Fic - Something to Live For, Chapter 4 of 14
Title: Something to live for
Chapter 4: Tune up
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: This chapter: PG-13
Content advice: implied dub-con, past violence, implied past random human death.
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters and/or pairings: Combaticons, Motormaster, Hook, Long Haul, Scrapper, Rumble, ensemble. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it implied Megatron/Motormaster.
Beta: naboru_narluin.
Summary: Starscream has ordered the other Combaticons to rescue Vortex from the Autobot brig. Onslaught has a good long think, while the others get a tune up. Swindle is an aft, Brawl is oblivious, and Hook finds something surprising in Blast Off’s gears.
[ Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3]
Chapter 4: Tune up
Onslaught watched the dregs of his team file out of the briefing room. Walking malfunctions, the lot of them. He considered comming Soundwave, but he had a suspicion that requesting extra surveillance on Swindle would be in breach of Starscream’s terms. They were Decepticons, ‘on your own’ meant exactly that.
So, what did he know? Vortex was alive; he knew it like he knew the pulse of his own laser core. It was one piece of data circulating around a subroutine that he was loath to activate. But it was at least data, and it told him that Vortex still functioned. For some reason, unlike the rest of them, Vortex hadn’t closed himself off to the gestalt bond. Onslaught couldn’t work out why, but he was sure he’d get to the bottom of it with time.
Much as he hated to admit it, Starscream was right: the bond was excellent. When they combined, everything just flowed; a glorious fusion of instinct and experience, all directing a raw power that even Onslaught could never command by himself.
But there was always a moment, in the astrosecond that he prepared to merge, when the idea of joining with the others shook him to his very core.
He hated it, this fear of the known. It was worse than the loss of personal integrity; worse even than sharing processor space with Swindle. He suspected that it came from the temporary loss of singular identity and the suspension of higher cognitive function. But knowing where the fear came from and being able to quash it were two different things.
There was a clatter by the door. He looked up; Rumble leant against the jamb, tapping his foot. “Hey Ons,” he said. “Clear out, the boss wants the room.”
Onslaught gave him a look. Rumble was an impertinent little glitch, but he was an impertinent little glitch with large and powerful friends. There was no point in making something of it, so he left.
The corridor was crowded; shift change and everyone was headed somewhere. It was a ridiculous cacophony, but Onslaught loved it. It reminded him of Kaon, the roads so busy there was no space to transform, the half-heard conversations and glimpses of illicit activity. He barrelled through the centre, a heavy elbow reserved for any mech stupid enough not to move aside.
The mess hall was just as packed. Onslaught glared his way to the front of the energon queue, and found himself a table. Funny how space opened up for him. He sat, just slowly enough to let a smaller mech vacate the chair, and sighed. Yes, just like Kaon. If he dimmed his optics, he could almost imagine that the hum of the Nemesis's engines was the distant whirr of machinery at the heart of Cybertron.
And, just like Kaon, there was always some idiot waiting to spoil the mood.
Motormaster stalked into the room, Drag Strip and Wildrider close on his heels. He dumped himself in the seat opposite Onslaught, in a pose he obviously thought of as intimidating. The smaller mechs loitered by the door, exuding an attitude of easy arrogance.
"Good afternoon," Onslaught said. His battle mask slid away and he took a sip of energon. He didn't need another layer of metal to hide his true opinion from such an ungracious, unsubtle upstart.
"I've been hearing rumours," Motormaster glowered. He revved his engine, and the table vibrated. Onslaught lifted his cube to prevent the contents from slopping around.
"Have you really?" he said. It was a shame Vortex wasn't here. He'd have had something to say about the scratches on Motormaster's forearms, the dented wrist plating and curious scorch marks on his fingers. Vortex always noticed the details, the little things that could be used for leverage, the things that would hurt.
Motormaster leaned forward and lowered his voice. "What are you looking at?" he snarled.
Onslaught shrugged, the gentle movement bringing his turret cannons forward ever so slightly.
"I hear you lost a ‘copter," Motormaster growled. "What's more, I hear your goons think my team had something to do with it."
Onslaught shrugged again. He swilled his cube, watching the pink liquid spin. "This is an internal matter," he said after a long pause. "It doesn't concern you."
Another rev of his engine, and Motormaster's massive fist slammed down on the table. The room’s chatter faded to silence. "Just keep your glitches away from my cars," he growled. "You got that?"
He stood to go, but Onslaught beckoned him back. Motormaster leaned in, radiating hostility with the overbearing heat of his engine. Now, Onslaught thought, what would Vortex do?
