So All Alone
Title: So All Alone
Word Count: approximately 1286 words
Characters: Blast Off
Rating/Warning: PG/Exophilia
Author's Note: Trucial Abysmia was the stand-in name for "Iraq" in the GI Joe comics from Marvel back in the 1980s/1990s. Benzheen was the stand-in name for Kuwait. I've appropriated both and used them for the names of the two countries featured in "Aerial Assault" Originally written for Mecha Erotica's Sintember challenge, but I didn't get it done in time.
So All Alone
If there was one thing Blast Off ordinarily prided himself on, it was his patience. Unlike his fellow Combaticons -- with the possible exception of Onslaught -- he had no difficulty sitting quietly and simply waiting. He was a sniper after all, and an orbital one at that. The ability to wait, to delay gratification until the precise moment when action was needed was an integral part of his nature. Vorn of training and practice had simply honed his innate skills.
All of which had fled him ever since he’d arrived in this claustrophobic little room. Once the door had closed behind him, all his instincts, all his training were as beyond him as if they’d been erased from his personality component. Anticipation as well as fear, anger and disgust, clawed at his mind.
He forced himself to stop fidgeting, to sit perfectly still in the makeshift chair that had been provided for him and stare straight ahead at the polished steel door in front of him.
His own reflection -- sharp and clear as if he were staring at a viewscreen -- stared back at him. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have bothered him; he was most comfortable in his own company, after all. But here, in this place, his reflection seemed to be disgusted with him.
Blast Off glared defiantly back at himself, feeling foolish since doing so only increased the illusion of his reflection's anger.
"This is only an experiment," he told himself. "I am here to test a theory, nothing more. Once the experiment is over, I'll have my answer."
Yes, and then what? he thought. You know what the answer is, Blast Off. There are limits even to a Combaticon's capacity for self-delusion.
"I'll live with it," he said aloud. "I've lasted this long, after all. I can control myself. I'm not Brawl or Vortex or, Primus forbid, Swindle. I know restraint isn't just another word for manacles."
His mind's response was an image of a brown-skinned human female, twirling on bare feet, wrapped in a diaphanous confection of silks. His recall was crystal-clear, the mental replay of a quality that would make a rabid videophile weep.
Blast Off twitched, his hand coming up to cover his optics as if this would dispel the image.
You already know what you are, the small self-loathing portion of his mind said. Xenophile.
He'd seen her in Trucial Abysmia, half a dozen Earth-years previously. Megatron had made a deal with the local ruler -- or more correctly, the local usurper. One night, during a lull in the construction of the Griffin battle station, there had been a celebration: music, food for the humans, energon for the Decepticons made with the finest crude oil neighboring Benzheen could offer. And the dancing girl.
Blast Off shuddered at the memory of her lithe form, her teeth flashing white as she spun and twisted in her dance. His fellow Decepticons had watched her with barely disguised contempt. What human -- no matter how graceful -- could compare with the clumsiest of Seekers. To them, she was a small, insignificant, land-bound thing.
To Blast Off, she'd been a glimpse at the beauty of the Other, a taste of the forbidden and a terrifying awakening. The realization that something he'd long suspected was indeed true.
Pervert, said the part of Blast Off not enthralled with the memory of the dancing human. The worst Swindle ever did was get greedy for their money; what you want is an abomination.
The door dilated, cutting off his reply to himself. Blast Off's optics adjusted quickly to the changing light levels behind the door, taking in the sight of the being walking through it.
He knew the alien was a female, if only because that was what the establishment promised. Other than that, she was as far from his Abysmian dancing girl as he was from the drone who'd taken his admission at the door. Not that the difference mattered as he watched her walk into the room on bare feet.
She stood tall and proud -- nearly Vortex's height, though only a third his width --flexing each of her four arms in turn as she paused to press the controls to shut the door behind her. Her skin was a light green, a few shades darker than that of a Constructicon's armor. She was nude, except for a red leather harness that emphasized her nudity. Matching red leather bands circled her wrists and ankles, adorned with small brass and silver bells that chimed softly as she moved.
When she turned to face him, he pulled back, startled at first by her alienness then leaned forward, drawn in by that very strangeness.
Her head was round, smooth and hairless and topped a neck that was long and graceful. Her laser-red eyes, interrupted only by a black slit of a pupil, were set on either side of her head and were so wide as to take up nearly a third of each side of her head.
