unsurprising as their poor behavior, and as anticipated. Even now, those paying enough attention spotted him. Optics flashed, excited. Grins spread like an infection.

He ran the numbers, checking tallies for accuracy.

Sideswipe: 7.

Sunstreaker: 10.

Cliffjumper: 7.

Mirage: 2.

Jazz: a private, strongly-worded lecture. Prowl wasn't so easily tricked.

Brawn: 9. Prowl had warned him against finding an aluminum chair their size.

Windcharger: 3.

The list totaled slowly as the fight wound down, word spreading through the participants that law and order had arrived to judge them. Prowl noted names and numbers, extending the list.

Once the fighters were finished making fools of themselves, he'd read them the riot act. Ironhide would get most of them after he was through, but that would happen only after he claimed one of the chairs for his own and dealt out individualized punishments, calculated down to the force used to bring his palm down on their backsides.

Discipline, Prowl believed, was best dealt out by someone capable of making delinquents do as they were told - or at least behave as predicted.

[* * * * *]

"Evil Decepticon Tea-Parties of Doom"

[* * * * *]

"Y'know, I always wondered how those two ever stopped shouting at each other long enough to rule an Empire."

The mumbled comment brought Brawl over from decorating the cake. With explosives. Because they were Decepticons, fraggit, and the filling had to be fitting. It wouldn't take anyone's head off, but everyone expected something special in the party centerpiece, and Brawl was pretty slagging good at demolitions. Now he ducked a bit to peer through the prep area's counter window into the main room, where Vortex leaned on the counter staring at Megatron and Starscream.

Most of the other Decepticons milled about, exchanging pleasant small talk and small arms fire. It was an entirely civilized setting, the exact opposite of their normal demeanor. Whereas the common room usually resembled a gigantic free-for-all orgy crossed with an ongoing game of Beer Pong played with hand grenades, the room at large was clean, tidy, and full of the low murmur of conversation. Peppered by the occasional laugh and/or gunshot, the party was a tremendous success.

That's what happened when two strategists, three tacticians, Megatron, and Starscream collaborated. Throw in Mixmaster planning the refreshments, and it was no wonder even the Stunticons behaved themselves. Nobody wanted to miss out on Soundwave's patented special blend of energon. Served in elegant little cups, it was poured out mere sips at a time. It earned applause when the delicately curved pots were carried out. Genteel applause, soft pats of metal hands on palms instead of war whoops and shouting.

Unnerving to those who'd never seen it. Just plain strange to the reawakened Combaticons thrust into the middle of it, but what the frag. They'd always known High Command and the Elite were up to something. Megatron and Starscream seemed out for each other's vital fluids every other minute of the week, so this made a sort of sense of how the Empire had gotten this far.

Vortex had heard that the Decepticon parody of high-class Towers' parties were driving that one noblemech Autobot absolutely bonkers. He approved. Sympathized, at least anytime he saw Megatron pick up a teensy glass with his pinkie out, but approved.

Vortex sighed and hefted his tray. "Refills on Table #3," he said, resigned.

Brawl pushed the steaming kettle of energon across the counter, and Vortex painstakingly poured it into his little serving pot. It stayed at ideal warmth if it was ferried out to everyone in tiny amounts. It also required someone to play server every week, and Soundwave insisted on scheduling him, Scrapper, or Hook. Nobody else had the hands for measuring the right amounts, according to him. Mixmaster would do, but Mixmaster made the solid-sculpted energon for the parties. This week it was a cake. Last week, it had been sliced piles of different-textured and flavored energon. He'd called them 'sandwiches.' Everyone else called them 'tasty' and attempted to stuff their maws in the most aristocratic stuck-up manner possible.

Serving duty wasn't a bad job to pull. He and Brawl would get to take all the leftovers after the party finished.

"What's with the frilly thing?" Motormaster sneered as Vortex bent over Table #3 to pour energon in a thin, steaming, superheated stream. It was all about presentation. He had to admit it was kind of fun watching everyone try to calculate the angle as he raised and lowered the serving pot, stopping at just the right moment to not spill a drop. Sometimes Vortex really loved this job.

Then there was putting up with the obnoxious idiots who didn't understand what presentation even meant, much less why Vortex was part of it. "It's an apron," the Combaticon said primly. There were rules. They had to be observed, or the violators would be dragged outside to have better manners beaten into them.

