Fanfic -- Shambleau (Part 2)
Aug. 22nd, 2007 06:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinShambleau, Part 1
“Vortex!” Blast Off’s voice rang in his head. Unlike the rest of the Combaticons, Blast Off rarely raised his voice. When he did, it was a sign that he was ready to bring the Wrath of Blast Off down upon who had dared provoke him.
“What?” Vortex snapped back, casting a careful optic above him, just in case Blast Off decided to make the wrath literal this time. Shambleau took a step back, letting Vortex stand on his own. He staggered as he raised his head, finding himself drained and groggy.
“Where are you?” Blast Off demanded. “You missed your last radio check. I’ve been trying to raise you for nearly four breem now. If you’ve gotten yourself arrested, you can sit there until Onslaught gets back!”
“I’m not in jail,” Vortex said, feeling his head swim. He checked his chronometer -- had he really been out that long? “I’m -- I’m with somebody.”
“I don’t care. Get back to the checkpoint,” Blast Off said. “Onslaught wants us both here when he calls in.”
“Aw c’mon!” Vortex said, leaning against the wall for support as Shambleau crossed his arms over his chest and stood back, optics dimmed and disappointed. “Lie for me! You did it yesterday!”
“Yesterday, you’d only gone down to the casino and you didn’t miss a radio check,” Blast Off said. “And more importantly, yesterday you hadn’t interrupted my enjoyment of a drum of the finest hydrazine and the company of a lovely, intelligent female with a god-like skill in Jetan -- you should see her, she managed to capture my Princess with her Panthan in less than ten moves!”
“I’m thrilled for you, Blast Off,” Vortex said, his optics sparkling in annoyance. “Come on, you know where I am now! I’ll check in again, I swear! Just lie for me!”
“No,” Blast Off said. “Be back to the hotel in two breem. Don’t make me come hunting you, Vortex.” With that, Blast Off shut down the radio connection.
Vortex sighed, looking over at Shambleau with his optics burning in shame and embarrassment. “I have to go,” he said, hating the sulky tone in his voice. “My brother wants me to come home. Part of our mission.”
“You will be back?” Shambleau asked, stepping up behind Vortex. He reached out with both hands, each one grasping a rotor and running teasingly along them. Vortex shuddered, pleasure warring with a sense of unease. “Please, return to me?” Shambleau’s voice was soft and pleading, like a freshly-broken prisoner begging to be allowed to talk. “When you are done, we can finish what we started?”
Vortex grunted, moaning as Shambleau continued to tease his rotors. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. “Wait for me.”
“Of course, my love,” Shambleau said.
# # #
The ‘checkpoint’ was a hotel on Casino Row that catered to the mechanical trade. Onslaught had gotten them a suite of rooms big enough to allow them all the chance to spread out. It was easily double the size of their quarters back aboard the undersea base and much more luxurious than the desert base they’d built for themselves.
All of which currently meant it was a very pretty place in which Vortex could be bored out of his mind. He drummed his fingers on the edge of a hotel table as he stared at the portable radio Onslaught was insisting on using for on-planet communications as an opportunity to practice communications in adverse conditions. Which just went to show that if anybody needed to be spending some time in the nearest brothel, it was big brother Onslaught.
“Come on!” Vortex yelled at the radio. “Call already!”
Blast Off looked over from where he reclined on a couch, feeding energon in slow sips into his fuel tank. “You miss Onslaught’s melodious tones that much?” he asked. “Or are you pining for Swindle?”
“Shut up,” Vortex said, crossing his arms as he leaned back, trying not to look sulky. “It’s all your fault anyway. I was having fun until you interrupted me.”
“Oh really?” Blast Off said, sounding amused. “What was her name?”
“His name is none of your business,” Vortex said.
“So, you don’t know it, is that what you’re saying?” Blast Off’s optics flickered in what served him as a smirk as he picked up another cube. “Why brother dear, I never would have thought you for the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. I would think surely you’d want to at least know their name so you can write poetry to them.” Blast Off chuckled at his own humor.
Vortex growled, kicking his chair back as he stood up and started pacing the room. “Shut up, Blast Off,” he said. “S’not funny.”
Blast Off paused, his optic band dimming as he watched Vortex move back and forth like a caged animal. “Why Vortex, I do believe you are smitten!” he said, chuckling softly.
“No!” Vortex said it too quickly. “It’s nothing, Blast Off. Don’t worry about it.”
“Really, Vortex,” Blast Off said. “You say it like that, you can‘t expect me to just ignore you.” He paused, watching Vortex’s rotors spin nervously. “Oh dear, you’ve got it bad, don’t you? And for some spaceport doxy no less.”
“Shut up!” Vortex said, fidgeting. “I’m telling you, it’s no big deal! I just -- it’s been so long.”
Blast Off sighed, shaking his head. “You’d best end it now, Vortex,” he said. “I doubt you’ll be able to persuade Onslaught -- let alone Megatron -- to allow you to bring your paramour home with us.”
Vortex’s optics flashed as he started to protest. Blast Off held up a hand, interrupting him. “We’re not built for love, Vortex,” he said. “Don‘t fool yourself: we’re not the tender kind. We’re a collection of opportunists bound by common cause at best and by the fact no one else in their right mind would trust us at worst.”
“It’s not love!” Vortex said. “Lust, maybe. But Primus, Blast Off after all that time in The Box can you blame me? This mech makes me feel things I never thought I’d feel again but he’s not anyone I want forever. He’s just somebody I want right now!”
Blast Off watched as Vortex paced in ever-tightening circles. “Go,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Don’t grunt, it makes you sound like Brawl. I said go. I’ll make your excuses to Onslaught -- as far as he‘s concerned, you‘ll be recharging when he calls. Just make sure you make your next radio check in forty breem or I’ll tell Swindle and Brawl all about your precious mech.”
“What’s to tell?” Vortex asked, confused. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“Stumpy’s not the only liar in the family, Vortex,” Blast Off said. “Now go or I’ll change my mind.”
Vortex’s optics brightened. With a hasty “Thanks, Blasty!” he ran for the door, armor squealing as he tried to squeeze through it before it had even slid halfway open
“’Blasty?’ And after everything I‘ve done for him,” Blast Off murmured, sitting back with a long-suffering sigh. “Choppers.”
# # #
Vortex stepped back into the casino. “Shambleau?” he said, feeling his hands starting to shake with excitement.
“I am here, beloved,” Shambleau said, moving out of the shadows, optics bright and happy. “You are here.”
“Yeah,” Vortex said, walking toward Shambleau, his own optics brightening as he got closer. “You ready? ‘Cause I am.”
“I am ready,” Shambleau said, taking Vortex’s arm and leading him back into the restaurant, back to the corner where they’d begun. “I hunger for you.”
“Me too,” Vortex said, leaning up against the wall and reaching out for Shambleau. “Didn’t even fix the gashes you gave me.” He giggled. “Slag, I opened a couple of ‘em up even more on the way over here.”
Shambleau leaned against Vortex, pressing him hard against the wall. “Thank you, beloved,” he said. “You will be delicious.”
Vortex had enough time for a Brawl-like “Whuh?” before he found himself slammed even harder into the restaurant wall. At first, he thought nothing of it -- it was part of the game, right? He watched in horror as Shambleau transformed. Or at least that was what his mind called it. A series of circular hatches opened on Shambleau’s shoulders, releasing what looked like hoses. Vortex was reminded of the time he saw Octane drain an Autobot prisoner, except that the ends of the hoses were blunt. As Shambleau pressed him back against the wall, the first hoses touched him. Vortex whimpered as they sought out his wounds, as they extending themselves into him, invading his systems.
“Beloved,” Shambleau moaned, his body shuddering against Vortex as more ports opened all across Shambleau‘s body, releasing more tendrils that wrapped themselves around Vortex; covering his arms, legs, and rotors with their sticky-slick organic wetness. “Delicious, sweet beloved. So raw. So raw. Feel for me.”
Vortex screamed again as he felt Shambleau begin to take control of him from the inside. The tendrils pulsed, stimulating Vortex’s sensors. He moaned, hating himself for feeling pleasure at this creature’s command and hating himself even worse for wanting more.
He struggled, futile though it was. He cried as his body was slowly stolen from him, his sobs turning to ecstatic shrieks as his pleasure and pain sensors were set to full sensitivity, making every slip and slide of Shambleau’s tendrils into exquisite agony. He giggled and screamed, alternating between begging Shambleau to stop and begging him for more.
# # #
Blast Off paced the hotel room, unsure who he was more furious with -- Vortex or himself. Himself, he decided. After all, he was the responsible one. Blaming Vortex for being flighty and careless was like blaming water for being wet.
“Slag,” he said, kicking a chair out of his way. “Foolish, useless sentimentality. Letting him run off when a call to the concierge would have been all it took to find a suitable escort for him. A whore is a whore.” He fumed, kicking the chair again, this time not stopping until it was a twisted wreck of scrap metal. “Slag!”
It was all because of prison. Suddenly being able to feel again after over seventy thousand vorn of insensate nothingness had made them all more than a little crazy. How else to explain trying to destroy an entire planet just to try to kill Megatron? How else to explain Swindle selling them all for scrap? How else to explain trusting Starscream?
Being able to feel again was like a powerful drug. Even now, less than five Earth years after their release they still felt the ache, the need to feel things. Merging was, by far, the best of all possible worlds. Not only was every sensation magnified, but in addition they were all together.
But there were other sensations that were a close second and all the more enjoyable for being singular experiences. Blast Off knew he’d treasure his Jetan-playing female more for the moves she’d shown him away from the game board and most especially because she’d been his and his alone.
Blast Off shook himself out of his reverie. Vortex was missing. That was the important thing. He had managed to lose a brother -- his fellow flyer, no less -- and now he was going to have to do the hardest thing ever.
