Day 1 of the August whump prompt fills - Infection. A wound on Onslaughts arm gets infected. Blast Off tends to him.
Read here or on AO3!
“How does it look?”
“Yeah. Not good.”
Onslaught hissed through his teeth as he extracted the gauze, discoloured and congealed energon oozing out and thickly glooping down his arm. Blast Off sharply inhaled a with a wince.
“That’s definitely infected.”
“It’s fine.”
It had to be fine. There wasn’t any other option - it had to be fine. Second chances didn’t exist.
“Maybe Swindle knows someone.” Blast Off handed him a wad of fresh gauze and cleanser. It was all that they had. “You’ll lose that arm if you’re not careful. Finding a replacement is going to be difficult, not to mention getting it reformatted.”
The next fight came round quickly and Onslaught knew that he was in trouble. His arm didn’t move as it should, and his reactions were delayed. He felt warm, his HUD pinging with warnings about high temperatures and condensation was starting to bead on his frame. His head spun and throbbed at the end of the match, forcing him to lean against the wall of the hall leading out of the arena to catch his breath and settle his frame.
Damn it. Blast Off was right, it’s infected.
It hit fast and it hit hard. No sooner had he gone to replace the now-leaking and foul-smelling gauze was he on the floor of the habsuite he shared with Blast Off, frame overheating and alerts near blinding him. Rapid pedefalls signalled the arrival of another, and Blast Off appeared in front of him.
“I told you it was infected! Look at you!” Blast Off hauled him up and dragged him up onto his berth. “You’re lucky we have connections, Vortex knows an alley doctor who’s willing to come take a look.”
“We can’t afford it.” He groaned, weak and heavy limbs doing their best to help himself along as his second got him situated. Fuck it. How did he let this happen? He was such a damned fool. It won’t happen because it can’t. How juvenile. The logic didn’t add up. Infection didn’t care.
“Let us worry about that.”
Vortex had probably already figured out a deal with them that both got them treatment and gave him a pass to go and cause trouble. He knew the rules; so long as it had a purpose and served them he could take odd jobs outside of Onslaught’s jurisdiction. All Vortex had to do was prove to him that it was worth it - easier said than done. Vortex had a penchant for mischief and a love for chaos. Onslaught could only hope that he wasn’t doing anything that would get him into trouble. Blast Off wouldn’t allow it, but Blast Off didn’t think things through as strenuously as he did and Vortex was a pro at getting his own way.
“Stop playing the hero.” Blast Off quietly said, tracing his fingers along the inside of his wrist. “You don’t need to go so far.”
It stung when he was right, but what else was he meant to do? Admit that he was weak? Allow them to miss the payment a match would bring, that a potential victory would bring, and put their finances into even more dire straits?
“We need to get out of here.” Onslaught’s helm was swimming and he couldn’t tell left from right. His HUD kept bringing up alerts telling him about his high temperature that he kept dismissing. There were additional readings that weren’t usually there - all from his self-repair. It was working harder than usual in a bid to fight the infection. None of the data was anything he could decipher as he currently stood, but it would be something he’d comb through later. “We can do so much better.”
“We can.” Blast Off agreed. “When you’ve not got energon boiling in your fuel lines we can talk about it, how about that?”
“Promise me? Promise me that you’ll be by my side for it?”
“Of course.” The tips of his fingers, deliciously cool against the burning hot metal of his wrist, faltered before resuming the back and forth motion they were making. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“You’re the only one I trust.”
“Don’t let the others hear that, they’ll get jealous.”
“I’m being serious.” He swallowed awkwardly. “I can’t do this without you.”
“We can’t do it without you either, so just stay down. Primus, you’d think you had cogs for audials.”
Onslaught couldn’t do it without any of them either. He needed all of his pieces, the board would be empty otherwise. There wasn’t anyone he trusted more to lead a ground assault than Brawl. There wasn’t anyone else he’d turn to for munitions expertise than Swindle. Vortex was his choice interrogator. Blast Off was everything he stood to lose, the one mech he knew he could place his absolute faith and trust in.
Blast Off stood and disappeared for a moment, Onslaught’s spark rate spiking in panic, his feverish mind racing and panicking that he’d gone and something had happened, and oh Pits why did he have to be knocked down when something was happening, only calming when Blast Off came back into view and put something down on the berth beside him. His seconds attention was on his arm, cool hands running over burning hot metal.
“I’ll change the dressing. It’ll probably not do any good, but it can’t make it any worse than it already is.”
Onslaught nodded. At least he thought he did – his helm was swimming and spinning and any movement felt exaggerated beyond what was reasonable. Blast Off cycled his vents deeply before reaching in and beginning to pull out the gauze that he’d stuffed into the wound.
Good Primus it felt like he was removing the internal structures with it. Blast Off had to hold down his arm with his other hand as he firmly tugged it out, Onslaught feeling his engine roar and his frame twitch and jerk as it rode through the motions. His teeth gnashed together as he bit back the sounds he wanted to make, surely ungainly and distracting, and he only relaxed when the gauze finally stopped coming out and the feeling of his insides being tugged out stopped with it.
“Oh, Onslaught!” Blast Off had his (clean) hand pressed to his face, visor flicking between the sodden gauze and the gaping wound. “How’d it get this bad? Primus, you’re like a cat, hiding injuries like this!” He admonished, grabbing the cleanser and getting to work on cleaning what he could. Onslaught gritted his teeth again and a whimper escaped, Blast Off hesitating before continuing.
“Didn’t realise.” He managed.
“And you have the gall to call us unobservant. I don’t want to hear a thing from you about it for the next vorn.”
Onslaught huffed out a laugh.
