Fanfic -- Shambleau (Part 1)
Aug. 22nd, 2007 06:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinTitle: Shambleau
Originally Posted: July 4 , 2006
Disclaimer: In the real world, Hasbro owns the Combaticons (as well as the rest of the Transformers and Transformers related things mentioned in this piece); in the fictional universe before you, Megatron does. I have no desire to go up against either. Northwest Smith, Yarol the Venusian, and Shambleau are all creations of C.L. Moore and were originally introduced in her story Shambleau published in Weird Tales back in November of 1933. Minga is based on another C.L. Moore character from the Northwest Smith story Black Thirst which appeared in the April 1934 issue of Weird Tales. Jetan is also known as Martian Chess and was created by Edgar Rice Burroughs for his book The Chessmen of Mars. And lastly, the Starwolves of Varna are from Edmond Hamilton’s Starwolf Trilogy. Luscious is a creation of CalyhexInmate and is used with her permission.
Note: The Transformers universe as depicted in my fics is a cherry-picked amalgamation of the G1 cartoon and comic (US and UK), Beast Wars/Machines, my own preferences as a fan, my Transformers MUSHing experience, conversations between me and my roommate (who helped beta read this fic in the early stages) and bits and pieces of things that I think work well. On the whole, things are slanted heavily in favor of the US G1 cartoon series -- except when they’re not. As such, it is worth noting that this story does take place during the grey area between the end of Transformers Season 2 and the events of Transformers the Movie.
In terms of my other Combaticon stories, this one takes place after the events shown in “Exhausted Combaticons” and “Bath-Time Combaticons.” Time frame is approximately 1989/1990.
Scientific note: The Combaticons refer to the Light and Dark Sides of Monacus. The Dark Side is where Sheol is located in The Gambler and is referred to as the Dark Side by Bosch; the Light Side is, by extrapolation, the area where the Autobots first arrive on Monacus with Bosch. Technically? It’s unlikely that an asteroid like Monacus is unlikely to have the kind of spin that would give it a permanent/near-permanent dark side (thanks to Rebecca Hb for pointing this out). So, I invite you to read this story with either the mindset that science took a picnic for this one or that Light/Dark Sides are different neighborhoods on Monacus.
Special thanks to: Wayward Martian, CalyhexInmate and Rebecca Hb, the Hyper Angel for their beta-reading services. This story wouldn't be half as good as it is now without their help. Any errors in grammar, punctuation or formatting that still exist are my fault, not theirs. Calyhex is the roommate listed above and the poor soul who got ambushed at work with “Here! Read this!” while this story was in the pen and paper stages and Wayward Martian and Rebecca Hb were kind volunteers who took this work on and helped give it the shape it has now.
Shambleau
“Shambleau! Shambleau!” The howling of a mob in the near distance cut through Vortex’s reverie, making him look toward the sound even as he ducked into an alleyway for cover. It never hurt to be too careful, particularly on Monacus. The gambling asteroid was largely lawless outside of a protected area around Casino Row’s main drag. Vortex’s hand went for his glue gun, wrapping around the well-worn grip as he peeked around the corner and watched the crowd up ahead.
They stood in a half circle in front of another alleyway, screaming incoherently as they waved a variety of weapons both traditional and improvised. The first thing Vortex noted was that they didn’t seem to be interested in him. The second was a flash of metallic scarlet on the ground. He could catch glimpses of it between the members of the mob. Seen briefly, the figure looked Cybertronian, but from where he stood Vortex couldn’t tell if it was an Autobot or a Decepticon.
Since the crowd had taken no notice of him, Vortex moved from his hidey hole and approached them. But not before he checked level of his glue gun‘s reservoir. Better safe than savagely beaten to death by a pack of angry squishies.
The crowd was strange, even by Monacan standards. While the asteroid attracted the dregs of society from a hundred different worlds, like tended to go with like except in the public forums. Organics hung with other organics; what few sentient mechanoids there were hung with other mechanoids. You didn’t often see large mixed groups, like this one: humans and mechanoids and members of other organic species that were even more sickening to look at than humans were.
The members of the mob closest to him looked at Vortex, hesitating briefly when they saw he was a mechanoid too. He let his optics brighten and set his rotors spinning with lazy menace as he tried to make himself look bigger.
“What‘s up?” he drawled at those around him, lowering his glue gun fractionally.
A human male, tall and tanned with colorless eyes that looked slightly more than half-mad, pushed his way into the center of the mob. “Enough hesitation! We must destroy the Shambleau!” he snarled, pointing dramatically toward the mech who now crouched and glared at the crowd. “We must destroy the monster!”
The mob roared, their cries echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings in a din that Brawl would have appreciated. Vortex’s optics flashed brightly as he looked around, studying strange alien faces with an interrogator‘s optic. For all their bluff and bluster, nobody in this mob really wanted to be the first to do the killing. They were poised, ready to attack or retreat if given the right provocation.
“Why?” Vortex yelled, partly for the sake of seeing which way the crowd would jump and partly for sheer contrariness. He nearly giggled as the mob’s fierce cries cut off and they all looked expectantly toward the human.
“It’s an abomination!” the human roared after a moment’s sputtering. “It must be destroyed for the good of everyone on this planet! If it takes root here, there’s no telling how many it’ll destroy!”
There were a few ragged shouts of agreement, but Vortex was pleased to note that most of the crowd was quieter, unsure about their role now that an outsider was questioning it.
“Why?” he asked again, optics flashing with amusement. This time he did giggle, the sound making those organics near him move away. “He owe you money or something?”