He was going to have to admit he made a mistake.
# # #
Vortex never thought he’d see the day when he wished for the sweet release of the Box. His sensors were wide open as Shambleau’s tendrils engulfed him. His optics saw nothing but a constantly sliding mass of red as they moved over him. His vocalizer was buzzing as his speakers began to short out and fail from the effort of screaming. He was dying, he could feel his energy reserves being drained bit by bit as Shambleau fed. He could feel everything -- every circuit dying, every fuse blowing -- and for the first time since his release from prison, he hated it.
# # #
The Sheol black market was so large, Onslaught couldn’t see across it from where he stood near the center. Literally everything that he could think of -- or so it seemed -- was being sold by someone.
They’d completed their mission within half a day of their arrival in Sheol. The components Megatron had requested were safely stowed away within one of Onslaught’s internal hatches, well away from all but the most determined pickpockets.
The rest of their time in Sheol had been spent shopping for “personal items” -- weapons and ammunition mostly, but also other gear that the Decepticons couldn’t or wouldn’t provide them. Six million years had led to some interesting advances in military hardware that Onslaught couldn’t wait to put through its paces. If all went well, Defensor would be in for a few nasty surprises the next time they met.
Swindle had been in his element, happily wheeling and dealing -- sometimes with multiple dealers simultaneously. With Brawl to keep a tight leash on Swindle’s more kleptomaniacal impulses, Onslaught felt free to relax a bit and enjoy a sense of satisfaction at a mission successfully completed. He even went so far as to hope that this would help them curry some much needed favor with Megatron and lead to an upswing in their status within the Empire. Finally, it looked as though things were looking up again for the Combaticons.
And then came Blast Off’s radio call and those fateful words: “Vortex is missing.”
“What do you mean, ‘he’s missing‘?” Onslaught asked, feeling hope die only to be replaced by a growing rage at being thwarted.
“What do you think I mean?” Blast Off snapped. “Vortex is missing. I do not know where he is. I allowed him to go off with some chippie he found and he hasn’t checked in and I can’t raise him.”
“Did you ping him?” Onslaught was surprised to hear his voice was still calm.
“Onslaught, ask me another stupid question and I will snap my bounds of calm, fly to the Dark Side and cannon you into a greasy smear on the pavement!” Blast Off said, voice crackling over Onslaught‘s receivers. “Yes, I’ve pinged him. Repeatedly. I tried raising him on every radio frequency we use, even the one he and Swindle think I don‘t know about. I even pinged his gestalt components, thinking maybe I could get that part of him that is Bruticus to pay attention to me. Neither one of them is responding. Granted, Bruticus is probably still sleeping, but there‘s no reason for Vortex to not be checking in.”
Onslaught thought for a moment. “Blast Off,” he asked, carefully. “How long has he been gone?”
Blast Off sighed. “One hundred and thirty breem, Onslaught.”
“I see.” Onslaught looked over to where Swindle stood guarding their purchases and Brawl stood guarding Swindle. “Our last radio check was only eighty-seven breem ago, Blast Off. You said he was with you. Recharging, you said.”
Blast Off was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was over the secure channel they used between themselves when they didn’t want the ‘children’ listening in. “Onslaught, he was hurting, aching for this mech. After everything we’ve been through, I couldn’t deny him a few moments of pleasure. There‘s no excuse for what I did, but you can punish me for that once we have him back.”
What was most disturbing was that Blast Off was apologetic. Ordinarily, Blast Off could out-arrogant a Seeker. For him to admit fault -- to the point of accepting punishment, no less -- meant the situation was more serious than Onslaught wanted to think about.
“We’ll discuss that later,” Onslaught said. “Right now, I want you to keep trying to raise Vortex. We’re on our way back. Keep me appraised of your progress.”
# # #
Vortex rarely dreamed. As far as he knew, none of his fellow Combaticons dreamed with any real frequency. Or if they did, they didn’t talk about it.
Occasionally, he or one of the others would have what they called ‘box dreams’ -- dreams about their imprisonment, dreams of being an isolated, insignificant awareness within an unsympathetic, unknowing void. The aftermath of these dreams usually involved frantic, whispered radio checks wherein the dreamer would verify not only his own existence but that of his brothers as well.
Tonight, Vortex dreamed. He was back on Cybertron, but the island where Starscream had recreated them was there as well. He’d been ordered to go to the center of the island, to destroy it and remove the organic taint from Cybertron. He moved slowly through the jungle, tree branches and vines slapping at him, leaving wet, warm trails of organic ooze along his armor. Disgusted, but unable to reach up to clean himself, he continued on as the leaves and vines became thicker. He slashed at them with his elbow rotors, but it was no use. As soon as some of the organic garbage was cleared, more moved in to take its place. He moaned, struggling against it, unable to fight, unsure of where to go as the organics overtook him.
Vortex dreamed and as he dreamed, the Shambleau fed.
# # #
“You lost ‘Tex?” Swindle said, staring at Blast Off in disbelief. “You lost Vortex?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Swindle,” Blast Off snarled. “You sold him.”
“Yeah? Well at least I knew where he was!” As Swindle started forward, his scatter-blaster whined to life, ready to attack. Brawl stepped in front of Blast Off as Onslaught reached out to grab Swindle’s shoulders, dragging him back against him.
“Now is not the time,” Onslaught said, reaching out with one hand to pull Swindle‘s scatter-blaster free from its shoulder mount. “We need to focus on finding Vortex, not squabbling about blame.”
“Yeah, right,” Swindle said, twisting furiously against Onslaught’s grip. “If it was me who’d done it, you wouldn’t be saying that! It’d be stomping time again!”
“Swindle, not now!” Onslaught said, pushing down on Swindle with his full weight to better hold him in place. “Focus!”
“Ons, there’s a dozen legitimate robo-slave markets on the Light Side alone!” Swindle whined. “And double that many black markets on Dark Side! Vortex could be off-planet by now an’ we’ll never find him!”
“Presume he is still on Monacus,” Onslaught said, voice stern but level, commanding. “Mechanoids are rare enough here, someone would have noticed him. Someone might even have recognized him as a Decepticon. Who would be interested in that kind of information?”
“I don’t know!” Swindle yelled.
“You do,” Onslaught said, in tones that brooked no argument. “We’ve been here nearly two days and you’ve been gossiping and glad-handing since we arrived. Where do we start, Swindle?” Onslaught paused. “Or are you going to let someone steal from us? From you?”
“No.” Swindle’s optics dimmed as he concentrated. “Defcon would be my first choice, but he ain‘t here. Word is he‘s off-planet going after the Starwolves of Varna.” Swindle fidgeted in Onslaught’s grasp, grumbling to himself. “Lord Gycone isn’t stupid enough to try and double-cross Megatron, not after what happened last time and especially not with us still here.” Swindle stopped dead, then grunted. “Transorgasmic.”
“Excuse me?” Onslaught said.
“Transorgasmic. It’s a club off Casino Row. They specialize in mechanical entertainment for organic audiences. Me an’ Brawl looked in there the first night we were here, before we headed to the Dark Side,” Swindle said. “It’s a total dive. An old mech named Luscious who dolls himself up like a femme runs the place. ”
“Why?” Onslaught asked.
Swindle shrugged. “Makes money,” he said as if that explained all. Which for Swindle, it probably did. “Doesn’t matter; if anybody knows something about a Decepticon being snatched, it’ll be Luscious.” Swindle paused. “An’ if not, then I’m gonna start torching places until I find him.”
Onslaught nodded his approval, glancing to Brawl and Blast Off and seeing similar expressions of agreement in the way their optics flashed and flickered. He reached over, remounted Swindle’s scatter-blaster and released Swindle’s shoulders. “Go,” he said. “We’ll secure Megatron’s package. Radio us when you have word.”
Swindle didn’t answer, just transformed and took off with tires squealing.
# # #
Transorgasmic was easily the most ridiculous thing Swindle had ever seen in all his seventy-two thousand vorn of existence. All right, so technically, for 71,875 of those vorn he’d been in prison but that didn’t make Transorgasmic look any less stupid.
The club was located off Casino Row, close enough that it still got plenty of foot traffic from interested tourists, but far enough back that it began to butt against the edges of the rougher areas of the city -- which helped give it the feeling of being dangerous as well as naughty.
The idea behind Transorgasmic, as he’d told Onslaught, was mechanical entertainment for organic audiences. Unlike some of the casinos which had non-sentient robot performers, usually musicians, Transorgasmic bragged about having sentient robots performing.
It was all a load of cold slag, as far as Swindle was concerned. He and Brawl had known from the second they’d walked in that the dancers were drones -- better designed and with more complicated AI programs than the ones the casinos tended to have, but drones none the less.
The other draw for the club was that the performers were supposed to be examples of ‘feminine robotic sexuality.’ That particular sales-pitch had nearly had Swindle and Brawl on the ground in hysterics since the performing drones were in actuality idealized versions of various organic female body types. Long flowing hair and pendulous breasts, both synthetic, seemed to be extremely popular with the crowd tonight -- most of whom probably hadn’t seen a real sentient femme in their lives. Or at least wouldn’t have recognized one if they had.
Swindle stepped into the club, turning his audials down to avoid being overloaded by the din of the club’s idea of robotic music. The décor tended toward shiny metallic and bright flashing lights and entirely failed to make Swindle feel anything other than a grudging admiration for the mind behind such a blatant money-making enterprise.
On stage, a pair of Cybertronian-sized ‘femmes’ were gyrating on stage. One was the pastel pink of freshly spilled energon that mammalian organics seemed to find so appealing, while the other was the pale green of corroded copper. Swindle repressed a shudder as he moved toward the back of the bar.