The gauze being stuffed back in somehow felt worse than it being taken out. Blast Off was relentless and merciless, packing it in as tightly as he possibly could. Every time he thought he couldn’t possibly pack more in, Blast Off proved him wrong.
“I’m going to go and get rid of the gauze and wash my hands.” Blast Off signalled he was done by stooping down to pick up the discarded, dirtied gauze. “I’ll be right back.”
With the warning his processor didn’t spiral as it had before, and now that he was left alone the exhaustion slammed into him. Venting deeply, Onslaught shuttered his visor and counted back from ten.
He’d failed them all. How could they accept a leader as weak as him?
A sprint prompt fill for this months theme of Alien! Jazz makes quite the discovery when the magnetometry survey comes back, and Prowl is rudely awoken when a long-dead emergency beacon comes back online.
Read here or on AO3!
Jazz fanned herself with a sheet of hastily folded up A4 paper and loudly chewed hew gum as she impatiently waited for the data to come up on the screen.
The sun was taking no prisoners that day and the breeze was baking hot – being under the cover of the tent only made the humidity of the day all the more stifling. It was a wonder that the computer was even working – they’d sacrificed all but one fan to point at it in an attempt to keep it cool enough for them to get the data out in the field and save them schlepping back and forth to the shed where their main base was. She rocked back on the chair, staring listlessly up at the ceiling, and wondered what she’d be having for dinner that evening. Probably another salad – she couldn’t face another one, but the thought of anything heavier had her feeling nauseous.
The computer dinged, the screen flickering as it struggled to show the image the magnetometry survey had produced, and she eagerly swung back down. The gum was loudly chewed and she began to blow a bubble when her breath caught in her throat and she stopped.
Hmm?
She spat her gum out into a tissue and wiggled the chair closer to the desk, wiping at the monitor to try and clear some of the sand from it and get a better look at what she was seeing.
That looked like a big hand in the bottom corner.
“Hey, Comber!” She called. “What do you think of this?”
Beachcomber looked up from the stack of maps they were looking through in curiosity. “What is it?” He asked, dropping his notepad on top of them to keep them in place and coming over to lean over her shoulder and look at the monitor.
“That’s a hand!” He excitedly said. “Jazz, you know what this means?”
“Trench time!” She excitedly jumped in her seat. Finally. Their test pits were coming up woefully inconclusive – they were finding things like sherds of pottery and pieces of bone and beads, but not what they were looking for – walls, signs of permanent settlement. The earthworks and crop marks weren’t giving up their secrets on this site. A giant hand was something definitely worth looking at – it meant human activity, and it meant that they were in the area for long enough to settle down. If they extended their survey in that direction they might start to find something.
“I’ll call the land owner.” Beachcomber grabbed the keys to the little golf buggy they used to travel down to the main base – a very, very generous name they gave the little outbuilding that their sponsor and the owner of the land had given them to use. It had clearly had a previous life as a home office, fully plumbed in so they didn’t have to make the trip back into the main house each and every time they needed something. Jazz was quietly jealous.
Jazz busied herself in making sure the magnetometer hadn’t died in the heat, hands trembling with excitement. The day suddenly didn’t feel quite so hot any more.
Cyclonus, the land owner, wasn’t in, but his husband Tailgate was, and he was all too excited for their find. Apparently he’d said to do whatever they needed to do.
So when the next set of magnetometry data came back onto their slowly dying computer and they saw a bipedal form, they almost fainted from excitement.
“I’ll make a start on it,” Jazz said, slathering herself in another layer of sunscreen and slapping her hat on. “And then tomorrow we can really get digging.”
“Call me if you need me, okay?” Beachcomber passed her her walkie-talkie. “Check in every ten minutes – if I don’t hear anything I’ll come down and make sure you’re still alive.”
Jazz pulled on the light linen layer she’d brought to keep as much of her body out of the sun as possible and began the walk over to the new site. She checked on her GPS that she was in the right position before breaking ground, dutifully recording each and every layer and anything she found on her way down. Samples of the soil were bagged up – Cyclonus especially had an interest in the historical environment and so they were very careful to ensure they had as many soil samples as possible to investigate for him – and her heart beat harder and harder in her chest the further down she went.
And it just about stopped entirely when her trowel hit metal.
Huh? Metal?
Her head spun. Oh, oh that changed the timeline and the theory of the site if it was metal. They had been expecting stone.
More soil was gently removed, and with every centimetre exposed she found her brows knitting together.
It was… it had joints. It looked like it could move. It was far, far too advanced for an early society to have made, especially one that had only just started to settle. They wouldn’t have had the time to figure this out yet, the technology to create it just didn’t exist as far as they knew. It shouldn’t have been there, covered in the same soil that everything else was. Was it a later introduction? But then that would have meant that a whole square mile had been dutifully covered over in the same sedimentation to the same thickness and with the same inclusions, the same everything. It just didn’t make any sense.
The walkie-talkie crackled.
“You alive, Jazz?”
She fumbled to pluck it from her belt, her previously cheerful updates stained by a slight strain in her voice.
“Found the hand.” She replied. “I think I’m gonna need the lights, I’m gonna be here a while.”
In a ship on the other side of Neptune, Prowl received a notification.
He blinked as he suddenly sat up on his bunk, his frame having gone into low power mode to conserve energy on his trip through the stars. The terminal incessantly beeped with the alert that came along with an emergency beacon. Shooting up and almost knocking the seat over, Prowl flew over to see who was trying to hail him. He had to read the name three times – he hadn’t seen it in vorns. They’d long been considered dead, lost to an alien world.
But their beacon was transmitting again. They were alive.
Prowl set his course.