“Be silent, machine!” the human snarled. “This doesn’t concern you! This is for living creatures, not glorified toys!”
Bloop. Vortex fired without really thinking about it, a blob of hot glue engulfing the human.
“Northwest!” a small, delicate-looking humanoid in the mob screamed, dashing forward. For a moment, Vortex thought it might be another human -- possibly a female, since it was smaller and more delicate than the engulfed male. But, as he watched the humanoid frantically scrape rapidly cooling glue away from Northwest’s nose and mouth, it became clearer that this was a member of a different species.
“By Shar, are you mad?” the smaller humanoid yelled at Vortex as Northwest began to breathe again, taking in huge gulps of air. “Do you know what you’re protecting?”
Vortex shrugged. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is you slagheaps are starting to bug me and if you don’t want more of what your buddy got, then I suggest getting away from me.”
He was gratified to see more than a few leave the mob, slinking away now that it looked as if their victim might have a protector. He stifled a giggle at the sight, not wanting to spoil the mood.
“Idiot!” the smaller humanoid said. “That creature is dangerous! Can’t you understand that?”
“I’m dangerous,” Vortex countered, centering his glue gun‘s sights on the humanoid. “Or haven’t I made that clear enough?”
To his delight, the humanoid didn’t back down. He hated it when the game ended too soon. “We don’t have time for this,” the humanoid said, taking a step forward. “That creature is responsible for countless deaths on more worlds than you could imagine! If you want to shoot something, you should be shooting that!”
The humanoid pointed dramatically behind Vortex towards the Shambleau. Vortex didn’t bother turning, instead he began squeezing the trigger of his glue gun.
“Yarol! No! It’s not worth it!” To his disappointment, the human called Northwest leapt forward, grabbing the smaller humanoid and dragging him back toward the crowd. “Let the damned machine learn the hard way, like I did!” Northwest yelled as they fled.
Their leaders in sudden retreat, the rest of the mob broke apart, dispersing back to the seedy bars and crooked gambling holes they’d no doubt come from. Vortex fired randomly at their retreating backs, more for effect than to hit anyone.
Once they were gone, Vortex turned to look at Shambleau, his head tilted slightly to one side as he stared at the strange mech.
Up close, it was obvious that he wasn’t Cybertronian. Or if he was, he was countless vorns old since he had no alt mode or visible transformation joints that Vortex could see. He was a mech. Vortex was pretty sure of that since femmes -- true femmes -- were so very rare. That and he reminded Vortex of a Seeker, albeit a wingless one. Though, even wingless he moved with an almost liquid grace that made even the most graceful of Seekers look like crippled groundpounders by comparison.
His chest and torso armor were a deep, rich scarlet so glossy it looked wet. The scarlet faded on his arms and legs, becoming a duller red-brown that was almost the color of rust. His face, what could be seen around his faceplate, looked black at first. When he looked closer, Vortex could see it was simply a darker shade of rust-brown that made his acid-green optics shine all the brighter in the darkness of the alleyway.
But what really got Vortex’s attention were the twin sword handles peeking over Shambleau’s shoulders. They were a glossier rust brown, accented throughout by thin veins of scarlet. Judging by how well-worn they appeared to be, they were clearly functional as well as beautiful.
Vortex’s optics flashed and sparkled with jealousy and an intense, Swindle-like need to possess them.
# # #
For as long as he could remember, even long before he’d ever set foot in an interrogation chamber, Vortex had been fascinated by sharp things: laser scalpels, plasma cutters, saw blades, knives, swords, anything so long as it could rip and tear through armor rather than simply blasting a hole through it. The act of cutting -- and being cut -- attracted him like an Autobot to a lost cause.
It was an interest that set him apart from other Decepticons, except for a few of his fellow interrogators. Blades were seen by most Decepticons -- by most Cybertronians for that matter -- as hopelessly archaic, outdated weapons. Conventional wisdom held that they were suitable only for primitives and the sorts of poseurs who artificially aged their armor in a futile attempt to look as though they pre-dated the Golden Age.
Even his own brothers were less than sympathetic to his desires. Onslaught ignored it, except when he was berating Vortex for damaging his rotors by trying to use them for cutting instead of creating wind funnels. Brawl and Blast Off belittled him each in his own fashion: Brawl laughed at him and called him a wimp, while Blast Off preferred cold, disdainful silences that were only slightly different from the rest of his cold, disdainful silences.
And Swindle argued with him about it, bickering endlessly about the relative merits of guns versus swords until they were either swinging at each other or fighting off those around them who were sick of listening to their circular arguments.
But, despite all the mocking and the ridicule and the strange looks, Vortex didn’t care. Blades in general and swords in particular had a certain style and grace that guns just didn’t have. Blowing a hole in someone was all well and good, but it was over too quickly. There was a slow subtlety to blades: a shallow slice here, a deep gash there; it all brought such exquisite agony.
# # #
“Thank you, friend,” Shambleau said, bringing Vortex out of his reverie. The mech’s voice had an odd, stilted quality about it.
“I’m not your friend,” Vortex said, automatically. His optics were still on the swords as he calculated how hard it would be to clout this mech about the head and run off with them. “Only reason I helped you out was because that squishie was getting on my nerves.”
“You could have easily helped them,” said Shambleau in his stiffly formal voice. “Helped them to destroy me, yet you did not. Why?”
Vortex shrugged, not entirely sure of the reason himself beyond a perverse desire to annoy the loudmouthed human. “Didn’t help you,” he said, speaking slowly. “They were bugging me, and I was bored anyway. Helping you was a lucky side effect for you, that’s all.”
