Luna Asked For It
Criss-cross the galaxy to hunt down bounties for millions of years, and he starts to run into the same people again and again. Megatron always has a use for a bounty-hunter, and so does the Autobot triple-changer Springer. It seems the mech left his innocence behind the moment he became a Wrecker.
And then there's Swindle.
The arms-dealer is smooth, like platiniridium bullets, and he's easy to work with. All he wants are goods, cash, or information. Nothing like ideals or morals plagues him, and it's terrifyingly easy to relax with Swindle over drinks.
Everything Swindle wants from him is stated upfront. There are no catches, no hidden expectations, no arrogant sense that someday he'll wake up and realize he's caught himself a cause. All Swindle wants is a trade.
The arms-dealer has the biggest optics he's ever seen. Big and bright, like the silver moons of Andoria. But even when they're both trying to drink each other under the table, he doesn't mention that. Doesn't mention that he wonders what else they do besides see.
And later, when Swindle is practically incapable of walking, and he's all but dragging the arms-dealer back to his room in this dive, he doesn't mention the way Swindle's hand gripping his coattail cuts through the haze of high-grade like a monofilament wire through flesh.
He thinks about it when he dumps the inebriated Swindle on his bed. He thinks very hard, about those huge optics, about that hand, about the fact that Swindle is one of the few people he almost likes.
Then he reaches out, takes hold of Swindle's chin-
And there's a gun in his face faster than he'd have thought possible in Swindle's state, and the haze is gone from those big purple optics. "Backup battery wired to take an overcharge. One of 'Polis's little tricks. Never go drinking without one."
He puts his hands up slowly, takes a step back, and the gun is whisked away. The arms-dealer grins cockily as he leaps off the bed, gives him a jaunty wave before heading out the door. "See you around, Lockdown."
He's left in the dark, wondering just how far he might have gone. Wondering if he's glad Swindle stopped him, or if he's angry.
And then there's Swindle.
The arms-dealer is smooth, like platiniridium bullets, and he's easy to work with. All he wants are goods, cash, or information. Nothing like ideals or morals plagues him, and it's terrifyingly easy to relax with Swindle over drinks.
Everything Swindle wants from him is stated upfront. There are no catches, no hidden expectations, no arrogant sense that someday he'll wake up and realize he's caught himself a cause. All Swindle wants is a trade.
The arms-dealer has the biggest optics he's ever seen. Big and bright, like the silver moons of Andoria. But even when they're both trying to drink each other under the table, he doesn't mention that. Doesn't mention that he wonders what else they do besides see.
And later, when Swindle is practically incapable of walking, and he's all but dragging the arms-dealer back to his room in this dive, he doesn't mention the way Swindle's hand gripping his coattail cuts through the haze of high-grade like a monofilament wire through flesh.
He thinks about it when he dumps the inebriated Swindle on his bed. He thinks very hard, about those huge optics, about that hand, about the fact that Swindle is one of the few people he almost likes.
Then he reaches out, takes hold of Swindle's chin-
And there's a gun in his face faster than he'd have thought possible in Swindle's state, and the haze is gone from those big purple optics. "Backup battery wired to take an overcharge. One of 'Polis's little tricks. Never go drinking without one."
He puts his hands up slowly, takes a step back, and the gun is whisked away. The arms-dealer grins cockily as he leaps off the bed, gives him a jaunty wave before heading out the door. "See you around, Lockdown."
He's left in the dark, wondering just how far he might have gone. Wondering if he's glad Swindle stopped him, or if he's angry.