Fic - Recall, Chapter 3
Title: Recall, Chapter 3
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R (to be safe)
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Drag Strip, Wildrider, Breakdown
Summary: In which Vortex talks, then invites over some more guests.
Prologue and Ch. 1, Ch. 2
It was another four joors before Vortex returned.
First Aid sat on the floor, running the electrified chain through his fingers. He’d switched the TV off a while back, and turned his attention to the gestalt bond. His tank gurgled unpleasantly at the sound of approaching footsteps, but he didn't expect the door to open.
He leapt up when the lock flashed green, whacking his helm on the side of the bunk, and dropped the chain. It fell heavily, triggering a searing pulse of current from his ankle to his CPU, and laying him flat on the floor. He hissed with the pain, his optics shorting. When his visual sensors came back online, Vortex was crouched over him, his battle mask retracted.
He was smiling.
First Aid froze. It was as though his databanks had been wiped. All of his planning and analyses, the hours he'd spent cross referencing information to prepare himself, all evaporated like ice crystals in a blast furnace.
Vortex inspected his helm, running his fingers lightly over the dinted metal. "That was unfortunate," he commented. He leaned to the side and pulled a drawer from the wall, revealing a harsh pink glow.
First Aid turned his face away, and watched the minor damage indicators flash across his HUD. There had been a drawer full of energon next to the berth all this time. A container of highly explosive liquid well within his reach, and he hadn't even noticed. Worse, he hadn't bothered searching for hidden panels, let alone obvious compartments. He felt like crying.
"Just get it over with," he said.
"Hmm?" Vortex lay a few cubes on the floor by his head. "No. Thirsty?"
First Aid sighed. The scent of the energon hit his olfactory sensors, sending his low-fuel warnings into a frenzy. He ignored them, and tried to think his way through the snarl of sensation. How on earth had he missed this? Jazz would never have missed it. What was Vortex thinking, leaving a prisoner chained up next to a load of explosives?
He had the sudden feeling that he deserved whatever happened to him. How could he have been so stupid?
He could always dive under the berth, wedge himself in so tight that not even Hoist could haul him out. But any fast movement would jerk the chain, and besides, Vortex had a knee either side of his left leg, a hand around his throat.
The copter watched him, optics flickering with constant subtle adjustments as he ran his visual sensors the length of First Aid’s abdomen. His rotors quivered, fanned out so as not to scrape on the floor. Blades would do the same when in root mode. First Aid winced; there was no comparison. How could he think of Blades at a time like this?
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he blurted. He had to get rid of the image of Blades. It was horrible, disrespectful.
"I mean," Vortex replied, bending down until First Aid could see each photo-receptive node through the glass of his visor. "That it would be too easy, and no fun at all. For either of us."
First Aid wanted to struggle, to fight his way up and out. But his systems had become isolated, a subroutine kicking in that he didn't even know he possessed. Lie low, it said, be small, be powerless, he'll get bored after a while, he'll go looking for someone stronger.
"Retract your mask for me," Vortex said. His grip shifted, thumb pressing on First Aid's main fuel line. Here it comes, First Aid thought, but the hand shifted slightly, the threatening pressure becoming a scraping caress. "Please?"
"What?" First Aid had the urge to rub his throat, to check for dents to armour and cables. "No," he said, and the word was little more than a crackle of static. The subroutine screamed at him; acquiesce, be weak, do what you're told. He ignored it.
"Then retract it for your own sake," Vortex said levelly.
First Aid shook his head.
"Back in the Ark, you told me to be honest," Vortex said. As he spoke, light glinted from a long and slender ridge which ran from his lower lip down to his throat. A welding scar. "I take it you still value honesty?"
Oh slag, is that why he'd revealed his face? "Is it because I shot you?" First Aid said. “Is that what this is about?”