Shambleau paused, looking at Vortex intently, giving him the feeling of being under one of Scrapper‘s medical scanners while Soundwave tried to poke into his mind. “’Something to do?’” he repeated, staring intently at Vortex. “You helped me because you are looking for … what? Amusement?”
“Yeah, sure,” Vortex said, shifted uncomfortably. “Why not?”
Shambleau’s laugh was a hissing, sliding sound, like air escaping from a tire or hoses moving over each other.
“What’s so funny?” Vortex growled, feeling his fists clenched. If he wanted to be laughed at, he could always go find one or more of his brothers.
“You saved me because you were bored!” Shambleau said, then suddenly the laughter cut off. “Why are you bored, my friend?”
Vortex grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “None of your business,” he said, hoping he sounded gruff rather than sulky.
In truth, he wasn’t just bored, he was lonely. The Combaticons had come to Monacus together because Megatron had wanted them to do something that Vortex hadn’t listened to since listening to Megatron was Onslaught’s job. All he’d known was that it involved Onslaught, Brawl and Swindle having to go to one of the armament markets in Sheol on the dark side of the asteroid. He and Blast Off were simply along for the ride. Or, more correctly, Blast Off was the ride; he, Vortex was there simply because Onslaught was loathe to have the team split up again.
In part, because ‘accidents’ tended to happen to lone gestalt team members -- particularly lone gestalt team members - unfairly! - suspected of a fly-by gluing that had left Wildrider and Dead-End stuck together for the better part of two days.
But Onslaught had also wanted him to come because a trip to Monacus meant a chance for some real R and R -- something the Combaticons hadn’t had for a long, long time.
Of course, Onslaught was insisting on business before pleasure, using the chance to run wild as a way of keeping Vortex, Brawl and Swindle in line. The message had been crystal clear: behave until the mission was done or no party time.
Which was another part of the reason Vortex was alone and bored on the Lightside of Monacus. Onslaught had refused to take him to Sheol, stating that doing so “would jeopardize the integrity of the mission by compromising the effectiveness of our acquisitions specialist.” All of which was Onslaught double-speak for, “you’ll annoy Swindle and he’s going to be hard enough to control as it is.”
“Stay out of trouble,” was the last thing Onslaught had said to him before leaving for the Dark Side. He’d then gone on to define “trouble” in the sort of minute, exacting detail that only someone used to leading Combaticons would even think to use.
Vortex had considered trying to find a loophole -- it was only fair to give Onslaught something new for his list after all -- but Brawl and Swindle had backed up Onslaught’s orders with threats of their own. As Swindle had put it: “Cost me the Happiest Place in the Galaxy, ‘Tex, and so help me, I’ll turn into a foot, stomp a slag hole in your back and walk it dry!”
So, while the groundpounders were off running their errands, he and Blast Off had stayed on the Light Side, holed up in the hotel room while Blast Off drank high-priced energon and recuperated from the flight to Monacus. Vortex had finally convinced Blast Off to let him take a walk by asking every quarter-breem until Blast Off had finally given in. It was during the walk that he’d run into the mob. And Shambleau.
Shambleau tilted his head, looking Vortex over. Once again, Vortex felt as if he were being scanned and laid bare before Shambleau. It was a disgusting feeling, and yet part of him shivered almost happily under the scrutiny.
“You like my swords,” Shambleau said. He reached back, stroking one sword’s hilt. “You like to fight with swords, correct?”
“Yeah,” Vortex said. It wasn’t entirely a lie: he did like to fight with swords -- it was just that the closest he usually got was when Bruticus would use his main rotors to slash at other gestalts.
Shambleau looked at him, sliding in close enough to rest a hand on Vortex’s shoulder. His acid-green optics brightened to almost painful levels in the alley’s gloom. “Will you fight with me?”
“Excuse me?” Vortex took a step backwards.
“Not real fight,” Shambleau said. “Pretend-fight. As though it were a game.”
“You mean, you want to spar?” Vortex said. “You want to spar with me?”
Shambleau’s optics brightened again. “Yes,” he said, moving closer again. “I want us to fight, blade to blade; to show strength of body and will, to feel each other’s strength and see who is the true master.”
Vortex found himself caught speechless. It was a corny speech; it was a line he‘d have expected -- and laughed at -- from the sort of dallying poseurs who thought interrogation was all whips, chains and unresolved sexual tension. But coming from Shambleau, coming from a voice thick with emotion and not-so-thinly veiled promises as those green optics flashed and pulsed with excitement, something stirred in him. Here, here, in this seedy alleyway was someone who understood. Here was someone who knew how he felt -- better than he did -- about fighting with swords. Onslaught couldn’t object to him. And even if he did, Vortex didn’t care.
“Let’s go,” Vortex said.
# # #
Shambleau took him to a deserted casino on the distant outskirts of Casino Row, in the rundown area furthest from the Tarmac Bridge. The building was missing its roof and the walls had largely fallen in, leaving only a semi-enclosed open space roughly the size of a training room aboard the Nemesis.
Shambleau began tossing the remains of tables and broken furniture out of the way, clearing a space. Vortex set about helping him and the work was quickly done.
“We fight now,” Shambleau commanded, optics brightening.
Vortex reached behind his back to detach one of his rotors. It was a self-modification that would have had Onslaught furious with him if he’d known about it.
“No,” Shambleau reached out to touch his arm, stopping him. Vortex felt his sensors twitch and flicker with disgust. “Your blade, it is inadequate. You need a good blade for a good fight. You will use one of mine.”