Onslaught leaned forward, his right hand beside Motormaster's, index finger laid lightly on the damaged plating of his wrist. "Megatron been playing a little rough, has he?" Onslaught whispered. Motormaster's optics flared, a dazzling purple blaze, then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the rec. room, the smaller Stunticons hurrying after him.
Onslaught sat back, energon in hand, and settled down to think.
* * *
Swindle lay on a platform in medbay and stared at the ceiling. He should have left when he had the chance; he could have been halfway to Monacus already. He didn't see why they needed Vortex back. He was a sadistic maniac with a dirty processor and a wandering interface cable. What did he have to contribute to the team?
"Stupid fraggin' ‘copter," Swindle grumbled. "And who does Onslaught think he is? Aimin' that fraggin' gun at me."
He huffed as Hook tugged out a diagnostic probe. The tune-up had been altogether too rough as far as Swindle was concerned.
"If you’d kept your mouth shut," Hook said. "That would have been a whole lot quicker."
On the next platform over, Brawl ground his knuckles together. "Dead End knew he was going," he snarled. "How come Dead End knew and we didn't? I'm gonna frag him so bad he won't know what planet he's on."
"Stop that," Hook said. "You'll break the bearings." Brawl ignored him.
Long Haul appeared out of nowhere - at least nowhere Swindle could see - and yanked Brawl's arms apart.
"Hey, gerrof!" Brawl yelled; he writhed, kicking out his legs. "My hands!"
"Indeed," Hook said. Long Haul leant his weight on Brawl's chassis, pinning him down. Swindle decided to make a break for it.
“Swindle," Hook snapped. "If you move any closer to the edge of that platform before I say you can, I am going to put you out. With my fist."
“What!” Swindle cried. “I’m not moving!” How did he know? The fragger wasn't even looking at him. But Long Haul was, he realised. Stupid gestalt bond.
"Of course you're not," Hook said. He probed Brawl's optics with something that looked suspiciously like a laser scalpel.
“Hehe, that tickles.”
Swindle realised that he was grinding his denta together, and turned over. Slag, he'd forgotten Blast Off was with them. There he lay, silent as the void between worlds. What a spare part, Swindle thought. He turned back, quickly, before that idea could take root.
That was the kind of thinking that would get him killed.
* * *
"You should get a battle mask," Brawl said; five astroseconds of silence was too much for him. "You're the only one of us that hasn't got one."
"Nah," Swindle replied. "How would people see my winning smile?"
"Quiet," Hook growled. The vibration ran right the way up Brawl's main fuel line, making him tingle.
"Good point," Brawl said. "Hey, Long Haul, how come you just got heavier?" Long Haul didn't answer, so Brawl glanced back at Swindle. Now there was a mech who needed a drink. "Hey, Swindle," he said, using their private comm. link. "You really wanna go recharge after this, or you wanna go overcharge?" He squirmed as Hook retrieved his instruments.
"The second one," Swindle snapped back over the comm. "Oh that'd go down so well right now." Aloud he said, "Hey, Hook, we free to go yet?"
For some reason, Hook gave Swindle a long look before responding. "Yes," he said, eventually.
"Woohoo!" Brawl sprang off the platform. Frag, it was good to be out from under Long Haul. He paused a moment to stretch, torn between the thought of high grade and the image of pounding Dead End's face into the floor. A glint of violet caught his attention a few berths down. Blast Off was looking at him.
Brawl cocked his head to one side, but Blast Off didn't speak, he didn't even open a comm. link. He just lay there, like he was sick or something.
Swindle smacked Brawl on the shoulder. "Come on then!"
"Sure," Brawl said. As he followed Swindle out of repair bay, he could have sworn that Blast Off was watching them leave.
* * *
What a surprise, Brawl and Swindle had - again - left him behind. And all because Swindle wanted a good stiff drink. Wants a good stiff beating, Blast Off thought. Teach him to keep his private comms to himself.
So, here he was, alone in a room with two members of a fully functional and particularly smug-looking gestalt. No, he corrected himself, make that three. Scrapper had appeared by the parts rack, searching for something. Oh Sigma, three of them. He didn't need this.
"Are you always this tense?" Hook asked.
"I'm not tense!" Blast Off forced his fists to unclench, so as to prove the point. He braced himself while Hook removed the covering from his engine block. He didn’t want to squirm; he couldn't suffer the shame of being held down by Long Haul, the very idea made his tanks lurch. "Just get it over with."