Despite it being midnight, Jazz still found herself sweating her tits off in the middle of a field. She mopped the sweat from her brow and sat back on her haunches, trying to make heads and tails of what she was seeing.
It was a big, articulated metal arm. Chewing her bottom lip, she weighed up her choices.
Frankly, she was exhausted. The day had already taken its toll on her, the heat overwhelming and still not letting up as the sun hadn’t long fucked off below the horizon and the ground had done such a wonderful job at absorbing and locking in the heat like a godforsaken battery. She knew that if she didn’t stop now, she was going to end up passing out in this trench and be in for a world of trouble in the morning.
However.
Big articulated metal arm.
Very compelling argument, you see.
The sound of something flying up above her had her jumping up to her feet, a shadow moving across the stars and briefly blocking out the light of the moon. Her jaw dropped as she watched it go, the dark obscuring exactly where it had gone – the engines on it loudly roared and trembled through her bones.
That’s not a commercial aircraft. What the hell was that?
Maybe she was more tired than she thought – her sleep-deprived brain was starting to make things up to convince her that she was dreaming.
A loud beeping sound came from the arm, Jazz jumping hard enough that she slammed back down awkwardly on her knees with a choked shriek. Oh, god, was it a bomb? Was it going to blow up? There was something flashing on it – oh, that had to be explosive, that was not good, that was so not good-
A garbled sound came from it and she scrambled back until her back hit the wall of the trench, proper process be damned, and she pressed herself against it as she tried to figure out what she was going to do. Would Beachcomber even pick up if she tried to hail him on the walkie talkie? She had to try. She scrambled to pick it up from her belt, pressing down the button firmly and speaking into it.
“Comber? Beachcomber, are you awake? That- the thing is beeping-!”
Crackling came through from the other end. It sounded like a voice, the sounds falling and rising like words were being spoken, but it sounded so garbled and mechanical that Jazz couldn’t understand a single thing Beachcomber was saying. She slapped the device and tried again.
“I didn’t get a word of that, mate.” Fuck, she was too tired for this, her brain must have totally given up.
Static followed, and then, hesitantly-
“Hello?”
It was not Beachcomber. It wasn’t Tailgate or Cyclonus, either.
“Hello?” She replied. “Who- who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“Uhm-” She glanced up at the arm. The static sound had stopped and it wasn’t beeping any more, but the light was still flashing. She chewed her bottom lip. “I’m an archaeologist out in the field – do you have a phone on you?” She needed to get hold of Beachcomber.
There was a short stretch of silence on the other end.
“I’m not sure I understand. Sit tight – I’m coming to you.”
“How do you even know where I am?”
“Your beacon? It’s okay – I’ll explain everything when I get to you.”
Bewildered, Jazz slipped the walkie talkie back onto her belt.
And a few minutes later, she heard something big, heavy, and from the way they were clanking, made of metal walking towards her. Heart in her throat, she looked up, breath held and knees weak.
It was another bipedal metal form. They had – were those wings?? And a stern face. They froze when they saw each other, the wings on the back twitching, and they looked down at the exposed arm before slowly looking back at Jazz again.
“Hello.” They began, their voice strangely mechanical yet organic all at once. “Are you the one I was speaking to just now?”
Jazz nodded. “You didn’t happen to be looking for… them?” She gestured to the exhumed arm.
“I was.”
“Oh my god – don’t tell me they’re dead.”
“That does appear to be the case.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“We long considered them to be dead. It is unfortunate that it is the case, but not unexpected.” They knelt down to be closer. “What is your name?”
“Jazz. What’s yours?”
“Prowl. I apologise, I’m not aware of the customary greeting on this planet.”
“A handshake is fine.” Jazz managed to push herself up and held out a hand towards Prowl. The giant mechanical being pointed a finger to her and they shook in the worlds most adapted handshake. A beat of silence, and then,
Make It Real chapter 7! Jazz wakes up and Vortex gets a wake-up call.
Read here or on AO3!
Jazz woke up the next morning wondering where the hell she was.
She blinked a few times and tried to remember. Wherever she was, it was warm and comfortable and the hand on her back was-
She lived alone.
Jazz suddenly snapped to awareness, and it was only when the blurry outline of Prowl’s living room registered that she realised where she was and what must have happened. Prowl was still fast asleep underneath her, breathing deeply and rhythmically. The TV had long turned itself off, and she couldn’t tell where one duvet ended and the other began – they were both swaddled in them, the plump cushions of the sofa softer than any mattress. No wonder she’d fallen asleep – it was like laying on a cloud.
Well. Prowl didn’t. She was laying on Prowl too. Because of course she was – it would have been completely obscene and against the genre she’d apparently found herself in if she wasn’t sprawled out ungainly across the other woman whilst she snored away, blissfully unaware that she was being used as a pillow. Prowl didn’t feel like a cloud, but she felt like something much better.
There wasn’t any way to get out of the situation without waking Prowl up. Jazz both didn’t want to wake her up or get herself out of the situation.
So she let her head sink back down onto her chest and listened to her heartbeat instead. It was rhythmic and steady and predictable – a textbook example of a heartbeat. Jazz still found herself composing a song in her head to the beat of it. Maybe she could get it into something workable and turn it into something real? That would be cute.
A loud knock at the door had the pair jumping out of their skins and abruptly ended the composition in Jazz’s head. Prowl barely had time to assess the situation before she was scrambling to get up as the sound of a key turning in the lock reached them. She quietly hissed a curse as she grabbed her phone and glanced at the screen, marching towards the front door. Her footsteps only hesitated slightly when she read the message before she was almost running. Jazz sat upright, the duvet pooling into her lap, and stretched. Someone important must have turned up.