With that, Shambleau reached over his own shoulder and drew one of the swords, handing it to Vortex, hilt first. The material covering the hilt was soft and squished slightly under Vortex’s grip. He shivered as it seemed almost to writhe in his grip.
The blade was the same glossy-wet red of Shambleau’s torso armor. The color faded to a milky pink where the blade thinned into a cutting edge. Vortex tested the edge against his thumb, wincing as the blade cut effortlessly through the thinner armor there.
“Where’d you get these?” Vortex asked, his voice hoarse with an envy that bordered on hate.
“Always have had them,” Shambleau said with a shrug. “Since the day I was -- created, as your people would say. They are very old, very much a true part of me.”
“They’re beautiful,” Vortex said, his earlier discomfort and disgust forgotten as he moved the sword back and forth in front of himself, getting a feel for the way it moved.
“I am glad you like it,” Shambleau said, circling him as he drew his own blade. “Your joy gives me a good feeling.”
Vortex’s response was cut off as Shambleau lunged forward, slashing at him. Clumsily, Vortex blocked the cut, feeling the blow vibrate painfully up the sword and through his arm. He hissed, backpedaling before he tried to return the attack.
“Thought this was a sparring match!” he snapped, bringing his sword up in front of him.
Shambleau laughed, a wild sound that rolled over Vortex like the winds of a hurricane. “Game, yes, but not an easy one! It must be a fight worth winning!”
“Yeah,” Vortex said, feeling a giggle of his own rise as he lunged forward, slashing wildly at Shambleau. “But what do I get?”
“Winner takes loser,” Shambleau said, voice rich with promise.
“Takes them where?” Vortex asked before the promise in Shambleau’s voice registered with his CPU. “Oh!” he said, optics flickering excitedly. “So, when I win, I get to do whatever I want with you, huh? Nice.”
Shambleau laughed his sliding hose laugh again. “If you win, yes,” he said, pressing the attack before Vortex could reply, causing Vortex to focus all his energy on avoiding being hit. Not that he was very successful in that since Shambleau flowed like water around him, striking at weak points Vortex didn’t even know he had until after he was struck. It was as if this swordsmech knew what he was thinking and was keeping one step ahead of his strikes.
Coolant leaked from half a dozen superficial slashes on his legs, back and torso. The stinging pain of his injuries goaded Vortex into pressing the fight harder, trying to corner Shambleau, to drive the other mech back. Frustration made his optics shine so brightly they nearly went white.
In the end, it was Vortex who found himself cornered, backed into a small enclosed area that had been one of the casino’s restaurants. Shambleau stood before him, watching as Vortex’s body panted, trying to vent excess heat from his systems.
“You have lost,” Shambleau said, stepping in closer as he retrieved his sword from Vortex’s limp hand. “You must submit.”
“Slag you,” Vortex hissed, jerking back ineffectually. He winced as he felt his rotors brush against the wall. “What are you? You’re not from Cybertron. Nobody on Cybertron can move like that. Never seen anything like you. What are you?”
“I am Shambleau,” he said, as if that answered anything. He reached out, touching Vortex’s chest, deftly finding one of the cuts he’d inflicted. He manipulated it, opening it wider to better stroke the raw circuitry underneath. “And you are mine now.”
Vortex’s optics flashed painfully. “Quit it,” he said, voice thickening as he reached over to smack Shambleau’s hand away.
Shambleau caught his hand, holding it easily but firmly. “You lost,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “You are mine.” Shambleau leaned in to nuzzle his faceplate against Vortex’s throat. There was a sickening softness to the other mech’s armor - as if it were covered in the same material as his sword hilt - that made Vortex want to kick and punch until he could get away.
Seeming to sense Vortex’s repulsion, Shambleau released his wrist and found a second cut on Vortex’s arm and repeated the process, teasing both wounds simultaneously. Moaning, Vortex reached out, feeling his knees buckle even as he grabbed at Shambleau’s arms and tried to push him back.
Vortex had as much success as he’d had during the fight. Shambleau shoved him back into the corner, forcing him against the wall and causing his rotor assembly dig painfully into his back. Vortex struggled, but the other mech used his weight to hold him in place. Shambleau was deceptively heavy in close quarters. It was like trying to push off Onslaught or Brawl.
“No, beloved,” Shambleau’s voice was gentle but strained, like Onslaught’s when he was correcting a mistake and trying desperately to hold onto his patience. The word ‘beloved’ made Vortex flinch and shy, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and debased in a way all together worse than Shambleau’s physical invasion of his wounds.
“You lost,” Shambleau said, voice low and raspy. It was a needy, eager sound. Vortex shuddered, feeling the same invasive feeling of being scanned as before. “You are mine now.” Shambleau leaned against him, body pressing against Vortex, allowing him to feel the slow throb of Shambleau’s engines. “It is all part of the game, remember?”
Vortex nodded. It’d been millennia since he’d played like this, but he still remembered the rules. One of which was ‘submit, but not too soon.’ He struggled again, hard enough to force Shambleau to press harder against him -- but not hard enough to get free.
Shambleau laughed his hissing, sliding laugh. “Oh, you do know how to play!” he said, fingers returned to his wounds, stroking circuits, pushing roughly into Vortex and sliding delicately back out. Vortex shuddered, head going back as his optics flickered.
This was what he’d been looking for. This was what he’d truly craved. The sweet surrender into another’s control. The freedom from responsibility, from dignity, from self-control. To be reduced to little more than stimulus and response. Interrogation was only a faint shadow of this dark bliss; the difference between them that of sparring and real combat.
Vortex pressed his face against Shambleau’s surprisingly soft, warm armor and allowed himself to sink into the Now.