"You're not tense?" Long Haul said; he leaned against a table and crossed his arms. "Yeah, and Swindle's on the level."
Blast Off didn’t condescend to respond, but focused all his energies into remaining still while Hook poked and prodded at his innards.
"What the..." Hook began. He reached for a pair of very long and very sharp-looking tweezers. Blast Off focused even harder on not moving. Hook rooted around. After a moment, the tweezers emerged, holding something small and white.
"What in the pit is that?" Long Haul gaped.
"Femur," Blast Off hazarded. "Could be a rib."
"It's... human," Hook reported, as though he found the idea simultaneously intriguing and repellent.
"That," said Long Haul, "is disgusting."
"On come on!" Blast Off glared up at him. "You can't tell me you've never got organic debris stuck in your transformation mechanism before."
"Vegetation?" Long Haul replied. "Frequently. Birds, every so often, sometimes something bigger. But never a human. Even Motormaster hasn't managed that."
"Not for want of trying," Scrapper said. Oh no, now he was headed over too. Were they going to summon the rest of the team to gawp and laugh? "What the slag have you been doing?"
"Indeed," Hook continued. "How did you manage that?" Blast Off looked down in horror as the Constructicon eased the tweezers into a particularly tight gap.
"Accidentally!" Blast Off squeaked. The probing didn't hurt, exactly - although it certainly didn't feel good, all that horrible tickling - but the indignity burned. The Unfortunate Squishy Incident had been weeks ago. He'd wasted an entire recharge cycle cleaning nasty pink bits out of his systems while Vortex just sat there covered in dead organic filth, laughing his head off; how in the name of Vector Sigma had he missed this?
"Oh look," Hook said. "There's more." Slag, it sounded as though he was enjoying this. "It's going to take a while to clean you out."
Blast Off sighed; that was just what he needed. "So be it," he muttered.
Long Haul and Scrapper watched in horrified fascination as Hook extracted another small bone fragment. Blast Off dimmed his optics and thought of Cybertron.
*
The awesome naboru_narluin wrote up The Unfortunate Squishy Incident for me for my birthday earlier this year *has so much squee*, and it can be read here in all it's gory NC-17 glory :D (caution - not for the squeamish)
Chapter 4: Tune up
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: This chapter: PG-13
Content advice: implied dub-con, past violence, implied past random human death.
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters and/or pairings: Combaticons, Motormaster, Hook, Long Haul, Scrapper, Rumble, ensemble. Blink-and-you’ll-miss-it implied Megatron/Motormaster.
Beta: naboru_narluin.
Summary: Starscream has ordered the other Combaticons to rescue Vortex from the Autobot brig. Onslaught has a good long think, while the others get a tune up. Swindle is an aft, Brawl is oblivious, and Hook finds something surprising in Blast Off’s gears.
[ Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3]
Chapter 4: Tune up
Onslaught watched the dregs of his team file out of the briefing room. Walking malfunctions, the lot of them. He considered comming Soundwave, but he had a suspicion that requesting extra surveillance on Swindle would be in breach of Starscream’s terms. They were Decepticons, ‘on your own’ meant exactly that.
So, what did he know? Vortex was alive; he knew it like he knew the pulse of his own laser core. It was one piece of data circulating around a subroutine that he was loath to activate. But it was at least data, and it told him that Vortex still functioned. For some reason, unlike the rest of them, Vortex hadn’t closed himself off to the gestalt bond. Onslaught couldn’t work out why, but he was sure he’d get to the bottom of it with time.
Much as he hated to admit it, Starscream was right: the bond was excellent. When they combined, everything just flowed; a glorious fusion of instinct and experience, all directing a raw power that even Onslaught could never command by himself.
But there was always a moment, in the astrosecond that he prepared to merge, when the idea of joining with the others shook him to his very core.
He hated it, this fear of the known. It was worse than the loss of personal integrity; worse even than sharing processor space with Swindle. He suspected that it came from the temporary loss of singular identity and the suspension of higher cognitive function. But knowing where the fear came from and being able to quash it were two different things.
There was a clatter by the door. He looked up; Rumble leant against the jamb, tapping his foot. “Hey Ons,” he said. “Clear out, the boss wants the room.”
Onslaught gave him a look. Rumble was an impertinent little glitch, but he was an impertinent little glitch with large and powerful friends. There was no point in making something of it, so he left.