"No," Vortex replied. "It isn’t. Although I would’ve liked to have been conscious to see who it was who put the clips on my fuel lines and hooked me up to the recharge dock afterwards." He brought his knees together on First Aid’s thigh. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but the Protectobot yelped in surprise, fingers scrabbling against the floor. Vortex’s smile broadened. “I haven’t brought you here to punish you,” he said.
“Feels… a lot like it,” First Aid managed. Slag the subroutine, slag the warnings, slag doing what he was told just because he might not get hurt quite as badly. This was going to hurt, no matter what. “Let me go!”
“No.” There was the sound of turning gears, and Vortex slid a talon into the tiny gap between First Aid’s battle mask and his cheek. Another small noise and a second talon intruded by his chin.
First Aid squirmed, trying to dislodge the claws, but Vortex leaned his weight onto the Autobot’s chassis. “If you want to keep this,” he said. “I suggest you retract it now.” He tugged, as though to emphasise his point, and First Aid gritted his denta. There was a pause, a few astroseconds, then another tug, another jolt of pain as tiny cables stretched and wires threatened to pull loose from their circuits.
In the end, it wasn’t the pain, or the threat of it, but the idea of losing his mask that made him roll back the thin metal. He’d been designed with that mask, he hardly ever took it off, not even with his gestalt. It was a shield of sorts, and if there was anything he needed in this place and at this time, it was a shield.
“Better,” Vortex said, tracing the curve of his lips, the planes of his cheeks. It was mortifying. “Now, on the subject of honesty. This isn’t about payback. And it isn’t about punishment. I want you, and I want you to enjoy it.”
“You’ll have to reprogram me.” First Aid wished he could manage a sneer, some cruel and dismissive twist to his faceplates. There was no way he’d interface with Vortex willingly. How unbalanced was the copter?
“I doubt it,” Vortex said. “I’ve had Autobots before.” He stroked the corner of First Aid’s mouth. “There’s always something that turns you on.”
There is, First Aid thought; goodness, pure intentions, kindness, selflessness. All the things his gestalt had and were without even thinking about it. Homesickness coursed through him, intense and agonising. He wanted his team, he needed them.
But what if they didn’t know where he was? What if they thought he’d gone to have some alone time, to scour his conscience and find himself. Oh frag oh frag, was that why they hadn’t stormed the Nemesis already? Was that why they hadn’t come for him?
“So, is that it?” he said, quietly. “I’m here until I agree to… to interface with you?” Maybe he could feign interest, get it over with that way. But the thought was almost as abhorrent as offlining himself. He couldn’t interface with a Decepticon. All of his medical knowledge, all of his personal files, it would be at risk… He had few notes on the regular Ark crew, they all went to Ratchet, but the mechs he patched up in the field, his own team; he carried their secrets, the small things they would only tell a medic. Nothing useful to the war, but, in Vortex’s hands anything could be a weapon.
That spear of homesickness hit again, the desperate, lonely ache for his absent team. “And you’ll let me go,” he said, “after?”
“That depends,” Vortex replied. He stood, stretching, his rotors shifting into a new position. He took First Aid by the wrist and hauled him up onto the bunk. “Help yourself to the energon.”
First Aid let himself be pulled. He slumped in the corner and tucked his knees up against his chassis. His fuel lines gurgled. “I thought you wanted…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
“I can wait. Here, take some fuel, you sound like you’re running on fumes.” Vortex put a cube on the berth, then sprawled at the other end, rotors splayed above his head. “So, you get bored?”
What was this, time for small talk? First Aid shook his head, and tried to ignore the energon.
“You've got a crack in your knuckle. Did Brawl do that?"
First Aid considered lying, but a vision of Swindle came to mind, crumpled and leaking on the hangar floor. No matter what a thug Brawl was, he didn't deserve to be punished for something he hadn't done. "No," he said. "It happened before."
"Do you want to repair it?" Vortex asked.
First Aid folded his arms and tucked his hands away between the planes of his chest plates. "Why should I bother?"
"Looks painful. Same with that dent on your helm."
"Why do you care?"
The rotors spun slowly, seemingly moving of their own accord. "You might be more talkative if you were comfortable."