Luscious sat in the back of the club, half reclining on an over-sized couch that allowed him to see and be seen by the entire club. Two silver drones done up as a cross between some organic species’ over-stuffed feminine ideal and one of the more reptilian primitive designs crouched before the couch. Both had collars around their necks and leashes that ran back to dangle loosely in Luscious’s hand. The drones’ blank, vapid stares followed Swindle’s every move.
Luscious himself looked like a slightly larger version of one of his dancers, with more organic kibble tacked on for effect. What effect, Swindle wasn’t sure but the over-all theme seemed to be “less is more, but more is better.” Luscious’s fiber-optic hair was long enough to surround him like a cape if it had been let free from the braided topknot that contained it. His synthetic breasts would have provided enough silicone gel to make the undersea base water-tight. Luscious was a bright, almost neon-blue with a wide optic band that swirled and cycled through colors as he talked. Right now, his optics were the same spilt-energon pink as the dancer on stage.
“Oooh! Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” Luscious squealed, his voice an audial-raking falsetto. “Military hardware, am I right? Of course I am! You’ve got that whole ‘don’t mess with me!’ thing going for you. How sweet! What brings you here, honey? You looking for a pretty girl?”
Before Swindle could answer, Luscious snapped his fingers and yelled, “Minga!” A green and ivory colored serving drone turned toward them, gazing at them with blank green optics.
“Qu’a lo’val? How may I serve?” Minga said, inclining her bronze helm. Her voice was soft and lilting. Despite himself, Swindle stared at her. She was eerily close to what he remembered of Autobot femmes -- except that she wasn’t shooting at him. And no femme -- Autobot or Decepticon -- ever had an expression that vapid.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested,” Swindle said.
Luscious waved Minga away as he inclined his head to one side, bright red lips pouting as his optics cycled from pink to red with a faint click. “I’ve got some mechs in the back -- big strapping ones or little femmy ones cuter than Minga if that‘s what you‘re looking for. Usually only bring them out on Sixthday, but whatever primes your charge, honey.” Luscious grinned. “So long as you have the energon chips, of course.”
Swindle revved his engine in annoyance, scowling. “I like my partners a little more alive, if y’know what I mean,” he said, keeping his voice low. Blowing Luscious’s secret now wouldn’t ingratiate him to the club owner.
Luscious laughed. “Oh you are too much! So why are you here then?”
Swindle shifted so that he could keep an optic aimed behind him. “Looking for my brother,” he said, sending a burst transmission to Blast Off, detailing his route to Transorgasmic as well as the interior layout of the club. “He’s my height, but has a rotary-wing alt mode. Atmospheric craft, obviously; grey an’ black with red optics. He’s missing an’ me and my team figured you might be the one to have some kind of information about him, what with your connections to the robo-slave markets an’ all.”
Luscious giggled, making Swindle’s audials ache. “Oh, honey! I don’t deal in armaments. Your kind makes lousy slaves; you always did.”
“So who would’ve taken him?” Swindle asked, fidgeting in place. “C’mon, Luscious, help me out here.”
“Oh, baby.” Luscious smiled, his optics shifting from red to purple. “You know how the game goes! You have to give queen bee some sugar before she makes honey.”
Swindle scowled. He should have been expecting this. Damn Vortex for throwing him off his game and leaving him stuck in a buyer’s market. “We aren’t the only Decepticons who haven’t had some R and R in a while,” he ventured, desperately. “We could put in the word for you back home, help increase your business?”
Luscious considered the offer for longer than Swindle would have, then shook his head as he reached over to stroke the head of the reptilifemme nearest him. He lowered his voice to a more comfortable level. “Nice try, sweetie, but really? You and I both know that real hardware won’t come near this place except to laugh. It’s for the organics who like to dream about their very own robotic sex slave, not your kind.”
“How about I let this place stay standing then?” Swindle countered, taking a step forward, his scatter-blaster whining to life. The reptilifemmes rose up, mouths opening wide to display row after row of shark-like, metal-rending teeth.
“Easy, girls, easy,” Luscious said, looking more amused than threatened. “Honey, I let these leashes go and you are scrap metal. Lucky for you, you amuse me. And luckier for your brother, I’m willing to trade you what I know for one, puny, insignificant little favor.”
“What?” Swindle asked, knowing to his core that ‘puny, insignificant little favors’ were always the ones that came back to bite you hardest in the aft.
“I want scans of you and your teammates’ designs,” Luscious said, his smile even more predatory than those of his drone guards as Swindle stared at him. “All five of you. Word is, you boys can perform some pretty slick tricks. I have some friends who would like to replicate that for the galactic market. Deal?”
Swindle hesitated. Selling the secrets of gestalt technology had occurred to him more than once since they’d arrived on Monacus. He’d even gone so far as to suggest the idea to Onslaught -- carefully since his brothers were still a bit touchy about the whole ‘you sold us!’ thing. It wasn’t like it was a military secret, not since the Autobots had Superion and that glitch-ridden, runt-pulse Defensor.
“I gotta check with my C.O.,” Swindle said, trying to buy time and fighting the urge to say ‘no’ and keep the potential profits for himself.
Luscious smirked, optics shifting from purple to bright blue with a soft click. “Go right ahead, little one,” he said. “I’m sure your brother has all the time in the world to wait.”
Swindle grunted, turning to one side as he radioed Onslaught. The authorization took seconds. “Deal,” he said, turning back toward Luscious. “You can scan me first, as a deposit an’ you’ll get the rest when we get Vortex back.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” Luscious purred. “Come in the back an’ smile for the camera, sweetie. Then I have some people for you to meet.”
# # #
Shambleau felt his prey begin to slump as the vessel’s essence began to play out. With a mewl of hunger, he stroked and lashed the vessel’s form, trying to force more essence from it.
Tendrils pushed over the cool metal form, discovering the strange hatches on the vessel’s head and shoulders. Pushing them open, it found large, crude connectors, heavier circuitry and, more importantly, the slow, throbbing of a new, untouched consciousness. Joyously, Shambleau began to feed anew.
# # #
“Swindle, meet the infamous Northwest Smith and his partner, Yarol the Venusian,” Luscious said, gesturing at the two organics seated at table in one of Transorgasmic’s private lounges. Swindle dropped to one knee to get a better look at them.
Northwest was a human male, a rarity for this part of the galaxy. He was well into the prime of adulthood, at least as far as Swindle understood such things. He dressed in the sort of battered leathers favored by those species who didn’t have built-in armor. He leaned back in his chair, looking appraisingly back at Swindle with optics -- no, eyes -- that were a pale grey that was almost colorless. He kept one hand resting lazily on a heat-pistol strapped to his waist. Swindle was sure it wasn’t the human’s only weapon.
His companion, Yarol, was smaller - about the size of an adolescent human. He had the sort of rarefied beauty Swindle had seen in some human religious paintings of the fat little infant humans called cherubs. Unlike his dour friend, Yarol was all wide, innocent eyes and friendly, open smiles.
Guess I know who’s really dangerous here, huh? Swindle thought. “Luscious says you guys know where my brother is,” he said, looking at both of them but focusing his attention on Yarol. “Tell me.”
“No, no,” Yarol said, shaking his head sadly before smiling apologetically at Swindle. “We don’t know where he is, but we know what might have him.”
“If we knew where he was, it’d be dead by now,” Northwest said, curtly. “The Shambleau has your ‘brother,’ robot.”
Swindle looked over at Northwest, fingers itching to grab the human and squeeze him into goo. There would be time for that later, if necessary. Right now, getting Vortex back took precedence. He turned back to Yarol. “What’s a Shambleau?” he asked. “And what’s it want with Vortex?”
“No one knows for sure what Shambleau is,” Yarol said. “Or, rather, what they are since there’s more than one of them. They’re a race that’s older than time, some say. They feed on men -- well, beings of any gender, really -- stealing their life energy.”
“What it wanted with a damned robot, I’ll never know,” Northwest said. “But the damn fool deserves what he gets for not letting us kill it. Damn near killed me trying to protect it!” He shook his head. “What use was it to him? Or him to it? Yarol, if it can feed from unliving machines now, what’s next? We should be out checking the spaceport, not bothering with this creature.”
Swindle’s optics dimmed, almost to the point of shutdown, before he spoke. “Keep your monkey on a leash,” he said to Yarol. “I’m as alive as he is -- moreso if he doesn’t shut up.”
“Excuse my friend,” Yarol said, smoothly. “He’s encountered the Shambleau before. It was very traumatic for him.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Swindle said, flatly. “How do I find my brother? Where’s this thing like to drag its victims?”
“Shambleau seduces,” Yarol said, glancing at Northwest, his expression worried. “It preys on the desires of its victims, using them to work the prey up into a high emotional state. It must make the meal sweeter and makes the prey receptive and easier to control once they begin to feed.”
Beside Yarol, Northwest had begun to nod his agreement, sweat forming on his forehead. The human reached into a pocket and pulled out a flask, taking a quick drink. Swindle’s nasal receptors detected the sharp stinging smell of distilled alcohol. Northwest’s colorless eyes stared vacantly into space. “And it holds you as it feeds,” he said, his voice hollow and haunted. “It shows you things; terrible, disgusting, obscene things. And it shows you pleasure no man should ever feel. It kills you and if it doesn’t, it makes you crave the death you missed -- even after you escape.”
Yarol reached over, putting a protective hand on Northwest’s shoulder. “Your teammate went with the Shambleau. It was clear he didn’t know what he was getting himself into,” he said, roughly. “If you find him and he’s still alive, make sure you kill the Shambleau. If he’s dead, kill it anyway and burn the body. It’s the only way to be sure with those things.”
Swindle grunted, looking up at the ceiling. “No slag,” he said. “But I have to find him first!”
# # #
Bruticus dreamed. Broken apart, there was little else he could do. His body wandered around of its own accord with fragments of his larger mind keeping sleepy watch over them until he was called again to serve. The tiny minds of the ones who dwelled in five-space were little more than a hum to him; white noise that helped to lull him in his dreaming.