Shambleau (Part 2)
Originally Posted: July 4 , 2006
Disclaimer: In the real world, Hasbro owns the Combaticons (as well as the rest of the Transformers and Transformers related things mentioned in this piece); in the fictional universe before you, Megatron does. I have no desire to go up against either. Northwest Smith, Yarol the Venusian, and Shambleau are all creations of C.L. Moore and were originally introduced in her story Shambleau published in Weird Tales back in November of 1933. Minga is based on another C.L. Moore character from the Northwest Smith story Black Thirst which appeared in the April 1934 issue of Weird Tales. Jetan is also known as Martian Chess and was created by Edgar Rice Burroughs for his book The Chessmen of Mars. And lastly, the Starwolves of Varna are from Edmond Hamilton’s Starwolf Trilogy. Luscious is a creation of CalyhexInmate and is used with her permission.
Note: The Transformers universe as depicted in my fics is a cherry-picked amalgamation of the G1 cartoon and comic (US and UK), Beast Wars/Machines, my own preferences as a fan, my Transformers MUSHing experience, conversations between me and my roommate (who helped beta read this fic in the early stages) and bits and pieces of things that I think work well. On the whole, things are slanted heavily in favor of the US G1 cartoon series -- except when they’re not. As such, it is worth noting that this story does take place during the grey area between the end of Transformers Season 2 and the events of Transformers the Movie.
In terms of my other Combaticon stories, this one takes place after the events shown in “Exhausted Combaticons” and “Bath-Time Combaticons.” Time frame is approximately 1989/1990.
Scientific note: The Combaticons refer to the Light and Dark Sides of Monacus. The Dark Side is where Sheol is located in The Gambler and is referred to as the Dark Side by Bosch; the Light Side is, by extrapolation, the area where the Autobots first arrive on Monacus with Bosch. Technically? It’s unlikely that an asteroid like Monacus is unlikely to have the kind of spin that would give it a permanent/near-permanent dark side (thanks to Rebecca Hb for pointing this out). So, I invite you to read this story with either the mindset that science took a picnic for this one or that Light/Dark Sides are different neighborhoods on Monacus.
Special thanks to: Wayward Martian, CalyhexInmate and Rebecca Hb, the Hyper Angel for their beta-reading services. This story wouldn't be half as good as it is now without their help. Any errors in grammar, punctuation or formatting that still exist are my fault, not theirs. Calyhex is the roommate listed above and the poor soul who got ambushed at work with “Here! Read this!” while this story was in the pen and paper stages and Wayward Martian and Rebecca Hb were kind volunteers who took this work on and helped give it the shape it has now.
“Shambleau! Shambleau!” The howling of a mob in the near distance cut through Vortex’s reverie, making him look toward the sound even as he ducked into an alleyway for cover. It never hurt to be too careful, particularly on Monacus. The gambling asteroid was largely lawless outside of a protected area around Casino Row’s main drag. Vortex’s hand went for his glue gun, wrapping around the well-worn grip as he peeked around the corner and watched the crowd up ahead.
They stood in a half circle in front of another alleyway, screaming incoherently as they waved a variety of weapons both traditional and improvised. The first thing Vortex noted was that they didn’t seem to be interested in him. The second was a flash of metallic scarlet on the ground. He could catch glimpses of it between the members of the mob. Seen briefly, the figure looked Cybertronian, but from where he stood Vortex couldn’t tell if it was an Autobot or a Decepticon.
Since the crowd had taken no notice of him, Vortex moved from his hidey hole and approached them. But not before he checked level of his glue gun‘s reservoir. Better safe than savagely beaten to death by a pack of angry squishies.
The crowd was strange, even by Monacan standards. While the asteroid attracted the dregs of society from a hundred different worlds, like tended to go with like except in the public forums. Organics hung with other organics; what few sentient mechanoids there were hung with other mechanoids. You didn’t often see large mixed groups, like this one: humans and mechanoids and members of other organic species that were even more sickening to look at than humans were.
The members of the mob closest to him looked at Vortex, hesitating briefly when they saw he was a mechanoid too. He let his optics brighten and set his rotors spinning with lazy menace as he tried to make himself look bigger.
“What‘s up?” he drawled at those around him, lowering his glue gun fractionally.
A human male, tall and tanned with colorless eyes that looked slightly more than half-mad, pushed his way into the center of the mob. “Enough hesitation! We must destroy the Shambleau!” he snarled, pointing dramatically toward the mech who now crouched and glared at the crowd. “We must destroy the monster!”
The mob roared, their cries echoing off the walls of the surrounding buildings in a din that Brawl would have appreciated. Vortex’s optics flashed brightly as he looked around, studying strange alien faces with an interrogator‘s optic. For all their bluff and bluster, nobody in this mob really wanted to be the first to do the killing. They were poised, ready to attack or retreat if given the right provocation.
“Why?” Vortex yelled, partly for the sake of seeing which way the crowd would jump and partly for sheer contrariness. He nearly giggled as the mob’s fierce cries cut off and they all looked expectantly toward the human.
“It’s an abomination!” the human roared after a moment’s sputtering. “It must be destroyed for the good of everyone on this planet! If it takes root here, there’s no telling how many it’ll destroy!”
There were a few ragged shouts of agreement, but Vortex was pleased to note that most of the crowd was quieter, unsure about their role now that an outsider was questioning it.
“Why?” he asked again, optics flashing with amusement. This time he did giggle, the sound making those organics near him move away. “He owe you money or something?”
“Be silent, machine!” the human snarled. “This doesn’t concern you! This is for living creatures, not glorified toys!”