A tug on the edge of his apron definitely violated one of the rules. "Whatcha need an apron for?" Motormaster asked, grinning. He apparently thought himself above consequences.

Visor narrow, Vortex straightened to glare down at him. "In case of spills," he said in a perfectly deadpan voice as he dumped the entire serving pot into Motormaster's lap, scalding energon and all. The Stunticon commander went rigid, optics popped wide. The scent of burning wires drifted up as the energon began to sizzle, melting anything that wasn't covered by thick armor. "Oops," Vortex said, not sounding sorry at all, "I'm so sorry."

Quiet, polite applause followed him as he flounced back to the prep area.

[* * * * *]

"mechs with beast alt modes can't fully enjoy interfacing outside of alt mode"

[* * * * *]

"You're sure you're okay with this?" He wasn't nervous, he wasn't. He was simply well aware that his altmode was kind of strange and came packaged with nonstandard equipment that squicked out a lot of Cybertronians. It wasn't his fault his standard interfacing equipment was linked into his altmode set! He hadn't had a choice about a beastmode altmode, it was what he'd been forged with, so he wished people would just get over the whole 'ewwww, you interface like an organic?' thing.

Sixshot must have heard something in his voice, even if it wasn't nervousness. He twisted his neck to look up and around at the mech perched awkwardly over his hindquarters. "It's fine."

He wished he could just take that as reassurance. "Does that mean you're fine with it because you don't care, or you're fine with it 'cause you like using your stuff, too?"

Finding someone with compatible equipment was rare enough. Finding someone who actually liked using it was rarer still. Beastmode sex was kinky as frag. It wasn't something every mech liked even if they'd scanned an organic altmode who could actually rut like his did.

Sixshot just gave him a look. It was a look that said, 'Do I look like someone who tolerates being used?'

Right. On to rutting it was.

[* * * * *]

"Tarn - the type to have competitions over who can recite more lines of 'Toward Peace' in bed" + "noncon where the valve/input-module-of-choice is the aggressor"

[* * * * *]

"Have you remembered any more?"

The flash of fear in Overlord's optics was involuntary, and therefore all the more satisfying. Overlord felt intensely but in short bursts, ego and boredom eliminating permanence. Megatron had taught him humiliation, but he'd the lesson he'd learned was how to recover quickly, not how to stay down. He erased any lesson learn at their Lord's hands with anger. Indignation covered the indignity of loss. Sheer self-confidence had deleted justifiable fear.

So for Overlord to feel fear, however fleeting, meant that Tarn had chosen his torture well. It was progress, slow but satisfying.

"Of course not," the former Decepticon spat. His fingers curled as hatred wiped away the fear. "I'm hardly going to remember something I've never read!"

Tarn tsked, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "No wonder you failed. Knowing your enemy is the first step to defeating him." He took the last step forward and let his own fingers curl in easy familiarity around a thoroughly defeated enemy. "It seems we must begin again."

Words were still a weapon Overlord used well, but this was hardly their first time doing this. Tarn had rules. Overlord either cooperated as best he could, or the shameful humiliation was made worse. There were ways to make it worse. As of now, being shared among a team was merely the first torture of the day. Being shared with an entire battalion, or worse, a film crew...

Overlord stared grimly at the ceiling, full lips pressed tight, but there was only so much defiance could under the circumstances. His ventilations began to stutter soon enough. Tarn's hand filled, the pounding pulse of laboring hydraulics hitting his palm as arousal toppled whatever mental resolution the prisoner had tried to keep in place today. The magnetic clamp pinched at the base, cold enough to cause a flinch and tight enough that Overlord wouldn't overload with it on. It was a familiar restraint. Overlord knew exactly what it would and wouldn't allow, from long and painful experience.

Tarn idly let his hand continue working. There was a level of desperation he found he enjoyed in Overlord. The twitches of his hips as he tried to keep control, perhaps. The way he occasionally gave in, attempting to turn the tables by thrusting in violent cooperation into whomever rode him, but the D.J.D. usually responded with loud appreciation that their frag-toy had joined the fun. It tended to rile up the rest of them, seeing the one currently on top having such a good time, and Overlord's endurance, while impressive, couldn't outlast all of them. He ended those sessions on the ragged edge, regret in the self-inflicted bite marks on his lips and optics exhausted as he dully stared up at the mechs taking turns using him.

By the time Tarn settled on top of him with a purr of engines, Overlord's teeth were clenched against stifled gasps. His hips gave short, aborted thrusts into Tarn's hand, and he groaned far back in his throat as his torturer slid down his length.