But now Left Arm was prodding him. Not as he sometimes did, for maintenance or for pleasure -- that could be ignored. This prodding was rude, insistent and was rousing Bruticus for no good cause.
Angered, Bruticus lashed out at Left Arm, sending a pulse to remind him of his place. Yet Left Arm ignored the warning, continuing to prod and dig at him. Bruticus sent a stronger pulse, sometimes Left Arm’s ideas about pain could be strange. Again, the rudeness continued.
Right Arm called to Bruticus, worried about Left Arm. Irritated, Bruticus snapped at him as well, galled by his body’s sudden insolence.
# # #
Blast Off rocked backwards, grabbing his head in pain. “Onslaught, I’ve found him!” he yelled, too excited to bother with his usual affectation of detachment. “His gestalt component just sent a distress call! He’s hurt, badly, but he’s alive!”
“Coordinates?” Onslaught barked as Brawl whooped and punched at the air in delight.
“Triangulating now,” Blast Off said. “I have him -- he’s on the far side of Casino Row. Swindle’s closest to him, but we’re less than ten klicks away by ground. If we go by air, I can get us there in less than a breem.”
“No,” Onslaught said. “We can’t risk you burning that much fuel. As it is, we’re going to have a hard enough time explaining to Megatron why we’ve been delayed. Send Swindle the coordinates, tell him we’re on our way and he’s to do whatever it takes to secure the area until we can arrive. We leave as soon as you have your medi-kit ready, Blast Off.”
# # #
Swindle’s optics brightened as Blast Off’s radio call came in. “We found him,” he said, grinning wildly. “Hot damn, we found him!”
“How?” Luscious asked.
Swindle giggled. “A close, personal friend of ours gave us the word,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
“Hey, hey, we have a deal, sugar,” Luscious said. “Don’t think you can get out of it!”
“Yeah, sure whatever!” Swindle yelled, running from the club. “I gotta go!”
# # #
The abandoned casino was too quiet when Swindle arrived. Transforming from jeep mode, he moved as quietly as he could toward the entrance and glanced in, scanning for life signs. Spotting nothing in the main room, he stepped in, turning his thermal imaging sensors up to full sensitivity as he began to sweep the area.
The main room turned up nothing, so he began to check side rooms. He kept his audials turned up, listening for any noise that might give away Vortex’s position as he searched.
He was near the casino’s restaurant when he heard the moan. It was a soft sound, cracked and broken, but unmistakably the sound of Vortex in pain. He moved toward it, turning his headlights on to full brightness in hopes of blinding Vortex’s attacker.
At first, he thought the room was empty since all he could see was debris: broken tables, rotting chunks of wood and hunks of rusting metal and what looked like a discarded pile of rubber hosing.
Then the hosing moved and he heard the moan again.
“Slag me,” he said, moving closer. He stared at the Shambleau, his optics flickering in disgust as he watched the ropy quasi-organic tendrils writhe and roll over Vortex’s form.
“Let him go,” he said, aiming his gyro-gun as a mech’s face appeared, rising to the surface of the boiling mass.
“Come join us,” the mech said, his voice oozing seduction. Swindle blinked, startled to find one foot moving forward before he caught himself.
“Not interested,” he said, shaking his head. “Gimme Vortex. He’s mine.” He yelled to Vortex. “’Tex! This thing’s killing you! Fight it!”
There was no reply from Vortex. The face in the tentacles wavered uncertainly and altered its appearance. When it spoke again, it was with the voice of a femme. “Please?” she begged. “Come join us. I have pleasure enough for both of you.”
Swindle sighed, impatiently. “Not interested,” he said. “’TEX! Fight it already! C’mon!”
The tentacles wrapped possessively around Vortex, twisting around him in confusion as if torn between the two different minds. “You feel like this one but you do not feel desire? All beings feel desire. What is it you? Ahh, yes!”
Tentatively, hints of gold and jewels began to appear within the mass. The part of Swindle attracted to shiny things began calculating the items’ worth, only to be slapped down seconds later by the more pragmatic bits that knew no bank would pay interest on illusions.
“Okay, that’s just insulting,” Swindle said, taking aim at the Shambleau. “I don’t love money, I just tell it that so it comes home with me. Let. Him. Go.”
With an enraged shriek, Shambleau launched himself toward Swindle, reaching out with tentacles to take what he would not give. At first, Swindle felt nothing except a deep revulsion at being stroked and fondled as the tentacles searched for any available entrance to his inner workings. When a tendril wormed its way into one of his wheel wells, brushing against a transformation joint he grunted, startled by the sudden feeling of possessiveness, a deep burning need not so much to have Shambleau as to be had by it. He shook it off with an effort, forcibly reminding himself he was here for Vortex, not some writhing alien glitch.
The movement caused the main mass of tendrils to shift away from Vortex, partially freeing him. Swindle fired his gyro-gun, hearing Shambleau scream as he lost control of himself. He fired again, kicking out at Vortex to try and push him free before switching to his scatter-blaster and firing two quick bursts at what remained of Shambleau’s mechanical body. Technorganic ooze flew as Shambleau’s tendrils and torso shredded. Swindle fired the scatter-blaster again, shuddering as a rogue tendril again slithered under his armor, trying to seduce to the very end. Snarling, he kept firing, blasting away with his scatter-blaster, reducing Shambleau into smaller and smaller pieces until his firing mechanism clicked uselessly.
He moved over to where Vortex lay slumped brokenly on his side, pulling out an emergency energon flask and popping Vortex’s fuel tank open. “No way, ‘Tex,” he said, voice fracturing as he dropped to his knees next to his brother. “C’mon, wake up. You gotta wake up.” He whimpered, hand shaking and slopping energon over Vortex’s torso as he tried to pour it into his fuel tank. “C’mon, you die here an’ there’s no way Ons isn’t going to believe it’s not my fault.”
# # #
Vortex stirred, feeling energy pour back into him. “Go ‘way!” he said, swatting limply at Swindle.
“Shut up an’ refuel, afthead,” Swindle said, opening a second emergency refuel flask and pouring it into Vortex’s fuel tank. Vortex had no choice but to let him, feeling warmth spread through his body. He lay still, groaning as feeling slowly returned to him, followed closely on its heels by memory.
“Primus!” he said, sitting up, or at least trying to. Weakness held him down, making him angry at feeling helpless. Swindle reached over, pulling him up and taking a long swig from the energon flask himself. He snickered at Vortex, optics shining with relief.
“Oh, Texy, Texy, Texy!” he said, giggling. “You owe me! I am never gonna let you forget this one! The next time you want to give me slag for selling you, I am gonna remind you of this an’ --”
“What the slag are you talking about?” Vortex croaked. “Where’s Shambleau?”
“Around,” Swindle said, still giggling. “All around. Shambleau go splat!”
“You killed him?” Vortex demanded. “Are you crazy?! What the slag did you do that for?”
Swindle stopped laughing. “’Cause he was killing you, stupid!” he yelled back. “If I hadn’t gotten here when I did, you’d be dead!”
“I would not!” Vortex snorted exhaust fumes, wincing at the effort it took to move even that small amount.
“Would so!” Swindle said. “You ran off with a tricursed energy vampire! What d‘you think it was doing? Cuddling!?”
“I can’t believe you killed him!” Vortex said, sighing exasperatedly. “We were really hitting it off! Just because you can’t feel desire for anything you can’t spend doesn‘t mean the rest of us don’t, Swindle!”
“I can to!” Swindle yelped. “Maybe I’m just not led around by my pleasure centers like you are!”
Vortex groaned, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. “You’re a real null-signal, you know that, Swindle?”
“That thing was sucking you down like Brawl with a barrel of high-grade!” Swindle stood up, pacing back and forth in front of Vortex. “It even tried to get me, too! Do you have any idea how disgusting that felt?” He paused, looking guiltily around. “I mean…it kinda felt good too, but…”
“I know,” Vortex said, voice hollow. The effects of the energon he’d been fed were beginning to wear off, leaving him feeling weak and tired again. “ I know it better than you do, Swindle. It was awful -- so horrible there aren’t words to describe it. I was part of it, for a while. I could feel it all; the hunger, the memories, the emotions. ‘Course, I can’t remember it all now, not clearly, but sweet Primus it was all so disgusting!”
Vortex shuddered and sighed, longingly. “And it felt so damned good! It was like it was tapping into this … this nexus of evil down deep inside me. One that I didn’t even know I had! And it was trying to take control of it, to let it loose. Part of me got to see that -- got to see such horrible, terrible, wild things and such unbelievable places. Primus, I wish I could remember it!”
He turned, glaring at Swindle. “But, because somebody had to go and play Protectobot, I can’t! Thanks, Stumpy! Thanks a slag load!”
Swindle stared at Vortex for a long moment, the only sound that of Onslaught and the others approaching in the distance. With surprising quickness, Swindle cracked Vortex a resounding thump up against the side of the head.
“Ow! What was that for?” Vortex yelled.
“Look, do me a favor ‘Tex,” Swindle said, pulling Vortex in so that they were face to face. “Next time you see one of those Shambleau things? Promise me you’ll spread your arms wide an’ yell, ‘Feeding Time!’ Okay?”
Vortex stared at Swindle for a moment, weighing the memories that were already starting to melt away like a prisoner’s armor under a blowtorch. He felt himself begin to shake as his systems rebelled against staying online in his weakened state. His optics met Swindle’s and he nodded.
“I’ll -- I’ll try, Swindle,” he said, hoarsely as Onslaught and Blast Off barreled into the room, shouting orders and nearly drowning out his words. He nodded, gripping Swindle’s shoulder tightly, a mix of sincerity and one-upmanship. “I’ll try.”