She continued turning, lazily displaying herself. Her face was largely featureless as her nose was only twin vertical slits midway between her eyes. Her mouth was lipless and pulled down at the corners by two curving tusks that were capped with silver.
"I am Theria," she said, her voice as confident as her bearing. "Of Undarum. My people are an old race. I am told you come here seeking a diversion. What is it that you want?"
Blast Off paused, embarrassed to find that he couldn't immediately think of an answer to her question. “I thought it was your job to determine how to amuse me,” he said, falling back on his default snobbishness.
“It is, but usually all but the most inexperienced of my clients have an idea of what they want from me,” Theria said with an amused and knowing grin.
Blast Off’s optics flared. “I am far from inexperienced,” he said, voice cold now. “I’ve known intimacy before, with my own kind.”
Theria, turned slightly, head tilting so that one of her wide, red eyes stared directly at him. “But I am -- clearly -- not your kind,” she said, head turning so that her other eye could take him in. “Yet, you’ve sought me out. Why?”
For the second time, Blast Off found himself at a loss for words. He stared at her, searching her expression for a sign that he was being mocked, however subtly. To his surprise, he found none of the duplicity or calculation he’d have expected from a fellow Decepticon, only simple interest.
“Curiosity,” he said.
“That’s all? Simple curiosity?” Theria smiled, her lipless mouth stretching back from her pointed teeth in an approximation of a smile.
“Curiosity, yes.” Blast Off shook his head as he continued. “But there’s nothing simple about it. Being here is a violation of my peoples’ most basic taboo.”
Theria nodded, staring at him. “And yet, you are here -- your need overpowers your disgust.”
“That remains to be seen,” Blast Off said. “This is an experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“I want -- I need to know if I truly have these desires or if what I’ve felt is simply an anomaly caused by an unfortunate incarceration,” Blast Off said.
“Ahh, well, my kind has a long history of work in the sciences.” Theria stepped forward, reaching out for Blast Off’s hand to lead him back through the dilated door, back into her chambers. "Let me help you with your research."
Later, as he sat propped against the wall, one hand running slowly up and down Theria's naked back, Blast Off found himself wondering if anyone had ever been as thoroughly and unhappily proved right as he had just been.
Word Count: approximately 1286 words
Characters: Blast Off
Rating/Warning: PG/Exophilia
Author's Note: Trucial Abysmia was the stand-in name for "Iraq" in the GI Joe comics from Marvel back in the 1980s/1990s. Benzheen was the stand-in name for Kuwait. I've appropriated both and used them for the names of the two countries featured in "Aerial Assault" Originally written for Mecha Erotica's Sintember challenge, but I didn't get it done in time.
So All Alone
If there was one thing Blast Off ordinarily prided himself on, it was his patience. Unlike his fellow Combaticons -- with the possible exception of Onslaught -- he had no difficulty sitting quietly and simply waiting. He was a sniper after all, and an orbital one at that. The ability to wait, to delay gratification until the precise moment when action was needed was an integral part of his nature. Vorn of training and practice had simply honed his innate skills.
All of which had fled him ever since he’d arrived in this claustrophobic little room. Once the door had closed behind him, all his instincts, all his training were as beyond him as if they’d been erased from his personality component. Anticipation as well as fear, anger and disgust, clawed at his mind.
He forced himself to stop fidgeting, to sit perfectly still in the makeshift chair that had been provided for him and stare straight ahead at the polished steel door in front of him.
His own reflection -- sharp and clear as if he were staring at a viewscreen -- stared back at him. Ordinarily, this wouldn't have bothered him; he was most comfortable in his own company, after all. But here, in this place, his reflection seemed to be disgusted with him.
Blast Off glared defiantly back at himself, feeling foolish since doing so only increased the illusion of his reflection's anger.
"This is only an experiment," he told himself. "I am here to test a theory, nothing more. Once the experiment is over, I'll have my answer."
Yes, and then what? he thought. You know what the answer is, Blast Off. There are limits even to a Combaticon's capacity for self-delusion.
"I'll live with it," he said aloud. "I've lasted this long, after all. I can control myself. I'm not Brawl or Vortex or, Primus forbid, Swindle. I know restraint isn't just another word for manacles."
His mind's response was an image of a brown-skinned human female, twirling on bare feet, wrapped in a diaphanous confection of silks. His recall was crystal-clear, the mental replay of a quality that would make a rabid videophile weep.