Tarn rocked in place, valve pleasantly full. His optics were dim behind his mask as he studied the mech helplessly pleasuring him. Leaning down, he pressed his mask to the side of Overlord's face. "I will spare you the others today if you can remember but one more sentence, Overlord. Surely you can remember one sentence more," he coaxed, the promise a mockery.

Overlord grimaced and turned his head aside, optics offline. The valve around his spike squeezed, washing nausea through his tanks as his body almost glowed in poisoned pleasure that would be agonizing by the end of the day, and he knew resistance or even passive acceptance would get him nowhere. The rules existed to give him just enough hope to crush his will. Hope was the idea that if he did as he was told, did better, he would be spared worse. Hope made him try even when he wanted to give up.

"Begin," Tarn commanded, and Overlord strained to remember even one word more.

[* * * * *]

"someone (consensually) getting choked. Bruises, raspy voice, etc."

[* * * * *]

"Why do you sound like that?" they asked him. They always asked him. It made no sense for someone to sound like gravel on metal after walking out of full repairs.

And true to form, the first time he fell into the Constructicons' capable hands, they asked. They stared at him in blatant disapproval when he woke after battle, and Hook said it. "This could have been fixed years ago," he added, pinging a finger against the scuffed, crimped vox box in the Seeker's open neck.

Starscream smiled, optics dim and lazy from repair lag. His hand rose slowly to wrap around Hook's wrist, repositioning the surgeon's hand until it covered his throat, the Seeker's own fingers pressing Hook's into place. "Why fix what I want broken?" he rasped as he closed their hands around his throat.

The Constructicons stared. Hook swallowed, visor wide and locked on the way tubes compressed, cables bowed, wires bent. Starscream's pleased hum broke into static. Hook's fans kicked in.

[* * * * *]

"Group stuff. A bunch of people all focused on one other person"

[* * * * *]

Six hundred vorn since Megatron told the Senate to screw themselves and set off into the galaxy, leaving Cybertron behind, the Decepticons were doing pretty good for themselves. The Empire consisted of six colonies of various sizes, but it was better than nothing. Sure, they missed their homeplanet. Who wouldn't? But abandoning Cybertron to self-destruct on its own had meant freedom for them. They'd embraced the tenets of 'Toward Peace' and Megatron's other teachings, and the Empire was growing, slowly but surely. They might not have the strength of arms - yet - to conquer the known universe, but they had a manufacturing base, a service industry, and were even exporting goods, now.

Besides, Cybertron had done fairly well in their absence. The new Prime had kicked political aft and taken names, at least in a diplomatic way that had kept the planet from outright war. It hadn't been the revolution Megatron had called for, but the Prime had ideas and put them into play. The Senate lost power. The Prime had made sure of that.

It'd gotten to the point where Megatron had lifted the ban on business contracts with Cybertron. The Empire needed investors and money like any interstellar political entity, and the new Prime had indicated a willingness to trade with them. The Galactic Council was still too squishy-friendly for mechanical beings not to ally with each other first.

All of which meant Scrapper wasn't about to pass up the chance to hit on the black-and-white sitting at the bar. A. that red chevron was cute as frag; B. he wore the red stamp of the Autobots, meaning he had government connections back on Cybertron; and C. everything about him screamed 'foreman' to a buildmech like Scrapper. Anybody in charge of anything back on Cybertron was somebody he wanted to cultivate. Even if the mech was nothing but a office supervisor, he was still somebody to get to know.

Hey, Scrapper knew how to network. If he wanted to get his team's name back onto Cybertron, then he had to start somewhere.

"Excuse me, mechs," he said as he started to stand, only to nearly bump helms with Hook and Mixmaster as the two of them rose at the same moment. "Where are you going?"

The surgeon frowned at him. "Not that it's any of your business, but I have plans for tonight."

"Same," Mixmaster said.

"Oh?" Scrapper's visor narrowed in suspicion. "That's news to me."

Hook huffed out an exasperated breath before jerking his chin to indicate the Autobot at the bar. "I wanted some civilized company."

Mixmaster shot him a startled glance. "Me too?" he said almost uncertainly.

Suspicion became surprise. "I…was just on my way to make his acquaintance."

"Well, there goes the plan to buy him a drink," Bonecrusher muttered, and the three of them turned to stare at him just in time to catch Long Haul's rueful nod of agreement.