“Vortex!” Blast Off’s voice rang in his head. Unlike the rest of the Combaticons, Blast Off rarely raised his voice. When he did, it was a sign that he was ready to bring the Wrath of Blast Off down upon who had dared provoke him.
“What?” Vortex snapped back, casting a careful optic above him, just in case Blast Off decided to make the wrath literal this time. Shambleau took a step back, letting Vortex stand on his own. He staggered as he raised his head, finding himself drained and groggy.
“Where are you?” Blast Off demanded. “You missed your last radio check. I’ve been trying to raise you for nearly four breem now. If you’ve gotten yourself arrested, you can sit there until Onslaught gets back!”
“I’m not in jail,” Vortex said, feeling his head swim. He checked his chronometer -- had he really been out that long? “I’m -- I’m with somebody.”
“I don’t care. Get back to the checkpoint,” Blast Off said. “Onslaught wants us both here when he calls in.”
“Aw c’mon!” Vortex said, leaning against the wall for support as Shambleau crossed his arms over his chest and stood back, optics dimmed and disappointed. “Lie for me! You did it yesterday!”
“Yesterday, you’d only gone down to the casino and you didn’t miss a radio check,” Blast Off said. “And more importantly, yesterday you hadn’t interrupted my enjoyment of a drum of the finest hydrazine and the company of a lovely, intelligent female with a god-like skill in Jetan -- you should see her, she managed to capture my Princess with her Panthan in less than ten moves!”
“I’m thrilled for you, Blast Off,” Vortex said, his optics sparkling in annoyance. “Come on, you know where I am now! I’ll check in again, I swear! Just lie for me!”
“No,” Blast Off said. “Be back to the hotel in two breem. Don’t make me come hunting you, Vortex.” With that, Blast Off shut down the radio connection.
Vortex sighed, looking over at Shambleau with his optics burning in shame and embarrassment. “I have to go,” he said, hating the sulky tone in his voice. “My brother wants me to come home. Part of our mission.”
“You will be back?” Shambleau asked, stepping up behind Vortex. He reached out with both hands, each one grasping a rotor and running teasingly along them. Vortex shuddered, pleasure warring with a sense of unease. “Please, return to me?” Shambleau’s voice was soft and pleading, like a freshly-broken prisoner begging to be allowed to talk. “When you are done, we can finish what we started?”
Vortex grunted, moaning as Shambleau continued to tease his rotors. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. “Wait for me.”
“Of course, my love,” Shambleau said.
The ‘checkpoint’ was a hotel on Casino Row that catered to the mechanical trade. Onslaught had gotten them a suite of rooms big enough to allow them all the chance to spread out. It was easily double the size of their quarters back aboard the undersea base and much more luxurious than the desert base they’d built for themselves.
All of which currently meant it was a very pretty place in which Vortex could be bored out of his mind. He drummed his fingers on the edge of a hotel table as he stared at the portable radio Onslaught was insisting on using for on-planet communications as an opportunity to practice communications in adverse conditions. Which just went to show that if anybody needed to be spending some time in the nearest brothel, it was big brother Onslaught.
“Come on!” Vortex yelled at the radio. “Call already!”
Blast Off looked over from where he reclined on a couch, feeding energon in slow sips into his fuel tank. “You miss Onslaught’s melodious tones that much?” he asked. “Or are you pining for Swindle?”
“Shut up,” Vortex said, crossing his arms as he leaned back, trying not to look sulky. “It’s all your fault anyway. I was having fun until you interrupted me.”
“Oh really?” Blast Off said, sounding amused. “What was her name?”
“His name is none of your business,” Vortex said.
“So, you don’t know it, is that what you’re saying?” Blast Off’s optics flickered in what served him as a smirk as he picked up another cube. “Why brother dear, I never would have thought you for the love ‘em and leave ‘em type. I would think surely you’d want to at least know their name so you can write poetry to them.” Blast Off chuckled at his own humor.
Vortex growled, kicking his chair back as he stood up and started pacing the room. “Shut up, Blast Off,” he said. “S’not funny.”
Blast Off paused, his optic band dimming as he watched Vortex move back and forth like a caged animal. “Why Vortex, I do believe you are smitten!” he said, chuckling softly.
“No!” Vortex said it too quickly. “It’s nothing, Blast Off. Don’t worry about it.”
“Really, Vortex,” Blast Off said. “You say it like that, you can‘t expect me to just ignore you.” He paused, watching Vortex’s rotors spin nervously. “Oh dear, you’ve got it bad, don’t you? And for some spaceport doxy no less.”
“Shut up!” Vortex said, fidgeting. “I’m telling you, it’s no big deal! I just -- it’s been so long.”
Blast Off sighed, shaking his head. “You’d best end it now, Vortex,” he said. “I doubt you’ll be able to persuade Onslaught -- let alone Megatron -- to allow you to bring your paramour home with us.”
Vortex’s optics flashed as he started to protest. Blast Off held up a hand, interrupting him. “We’re not built for love, Vortex,” he said. “Don‘t fool yourself: we’re not the tender kind. We’re a collection of opportunists bound by common cause at best and by the fact no one else in their right mind would trust us at worst.”
“It’s not love!” Vortex said. “Lust, maybe. But Primus, Blast Off after all that time in The Box can you blame me? This mech makes me feel things I never thought I’d feel again but he’s not anyone I want forever. He’s just somebody I want right now!”
Blast Off watched as Vortex paced in ever-tightening circles. “Go,” he said.
“Huh?”
“Don’t grunt, it makes you sound like Brawl. I said go. I’ll make your excuses to Onslaught -- as far as he‘s concerned, you‘ll be recharging when he calls. Just make sure you make your next radio check in forty breem or I’ll tell Swindle and Brawl all about your precious mech.”
“What’s to tell?” Vortex asked, confused. “You don’t know anything about him.”
“Stumpy’s not the only liar in the family, Vortex,” Blast Off said. “Now go or I’ll change my mind.”
Vortex’s optics brightened. With a hasty “Thanks, Blasty!” he ran for the door, armor squealing as he tried to squeeze through it before it had even slid halfway open
“’Blasty?’ And after everything I‘ve done for him,” Blast Off murmured, sitting back with a long-suffering sigh. “Choppers.”
Vortex stepped back into the casino. “Shambleau?” he said, feeling his hands starting to shake with excitement.
“I am here, beloved,” Shambleau said, moving out of the shadows, optics bright and happy. “You are here.”
“Yeah,” Vortex said, walking toward Shambleau, his own optics brightening as he got closer. “You ready? ‘Cause I am.”
“I am ready,” Shambleau said, taking Vortex’s arm and leading him back into the restaurant, back to the corner where they’d begun. “I hunger for you.”
“Me too,” Vortex said, leaning up against the wall and reaching out for Shambleau. “Didn’t even fix the gashes you gave me.” He giggled. “Slag, I opened a couple of ‘em up even more on the way over here.”
Shambleau leaned against Vortex, pressing him hard against the wall. “Thank you, beloved,” he said. “You will be delicious.”
Vortex had enough time for a Brawl-like “Whuh?” before he found himself slammed even harder into the restaurant wall. At first, he thought nothing of it -- it was part of the game, right? He watched in horror as Shambleau transformed. Or at least that was what his mind called it. A series of circular hatches opened on Shambleau’s shoulders, releasing what looked like hoses. Vortex was reminded of the time he saw Octane drain an Autobot prisoner, except that the ends of the hoses were blunt. As Shambleau pressed him back against the wall, the first hoses touched him. Vortex whimpered as they sought out his wounds, as they extending themselves into him, invading his systems.
“Beloved,” Shambleau moaned, his body shuddering against Vortex as more ports opened all across Shambleau‘s body, releasing more tendrils that wrapped themselves around Vortex; covering his arms, legs, and rotors with their sticky-slick organic wetness. “Delicious, sweet beloved. So raw. So raw. Feel for me.”
Vortex screamed again as he felt Shambleau begin to take control of him from the inside. The tendrils pulsed, stimulating Vortex’s sensors. He moaned, hating himself for feeling pleasure at this creature’s command and hating himself even worse for wanting more.
He struggled, futile though it was. He cried as his body was slowly stolen from him, his sobs turning to ecstatic shrieks as his pleasure and pain sensors were set to full sensitivity, making every slip and slide of Shambleau’s tendrils into exquisite agony. He giggled and screamed, alternating between begging Shambleau to stop and begging him for more.
Blast Off paced the hotel room, unsure who he was more furious with -- Vortex or himself. Himself, he decided. After all, he was the responsible one. Blaming Vortex for being flighty and careless was like blaming water for being wet.
“Slag,” he said, kicking a chair out of his way. “Foolish, useless sentimentality. Letting him run off when a call to the concierge would have been all it took to find a suitable escort for him. A whore is a whore.” He fumed, kicking the chair again, this time not stopping until it was a twisted wreck of scrap metal. “Slag!”
It was all because of prison. Suddenly being able to feel again after over seventy thousand vorn of insensate nothingness had made them all more than a little crazy. How else to explain trying to destroy an entire planet just to try to kill Megatron? How else to explain Swindle selling them all for scrap? How else to explain trusting Starscream?
Being able to feel again was like a powerful drug. Even now, less than five Earth years after their release they still felt the ache, the need to feel things. Merging was, by far, the best of all possible worlds. Not only was every sensation magnified, but in addition they were all together.
But there were other sensations that were a close second and all the more enjoyable for being singular experiences. Blast Off knew he’d treasure his Jetan-playing female more for the moves she’d shown him away from the game board and most especially because she’d been his and his alone.
Blast Off shook himself out of his reverie. Vortex was missing. That was the important thing. He had managed to lose a brother -- his fellow flyer, no less -- and now he was going to have to do the hardest thing ever.
He was going to have to admit he made a mistake.