“You could have given me more warning.” Her voice came from the hall. “I’ve got company.”
“Wow, you’re still in your jim-jams.” A deeper voice returned.
Whoever it was was walking closer. Jazz curiously slipped from the sofa and went to the doorway, curiously peeking through.
Prowl had given her a quick rundown of her family members to prepare them for the party in a weeks time. The man who was walking down the hallway towards her was familiar – it was her brother Barricade. He was taller than her, his hair just as jet black and with that familiar white streak. While Prowl’s was straight, Barricade’s had a wave to it that looked very beachy. He looked at her in surprise before looking her up and down.
“Holy shit, you actually exist.” He was smirking and ripping into a length of jerky. Jazz hid the way it made her feel. Bit early for that, isn’t it?
“In the flesh!” She grinned at him anyway and held out her hand. “Jazz. You’re Barricade, right? Prowl’s spoken about you.”
He took her hand and shook it. “Only good things, I hope.”
“You’ll have to tell me more about the fishing incident.”
“Which one?”
“Which one?” Jazz turned to Prowl. “You’ve been holding out on me!”
“It’s not important.” Prowl had her arms folded under her chest, hip cocked, and she shifted her weight to her other leg. “What’re you doing here?”
“Wanted to see my big sister.”
“You wanted to snoop.”
“Oh, you caught me.” Barricade raised his hands up in surrender. “No. I came to drop this off,” He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and dropped them into Prowl’s waiting hand, “and making sure you had a good cover story.” He glanced at Jazz again. “Looks like I needn’t have worried.”
Prowl sighed. “Tea or coffee?”
“Only if you let me get to know my sister-in-law.”
“That’s for her to decide.”
They hadn’t discussed how familiar Jazz would get with her family. Prowl looked to Jazz, her posture open but her eyes slightly panicked. Jazz reached out and took her hand, gently squeezing it in reassurance, before turning to Barricade with a wide grin.
“You take yours with milk and sugar?”
-------------------------------
“I didn’t get you into any trouble, did I?” Jazz asked the next week in the office. Prowl looked up from her planner over her glasses and shook her head.
“No, none at all.”
“Thank god!” Jazz sighed in relief and sagged down into the chair. “I was worrying about that all weekend.”
“Barricade’s cheeky and pushes his luck, but he’s also very easy to fool.” Prowl replied, turning back to her planner and jotting something down in the margin. “It wont mean much overall, but it definitely helped that he came unannounced and we were very clearly sleeping together.”
“Sorry about that.”
The corner of Prowl’s lip twitched upwards and her cheeks blushed pink. “I should be the one apologising. I was fully intending on making sure you slept properly.”
“I slept very well, thank you darling.” Jazz let her voice drop down into a purr – the one that had Prowl’s brain melting out of her ears. It always worked like a charm, the woman holding the planner just that bit closer to her face as her ears turned bright red.
“That’s good.” She managed to keep her voice stable. Pity.
“We should discuss logistics for the party this weekend.” Jazz stood and stretched out, Prowl’s eyes naturally drawn to the shape and curve of her body. “Call me when you get home?”
Prowl nodded. “Of course.”
Jazz definitely didn’t wait by her phone for her to call that evening, but she did watch it ring a couple times before picking up so she didn’t look too eager.
“So, the plan is;” Prowl began, “I’ll come by and pick you up at four. Bring your dress – we’ll get ready at mine. Then we’ll head over together – make sure you bring the ring and the earrings. They’ll be expecting some sort of display of affection too.” She sounded like she was rubbing her face in the way she did when she was stressed. “You’re prepared for black tie, aren’t you?”
“Ready for anything, Prowler.” Jazz replied. “I’ve got a dress I’ve been hoping to show off to the world again.” She eyed it up – she’d hung it over the door of her wardrobe to try on and make sure it still fit her right and see how it looked with the accessories, a black and white piece that, for her, ticked every box. Hopefully Prowl would agree.
“Good, I wasn’t sure we’d have time to go shopping for one for you.” Prowl sounded amused. “And I’m not confident mine would fit you – the length would sit weirdly. Okay. Good.”
“Will there be another list of faces to learn?”
“No, I think we’ll get away with it. It’d be a bit weird if you knew everyone’s faces.”
“Fine by me.” Jazz twirled a braid with her finger. “We’re going to that place by the water, aren’t we? I’ve scoped it out a little, found us some good escape routes if things go tits up. Good view, too.”
“Perfect. Thank you, Jazz.”
Jazz’s rice cooker dinged to signal it was ready.
“Oop, rice is done.” She quickly turned it off at the wall and popped the lid, stepping back to let the last of the steam escape and inspecting the grains.
“I’ll let you get to your dinner, then.”
“What’re you having tonight? I’ve got rice, and I’ve got some salmon under the grill and veggies about to come out of the steamer as we speak.” She twisted the knob on her hob to turn off the gas under the saucepan that held her steamer.
“Pasta.”
“And the sauce?”
Prowl hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Just tomato. I didn’t have much time.”
“Oh, Prowler. I’ll make you dinner this week, okay? Poor girl!”
“It’s fine, I just need to manage my time better.”
“Alright, well I’ll make you it anyway, how about that?” She knelt down to quickly check the salmon – perfectly done. “I’d better go – chat later!”
“Okay, chat soon. Bye, I love you.”
“Love you too!” Jazz cheerfully replied before hanging up. She was fluffing the rice with the rice paddle when she realised what they had said and suddenly froze.
The choking sound she made echoed.
-------------------------------
First Aid usually didn’t let the implication that she had to make it up to her patients for any scarring or expected after-effects slide. She was a nurse, not a miracle worker who could override biology. Scars happened when you received injuries. Illnesses left marks. Sickness and disease stamped itself onto bones. It was how the human body worked and it was not something that she could prevent, so the idea that she had to ‘make it up’ to anyone for it was bizarre and frankly insulting.