Scavenger deflated beside him. "Aww, frag. I won't stand a chance next to any of you."

Scrapper blinked at them all. "This is beyond coincidence."

"Ah. Well." Hook slowly resumed his seat. "I admit that I have ulterior motives."

Mixmaster glanced between him and Scrapper, then sat down as well. "Yeeeeeeah, that's not just coincidence. I was heading over 'cause he smells like he's been in a lab recently, or at least hangs out around somebody who does my kind of work. I figured I'd see if he could pass my name on to whoever he knows back on Cybertron. Get back on the radar in the Academy, if I'm lucky."

"You're kidding!"

"Holy frag."

"What?"

The Constructicons stared at each other. "He's been in the background of every media photo of the new Lord Protector of Cybertron," Bonecrusher said eventually, when it was clear nobody knew where to start. "Didn't recognize him until he sat down." He elbowed Long Haul. "We didn't know if he actually knows Ironhide or not, but a connection's a connection. Military respects buildmechs, and they always got contracts for offworld sites."

Hook worked his mouth a moment. "Ah…the same for the attending physician for the new Prime. It wouldn't be anything official, but if Ratchet were looking to approach anyone about healthcare advances in the Decepticons, an unofficial connection would be valuable for him to nuture."

"He looks like a foreman," Scrapper said when they looked at him next. "And he's my type." Small, authoritative, and very, very shiny.

Scavenger shrugged as their gazes shifted to him. "Yeah, I just thought he was kinda adorable with those bitty doors."

The whole table turned to look at the bar. Prowl continued to sip a tall glass of something layered and potent. He looked mildly irritated, if not outright bored.

A promising attitude for the plan niggling into being at the back of Scrapper's head. "Does anybody object to sharing?"

[* * * * *]

" post/137562352511/sumerianlanguage-prokopetz "

[* * * * *]

Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink.

It was a sound the Decepticons were alarmingly familiar with. The common room froze, ever optic turning toward the door, and a mass flinch swept the room at the sight of the blue mech blocking the door. And, not so coincidentally, their escape route. Hoooo boy, something was about to go down.

There were various sound effects for how screwed a Decepticon was, depending on which officer was fragged off. Starscream shrieked. Megatron roared. Soundwave folded his arms, fingers tapping. The speed indicated how much slag had hit the fan.

Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink. "Swindle."

What had been a defensive cluster at the biggest table burst apart as every mech near Swindle abandoned him en masse. "The frag you'd do this time?" Vortex hissed from under the table. "Onslaught'll murder you if you sold our ammo again!"

Swindle swallowed hard before pasting a wide smile on. "How can I help you, Soundwave?"

Soundwave's narrow visor saw all and was thoroughly unimpressed by everything. "Explain." He transmitted a packet. It unzipped into a series of photos taken from several museums.

The part that betrayed him was the fact that Swindle didn't need a language pack to translate the writing on the slabs. "Look, not every customer's right, no matter what the popular thinking is these days - "

Tink-tink. Tink-tink.

The Decepticons found convenient corners to hide in. Soundwave's visor narrowed further. Swindle's smile faltered.

"Swindle. Explain."

The conmech blinked at him for a moment, trying to figure out what he wanted explained if not the complaints themselves. Maybe the collection? "I like keeping a record of customer complaints," he hazarded, "and clay tablets were really kind of the communication standard back then. It's not that surprising they made it this long if you think about it, they're more durable than you'd think - "

Tink-tink-tink-tink.

Oh, Primus. The furniture acquired Decepticons hiding behind it, two deep in places.

"Swindle.. Tablets: are 4000 planetary years old. Swindle: in Detention Centre. On Cybertron." The blocky communication officer drew himself up, visor blazing disbelief and wrath in equal amounts. "Explain."

Swindle gave him a particularly blank look, smile dropped. "Well…yeah, but there was a market. Babylon. Lots of open commerce. I couldn't miss out on that action."

Dead silence, of the kind that usually resulted in dead bodies. Even Soundwave's fingers had ceased their drumming. Vortex's visor attempted to bulge as he stared at his gestaltmate.

Swindle just blinked, confused. What? He didn't get it.

Finally, Soundwave brought all his fingers down in one, definitive tink as if deciding something. "Soundwave: not surprised," he almost grumbled, and turned to leave. "Ea-nasir. Monitor duty."