Vortex never thought he’d see the day when he wished for the sweet release of the Box. His sensors were wide open as Shambleau’s tendrils engulfed him. His optics saw nothing but a constantly sliding mass of red as they moved over him. His vocalizer was buzzing as his speakers began to short out and fail from the effort of screaming. He was dying, he could feel his energy reserves being drained bit by bit as Shambleau fed. He could feel everything -- every circuit dying, every fuse blowing -- and for the first time since his release from prison, he hated it.
The Sheol black market was so large, Onslaught couldn’t see across it from where he stood near the center. Literally everything that he could think of -- or so it seemed -- was being sold by someone.
They’d completed their mission within half a day of their arrival in Sheol. The components Megatron had requested were safely stowed away within one of Onslaught’s internal hatches, well away from all but the most determined pickpockets.
The rest of their time in Sheol had been spent shopping for “personal items” -- weapons and ammunition mostly, but also other gear that the Decepticons couldn’t or wouldn’t provide them. Six million years had led to some interesting advances in military hardware that Onslaught couldn’t wait to put through its paces. If all went well, Defensor would be in for a few nasty surprises the next time they met.
Swindle had been in his element, happily wheeling and dealing -- sometimes with multiple dealers simultaneously. With Brawl to keep a tight leash on Swindle’s more kleptomaniacal impulses, Onslaught felt free to relax a bit and enjoy a sense of satisfaction at a mission successfully completed. He even went so far as to hope that this would help them curry some much needed favor with Megatron and lead to an upswing in their status within the Empire. Finally, it looked as though things were looking up again for the Combaticons.
And then came Blast Off’s radio call and those fateful words: “Vortex is missing.”
“What do you mean, ‘he’s missing‘?” Onslaught asked, feeling hope die only to be replaced by a growing rage at being thwarted.
“What do you think I mean?” Blast Off snapped. “Vortex is missing. I do not know where he is. I allowed him to go off with some chippie he found and he hasn’t checked in and I can’t raise him.”
“Did you ping him?” Onslaught was surprised to hear his voice was still calm.
“Onslaught, ask me another stupid question and I will snap my bounds of calm, fly to the Dark Side and cannon you into a greasy smear on the pavement!” Blast Off said, voice crackling over Onslaught‘s receivers. “Yes, I’ve pinged him. Repeatedly. I tried raising him on every radio frequency we use, even the one he and Swindle think I don‘t know about. I even pinged his gestalt components, thinking maybe I could get that part of him that is Bruticus to pay attention to me. Neither one of them is responding. Granted, Bruticus is probably still sleeping, but there‘s no reason for Vortex to not be checking in.”
Onslaught thought for a moment. “Blast Off,” he asked, carefully. “How long has he been gone?”
Blast Off sighed. “One hundred and thirty breem, Onslaught.”
“I see.” Onslaught looked over to where Swindle stood guarding their purchases and Brawl stood guarding Swindle. “Our last radio check was only eighty-seven breem ago, Blast Off. You said he was with you. Recharging, you said.”
Blast Off was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke again, it was over the secure channel they used between themselves when they didn’t want the ‘children’ listening in. “Onslaught, he was hurting, aching for this mech. After everything we’ve been through, I couldn’t deny him a few moments of pleasure. There‘s no excuse for what I did, but you can punish me for that once we have him back.”
What was most disturbing was that Blast Off was apologetic. Ordinarily, Blast Off could out-arrogant a Seeker. For him to admit fault -- to the point of accepting punishment, no less -- meant the situation was more serious than Onslaught wanted to think about.
“We’ll discuss that later,” Onslaught said. “Right now, I want you to keep trying to raise Vortex. We’re on our way back. Keep me appraised of your progress.”
Vortex rarely dreamed. As far as he knew, none of his fellow Combaticons dreamed with any real frequency. Or if they did, they didn’t talk about it.
Occasionally, he or one of the others would have what they called ‘box dreams’ -- dreams about their imprisonment, dreams of being an isolated, insignificant awareness within an unsympathetic, unknowing void. The aftermath of these dreams usually involved frantic, whispered radio checks wherein the dreamer would verify not only his own existence but that of his brothers as well.
Tonight, Vortex dreamed. He was back on Cybertron, but the island where Starscream had recreated them was there as well. He’d been ordered to go to the center of the island, to destroy it and remove the organic taint from Cybertron. He moved slowly through the jungle, tree branches and vines slapping at him, leaving wet, warm trails of organic ooze along his armor. Disgusted, but unable to reach up to clean himself, he continued on as the leaves and vines became thicker. He slashed at them with his elbow rotors, but it was no use. As soon as some of the organic garbage was cleared, more moved in to take its place. He moaned, struggling against it, unable to fight, unsure of where to go as the organics overtook him.
Vortex dreamed and as he dreamed, the Shambleau fed.
“You lost ‘Tex?” Swindle said, staring at Blast Off in disbelief. “You lost Vortex?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Swindle,” Blast Off snarled. “You sold him.”
“Yeah? Well at least I knew where he was!” As Swindle started forward, his scatter-blaster whined to life, ready to attack. Brawl stepped in front of Blast Off as Onslaught reached out to grab Swindle’s shoulders, dragging him back against him.
“Now is not the time,” Onslaught said, reaching out with one hand to pull Swindle‘s scatter-blaster free from its shoulder mount. “We need to focus on finding Vortex, not squabbling about blame.”
“Yeah, right,” Swindle said, twisting furiously against Onslaught’s grip. “If it was me who’d done it, you wouldn’t be saying that! It’d be stomping time again!”
“Swindle, not now!” Onslaught said, pushing down on Swindle with his full weight to better hold him in place. “Focus!”
“Ons, there’s a dozen legitimate robo-slave markets on the Light Side alone!” Swindle whined. “And double that many black markets on Dark Side! Vortex could be off-planet by now an’ we’ll never find him!”
“Presume he is still on Monacus,” Onslaught said, voice stern but level, commanding. “Mechanoids are rare enough here, someone would have noticed him. Someone might even have recognized him as a Decepticon. Who would be interested in that kind of information?”
“I don’t know!” Swindle yelled.
“You do,” Onslaught said, in tones that brooked no argument. “We’ve been here nearly two days and you’ve been gossiping and glad-handing since we arrived. Where do we start, Swindle?” Onslaught paused. “Or are you going to let someone steal from us? From you?”
“No.” Swindle’s optics dimmed as he concentrated. “Defcon would be my first choice, but he ain‘t here. Word is he‘s off-planet going after the Starwolves of Varna.” Swindle fidgeted in Onslaught’s grasp, grumbling to himself. “Lord Gycone isn’t stupid enough to try and double-cross Megatron, not after what happened last time and especially not with us still here.” Swindle stopped dead, then grunted. “Transorgasmic.”
“Excuse me?” Onslaught said.
“Transorgasmic. It’s a club off Casino Row. They specialize in mechanical entertainment for organic audiences. Me an’ Brawl looked in there the first night we were here, before we headed to the Dark Side,” Swindle said. “It’s a total dive. An old mech named Luscious who dolls himself up like a femme runs the place. ”
“Why?” Onslaught asked.
Swindle shrugged. “Makes money,” he said as if that explained all. Which for Swindle, it probably did. “Doesn’t matter; if anybody knows something about a Decepticon being snatched, it’ll be Luscious.” Swindle paused. “An’ if not, then I’m gonna start torching places until I find him.”
Onslaught nodded his approval, glancing to Brawl and Blast Off and seeing similar expressions of agreement in the way their optics flashed and flickered. He reached over, remounted Swindle’s scatter-blaster and released Swindle’s shoulders. “Go,” he said. “We’ll secure Megatron’s package. Radio us when you have word.”
Swindle didn’t answer, just transformed and took off with tires squealing.
Transorgasmic was easily the most ridiculous thing Swindle had ever seen in all his seventy-two thousand vorn of existence. All right, so technically, for 71,875 of those vorn he’d been in prison but that didn’t make Transorgasmic look any less stupid.
The club was located off Casino Row, close enough that it still got plenty of foot traffic from interested tourists, but far enough back that it began to butt against the edges of the rougher areas of the city -- which helped give it the feeling of being dangerous as well as naughty.
The idea behind Transorgasmic, as he’d told Onslaught, was mechanical entertainment for organic audiences. Unlike some of the casinos which had non-sentient robot performers, usually musicians, Transorgasmic bragged about having sentient robots performing.
It was all a load of cold slag, as far as Swindle was concerned. He and Brawl had known from the second they’d walked in that the dancers were drones -- better designed and with more complicated AI programs than the ones the casinos tended to have, but drones none the less.
The other draw for the club was that the performers were supposed to be examples of ‘feminine robotic sexuality.’ That particular sales-pitch had nearly had Swindle and Brawl on the ground in hysterics since the performing drones were in actuality idealized versions of various organic female body types. Long flowing hair and pendulous breasts, both synthetic, seemed to be extremely popular with the crowd tonight -- most of whom probably hadn’t seen a real sentient femme in their lives. Or at least wouldn’t have recognized one if they had.
Swindle stepped into the club, turning his audials down to avoid being overloaded by the din of the club’s idea of robotic music. The décor tended toward shiny metallic and bright flashing lights and entirely failed to make Swindle feel anything other than a grudging admiration for the mind behind such a blatant money-making enterprise.
On stage, a pair of Cybertronian-sized ‘femmes’ were gyrating on stage. One was the pastel pink of freshly spilled energon that mammalian organics seemed to find so appealing, while the other was the pale green of corroded copper. Swindle repressed a shudder as he moved toward the back of the bar.
Luscious sat in the back of the club, half reclining on an over-sized couch that allowed him to see and be seen by the entire club. Two silver drones done up as a cross between some organic species’ over-stuffed feminine ideal and one of the more reptilian primitive designs crouched before the couch. Both had collars around their necks and leashes that ran back to dangle loosely in Luscious’s hand. The drones’ blank, vapid stares followed Swindle’s every move.