Vortex suggesting she’d need to make it up to her was a different story, however, because she was curious to see where it would go. It was said in jest. It was said as an invitation. It ended up with Vortex in her bed putting her cigarette out on her tongue.
The day had started out quite normally. She had gotten up, gone to work, and carried out her duties without pause until she had the five minutes that constituted for her lunch break and could check her phone. Vortex had sent her a text - when do you get off of work? - and First Aid had dutifully replied as she crammed as much of her sandwich into her mouth as she could manage.
The next part was a surprise, but not unwelcome.
Perf. See you then.
Something in her stomach tightened and she had to put down her phone.
It was the quickest shower and change she’d ever done in her life. She dumped her scrubs into the laundry and grabbed her bag from her locker and ran. Had she kept her waiting? She hoped not.
Vortex was waiting outside, sat on an idling motorbike. She had just turned the engine off and was taking off her helmet as First Aid came down the steps and tried to not look too eager.
“I’m sorry!” She sounded breathless. She felt breathless - Vortex was dressed head to toe in leather and she’d popped her motorcycle jacket open and revealed the crop top she wore underneath that exposed her stomach and god she felt dizzy because the angels hadn’t lost their wings and she had a happy trail that-
“S’fine, babe.” Vortex was smiling at her. “Need a ride?”
“I. Uhm.” She swallowed hard. “I drove here.”
“Aww, phooey. There goes my hot date idea.”
“It’ll fit in my car if I take the seats down.”
Vortex seemed to brighten at that. “I get to be the passenger princess?”
Driving with Vortex in the car was. Strange. She wasn’t used to having passengers and she was even less used to driving with a whole motorcycle in the back - but the car was more of a truck that her uncle had entrusted her with and it miraculously fit, just like she thought it would.
“What’s a girl like you doing driving something like this?” Vortex patted the dash.
“My uncle gave it to me.” First Aid replied. “What did you think I’d be driving?”
“A Mini Cooper.”
Hmm. She could see the vision.
She parked up outside of her building in her spot in the car park, pulling up the handbrake and turning off the engine. “What did you want me for?” She asked. Vortex leaned forwards, hands resting on the centre console - she could smell her perfume, heady in the way that had her heart thudding in her chest, and tried to not let her eyes flutter down to her stomach again.
“I’m calling in that favour you owe me. Lemme take you out to dinner.”
“Where’s the favour?”
“You be seen out in public with me.”
“That’s not a bad thing.”
“It is when it’s me, love.”
“I don’t think it is, so let’s just say this is giving you time to think of one. Let me go change.”
Vortex gave First Aid the only bike helmet she had despite her strong protest, and she held on tight with her eyes squeezed shut as they sped through the city. Vortex was grinning widely as she helped her off of the bike, her legs trembling.
“Aww, you just look the cutest.” She teased, easing the helmet off of her head and dumping it onto her bike before wrapping her arms around her and holding her tight. “Like a little newborn lamb.”
“Are you sure you weren’t speeding?” First Aid tightly clung on back to her.
“I’d never speed with precious cargo.” Vortex replied.
It had been terrifying. It had been exhilarating. She never wanted to do it again, but knew that she had to if she wanted to make it back home.
Vortex had surprised her with a restaurant on the quay, chairs and tables spilling out onto the boardwalk. It was still too cold to sit outside, but Vortex had located the tables that had the heaters that radiated warmth down to them like they were chicken nuggets under a heat lamp and did a surprisingly wonderful job at keeping the cold away. And, lucky them, blankets were neatly folded and waiting for them.
“What do you want to drink? I’ll go order it for us.”
“I think I’ll need a wine to calm me down.”
Vortex barked her signature laugh, First Aid feeling her knees go weak and that bubbly feeling flitter about in her chest.
“Alright babe - you a white girl? Rosé? A red wildcard?”
“Rosé’s fine. Sweet.”
“Ace. Back in a few.”
First Aid slumped down at the table, flicking the button to activate the heat lamp, before the situation suddenly hit.
This was a date, wasn’t it? You didn’t just take people out to dinner as a favour. Oh. First Aid felt her face heat.
And then suddenly catch a chill as she realised that she hadn’t paid any mind to what she looked like. Quickly grabbing her phone, she turned the camera back to face her and began fussing with her hair. The helmet didn’t help her case any, but other than that it looked okay. It was acceptable. If she’d thought about it a little she’d maybe have defined her curls a little more or made it look more interesting, but this was okay.
She was wearing makeup – thank god – but she hadn’t done anything special about it. It was the bog-standard style that she did for work, with the products that didn’t move for love or for money so it would survive whatever the day threw at her. It just would have been nice if she’d had the opportunity to try and dress up a little bit for her. Vortex looked hot, but then she always did to her. Especially so when she had blood on her. Christ, especially so. She quickly put her phone down and away so she didn’t let that train of thought depart from the station.
Vortex was very well behaved. Surprisingly so - First Aid was impressed. She leaned her chin into her palm as she swirled the last of her wine in her glass - she’d only had just the one, she had work in the morning - and twisted to look at her. They were sat on the same side of the table, a blanket strewn over both of their shoulders. Their knees were pressed together, heat radiating up from the point of connection.
“This is a date, isn’t it.” She asked. The pizza they’d shared sat between them, trace remnants of it the only thing left behind. Vortex mirrored her posture.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Why’s that?”
“Makes me feel less awkward about the way I want you.” Her hand slipped onto her thigh, a thrill going through First Aid at how the tips of her fingers dug in. She did the only thing she could think of and kissed her. Vortex, initially surprised, promptly kissed her back.