The corridor was crowded; shift change and everyone was headed somewhere. It was a ridiculous cacophony, but Onslaught loved it. It reminded him of Kaon, the roads so busy there was no space to transform, the half-heard conversations and glimpses of illicit activity. He barrelled through the centre, a heavy elbow reserved for any mech stupid enough not to move aside.
The mess hall was just as packed. Onslaught glared his way to the front of the energon queue, and found himself a table. Funny how space opened up for him. He sat, just slowly enough to let a smaller mech vacate the chair, and sighed. Yes, just like Kaon. If he dimmed his optics, he could almost imagine that the hum of the Nemesis's engines was the distant whirr of machinery at the heart of Cybertron.
And, just like Kaon, there was always some idiot waiting to spoil the mood.
Motormaster stalked into the room, Drag Strip and Wildrider close on his heels. He dumped himself in the seat opposite Onslaught, in a pose he obviously thought of as intimidating. The smaller mechs loitered by the door, exuding an attitude of easy arrogance.
"Good afternoon," Onslaught said. His battle mask slid away and he took a sip of energon. He didn't need another layer of metal to hide his true opinion from such an ungracious, unsubtle upstart.
"I've been hearing rumours," Motormaster glowered. He revved his engine, and the table vibrated. Onslaught lifted his cube to prevent the contents from slopping around.
"Have you really?" he said. It was a shame Vortex wasn't here. He'd have had something to say about the scratches on Motormaster's forearms, the dented wrist plating and curious scorch marks on his fingers. Vortex always noticed the details, the little things that could be used for leverage, the things that would hurt.
Motormaster leaned forward and lowered his voice. "What are you looking at?" he snarled.
Onslaught shrugged, the gentle movement bringing his turret cannons forward ever so slightly.
"I hear you lost a ‘copter," Motormaster growled. "What's more, I hear your goons think my team had something to do with it."
Onslaught shrugged again. He swilled his cube, watching the pink liquid spin. "This is an internal matter," he said after a long pause. "It doesn't concern you."
Another rev of his engine, and Motormaster's massive fist slammed down on the table. The room’s chatter faded to silence. "Just keep your glitches away from my cars," he growled. "You got that?"
He stood to go, but Onslaught beckoned him back. Motormaster leaned in, radiating hostility with the overbearing heat of his engine. Now, Onslaught thought, what would Vortex do?
Onslaught leaned forward, his right hand beside Motormaster's, index finger laid lightly on the damaged plating of his wrist. "Megatron been playing a little rough, has he?" Onslaught whispered. Motormaster's optics flared, a dazzling purple blaze, then he turned on his heel and stormed out of the rec. room, the smaller Stunticons hurrying after him.
Onslaught sat back, energon in hand, and settled down to think.
* * *
Swindle lay on a platform in medbay and stared at the ceiling. He should have left when he had the chance; he could have been halfway to Monacus already. He didn't see why they needed Vortex back. He was a sadistic maniac with a dirty processor and a wandering interface cable. What did he have to contribute to the team?
"Stupid fraggin' ‘copter," Swindle grumbled. "And who does Onslaught think he is? Aimin' that fraggin' gun at me."
He huffed as Hook tugged out a diagnostic probe. The tune-up had been altogether too rough as far as Swindle was concerned.
"If you’d kept your mouth shut," Hook said. "That would have been a whole lot quicker."
On the next platform over, Brawl ground his knuckles together. "Dead End knew he was going," he snarled. "How come Dead End knew and we didn't? I'm gonna frag him so bad he won't know what planet he's on."
"Stop that," Hook said. "You'll break the bearings." Brawl ignored him.
Long Haul appeared out of nowhere - at least nowhere Swindle could see - and yanked Brawl's arms apart.
"Hey, gerrof!" Brawl yelled; he writhed, kicking out his legs. "My hands!"
"Indeed," Hook said. Long Haul leant his weight on Brawl's chassis, pinning him down. Swindle decided to make a break for it.
“Swindle," Hook snapped. "If you move any closer to the edge of that platform before I say you can, I am going to put you out. With my fist."
“What!” Swindle cried. “I’m not moving!” How did he know? The fragger wasn't even looking at him. But Long Haul was, he realised. Stupid gestalt bond.
"Of course you're not," Hook said. He probed Brawl's optics with something that looked suspiciously like a laser scalpel.
“Hehe, that tickles.”
Swindle realised that he was grinding his denta together, and turned over. Slag, he'd forgotten Blast Off was with them. There he lay, silent as the void between worlds. What a spare part, Swindle thought. He turned back, quickly, before that idea could take root.