Luscious himself looked like a slightly larger version of one of his dancers, with more organic kibble tacked on for effect. What effect, Swindle wasn’t sure but the over-all theme seemed to be “less is more, but more is better.” Luscious’s fiber-optic hair was long enough to surround him like a cape if it had been let free from the braided topknot that contained it. His synthetic breasts would have provided enough silicone gel to make the undersea base water-tight. Luscious was a bright, almost neon-blue with a wide optic band that swirled and cycled through colors as he talked. Right now, his optics were the same spilt-energon pink as the dancer on stage.
“Oooh! Aren’t you just the cutest thing?” Luscious squealed, his voice an audial-raking falsetto. “Military hardware, am I right? Of course I am! You’ve got that whole ‘don’t mess with me!’ thing going for you. How sweet! What brings you here, honey? You looking for a pretty girl?”
Before Swindle could answer, Luscious snapped his fingers and yelled, “Minga!” A green and ivory colored serving drone turned toward them, gazing at them with blank green optics.
“Qu’a lo’val? How may I serve?” Minga said, inclining her bronze helm. Her voice was soft and lilting. Despite himself, Swindle stared at her. She was eerily close to what he remembered of Autobot femmes -- except that she wasn’t shooting at him. And no femme -- Autobot or Decepticon -- ever had an expression that vapid.
“Thanks, but I’m not interested,” Swindle said.
Luscious waved Minga away as he inclined his head to one side, bright red lips pouting as his optics cycled from pink to red with a faint click. “I’ve got some mechs in the back -- big strapping ones or little femmy ones cuter than Minga if that‘s what you‘re looking for. Usually only bring them out on Sixthday, but whatever primes your charge, honey.” Luscious grinned. “So long as you have the energon chips, of course.”
Swindle revved his engine in annoyance, scowling. “I like my partners a little more alive, if y’know what I mean,” he said, keeping his voice low. Blowing Luscious’s secret now wouldn’t ingratiate him to the club owner.
Luscious laughed. “Oh you are too much! So why are you here then?”
Swindle shifted so that he could keep an optic aimed behind him. “Looking for my brother,” he said, sending a burst transmission to Blast Off, detailing his route to Transorgasmic as well as the interior layout of the club. “He’s my height, but has a rotary-wing alt mode. Atmospheric craft, obviously; grey an’ black with red optics. He’s missing an’ me and my team figured you might be the one to have some kind of information about him, what with your connections to the robo-slave markets an’ all.”
Luscious giggled, making Swindle’s audials ache. “Oh, honey! I don’t deal in armaments. Your kind makes lousy slaves; you always did.”
“So who would’ve taken him?” Swindle asked, fidgeting in place. “C’mon, Luscious, help me out here.”
“Oh, baby.” Luscious smiled, his optics shifting from red to purple. “You know how the game goes! You have to give queen bee some sugar before she makes honey.”
Swindle scowled. He should have been expecting this. Damn Vortex for throwing him off his game and leaving him stuck in a buyer’s market. “We aren’t the only Decepticons who haven’t had some R and R in a while,” he ventured, desperately. “We could put in the word for you back home, help increase your business?”
Luscious considered the offer for longer than Swindle would have, then shook his head as he reached over to stroke the head of the reptilifemme nearest him. He lowered his voice to a more comfortable level. “Nice try, sweetie, but really? You and I both know that real hardware won’t come near this place except to laugh. It’s for the organics who like to dream about their very own robotic sex slave, not your kind.”
“How about I let this place stay standing then?” Swindle countered, taking a step forward, his scatter-blaster whining to life. The reptilifemmes rose up, mouths opening wide to display row after row of shark-like, metal-rending teeth.
“Easy, girls, easy,” Luscious said, looking more amused than threatened. “Honey, I let these leashes go and you are scrap metal. Lucky for you, you amuse me. And luckier for your brother, I’m willing to trade you what I know for one, puny, insignificant little favor.”
“What?” Swindle asked, knowing to his core that ‘puny, insignificant little favors’ were always the ones that came back to bite you hardest in the aft.
“I want scans of you and your teammates’ designs,” Luscious said, his smile even more predatory than those of his drone guards as Swindle stared at him. “All five of you. Word is, you boys can perform some pretty slick tricks. I have some friends who would like to replicate that for the galactic market. Deal?”
Swindle hesitated. Selling the secrets of gestalt technology had occurred to him more than once since they’d arrived on Monacus. He’d even gone so far as to suggest the idea to Onslaught -- carefully since his brothers were still a bit touchy about the whole ‘you sold us!’ thing. It wasn’t like it was a military secret, not since the Autobots had Superion and that glitch-ridden, runt-pulse Defensor.
“I gotta check with my C.O.,” Swindle said, trying to buy time and fighting the urge to say ‘no’ and keep the potential profits for himself.
Luscious smirked, optics shifting from purple to bright blue with a soft click. “Go right ahead, little one,” he said. “I’m sure your brother has all the time in the world to wait.”
Swindle grunted, turning to one side as he radioed Onslaught. The authorization took seconds. “Deal,” he said, turning back toward Luscious. “You can scan me first, as a deposit an’ you’ll get the rest when we get Vortex back.”
“I knew you’d see it my way,” Luscious purred. “Come in the back an’ smile for the camera, sweetie. Then I have some people for you to meet.”
Shambleau felt his prey begin to slump as the vessel’s essence began to play out. With a mewl of hunger, he stroked and lashed the vessel’s form, trying to force more essence from it.
Tendrils pushed over the cool metal form, discovering the strange hatches on the vessel’s head and shoulders. Pushing them open, it found large, crude connectors, heavier circuitry and, more importantly, the slow, throbbing of a new, untouched consciousness. Joyously, Shambleau began to feed anew.
“Swindle, meet the infamous Northwest Smith and his partner, Yarol the Venusian,” Luscious said, gesturing at the two organics seated at table in one of Transorgasmic’s private lounges. Swindle dropped to one knee to get a better look at them.
Northwest was a human male, a rarity for this part of the galaxy. He was well into the prime of adulthood, at least as far as Swindle understood such things. He dressed in the sort of battered leathers favored by those species who didn’t have built-in armor. He leaned back in his chair, looking appraisingly back at Swindle with optics -- no, eyes -- that were a pale grey that was almost colorless. He kept one hand resting lazily on a heat-pistol strapped to his waist. Swindle was sure it wasn’t the human’s only weapon.
His companion, Yarol, was smaller - about the size of an adolescent human. He had the sort of rarefied beauty Swindle had seen in some human religious paintings of the fat little infant humans called cherubs. Unlike his dour friend, Yarol was all wide, innocent eyes and friendly, open smiles.
Guess I know who’s really dangerous here, huh? Swindle thought. “Luscious says you guys know where my brother is,” he said, looking at both of them but focusing his attention on Yarol. “Tell me.”
“No, no,” Yarol said, shaking his head sadly before smiling apologetically at Swindle. “We don’t know where he is, but we know what might have him.”
“If we knew where he was, it’d be dead by now,” Northwest said, curtly. “The Shambleau has your ‘brother,’ robot.”
Swindle looked over at Northwest, fingers itching to grab the human and squeeze him into goo. There would be time for that later, if necessary. Right now, getting Vortex back took precedence. He turned back to Yarol. “What’s a Shambleau?” he asked. “And what’s it want with Vortex?”
“No one knows for sure what Shambleau is,” Yarol said. “Or, rather, what they are since there’s more than one of them. They’re a race that’s older than time, some say. They feed on men -- well, beings of any gender, really -- stealing their life energy.”
“What it wanted with a damned robot, I’ll never know,” Northwest said. “But the damn fool deserves what he gets for not letting us kill it. Damn near killed me trying to protect it!” He shook his head. “What use was it to him? Or him to it? Yarol, if it can feed from unliving machines now, what’s next? We should be out checking the spaceport, not bothering with this creature.”
Swindle’s optics dimmed, almost to the point of shutdown, before he spoke. “Keep your monkey on a leash,” he said to Yarol. “I’m as alive as he is -- moreso if he doesn’t shut up.”
“Excuse my friend,” Yarol said, smoothly. “He’s encountered the Shambleau before. It was very traumatic for him.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Swindle said, flatly. “How do I find my brother? Where’s this thing like to drag its victims?”
“Shambleau seduces,” Yarol said, glancing at Northwest, his expression worried. “It preys on the desires of its victims, using them to work the prey up into a high emotional state. It must make the meal sweeter and makes the prey receptive and easier to control once they begin to feed.”
Beside Yarol, Northwest had begun to nod his agreement, sweat forming on his forehead. The human reached into a pocket and pulled out a flask, taking a quick drink. Swindle’s nasal receptors detected the sharp stinging smell of distilled alcohol. Northwest’s colorless eyes stared vacantly into space. “And it holds you as it feeds,” he said, his voice hollow and haunted. “It shows you things; terrible, disgusting, obscene things. And it shows you pleasure no man should ever feel. It kills you and if it doesn’t, it makes you crave the death you missed -- even after you escape.”
Yarol reached over, putting a protective hand on Northwest’s shoulder. “Your teammate went with the Shambleau. It was clear he didn’t know what he was getting himself into,” he said, roughly. “If you find him and he’s still alive, make sure you kill the Shambleau. If he’s dead, kill it anyway and burn the body. It’s the only way to be sure with those things.”
Swindle grunted, looking up at the ceiling. “No slag,” he said. “But I have to find him first!”
Bruticus dreamed. Broken apart, there was little else he could do. His body wandered around of its own accord with fragments of his larger mind keeping sleepy watch over them until he was called again to serve. The tiny minds of the ones who dwelled in five-space were little more than a hum to him; white noise that helped to lull him in his dreaming.