The kiss didn’t feel like it ended until they fell through the doorway of her apartment - First Aid barely remembered the ride back. The door locked behind them as it closed, spit connecting them. Their hands were buried in the others hair, holding the other close.
“You okay with where this is going?” First Aid breathlessly asked. Vortex responded by picking her up, wrapping her thighs around her waist and leaning forwards to whisper into her ear.
“Tell me where you want me.”
First Aid felt dizzy and pointed to her bedroom.
-------------------------------
Vortex didn’t turn up the next week. This was normal - Vortex simply rotated through locations with the rest of her team. She did it regularly and it wasn’t the first time. First Aid didn’t know what to expect, though. Maybe that she’d say something to her now? They had each other’s numbers. They’d messaged each other before. And, dare she say it, they had both enjoyed a very wonderful evening together.
Two weeks. Nothing.
First Aid had the sinking feeling that maybe Vortex had just seen her as a conquest and she had put too much thought and investment into it. Just because they’d had sex it didn’t mean anything. She could have just been a one night stand, a passing stranger who’d caught her eye only enough to make for an interesting story to tell at parties.
Three. Still nothing.
She had only cried about it a little bit over a bottle of wine. Had she been too easy? God, she was useless.
It was a stupid slip of the tongue that gave away the fact she was working as an unlicensed medic on the side. Ratchet found out about the fighting ring when her parents asked her if she was free to come to a family get together, and when he was sat next to her she had said that she was busy working. Her uncle had frowned at her and said that she wasn’t on the rota. First Aid couldn’t come up with lies about a second job fast enough.
A heated argument between her and Ratchet promptly followed, leading to an explosive one between Ratchet and Pharma at the hospital. First Aid had listened to it from outside the door, heart pounding in her chest and palms sweating profusely. Ratchet spoke about her medical licence being at risk. Pharma had replied that it wasn’t his concern.
Four. Her landlord had also decided that maybe he should make repairs to the building, and she’d been temporarily moved whilst they took place. While she appreciated not being made homeless, she still felt aggravated that she didn’t know how long said repairs would take.
It was pissing it down after she finished work that day. She sat in the car for a moment and listened to the rain hitting the roof, noisily drumming away on the metal. The hospital had been hell on Earth. It felt like every idiot in the city had decided to get themselves into such a situation that they needed A&E. It felt like half of the city had turned up that day on top of their frequent fliers. She felt awful for feeling that way – truly, it was a privilege that they had access to the care that they did and people only went for help when they felt they needed it, of course everyone deserved the care and the attention they provided and she wanted them to feel better, but. God. She was so tired. She was exhausted. And she didn’t know when the axe was going to fall and she’d find herself without a job.
The new building was admittedly much nicer than her old one, but also felt much more temporary. The hallways were more external walkways, with wooden bannisters and wooden flooring and a roof that kept the weather away to a certain extent. It looked a lot like the kind of apartment complexes you’d get at hotels and resorts, only instead of luxury rooms they were small not-so-luxury flats. They didn’t have cracks or holes in the walls. She didn’t have to stuff newspaper into the gaps. There wasn’t a random breeze or suspicious stains. So First Aid liked them.
She was pretty sure she’d seen Vortex. Someone was talking to her on the street and she was laughing and smiling and tucking her hair behind her ear. It was down for once too - she’d only ever seen it forced into two twin plaits, and seeing it out and loose had her heart skipping a beat even as it sunk deep in her chest and an ache radiated out. So she was still around, then. Part of her wanted to give her excuses. Reasons why she may have been giving her radio silence. It was ridiculous and stupid. Vortex had gotten what she’d wanted from her, and probably in record time too. The world’s fastest fuck. Brilliant.
She was depressed enough to want to sleep in her car just for the change of scenery, but the temperature was dropping and she didn’t have anything warm there. Zipping up her coat and throwing up her hood, she ducked out and clasped her bag tightly to her chest as she made a beeline for the stairs. The puddles were already deep and completely unavoidable, water splashing up her legs as she power walked. Her backside was still wet from where she’d slipped in the car park at work and she wasn’t keen on a repeat.
There was someone stood on the walkway. First Aid internally sighed as she hoped it wasn’t her neighbour – she was sure that they were very lovely but they always wanted to chat for hours and she was just not in the mood for it today. She took the stairs carefully, the wood slick, and quickly glanced at them – they were sopping wet and taller than the neighbour was. So it wasn’t them – thank goodness. She just wanted to curl up in bed and mope. The last month had sucked.
“Hey, I was wondering if you could help me. Do you-?”
That voice was awfully familiar. First Aid had already stopped when they’d started speaking to her, but when the other person had registered her face they’d both stopped and stared at each other in silence for a moment.
Vortex.
Her heart twisted.
“I finally found you.” Vortex was shivering.
She looked like a sopping wet cat. Water dripped from her hair, saturated and heavy and beginning to curl. Her clothes glistened. She wiped at her face and tried to dry it as best as she could.
“Can I come in?”
She always did find it hard to say no.
“Go shower.” First Aid instructed as she opened the door. “You must be freezing.”
As Vortex showered, she rummaged through her clothes to try and find her something to wear. She was bigger than she was - stronger, taller, more built. She liked oversized tops so that wouldn’t have been much of an issue, but bottoms-wise…
First Aid couldn’t find anything. She grabbed a dressing gown instead and hoped it would be enough.
Vortex stepped out of the bathroom, squeezing the ends of her hair with a towel and running her finger through to detangle it.
“Aid?” She called.
“In here.” First Aid called back.