"I might be more talkative if you weren't so creepy," First Aid snapped. “No wonder your team won’t link with you.” OK, that was less than smart. He eyed the energon, calculating how quickly he could snatch up the cube and ignite the contents. About 2.7 astroseconds, he guessed, which was probably only slightly more time than it would take for Vortex to lay him out.
“Not everyone wants to live in each others’ cargo holds,” Vortex responded. “OK, I’m on duty in five. You look like you could do with some company while I’m gone.”
No! First Aid thought of the drawer of energon, the explosive potential. Company was something he could do without. “I’ll be all right,” he hazarded.
Vortex sniffed. “Yeah, you’ll only go and blow yourself up.” He raised an arm to access his communications hardware. “Hey, Drag Strip, wanna win yourself some high grade?”
* * *
Another Stunticon, another death threat. Another day, technically, although it didn’t feel like it.
Drag Strip was a violent, eye-scorching shade of yellow, with a personality to match. He flung himself on the berth, grabbed the remote and chugged back the energon.
“Get your aft in that corner and shut up,” he said, waving his gun as though it had automatic targeting. His forcefield was palpable, adding an extra sparkle to his waxed and buffed paint work. “Don’t clank that slaggin’ chain. And don’t speak over the TV. In fact, don’t speak at all. Sigma, you’re ugly. I dunno what he sees in you.”
“Maybe Starscream fragged the rest of the sense out of him,” Wildrider suggested, slipping through the doorway. He took a long look around. “Frag me sideways with a pogo stick,” he sighed. “Breakdown was right. How the pit has Vortex got cable? We don’t got cable.”
“Soundwave’s got cable,” Drag Strip said.
“Yeah, but Soundwave’s Soundwave,” Wildrider explained. “Hey, shuffle up.” He inserted himself between First Aid and Drag Strip, seemingly unconcerned that First Aid’s corner-based huddle left him facing Wildrider’s back. “Seriously, how come Vortex gets cable and we don’t?”
“I dunno,” Drag Strip said. “Maybe he fucked Soundwave for it.”
“Motormaster frags Megatron, and we don’t get zip.” Wildrider sniffed and went to pick up a cube.
Drag Strip snatched it out of his hands. “Hey, that’s mine! Get you own.”
Wildrider snarled, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the door opening. Breakdown shuffled in, glancing around furtively.
“Woah, you got high grade!” He grinned in a sickly way, half dread and half anticipation. “What’s on? Is Oprah on? I wanna watch that thing about the cars.”
First Aid made himself as small as possible, pressed between the metal of the walls and the strident buzz of Wildrider’s forcefield. Despite Drag Strip’s admonition to be quiet, the three of them bickered ceaselessly, a tirade of chatter about everything and nothing which erupted every five minutes or so into an argument. After a long half joor of gentle persuasion, followed by a solid breem of violence, this was all assisted by Drag Strip sharing out the high grade.
First Aid half expected the other two members of the gestalt to arrive - well, one of them at least, he had trouble imagining the three sitting happily together with Motormaster around - but no-one did.
“Hey,” said Wildrider, peering over his shoulder at First Aid. “You know what’d be funny, right?”
Drag Strip’s optics flared and he grinned nastily. “Yeah,” he said, seemingly responding to a suggestion made via internal comms.
First Aid shook his head vigorously. “That wouldn’t be fun,” he said, whatever it was they were on about. “Vortex will kill you?” He tried not to make it a question, but he couldn’t help the way it came out.
“Nah,” said Drag Strip, “Rotors’ll like this. It’ll be cool. Want some high grade?”
First Aid shook his head again.
“Sure you do,” said Wildrider. “Hey, Breakdown, put it on that music channel thingy.”
Breakdown snatched the remote from Drag Strip’s thigh and held it as though he never wanted to let it go. “You could offer him an energon treat,” he said, flipping through the stations. “He likes those.”