Bloop. Vortex fired without really thinking about it, a blob of hot glue engulfing the human.
“Northwest!” a small, delicate-looking humanoid in the mob screamed, dashing forward. For a moment, Vortex thought it might be another human -- possibly a female, since it was smaller and more delicate than the engulfed male. But, as he watched the humanoid frantically scrape rapidly cooling glue away from Northwest’s nose and mouth, it became clearer that this was a member of a different species.
“By Shar, are you mad?” the smaller humanoid yelled at Vortex as Northwest began to breathe again, taking in huge gulps of air. “Do you know what you’re protecting?”
Vortex shrugged. “Nope,” he said. “Don’t know, don’t care. All I know is you slagheaps are starting to bug me and if you don’t want more of what your buddy got, then I suggest getting away from me.”
He was gratified to see more than a few leave the mob, slinking away now that it looked as if their victim might have a protector. He stifled a giggle at the sight, not wanting to spoil the mood.
“Idiot!” the smaller humanoid said. “That creature is dangerous! Can’t you understand that?”
“I’m dangerous,” Vortex countered, centering his glue gun‘s sights on the humanoid. “Or haven’t I made that clear enough?”
To his delight, the humanoid didn’t back down. He hated it when the game ended too soon. “We don’t have time for this,” the humanoid said, taking a step forward. “That creature is responsible for countless deaths on more worlds than you could imagine! If you want to shoot something, you should be shooting that!”
The humanoid pointed dramatically behind Vortex towards the Shambleau. Vortex didn’t bother turning, instead he began squeezing the trigger of his glue gun.
“Yarol! No! It’s not worth it!” To his disappointment, the human called Northwest leapt forward, grabbing the smaller humanoid and dragging him back toward the crowd. “Let the damned machine learn the hard way, like I did!” Northwest yelled as they fled.
Their leaders in sudden retreat, the rest of the mob broke apart, dispersing back to the seedy bars and crooked gambling holes they’d no doubt come from. Vortex fired randomly at their retreating backs, more for effect than to hit anyone.
Once they were gone, Vortex turned to look at Shambleau, his head tilted slightly to one side as he stared at the strange mech.
Up close, it was obvious that he wasn’t Cybertronian. Or if he was, he was countless vorns old since he had no alt mode or visible transformation joints that Vortex could see. He was a mech. Vortex was pretty sure of that since femmes -- true femmes -- were so very rare. That and he reminded Vortex of a Seeker, albeit a wingless one. Though, even wingless he moved with an almost liquid grace that made even the most graceful of Seekers look like crippled groundpounders by comparison.
His chest and torso armor were a deep, rich scarlet so glossy it looked wet. The scarlet faded on his arms and legs, becoming a duller red-brown that was almost the color of rust. His face, what could be seen around his faceplate, looked black at first. When he looked closer, Vortex could see it was simply a darker shade of rust-brown that made his acid-green optics shine all the brighter in the darkness of the alleyway.
But what really got Vortex’s attention were the twin sword handles peeking over Shambleau’s shoulders. They were a glossier rust brown, accented throughout by thin veins of scarlet. Judging by how well-worn they appeared to be, they were clearly functional as well as beautiful.
Vortex’s optics flashed and sparkled with jealousy and an intense, Swindle-like need to possess them.
For as long as he could remember, even long before he’d ever set foot in an interrogation chamber, Vortex had been fascinated by sharp things: laser scalpels, plasma cutters, saw blades, knives, swords, anything so long as it could rip and tear through armor rather than simply blasting a hole through it. The act of cutting -- and being cut -- attracted him like an Autobot to a lost cause.
It was an interest that set him apart from other Decepticons, except for a few of his fellow interrogators. Blades were seen by most Decepticons -- by most Cybertronians for that matter -- as hopelessly archaic, outdated weapons. Conventional wisdom held that they were suitable only for primitives and the sorts of poseurs who artificially aged their armor in a futile attempt to look as though they pre-dated the Golden Age.
Even his own brothers were less than sympathetic to his desires. Onslaught ignored it, except when he was berating Vortex for damaging his rotors by trying to use them for cutting instead of creating wind funnels. Brawl and Blast Off belittled him each in his own fashion: Brawl laughed at him and called him a wimp, while Blast Off preferred cold, disdainful silences that were only slightly different from the rest of his cold, disdainful silences.
And Swindle argued with him about it, bickering endlessly about the relative merits of guns versus swords until they were either swinging at each other or fighting off those around them who were sick of listening to their circular arguments.
But, despite all the mocking and the ridicule and the strange looks, Vortex didn’t care. Blades in general and swords in particular had a certain style and grace that guns just didn’t have. Blowing a hole in someone was all well and good, but it was over too quickly. There was a slow subtlety to blades: a shallow slice here, a deep gash there; it all brought such exquisite agony.
“Thank you, friend,” Shambleau said, bringing Vortex out of his reverie. The mech’s voice had an odd, stilted quality about it.
“I’m not your friend,” Vortex said, automatically. His optics were still on the swords as he calculated how hard it would be to clout this mech about the head and run off with them. “Only reason I helped you out was because that squishie was getting on my nerves.”
“You could have easily helped them,” said Shambleau in his stiffly formal voice. “Helped them to destroy me, yet you did not. Why?”
Vortex shrugged, not entirely sure of the reason himself beyond a perverse desire to annoy the loudmouthed human. “Didn’t help you,” he said, speaking slowly. “They were bugging me, and I was bored anyway. Helping you was a lucky side effect for you, that’s all.”