Seconds later she appeared, walking in and coming to a stop on the other side of the sofa. First Aid stood up, not sure what to do. It wasn’t that she didn’t want her there because she did and she had missed her so terribly, but she was still so upset with her. After a month of no contact what was she supposed to think? She couldn’t let her think that was okay or that she was fine with just being a casual fuck whenever she felt like it, because she wasn’t. Vortex stared at her for a moment before speaking.
“You didn’t tell me you’d moved.”
“You didn’t tell me you’d changed rings.”
It was petty. Very petty. But Vortex had just used her - even if she had been a very enthusiastic participant - and she felt strung along and very much taken for a ride. All that interest she’d shown her for weeks and it had simply evaporated the moment she’d opened her legs. Typical.
“I didn’t think I’d need to.”
“Likewise, then.”
Vortex was frowning at her. “I sense I’ve done something wrong.”
“I think we had different expectations for where things were going. Your clothes are drying now,” she nodded her head to the kitchen door where a humming noise was coming from, “so you’ll need to wait for an hour, if that’s okay?”
“Is this your way of saying you don’t want to see me any more?” She sounded absolutely gutted and it was enough to make First Aid reassess. Was she serious?
“I didn’t think you were interested in me?”
Vortex looked flabbergasted. “What?”
“It’s been a month since I last heard from you.” She fidgeted with the hem of her jumper, suddenly hyper-aware of herself. She didn’t know why she felt so self conscious when Vortex was stood in her living room with just a t-shirt on, her dressing gown slung over her shoulders. Her legs were bare. She could see her underwear. “Complete radio silence after you got what you wanted from me. What else am I supposed to think?”
“Ah. Right. I see my error.” Vortex at least had the decency to look ashamed. “Yeahhhh.”
First Aid had had a long day and her already worn thin patience was beginning to fray. What she was saying and how she was acting simply weren’t compatible with each other. Was she just looking for a convenient fuck? Scoping out the easiest lay on her roster? It had already worked on her once. It wasn’t going to happen again. If she didn’t step out now she was going to end up snapping at her.
“Glad we got that sorted, then.” She tersely said. “Just stay here and don’t touch anything, okay? I’m going to get changed.” Her own clothes were still wet from the rain and she quite wanted to get out of them.
“Wait, Aid,” Vortex stepped out to grab her wrist as she went by, the berth she gave her not quite wide enough. “I’m sorry, yeah? I’m not. Uhm.” She was going a most wonderful shade of pink. “I like you a lot and I don't know what I'm doing, and I…”
She wanted to believe her. She really, really did.
“And your first instinct was to pretend I didn’t exist?”
“Not my finest.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She wasn’t doing this when she could feel her trousers sticking to her legs. Snatching her wrist back, she marched to her bedroom and began the task of peeling off her wet clothes. They sat in a pile on her floor as she got her pyjamas on, and she scooped them up to dump them straight into the laundry basket to go into the washing machine as soon as the dryer was done.
Vortex was in the kitchen, crouched in front of the dryer and watching her clothes spin. She seemed to be sulking, but First Aid couldn’t bring herself to care all that much. It still stung.
“I live with a bunch of emotionally stunted men, you know. I thought I was different. ‘As long as I’m not like them I’m fine’, yanno? And then I’m just the same? Man, that bites.”
She didn’t know what to do. If she continued to give her the cold shoulder then they’d never sort out whatever it was that they had going on with each other. If she extended an olive branch, it would just tell her that she could do it again and all would be forgiven.
She knelt down on the floor next to her and joined her in watching the clothes go around. Vortex had looked so pathetic when she’d found her, soaked through and shaking with pale lips and pallid skin. How long had she been out there for? The shower had helped, colour had returned to her face and her flat was warm enough that she didn’t seem to mind only her core being warmed. Was she being polite because she knew she was already on thin ice?
“Did you want to try again?” First Aid asked. Fine. One chance - she’d give her one chance.
Vortex was careful to protect her head so she didn’t catch it on the handles of the kitchen cupboards as she kissed her.
Waking up the next morning seemed like an almost impossible task. There was a warm and pleasant weight strewn over her and she didn’t much want to come out from underneath it. She curled into it instead, the lump groaning and twisting to press its face into her neck. Lips brushed against the tender skin and she sighed happily, head tilting back into her pillow to allow for better access.
“What time is it?” Vortex’s voice was still thick with sleep as she sat up, eyes narrowed as she looked for her phone. The t-shirt she’d given her was rumpled and pulled down too far at the front, exposing her collar and the red marks that were peppered along it. Oops.
“Mm. I don’t know.” First Aid rolled over to be on her front and stretched. There was a deep, pleasant ache that permeated everything. The curtains were still drawn, the soft glow of an early morning sun shining through. Apparently yesterday’s storm had passed, the sun managing to break through the clouds.
Vortex located her phone and tersely tutted. “Six missed calls? That’s a bit excessive.”
“Who’s calling you?”
“Ons.” She yawned and stretched, falling back down into bed again and settling in as if going back to sleep. “Ugh. I don’t wanna get up.”
“Don’t you have work?”
“Mmhm.” Vortex miserably replied. She cracked an eye open and looked at her. “Wanna pull a sickie?”
“Tragically I can’t either.” First Aid sighed. “I need to keep up my hours.”
“Shame.”
Vortex took her clothes from the dryer - they’d never gotten round to taking them out last night - and got changed in the bedroom. First Aid thought she must have been doing it on purpose - making her watch her undress and slowly pull her clothes back on again, making her eyes follow the lines her nails had raked across her back and the marks she’d left at her throat.
She checked the time on her phone and hummed.
“I’ve got time.”