“OK.” Wildrider turned around, kneeling on the plasteel. “Autobot wanna treat?”
“Are, um, you all supposed to be in here?” First Aid asked.
“Sure,” said Drag Strip, waggling a half-empty cube of high grade in a similar manner to the way he’d held his gun. “This is good stuff, you should try some.”
“I… don’t think so,” First Aid replied. “Thank you.”
“Awwww, ‘cmon,” Wildrider urged, his engine revving. “It’ll be fun!”
“Really, no, I shouldn’t,” First Aid said. He wondered how long he could go on like that. Polite responses were probably a novelty on the Nemesis, but it could only be so long before the novelty wore off.
“He’s got a point,” said Breakdown. “He probably shouldn’t. Dead End says high grade’s less staple than ordinary energon. He says it can lead to surges, purging, tank contamination, capacity failure-”
“Capacitor,” Drag Strip interjected. “And it’s stable, not staple.”
“-loss of balance and sensor net function, optical outage, hallucinations, and short term memory loss.” Breakdown nodded. “And then there’s the long term maintenance implications.”
“Memory loss?” said First Aid. He remembered it from his training, but overcharge had never been a problem with his team, so he’d never had the chance to witness it first hand.
“Hey, it’s nothing to worry about,” said Wildrider. “You have had high grade before right?”
First Aid nodded. It had been… not nice so much as… agreeable. Blades had brought some in. Not a lot, but enough. “About the memory loss thing -”
“It’s only temporary,” said Drag Strip.
“Uh, actually,” said Breakdown, “Dead End said-”
“The Autobot doesn’t give a scrap what Dead End said,” Drag Strip huffed. “Do you?” Those final two words were laced with menace; the novelty was obviously reaching the end of its shelf life.
“Um…”
Drag Strip thrust the cube at him, almost dropping it in his lap. “Go on, drink up. It’s great, you’ll see.”
Continuity: G1, Dysfunction AU
Rating: NC-17 overall, this chapter R (to be safe)
Content advice: abduction, non-con, manipulation of various kinds including sexual, graphic violence, dark themes
Beta: naboru_narluin
Disclaimer: Just playing in the sandbox, characters not mine.
Characters: Vortex, First Aid, Drag Strip, Wildrider, Breakdown
Summary: In which Vortex talks, then invites over some more guests.
Prologue and Ch. 1, Ch. 2
It was another four joors before Vortex returned.
First Aid sat on the floor, running the electrified chain through his fingers. He’d switched the TV off a while back, and turned his attention to the gestalt bond. His tank gurgled unpleasantly at the sound of approaching footsteps, but he didn't expect the door to open.
He leapt up when the lock flashed green, whacking his helm on the side of the bunk, and dropped the chain. It fell heavily, triggering a searing pulse of current from his ankle to his CPU, and laying him flat on the floor. He hissed with the pain, his optics shorting. When his visual sensors came back online, Vortex was crouched over him, his battle mask retracted.
He was smiling.
First Aid froze. It was as though his databanks had been wiped. All of his planning and analyses, the hours he'd spent cross referencing information to prepare himself, all evaporated like ice crystals in a blast furnace.
Vortex inspected his helm, running his fingers lightly over the dinted metal. "That was unfortunate," he commented. He leaned to the side and pulled a drawer from the wall, revealing a harsh pink glow.
First Aid turned his face away, and watched the minor damage indicators flash across his HUD. There had been a drawer full of energon next to the berth all this time. A container of highly explosive liquid well within his reach, and he hadn't even noticed. Worse, he hadn't bothered searching for hidden panels, let alone obvious compartments. He felt like crying.
"Just get it over with," he said.
"Hmm?" Vortex lay a few cubes on the floor by his head. "No. Thirsty?"
First Aid sighed. The scent of the energon hit his olfactory sensors, sending his low-fuel warnings into a frenzy. He ignored them, and tried to think his way through the snarl of sensation. How on earth had he missed this? Jazz would never have missed it. What was Vortex thinking, leaving a prisoner chained up next to a load of explosives?