"Aw, come on, it was a long time ago and I didn't even make that much money!" Swindle scooted his chair back in order to reluctantly trudge after Soundwave. "And it's pronounced Ea-nasir, thank you very much."

Soundwave spun on his heel to glare. Tink. Tink. Tink. Tink.

"A-heh heh. Right." Swindle put his hands up in surrender. "Customer's always right."

[* * * * *]

"Mantis, or Peacock Shrimp inspired a hilarious thread on Tumblr, and the Oatmeal did a strip on them. Go look 'em up."

[* * * * *]

Base security honestly wasn't that big a concern for the Decepticons. With the exception of the Launch Tower, which was guarded, the only other way into the base was through the ocean. Quite frankly, if an Autobot made it through the variety of bizarre Terran wildlife outside on the ocean floor, nobody wanted to mess with that Autobot. If it wasn't Frank the Lobster, it was the Peacock Patrol.

"Sweet merciful spires!" someone said in a kicked-in-the-diodes voice from down a side hall, and Brawl reversed a couple steps back to look. He didn't know that voice.

Oh. He didn't know that voice because it belonged to an Autobot. A dripping wet, tattered-around-the-edges blue Autobot he vaguely recognized as the arrogant upperclass aristocrat superspy who was supposed to turn invisible and all that. Right now he just looked like he wanted to disappear into thin air as he looked up at Brawl and froze, caught.

Brawl wasn't too quick on the uptake, but he knew what somebody coming in that particular airlock with holes like that meant. "The shrimp got ya, didn't they," he said.

Optics still wide, Mirage nodded. Slowly, as if not really believing what he himself had just lived through.

"Yeah. Nasty little fraggers." Brawl took another step back to fully block the hall and planted his hands on his hips, sighing. "Ya better let me take ya prisoner, now."

"And why - " Mirage swallowed, resetting his vocalizer back to pre-shrimp attack levels. "And why would I do such a thing?"

"Uh, 'cause usually when they swarm a mech, a few get into yer internals?" Brawl scratched his helm like it'd help him think, and maybe it did. "You're an Autobint. Ain't ya got passenger space? They like that. Me, they get into my barrel, and that's easy 'nough to clear, but they got into Vortex's cockpit once. Took out his control panel, and the glass, and part of his heel, and then we had to run 'em down inside. Ended up hauling him back out into the water to try and flush the last one outta his leg, and the slagging thing blew out his knee getting away."

The Autobot stared at him. His optics seemed rather pale.

Brawl edged down the hall. "I'll take ya to the 'Structies first thing, 'cause ain't nobody around here want one of those critters loose in the brig. Okay?"

Mirage swallowed again. His optics paled further. "That does seem...wise."

"Yeah, so, ya gonna give me any trouble?"

Thin wrists extended out in surrender. Brawl carefully took them in one strong hand. Autobots were so small compared to Decepticons.

"Yer lucky ya don't have more than the blue on ya," he said conversationally as he pulled the captured spy along.

Mirage winced, stumbling, but the Combaticon was being more considerate of his injuries than most prisoners could hope for. "Do tell," he said dryly. He couldn't imagine why his paintjob made him lucky. This all seemed the furthest from lucky he could get.

Brawl shot him an amused look. "Ya get too colorful, they stop attacking."

The Autobot almost visibly filed that away as important information, but the Combaticon snickered.

"Ever been courted by a swarm of killer shrimp?"

[* * * * *]

Sunstreaker - "H = How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc."

[* * * * *]

He didn't get at first why Sideswipe took up a guard position by the bunk. Privacy wasn't a big deal in the soldier barracks. Blinking at the frontliner's back, Smokescreen sank down on the bunk under Sunstreaker's insistent hands. The golden mech had been priming him all shift for this, however, and he quickly forgot that Sideswipe was glaring at anyone who even paused to take something out of a locker. He'd thought the other twin would be joining in, but apparently not. Well, that was fine. More attention for Sunstreaker.

Sunstreaker pushed him down, straddled him, and caught him in a heated kiss that drove everything but lust from Smokescreen's helm. Big hands fondled his chest greedily. The outthrust nature of a Praxian frametype forced Sunstreaker to almost lunge over it, bearing downward to find his mouth, but that just gave him more of an advantage. He had Smokescreen down and helpless beneath him, and the rev of his engine betrayed how much he liked it.