Shambleau paused, looking at Vortex intently, giving him the feeling of being under one of Scrapper‘s medical scanners while Soundwave tried to poke into his mind. “’Something to do?’” he repeated, staring intently at Vortex. “You helped me because you are looking for … what? Amusement?”
“Yeah, sure,” Vortex said, shifted uncomfortably. “Why not?”
Shambleau’s laugh was a hissing, sliding sound, like air escaping from a tire or hoses moving over each other.
“What’s so funny?” Vortex growled, feeling his fists clenched. If he wanted to be laughed at, he could always go find one or more of his brothers.
“You saved me because you were bored!” Shambleau said, then suddenly the laughter cut off. “Why are you bored, my friend?”
Vortex grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “None of your business,” he said, hoping he sounded gruff rather than sulky.
In truth, he wasn’t just bored, he was lonely. The Combaticons had come to Monacus together because Megatron had wanted them to do something that Vortex hadn’t listened to since listening to Megatron was Onslaught’s job. All he’d known was that it involved Onslaught, Brawl and Swindle having to go to one of the armament markets in Sheol on the dark side of the asteroid. He and Blast Off were simply along for the ride. Or, more correctly, Blast Off was the ride; he, Vortex was there simply because Onslaught was loathe to have the team split up again.
In part, because ‘accidents’ tended to happen to lone gestalt team members -- particularly lone gestalt team members - unfairly! - suspected of a fly-by gluing that had left Wildrider and Dead-End stuck together for the better part of two days.
But Onslaught had also wanted him to come because a trip to Monacus meant a chance for some real R and R -- something the Combaticons hadn’t had for a long, long time.
Of course, Onslaught was insisting on business before pleasure, using the chance to run wild as a way of keeping Vortex, Brawl and Swindle in line. The message had been crystal clear: behave until the mission was done or no party time.
Which was another part of the reason Vortex was alone and bored on the Lightside of Monacus. Onslaught had refused to take him to Sheol, stating that doing so “would jeopardize the integrity of the mission by compromising the effectiveness of our acquisitions specialist.” All of which was Onslaught double-speak for, “you’ll annoy Swindle and he’s going to be hard enough to control as it is.”
“Stay out of trouble,” was the last thing Onslaught had said to him before leaving for the Dark Side. He’d then gone on to define “trouble” in the sort of minute, exacting detail that only someone used to leading Combaticons would even think to use.
Vortex had considered trying to find a loophole -- it was only fair to give Onslaught something new for his list after all -- but Brawl and Swindle had backed up Onslaught’s orders with threats of their own. As Swindle had put it: “Cost me the Happiest Place in the Galaxy, ‘Tex, and so help me, I’ll turn into a foot, stomp a slag hole in your back and walk it dry!”
So, while the groundpounders were off running their errands, he and Blast Off had stayed on the Light Side, holed up in the hotel room while Blast Off drank high-priced energon and recuperated from the flight to Monacus. Vortex had finally convinced Blast Off to let him take a walk by asking every quarter-breem until Blast Off had finally given in. It was during the walk that he’d run into the mob. And Shambleau.
Shambleau tilted his head, looking Vortex over. Once again, Vortex felt as if he were being scanned and laid bare before Shambleau. It was a disgusting feeling, and yet part of him shivered almost happily under the scrutiny.
“You like my swords,” Shambleau said. He reached back, stroking one sword’s hilt. “You like to fight with swords, correct?”
“Yeah,” Vortex said. It wasn’t entirely a lie: he did like to fight with swords -- it was just that the closest he usually got was when Bruticus would use his main rotors to slash at other gestalts.
Shambleau looked at him, sliding in close enough to rest a hand on Vortex’s shoulder. His acid-green optics brightened to almost painful levels in the alley’s gloom. “Will you fight with me?”
“Excuse me?” Vortex took a step backwards.
“Not real fight,” Shambleau said. “Pretend-fight. As though it were a game.”
“You mean, you want to spar?” Vortex said. “You want to spar with me?”
Shambleau’s optics brightened again. “Yes,” he said, moving closer again. “I want us to fight, blade to blade; to show strength of body and will, to feel each other’s strength and see who is the true master.”
Vortex found himself caught speechless. It was a corny speech; it was a line he‘d have expected -- and laughed at -- from the sort of dallying poseurs who thought interrogation was all whips, chains and unresolved sexual tension. But coming from Shambleau, coming from a voice thick with emotion and not-so-thinly veiled promises as those green optics flashed and pulsed with excitement, something stirred in him. Here, here, in this seedy alleyway was someone who understood. Here was someone who knew how he felt -- better than he did -- about fighting with swords. Onslaught couldn’t object to him. And even if he did, Vortex didn’t care.
“Let’s go,” Vortex said.
Shambleau took him to a deserted casino on the distant outskirts of Casino Row, in the rundown area furthest from the Tarmac Bridge. The building was missing its roof and the walls had largely fallen in, leaving only a semi-enclosed open space roughly the size of a training room aboard the Nemesis.
Shambleau began tossing the remains of tables and broken furniture out of the way, clearing a space. Vortex set about helping him and the work was quickly done.
“We fight now,” Shambleau commanded, optics brightening.
Vortex reached behind his back to detach one of his rotors. It was a self-modification that would have had Onslaught furious with him if he’d known about it.
“No,” Shambleau reached out to touch his arm, stopping him. Vortex felt his sensors twitch and flicker with disgust. “Your blade, it is inadequate. You need a good blade for a good fight. You will use one of mine.”
With that, Shambleau reached over his own shoulder and drew one of the swords, handing it to Vortex, hilt first. The material covering the hilt was soft and squished slightly under Vortex’s grip. He shivered as it seemed almost to writhe in his grip.