He had the sudden feeling that he deserved whatever happened to him. How could he have been so stupid?
He could always dive under the berth, wedge himself in so tight that not even Hoist could haul him out. But any fast movement would jerk the chain, and besides, Vortex had a knee either side of his left leg, a hand around his throat.
The copter watched him, optics flickering with constant subtle adjustments as he ran his visual sensors the length of First Aid’s abdomen. His rotors quivered, fanned out so as not to scrape on the floor. Blades would do the same when in root mode. First Aid winced; there was no comparison. How could he think of Blades at a time like this?
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” he blurted. He had to get rid of the image of Blades. It was horrible, disrespectful.
"I mean," Vortex replied, bending down until First Aid could see each photo-receptive node through the glass of his visor. "That it would be too easy, and no fun at all. For either of us."
First Aid wanted to struggle, to fight his way up and out. But his systems had become isolated, a subroutine kicking in that he didn't even know he possessed. Lie low, it said, be small, be powerless, he'll get bored after a while, he'll go looking for someone stronger.
"Retract your mask for me," Vortex said. His grip shifted, thumb pressing on First Aid's main fuel line. Here it comes, First Aid thought, but the hand shifted slightly, the threatening pressure becoming a scraping caress. "Please?"
"What?" First Aid had the urge to rub his throat, to check for dents to armour and cables. "No," he said, and the word was little more than a crackle of static. The subroutine screamed at him; acquiesce, be weak, do what you're told. He ignored it.
"Then retract it for your own sake," Vortex said levelly.
First Aid shook his head.
"Back in the Ark, you told me to be honest," Vortex said. As he spoke, light glinted from a long and slender ridge which ran from his lower lip down to his throat. A welding scar. "I take it you still value honesty?"
Oh slag, is that why he'd revealed his face? "Is it because I shot you?" First Aid said. “Is that what this is about?”
"No," Vortex replied. "It isn’t. Although I would’ve liked to have been conscious to see who it was who put the clips on my fuel lines and hooked me up to the recharge dock afterwards." He brought his knees together on First Aid’s thigh. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but the Protectobot yelped in surprise, fingers scrabbling against the floor. Vortex’s smile broadened. “I haven’t brought you here to punish you,” he said.
“Feels… a lot like it,” First Aid managed. Slag the subroutine, slag the warnings, slag doing what he was told just because he might not get hurt quite as badly. This was going to hurt, no matter what. “Let me go!”
“No.” There was the sound of turning gears, and Vortex slid a talon into the tiny gap between First Aid’s battle mask and his cheek. Another small noise and a second talon intruded by his chin.
First Aid squirmed, trying to dislodge the claws, but Vortex leaned his weight onto the Autobot’s chassis. “If you want to keep this,” he said. “I suggest you retract it now.” He tugged, as though to emphasise his point, and First Aid gritted his denta. There was a pause, a few astroseconds, then another tug, another jolt of pain as tiny cables stretched and wires threatened to pull loose from their circuits.
In the end, it wasn’t the pain, or the threat of it, but the idea of losing his mask that made him roll back the thin metal. He’d been designed with that mask, he hardly ever took it off, not even with his gestalt. It was a shield of sorts, and if there was anything he needed in this place and at this time, it was a shield.
“Better,” Vortex said, tracing the curve of his lips, the planes of his cheeks. It was mortifying. “Now, on the subject of honesty. This isn’t about payback. And it isn’t about punishment. I want you, and I want you to enjoy it.”
“You’ll have to reprogram me.” First Aid wished he could manage a sneer, some cruel and dismissive twist to his faceplates. There was no way he’d interface with Vortex willingly. How unbalanced was the copter?
“I doubt it,” Vortex said. “I’ve had Autobots before.” He stroked the corner of First Aid’s mouth. “There’s always something that turns you on.”
There is, First Aid thought; goodness, pure intentions, kindness, selflessness. All the things his gestalt had and were without even thinking about it. Homesickness coursed through him, intense and agonising. He wanted his team, he needed them.