Which was why it surprised Smokescreen when the bigger Autobot sat back slightly. With a wary glance over his shoulder at the rest of the barracks, Sunstreaker turned his attention back to the prone mech. Those black hands, fine tools of war, left Smokescreen's bumper and rose to slid up under the heavy gold shield of his own chest.

It clicked.

As Sunstreaker opened his hood, Smokescreen's fans stopped, and he suddenly understood. Sideswipe wasn't standing guard over them fragging. He was standing guard over a piece of art, like a security guard following around the last treasure of a long-destroyed gallery, something so precious he couldn't risk it being destroyed even by those he counted his allies.

And Smokescreen, the lone patron allowed in the private showing, looked into a spark chamber etched and whorled in achingly beautiful patterns, fragile carvings tucked behind immense layers of tough, crude slabs of armor plating. Across his face danced streaks of light from a glittering sun, a star so close he could touch it, hold it, feel its warmth.

But no one would ever capture it, not under Sideswipe's cautious guard.

[* * * * *]

"Kup - G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc)"

[* * * * *]

Any other Autobot with the Second-in-Command of the Decepticons between his thighs would have had a smart remark about putting Starscream in his place. Even another Decepticon would have smirked and sniggered a comment under his breath about how the Air Commander had gotten pretty high by being so good down low. There was a reason Starscream only got his knees for those who overpowered him, after all.

Kup never even smiled. He had Starscream's mouth so busy no insecurities could preemptively get out to poison anyone's mood, and Thundercracker had no idea how, but he'd somehow known about Skywarp's intense need to get something - anything - in his mouth the moment the black-and-purple flyer got the slightest bit revved. Skywarp had been allowed approximately three seconds to see the small Autobot straddling Starscream, just enough time for the image to register with his libido, before Kup had all but shoved three fingers into his mouth. It had certainly stopped any commentary from Skywarp's side of things. No way was Skywarp going to surrender such good toys, not even to needle Starscream.

Enthusiastic sucking commenced.

Thundercracker was perfectly fine keeping his mouth shut if he was just allowed to…kind of…sidle up behind…and…mmm. Yes.

Kup raised his head from silencing Starscream and leaned back into the big Seeker folded around him in a looming, purring, hot layer of ready-to-go Decepticon warrior. "Like what you see?" he breathed into Thundercracker's audio. For some reason, the teasing question made him shiver all the way down to his thrusters.

[* * * * *]

"Cliffjumper/Mirage - B = Body part (Their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner's) + Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)"

[* * * * *]

"M'trying t' sleep," Cliffjumper mumbled into the bunk covering. Tattered as it was, the thick pad was still more comfortable than anything anyone else had. Pads were a luxury. Color him unsurprised that Mirage had managed to keep this one throughout multiple transfers, undercover missions, and the war in general. He preferred to recharge in Mirage's bunk because of it - alright, maybe because of the mech that came with the bunk, as well - but not when Mirage got all touchy like this.

The red minibot twitched, grunting.

"Cut it out."

A fine hand traced one of his helm projections with the lightest, tickling touch. The curved shape of the horn seemed to fascinate Mirage. Cliffjumper would never get a handle on what about him captivated the aristocratic spy, but that was probably intentional on Mirage's part. The noblemech liked his aura of mystery to remain intact. Cliffjumper liked to poke holes in it. They'd reached an understanding.

And that understanding included not molesting his helm after interfacing. He knew what that did to the minibot! "Stoppit," Cliffjumper tried again. "Gotta shift soon."

"Not so soon," Mirage whispered, and slender fingers cupped over one helm projection, pressing in and drawing up until they swirled around the pointed tip.

Cliffjumper was suddenly very awake. Sleep wasn't the only use for that bunk pad under them.

[* * * * *]

"MTMTE now has canon baby robots, and those baby robots will inevitably be written into fic. There's already fic of de-aged or child characters being molested or doing the molesting, and tons of fics with characters traumatized by history of the same, so the canon baby robots won't be left out long. But having seen the baby robot in canon, my brain went, "How would that even work?" Once I'd thought that, my imagination decided I'd challenged it, and it gave me a scenario. It's not nice, it's not pretty, and I can't slap enough trigger warnings on it."

[* * * * *]

Hot spots had become much less important since cold construction went into full automatic, shooting out the waves of new soldiers. Shunt a spark from the freezer into a body and out onto the battlefield in less than a day versus carefully nurturing a field through full forging? Freezers could be moved. Fields were hard to defend. Besides, who had time to raise a newspark to maturity? That took a couple weeks. Compared to downloading faction indoctrination and some battle information directly into a constructed body, it was inefficient and prone to error.