That was the kind of thinking that would get him killed.
* * *
"You should get a battle mask," Brawl said; five astroseconds of silence was too much for him. "You're the only one of us that hasn't got one."
"Nah," Swindle replied. "How would people see my winning smile?"
"Quiet," Hook growled. The vibration ran right the way up Brawl's main fuel line, making him tingle.
"Good point," Brawl said. "Hey, Long Haul, how come you just got heavier?" Long Haul didn't answer, so Brawl glanced back at Swindle. Now there was a mech who needed a drink. "Hey, Swindle," he said, using their private comm. link. "You really wanna go recharge after this, or you wanna go overcharge?" He squirmed as Hook retrieved his instruments.
"The second one," Swindle snapped back over the comm. "Oh that'd go down so well right now." Aloud he said, "Hey, Hook, we free to go yet?"
For some reason, Hook gave Swindle a long look before responding. "Yes," he said, eventually.
"Woohoo!" Brawl sprang off the platform. Frag, it was good to be out from under Long Haul. He paused a moment to stretch, torn between the thought of high grade and the image of pounding Dead End's face into the floor. A glint of violet caught his attention a few berths down. Blast Off was looking at him.
Brawl cocked his head to one side, but Blast Off didn't speak, he didn't even open a comm. link. He just lay there, like he was sick or something.
Swindle smacked Brawl on the shoulder. "Come on then!"
"Sure," Brawl said. As he followed Swindle out of repair bay, he could have sworn that Blast Off was watching them leave.
* * *
What a surprise, Brawl and Swindle had - again - left him behind. And all because Swindle wanted a good stiff drink. Wants a good stiff beating, Blast Off thought. Teach him to keep his private comms to himself.
So, here he was, alone in a room with two members of a fully functional and particularly smug-looking gestalt. No, he corrected himself, make that three. Scrapper had appeared by the parts rack, searching for something. Oh Sigma, three of them. He didn't need this.
"Are you always this tense?" Hook asked.
"I'm not tense!" Blast Off forced his fists to unclench, so as to prove the point. He braced himself while Hook removed the covering from his engine block. He didn’t want to squirm; he couldn't suffer the shame of being held down by Long Haul, the very idea made his tanks lurch. "Just get it over with."
"You're not tense?" Long Haul said; he leaned against a table and crossed his arms. "Yeah, and Swindle's on the level."
Blast Off didn’t condescend to respond, but focused all his energies into remaining still while Hook poked and prodded at his innards.
"What the..." Hook began. He reached for a pair of very long and very sharp-looking tweezers. Blast Off focused even harder on not moving. Hook rooted around. After a moment, the tweezers emerged, holding something small and white.
"What in the pit is that?" Long Haul gaped.
"Femur," Blast Off hazarded. "Could be a rib."
"It's... human," Hook reported, as though he found the idea simultaneously intriguing and repellent.
"That," said Long Haul, "is disgusting."
"On come on!" Blast Off glared up at him. "You can't tell me you've never got organic debris stuck in your transformation mechanism before."
"Vegetation?" Long Haul replied. "Frequently. Birds, every so often, sometimes something bigger. But never a human. Even Motormaster hasn't managed that."
"Not for want of trying," Scrapper said. Oh no, now he was headed over too. Were they going to summon the rest of the team to gawp and laugh? "What the slag have you been doing?"
"Indeed," Hook continued. "How did you manage that?" Blast Off looked down in horror as the Constructicon eased the tweezers into a particularly tight gap.
"Accidentally!" Blast Off squeaked. The probing didn't hurt, exactly - although it certainly didn't feel good, all that horrible tickling - but the indignity burned. The Unfortunate Squishy Incident had been weeks ago. He'd wasted an entire recharge cycle cleaning nasty pink bits out of his systems while Vortex just sat there covered in dead organic filth, laughing his head off; how in the name of Vector Sigma had he missed this?
"Oh look," Hook said. "There's more." Slag, it sounded as though he was enjoying this. "It's going to take a while to clean you out."
Blast Off sighed; that was just what he needed. "So be it," he muttered.
Long Haul and Scrapper watched in horrified fascination as Hook extracted another small bone fragment. Blast Off dimmed his optics and thought of Cybertron.
*
The awesome naboru_narluin wrote up The Unfortunate Squishy Incident for me for my birthday earlier this year *has so much squee*, and it can be read here in all it's gory NC-17 glory :D (caution - not for the squeamish)