But what if they didn’t know where he was? What if they thought he’d gone to have some alone time, to scour his conscience and find himself. Oh frag oh frag, was that why they hadn’t stormed the Nemesis already? Was that why they hadn’t come for him?
“So, is that it?” he said, quietly. “I’m here until I agree to… to interface with you?” Maybe he could feign interest, get it over with that way. But the thought was almost as abhorrent as offlining himself. He couldn’t interface with a Decepticon. All of his medical knowledge, all of his personal files, it would be at risk… He had few notes on the regular Ark crew, they all went to Ratchet, but the mechs he patched up in the field, his own team; he carried their secrets, the small things they would only tell a medic. Nothing useful to the war, but, in Vortex’s hands anything could be a weapon.
That spear of homesickness hit again, the desperate, lonely ache for his absent team. “And you’ll let me go,” he said, “after?”
“That depends,” Vortex replied. He stood, stretching, his rotors shifting into a new position. He took First Aid by the wrist and hauled him up onto the bunk. “Help yourself to the energon.”
First Aid let himself be pulled. He slumped in the corner and tucked his knees up against his chassis. His fuel lines gurgled. “I thought you wanted…” he couldn’t bring himself to finish the question.
“I can wait. Here, take some fuel, you sound like you’re running on fumes.” Vortex put a cube on the berth, then sprawled at the other end, rotors splayed above his head. “So, you get bored?”
What was this, time for small talk? First Aid shook his head, and tried to ignore the energon.
“You've got a crack in your knuckle. Did Brawl do that?"
First Aid considered lying, but a vision of Swindle came to mind, crumpled and leaking on the hangar floor. No matter what a thug Brawl was, he didn't deserve to be punished for something he hadn't done. "No," he said. "It happened before."
"Do you want to repair it?" Vortex asked.
First Aid folded his arms and tucked his hands away between the planes of his chest plates. "Why should I bother?"
"Looks painful. Same with that dent on your helm."
"Why do you care?"
The rotors spun slowly, seemingly moving of their own accord. "You might be more talkative if you were comfortable."
"I might be more talkative if you weren't so creepy," First Aid snapped. “No wonder your team won’t link with you.” OK, that was less than smart. He eyed the energon, calculating how quickly he could snatch up the cube and ignite the contents. About 2.7 astroseconds, he guessed, which was probably only slightly more time than it would take for Vortex to lay him out.
“Not everyone wants to live in each others’ cargo holds,” Vortex responded. “OK, I’m on duty in five. You look like you could do with some company while I’m gone.”
No! First Aid thought of the drawer of energon, the explosive potential. Company was something he could do without. “I’ll be all right,” he hazarded.
Vortex sniffed. “Yeah, you’ll only go and blow yourself up.” He raised an arm to access his communications hardware. “Hey, Drag Strip, wanna win yourself some high grade?”
* * *
Another Stunticon, another death threat. Another day, technically, although it didn’t feel like it.
Drag Strip was a violent, eye-scorching shade of yellow, with a personality to match. He flung himself on the berth, grabbed the remote and chugged back the energon.
“Get your aft in that corner and shut up,” he said, waving his gun as though it had automatic targeting. His forcefield was palpable, adding an extra sparkle to his waxed and buffed paint work. “Don’t clank that slaggin’ chain. And don’t speak over the TV. In fact, don’t speak at all. Sigma, you’re ugly. I dunno what he sees in you.”
“Maybe Starscream fragged the rest of the sense out of him,” Wildrider suggested, slipping through the doorway. He took a long look around. “Frag me sideways with a pogo stick,” he sighed. “Breakdown was right. How the pit has Vortex got cable? We don’t got cable.”
“Soundwave’s got cable,” Drag Strip said.