Neutrals were the only ones to camp out at the hot spots after the freezers opened. The Autobots and Decepticons, after varying amounts of justifications and tactical analysis, just outright destroyed the places. Better to burn the forges than risk the newsparks replenishing the enemy ranks.

Which also meant that the ignited sparks were less than disposable. They were actively dangerous, marked to be exterminated. And when a spark - a person - reached that status, nobody cared what happened to them. In fact, to certain fanatical ways of thinking, taking execution further than a clean triple tap was almost expected.

But there was always someone who took it yet further than that. Sometimes it sucked being the unit's demolitionist. Brawl had seen some fragged up slag in his time, and then some.

"You got this?" called across the hot spot, and he looked up. Gutcruncher. Why did it have to be Gutcruncher?

"Yeah, I got this," he grumbled. "You just keep a watch out for Autodorks, and I'll take care of wiring this place to blow." It wouldn't take much. Sentio metallico didn't cool until forging ended, and that made it pretty reactive stuff. A few well-placed explosives could turn a hot spot into a violent chain reaction. A mech just had to know where to place the initial charges.

Gutcruncher, of course, always pushed the limits, on sanity, good taste, and even the questionable ethics of war. "Scanner's clean," he called casually across the field, kicking about among the protoforms as if looking for something. "I figure that if you've got this, I can grab a little time. And a little one, if you know what I mean."

Oh, Megatron, what Brawl wouldn't give not to know. The demolitionist tried not to look up, but the temptation was too strong. Yep, there was Gutcruncher prying a large, last-stage protoform out of the ground. Poor thing had already begun to separate. In a few days, caretakers would have been standing watch for a face to form, then hints of an altmode. At this phase, however, the blob was still shaping around its spark. Not even really sentient yet, although sentient enough to feel pain, to wiggle in uncoordinated attempts at struggling, to be recognizable as Cybertronian.

To be a victim.

Something any Decepticon in the ranks knew not to set himself up to be. "Whatever," Brawl said, keeping his voice carefully neutral. He hesitated, hands on the bomb he was laying in, and debated with the feeble kick of his conscience. He settled for a protest that sounded more like a complaint: "It doesn't even have plating yet, mech. What kind of fun is that?"

Unfortunately, Gutcruncher took the complaint as interest, and he shot a lecherous grin over. He didn't stop yanking the protoform out of the soft birth metal, but he made a couple illustrative gestures at chest and groin. "I can make a hole. I can make a hole anywhere I like. You ever tried one of these babies?"

Ugh, no. The demolitionist zeroed his attention back to the bomb and pretended he was too busy to talk.

Not that Gutcruncher took the hint. "I like 'em still warm. Small ones are tight, but big ones buck around. Like this, ha! It's really good when they're far enough along to have a face. You should see it, frag, you should get on the other end…wish I could find one, but this field's not old enough. Get a newspark who's never felt pain, force 'em open, take 'em hard. Nothing," he grunted suddenly, "like it. Sometimes they're old enough to dissemble for parts afterward. It's," he grunted again, and the protoform screeched a shrill, binary wail of primitive pain response that scratched up the Brawl's back struts like sharp needles, "a waste to level the place when we could harvest the bodies."

"You're sick," the demolitionist said softly, but Gutcruncher wasn't listening. Brawl kept his optics on his work. He didn't want to see.

It was bad enough hearing the rhythmic grunts growing louder, every binary shriek prompting Gutcruncher to go faster. Brilliant light glittered at the edge of Brawl's sight, and he turned his head. The newspark flared bright, panic and pain making the corona burn the wrong colors, colors that made his tank clench. Gutcruncher's grunting picked up speed, his thrusts thudding instead of clanging against soft, heated sentio metallico. He was a dark shape against that bright light, moving intently. The protoform keened, too young to understand, too confused to know what was happening. It wasn't old enough for a vox box, too unformed to actually scream, but forged to the point it could express pain. It cried for help.

The demolitionist bent over his work. The quicker he got this over with, the sooner the protoform would be put out of its misery. He knew the pain wouldn't end once Gutcruncher was finished. Pain like that never did. It didn't heal, not without help, and Brawl couldn't provide the help even if he knew how.

The only thing he could do was make the pain stop.

[* * * * *]