The blade was the same glossy-wet red of Shambleau’s torso armor. The color faded to a milky pink where the blade thinned into a cutting edge. Vortex tested the edge against his thumb, wincing as the blade cut effortlessly through the thinner armor there.
“Where’d you get these?” Vortex asked, his voice hoarse with an envy that bordered on hate.
“Always have had them,” Shambleau said with a shrug. “Since the day I was -- created, as your people would say. They are very old, very much a true part of me.”
“They’re beautiful,” Vortex said, his earlier discomfort and disgust forgotten as he moved the sword back and forth in front of himself, getting a feel for the way it moved.
“I am glad you like it,” Shambleau said, circling him as he drew his own blade. “Your joy gives me a good feeling.”
Vortex’s response was cut off as Shambleau lunged forward, slashing at him. Clumsily, Vortex blocked the cut, feeling the blow vibrate painfully up the sword and through his arm. He hissed, backpedaling before he tried to return the attack.
“Thought this was a sparring match!” he snapped, bringing his sword up in front of him.
Shambleau laughed, a wild sound that rolled over Vortex like the winds of a hurricane. “Game, yes, but not an easy one! It must be a fight worth winning!”
“Yeah,” Vortex said, feeling a giggle of his own rise as he lunged forward, slashing wildly at Shambleau. “But what do I get?”
“Winner takes loser,” Shambleau said, voice rich with promise.
“Takes them where?” Vortex asked before the promise in Shambleau’s voice registered with his CPU. “Oh!” he said, optics flickering excitedly. “So, when I win, I get to do whatever I want with you, huh? Nice.”
Shambleau laughed his sliding hose laugh again. “If you win, yes,” he said, pressing the attack before Vortex could reply, causing Vortex to focus all his energy on avoiding being hit. Not that he was very successful in that since Shambleau flowed like water around him, striking at weak points Vortex didn’t even know he had until after he was struck. It was as if this swordsmech knew what he was thinking and was keeping one step ahead of his strikes.
Coolant leaked from half a dozen superficial slashes on his legs, back and torso. The stinging pain of his injuries goaded Vortex into pressing the fight harder, trying to corner Shambleau, to drive the other mech back. Frustration made his optics shine so brightly they nearly went white.
In the end, it was Vortex who found himself cornered, backed into a small enclosed area that had been one of the casino’s restaurants. Shambleau stood before him, watching as Vortex’s body panted, trying to vent excess heat from his systems.
“You have lost,” Shambleau said, stepping in closer as he retrieved his sword from Vortex’s limp hand. “You must submit.”
“Slag you,” Vortex hissed, jerking back ineffectually. He winced as he felt his rotors brush against the wall. “What are you? You’re not from Cybertron. Nobody on Cybertron can move like that. Never seen anything like you. What are you?”
“I am Shambleau,” he said, as if that answered anything. He reached out, touching Vortex’s chest, deftly finding one of the cuts he’d inflicted. He manipulated it, opening it wider to better stroke the raw circuitry underneath. “And you are mine now.”
Vortex’s optics flashed painfully. “Quit it,” he said, voice thickening as he reached over to smack Shambleau’s hand away.
Shambleau caught his hand, holding it easily but firmly. “You lost,” he said, his voice a soft growl. “You are mine.” Shambleau leaned in to nuzzle his faceplate against Vortex’s throat. There was a sickening softness to the other mech’s armor - as if it were covered in the same material as his sword hilt - that made Vortex want to kick and punch until he could get away.
Seeming to sense Vortex’s repulsion, Shambleau released his wrist and found a second cut on Vortex’s arm and repeated the process, teasing both wounds simultaneously. Moaning, Vortex reached out, feeling his knees buckle even as he grabbed at Shambleau’s arms and tried to push him back.
Vortex had as much success as he’d had during the fight. Shambleau shoved him back into the corner, forcing him against the wall and causing his rotor assembly dig painfully into his back. Vortex struggled, but the other mech used his weight to hold him in place. Shambleau was deceptively heavy in close quarters. It was like trying to push off Onslaught or Brawl.
“No, beloved,” Shambleau’s voice was gentle but strained, like Onslaught’s when he was correcting a mistake and trying desperately to hold onto his patience. The word ‘beloved’ made Vortex flinch and shy, feeling suddenly uncomfortable and debased in a way all together worse than Shambleau’s physical invasion of his wounds.
“You lost,” Shambleau said, voice low and raspy. It was a needy, eager sound. Vortex shuddered, feeling the same invasive feeling of being scanned as before. “You are mine now.” Shambleau leaned against him, body pressing against Vortex, allowing him to feel the slow throb of Shambleau’s engines. “It is all part of the game, remember?”
Vortex nodded. It’d been millennia since he’d played like this, but he still remembered the rules. One of which was ‘submit, but not too soon.’ He struggled again, hard enough to force Shambleau to press harder against him -- but not hard enough to get free.
Shambleau laughed his hissing, sliding laugh. “Oh, you do know how to play!” he said, fingers returned to his wounds, stroking circuits, pushing roughly into Vortex and sliding delicately back out. Vortex shuddered, head going back as his optics flickered.
This was what he’d been looking for. This was what he’d truly craved. The sweet surrender into another’s control. The freedom from responsibility, from dignity, from self-control. To be reduced to little more than stimulus and response. Interrogation was only a faint shadow of this dark bliss; the difference between them that of sparring and real combat.
Vortex pressed his face against Shambleau’s surprisingly soft, warm armor and allowed himself to sink into the Now.
Shambleau (Part 2)