“Yeah, but Soundwave’s Soundwave,” Wildrider explained. “Hey, shuffle up.” He inserted himself between First Aid and Drag Strip, seemingly unconcerned that First Aid’s corner-based huddle left him facing Wildrider’s back. “Seriously, how come Vortex gets cable and we don’t?”
“I dunno,” Drag Strip said. “Maybe he fucked Soundwave for it.”
“Motormaster frags Megatron, and we don’t get zip.” Wildrider sniffed and went to pick up a cube.
Drag Strip snatched it out of his hands. “Hey, that’s mine! Get you own.”
Wildrider snarled, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by the door opening. Breakdown shuffled in, glancing around furtively.
“Woah, you got high grade!” He grinned in a sickly way, half dread and half anticipation. “What’s on? Is Oprah on? I wanna watch that thing about the cars.”
First Aid made himself as small as possible, pressed between the metal of the walls and the strident buzz of Wildrider’s forcefield. Despite Drag Strip’s admonition to be quiet, the three of them bickered ceaselessly, a tirade of chatter about everything and nothing which erupted every five minutes or so into an argument. After a long half joor of gentle persuasion, followed by a solid breem of violence, this was all assisted by Drag Strip sharing out the high grade.
First Aid half expected the other two members of the gestalt to arrive - well, one of them at least, he had trouble imagining the three sitting happily together with Motormaster around - but no-one did.
“Hey,” said Wildrider, peering over his shoulder at First Aid. “You know what’d be funny, right?”
Drag Strip’s optics flared and he grinned nastily. “Yeah,” he said, seemingly responding to a suggestion made via internal comms.
First Aid shook his head vigorously. “That wouldn’t be fun,” he said, whatever it was they were on about. “Vortex will kill you?” He tried not to make it a question, but he couldn’t help the way it came out.
“Nah,” said Drag Strip, “Rotors’ll like this. It’ll be cool. Want some high grade?”
First Aid shook his head again.
“Sure you do,” said Wildrider. “Hey, Breakdown, put it on that music channel thingy.”
Breakdown snatched the remote from Drag Strip’s thigh and held it as though he never wanted to let it go. “You could offer him an energon treat,” he said, flipping through the stations. “He likes those.”
“OK.” Wildrider turned around, kneeling on the plasteel. “Autobot wanna treat?”
“Are, um, you all supposed to be in here?” First Aid asked.
“Sure,” said Drag Strip, waggling a half-empty cube of high grade in a similar manner to the way he’d held his gun. “This is good stuff, you should try some.”
“I… don’t think so,” First Aid replied. “Thank you.”
“Awwww, ‘cmon,” Wildrider urged, his engine revving. “It’ll be fun!”
“Really, no, I shouldn’t,” First Aid said. He wondered how long he could go on like that. Polite responses were probably a novelty on the Nemesis, but it could only be so long before the novelty wore off.
“He’s got a point,” said Breakdown. “He probably shouldn’t. Dead End says high grade’s less staple than ordinary energon. He says it can lead to surges, purging, tank contamination, capacity failure-”
“Capacitor,” Drag Strip interjected. “And it’s stable, not staple.”
“-loss of balance and sensor net function, optical outage, hallucinations, and short term memory loss.” Breakdown nodded. “And then there’s the long term maintenance implications.”
“Memory loss?” said First Aid. He remembered it from his training, but overcharge had never been a problem with his team, so he’d never had the chance to witness it first hand.
“Hey, it’s nothing to worry about,” said Wildrider. “You have had high grade before right?”
First Aid nodded. It had been… not nice so much as… agreeable. Blades had brought some in. Not a lot, but enough. “About the memory loss thing -”
“It’s only temporary,” said Drag Strip.
“Uh, actually,” said Breakdown, “Dead End said-”
“The Autobot doesn’t give a scrap what Dead End said,” Drag Strip huffed. “Do you?” Those final two words were laced with menace; the novelty was obviously reaching the end of its shelf life.
“Um…”
Drag Strip thrust the cube at him, almost dropping it in his lap. “Go on, drink up. It’s great, you’ll see.”