Blast Off twitched, his hand coming up to cover his optics as if this would dispel the image.
You already know what you are, the small self-loathing portion of his mind said. Xenophile.
He'd seen her in Trucial Abysmia, half a dozen Earth-years previously. Megatron had made a deal with the local ruler -- or more correctly, the local usurper. One night, during a lull in the construction of the Griffin battle station, there had been a celebration: music, food for the humans, energon for the Decepticons made with the finest crude oil neighboring Benzheen could offer. And the dancing girl.
Blast Off shuddered at the memory of her lithe form, her teeth flashing white as she spun and twisted in her dance. His fellow Decepticons had watched her with barely disguised contempt. What human -- no matter how graceful -- could compare with the clumsiest of Seekers. To them, she was a small, insignificant, land-bound thing.
To Blast Off, she'd been a glimpse at the beauty of the Other, a taste of the forbidden and a terrifying awakening. The realization that something he'd long suspected was indeed true.
Pervert, said the part of Blast Off not enthralled with the memory of the dancing human. The worst Swindle ever did was get greedy for their money; what you want is an abomination.
The door dilated, cutting off his reply to himself. Blast Off's optics adjusted quickly to the changing light levels behind the door, taking in the sight of the being walking through it.
He knew the alien was a female, if only because that was what the establishment promised. Other than that, she was as far from his Abysmian dancing girl as he was from the drone who'd taken his admission at the door. Not that the difference mattered as he watched her walk into the room on bare feet.
She stood tall and proud -- nearly Vortex's height, though only a third his width --flexing each of her four arms in turn as she paused to press the controls to shut the door behind her. Her skin was a light green, a few shades darker than that of a Constructicon's armor. She was nude, except for a red leather harness that emphasized her nudity. Matching red leather bands circled her wrists and ankles, adorned with small brass and silver bells that chimed softly as she moved.
When she turned to face him, he pulled back, startled at first by her alienness then leaned forward, drawn in by that very strangeness.
Her head was round, smooth and hairless and topped a neck that was long and graceful. Her laser-red eyes, interrupted only by a black slit of a pupil, were set on either side of her head and were so wide as to take up nearly a third of each side of her head.
She continued turning, lazily displaying herself. Her face was largely featureless as her nose was only twin vertical slits midway between her eyes. Her mouth was lipless and pulled down at the corners by two curving tusks that were capped with silver.
"I am Theria," she said, her voice as confident as her bearing. "Of Undarum. My people are an old race. I am told you come here seeking a diversion. What is it that you want?"
Blast Off paused, embarrassed to find that he couldn't immediately think of an answer to her question. “I thought it was your job to determine how to amuse me,” he said, falling back on his default snobbishness.
“It is, but usually all but the most inexperienced of my clients have an idea of what they want from me,” Theria said with an amused and knowing grin.
Blast Off’s optics flared. “I am far from inexperienced,” he said, voice cold now. “I’ve known intimacy before, with my own kind.”
Theria, turned slightly, head tilting so that one of her wide, red eyes stared directly at him. “But I am -- clearly -- not your kind,” she said, head turning so that her other eye could take him in. “Yet, you’ve sought me out. Why?”
For the second time, Blast Off found himself at a loss for words. He stared at her, searching her expression for a sign that he was being mocked, however subtly. To his surprise, he found none of the duplicity or calculation he’d have expected from a fellow Decepticon, only simple interest.
“Curiosity,” he said.
“That’s all? Simple curiosity?” Theria smiled, her lipless mouth stretching back from her pointed teeth in an approximation of a smile.
“Curiosity, yes.” Blast Off shook his head as he continued. “But there’s nothing simple about it. Being here is a violation of my peoples’ most basic taboo.”
Theria nodded, staring at him. “And yet, you are here -- your need overpowers your disgust.”
“That remains to be seen,” Blast Off said. “This is an experiment.”
“Experiment?”
“I want -- I need to know if I truly have these desires or if what I’ve felt is simply an anomaly caused by an unfortunate incarceration,” Blast Off said.
“Ahh, well, my kind has a long history of work in the sciences.” Theria stepped forward, reaching out for Blast Off’s hand to lead him back through the dilated door, back into her chambers. "Let me help you with your research."
Later, as he sat propped against the wall, one hand running slowly up and down Theria's naked back, Blast Off found himself wondering if anyone had ever been as thoroughly and unhappily proved right as he had just been.