But now Left Arm was prodding him. Not as he sometimes did, for maintenance or for pleasure -- that could be ignored. This prodding was rude, insistent and was rousing Bruticus for no good cause.
Angered, Bruticus lashed out at Left Arm, sending a pulse to remind him of his place. Yet Left Arm ignored the warning, continuing to prod and dig at him. Bruticus sent a stronger pulse, sometimes Left Arm’s ideas about pain could be strange. Again, the rudeness continued.
Right Arm called to Bruticus, worried about Left Arm. Irritated, Bruticus snapped at him as well, galled by his body’s sudden insolence.
Blast Off rocked backwards, grabbing his head in pain. “Onslaught, I’ve found him!” he yelled, too excited to bother with his usual affectation of detachment. “His gestalt component just sent a distress call! He’s hurt, badly, but he’s alive!”
“Coordinates?” Onslaught barked as Brawl whooped and punched at the air in delight.
“Triangulating now,” Blast Off said. “I have him -- he’s on the far side of Casino Row. Swindle’s closest to him, but we’re less than ten klicks away by ground. If we go by air, I can get us there in less than a breem.”
“No,” Onslaught said. “We can’t risk you burning that much fuel. As it is, we’re going to have a hard enough time explaining to Megatron why we’ve been delayed. Send Swindle the coordinates, tell him we’re on our way and he’s to do whatever it takes to secure the area until we can arrive. We leave as soon as you have your medi-kit ready, Blast Off.”
Swindle’s optics brightened as Blast Off’s radio call came in. “We found him,” he said, grinning wildly. “Hot damn, we found him!”
“How?” Luscious asked.
Swindle giggled. “A close, personal friend of ours gave us the word,” he said. “I’m outta here.”
“Hey, hey, we have a deal, sugar,” Luscious said. “Don’t think you can get out of it!”
“Yeah, sure whatever!” Swindle yelled, running from the club. “I gotta go!”
The abandoned casino was too quiet when Swindle arrived. Transforming from jeep mode, he moved as quietly as he could toward the entrance and glanced in, scanning for life signs. Spotting nothing in the main room, he stepped in, turning his thermal imaging sensors up to full sensitivity as he began to sweep the area.
The main room turned up nothing, so he began to check side rooms. He kept his audials turned up, listening for any noise that might give away Vortex’s position as he searched.
He was near the casino’s restaurant when he heard the moan. It was a soft sound, cracked and broken, but unmistakably the sound of Vortex in pain. He moved toward it, turning his headlights on to full brightness in hopes of blinding Vortex’s attacker.
At first, he thought the room was empty since all he could see was debris: broken tables, rotting chunks of wood and hunks of rusting metal and what looked like a discarded pile of rubber hosing.
Then the hosing moved and he heard the moan again.
“Slag me,” he said, moving closer. He stared at the Shambleau, his optics flickering in disgust as he watched the ropy quasi-organic tendrils writhe and roll over Vortex’s form.
“Let him go,” he said, aiming his gyro-gun as a mech’s face appeared, rising to the surface of the boiling mass.
“Come join us,” the mech said, his voice oozing seduction. Swindle blinked, startled to find one foot moving forward before he caught himself.
“Not interested,” he said, shaking his head. “Gimme Vortex. He’s mine.” He yelled to Vortex. “’Tex! This thing’s killing you! Fight it!”
There was no reply from Vortex. The face in the tentacles wavered uncertainly and altered its appearance. When it spoke again, it was with the voice of a femme. “Please?” she begged. “Come join us. I have pleasure enough for both of you.”
Swindle sighed, impatiently. “Not interested,” he said. “’TEX! Fight it already! C’mon!”
The tentacles wrapped possessively around Vortex, twisting around him in confusion as if torn between the two different minds. “You feel like this one but you do not feel desire? All beings feel desire. What is it you? Ahh, yes!”
Tentatively, hints of gold and jewels began to appear within the mass. The part of Swindle attracted to shiny things began calculating the items’ worth, only to be slapped down seconds later by the more pragmatic bits that knew no bank would pay interest on illusions.
“Okay, that’s just insulting,” Swindle said, taking aim at the Shambleau. “I don’t love money, I just tell it that so it comes home with me. Let. Him. Go.”
With an enraged shriek, Shambleau launched himself toward Swindle, reaching out with tentacles to take what he would not give. At first, Swindle felt nothing except a deep revulsion at being stroked and fondled as the tentacles searched for any available entrance to his inner workings. When a tendril wormed its way into one of his wheel wells, brushing against a transformation joint he grunted, startled by the sudden feeling of possessiveness, a deep burning need not so much to have Shambleau as to be had by it. He shook it off with an effort, forcibly reminding himself he was here for Vortex, not some writhing alien glitch.
The movement caused the main mass of tendrils to shift away from Vortex, partially freeing him. Swindle fired his gyro-gun, hearing Shambleau scream as he lost control of himself. He fired again, kicking out at Vortex to try and push him free before switching to his scatter-blaster and firing two quick bursts at what remained of Shambleau’s mechanical body. Technorganic ooze flew as Shambleau’s tendrils and torso shredded. Swindle fired the scatter-blaster again, shuddering as a rogue tendril again slithered under his armor, trying to seduce to the very end. Snarling, he kept firing, blasting away with his scatter-blaster, reducing Shambleau into smaller and smaller pieces until his firing mechanism clicked uselessly.
He moved over to where Vortex lay slumped brokenly on his side, pulling out an emergency energon flask and popping Vortex’s fuel tank open. “No way, ‘Tex,” he said, voice fracturing as he dropped to his knees next to his brother. “C’mon, wake up. You gotta wake up.” He whimpered, hand shaking and slopping energon over Vortex’s torso as he tried to pour it into his fuel tank. “C’mon, you die here an’ there’s no way Ons isn’t going to believe it’s not my fault.”
Vortex stirred, feeling energy pour back into him. “Go ‘way!” he said, swatting limply at Swindle.
“Shut up an’ refuel, afthead,” Swindle said, opening a second emergency refuel flask and pouring it into Vortex’s fuel tank. Vortex had no choice but to let him, feeling warmth spread through his body. He lay still, groaning as feeling slowly returned to him, followed closely on its heels by memory.
“Primus!” he said, sitting up, or at least trying to. Weakness held him down, making him angry at feeling helpless. Swindle reached over, pulling him up and taking a long swig from the energon flask himself. He snickered at Vortex, optics shining with relief.
“Oh, Texy, Texy, Texy!” he said, giggling. “You owe me! I am never gonna let you forget this one! The next time you want to give me slag for selling you, I am gonna remind you of this an’ --”
“What the slag are you talking about?” Vortex croaked. “Where’s Shambleau?”
“Around,” Swindle said, still giggling. “All around. Shambleau go splat!”
“You killed him?” Vortex demanded. “Are you crazy?! What the slag did you do that for?”
Swindle stopped laughing. “’Cause he was killing you, stupid!” he yelled back. “If I hadn’t gotten here when I did, you’d be dead!”
“I would not!” Vortex snorted exhaust fumes, wincing at the effort it took to move even that small amount.
“Would so!” Swindle said. “You ran off with a tricursed energy vampire! What d‘you think it was doing? Cuddling!?”
“I can’t believe you killed him!” Vortex said, sighing exasperatedly. “We were really hitting it off! Just because you can’t feel desire for anything you can’t spend doesn‘t mean the rest of us don’t, Swindle!”
“I can to!” Swindle yelped. “Maybe I’m just not led around by my pleasure centers like you are!”
Vortex groaned, leaning forward to put his head in his hands. “You’re a real null-signal, you know that, Swindle?”
“That thing was sucking you down like Brawl with a barrel of high-grade!” Swindle stood up, pacing back and forth in front of Vortex. “It even tried to get me, too! Do you have any idea how disgusting that felt?” He paused, looking guiltily around. “I mean…it kinda felt good too, but…”
“I know,” Vortex said, voice hollow. The effects of the energon he’d been fed were beginning to wear off, leaving him feeling weak and tired again. “ I know it better than you do, Swindle. It was awful -- so horrible there aren’t words to describe it. I was part of it, for a while. I could feel it all; the hunger, the memories, the emotions. ‘Course, I can’t remember it all now, not clearly, but sweet Primus it was all so disgusting!”
Vortex shuddered and sighed, longingly. “And it felt so damned good! It was like it was tapping into this … this nexus of evil down deep inside me. One that I didn’t even know I had! And it was trying to take control of it, to let it loose. Part of me got to see that -- got to see such horrible, terrible, wild things and such unbelievable places. Primus, I wish I could remember it!”
He turned, glaring at Swindle. “But, because somebody had to go and play Protectobot, I can’t! Thanks, Stumpy! Thanks a slag load!”
Swindle stared at Vortex for a long moment, the only sound that of Onslaught and the others approaching in the distance. With surprising quickness, Swindle cracked Vortex a resounding thump up against the side of the head.
“Ow! What was that for?” Vortex yelled.
“Look, do me a favor ‘Tex,” Swindle said, pulling Vortex in so that they were face to face. “Next time you see one of those Shambleau things? Promise me you’ll spread your arms wide an’ yell, ‘Feeding Time!’ Okay?”
Vortex stared at Swindle for a moment, weighing the memories that were already starting to melt away like a prisoner’s armor under a blowtorch. He felt himself begin to shake as his systems rebelled against staying online in his weakened state. His optics met Swindle’s and he nodded.
“I’ll -- I’ll try, Swindle,” he said, hoarsely as Onslaught and Blast Off barreled into the room, shouting orders and nearly drowning out his words. He nodded, gripping Swindle’s shoulder tightly, a mix of sincerity and one-upmanship. “I’ll try.”