“I can quickly make you a coffee-?” First Aid began to offer, too distracted to think of it earlier, when Vortex was kneeling down on the bed and pushing the duvet out of the way, pulling her closer by the thighs and leaning into her as she kissed her. First Aid’s hands tangled in her hair as she rolled her hips up into hers, gasping and moaning and-
Vortex’s phone loudly vibrated on the bedside table. She pulled away and rolled her eyes, blindly grabbing it and checking the caller ID.
Onslaught. She sighed and sat back, First Aid’s thighs still wrapped around her hips, and answered.
“Yell’ow?”
It was quiet, but First Aid could hear Onslaught on the other end.
“Where the hell are you? We were about to start checking ditches.”
“I’m fine. About to head to the office, actually.” She ran her free hand over First Aid’s thigh and squeezed. Onslaughts reply was obscured by the pounding of her heart in her ears and how she wanted that hand to go higher, please go higher my god-
Vortex laughed and dragged her nails along her inner thigh and First Aid had to bite her hand. Shit! Oh, she was never going to forgive her if she went radio silent again. She was never going to forget her.
The call must have ended because both of her hands were on her thighs again.
“What’re you doing tomorrow evening?”
You, hopefully.
She’d had to give the thought a moment to pass so she didn’t say it out loud.
The Mech AU welcomes a new character! Enter: Thundercracker!
Read here or on AO3!
A world fragmented by war and a global invasion they were struggling to hold the line for, yet alone repel, was a perfect cooking pot to produce some pretty horrific people.
Thundercracker first witnessed this with the arrival of Megatron and his group. Sensing an opportunity, they had risen up and swept in where governments were losing their hold, where they had stepped back and surrendered the land to let it rot and collapse at the hands of the Quintesson forces that had arrived there nearby. They were sacrifices, the distraction meant to buy time for them to scramble together a defence for the things and the people they considered to be valuable. They weren’t meant to survive and take the story of how they had been abandoned out with them.
But with Megatron there, many of them did survive. And with their survival came their loyalty.
Thundercracker was at first loyal. He believed their cause. How dare they leave their own people to rot? How dare they not give them the choice and instead thrust upon them such responsibility? You must die for the greater good. You do not have the right to object. Their own homes were the altars on which they were to lay themselves down and offer themselves to ravenous beasts set on consuming everything they had to offer. It was barbaric. A safe place for living had become their coffin. He would have preferred being dragged out down the street and to somewhere unknown and unfamiliar rather than tarnish the memory of his home.
It was when Megatron stopped saving people and started subjugating them that Thundercracker felt his loyalty waver. That wasn’t right - that hadn’t been what the deal was. He’d joined them to resist and to fight - what were they doing marching into people’s homes and making these demands for? Why did they have to submit or die? The explanations were long winded and charismatic but boiled down to not actually telling anyone much. They were liberating them. They were being freed. It didn’t feel much like liberation when they looked at him with abject fear and disgust whenever he walked by bearing the symbol of their so-called saviour. It didn’t feel much like liberation when they were oppressed and subject to new laws and rules that restricted their freedoms, all in the name of a peace that they didn’t know. Megatrons conquest was starting to leave a sour taste in his mouth. How long was he going to accept this? To tolerate it?
There were contacts of theirs who were less than savoury, but it was the less than savoury people who had the connections. Everything they did and operated on relied on trust and being able to stand on your own two feet should things go tits up. It was these connections that Thundercracker knew he would need to get himself out of the mess he’d gone and gotten himself tangled into.
It was one of Starscream’s groups who’d caught his attention. Thundercracker didn’t know why, but he thought it may have been something to do with how none of them bore any particular loyalty to them and seemed to have nothing but outright contempt for Megatron, only there for the money and for the work that kept their hands busy and their gears oiled. They scratched backs and very much expected the same in return. We’ll do this if you pay us this much and give us passage through here. We’ll do it, but you need to do this for us. Those kinds of deals. The ones where you couldn’t get things done for money alone. As much as they held them in contempt, they were stunningly good at what they did and always got the job done, very rarely did they return to them with bad news.
They’d be his best bet at getting out of there, he was willing to wager.
Getting the opportunity to talk to them without prying eyes was difficult but not impossible. You just had to catch them in both a sociable mood and at a time where they’d be hanging around for a bit. They were usually so quick to go, always moving onto the next thing. Sometimes, though, they’d stick around for a short while before leaving. This was what Thundercracker waited for, obediently continuing his tasks and doing what was expected and anticipated from him so as to not rouse any suspicion, and it happened on a day when the sun was shining brightly and the sky a bright blue that you could just fall into. It wasn’t fitting weather for a betrayal. It was warm and pleasant and the wind was the perfect temperature to complement the heat. It should have been grey and dingy and miserable. Rain should have been lashing down and wind should have been ratting the windows hard enough to break them.
It allowed for them to sit outside. Thundercracker scanned the benches on the shaded side – no sign of them. That was okay. They were still there and apparently wouldn’t be leaving for a few days – Starscream had said something about a negotiation and them needing to borrow Vortex’s expertise. Thundercracker didn’t pry. He walked around to the sunny side, keeping to the shade, and began to look again. Maybe they’d be inside and out of the heat? Didn’t they live out in the desert? The cool interior of the building was probably a treat for them.
Brawl was the easiest one to talk to. Onslaught and Blast Off were difficult in their own ways - Onslaught didn’t much want for company at the best of times, and Blast Off was. Well. Blast Off. Swindle was near impossible to get alone, the man a social butterfly and always with someone. That, and he seemed to view every interaction as a chance for a transaction and he would be selling you shit you didn’t realise you were buying up until the bank cards came out. Vortex was easy to talk to but you were always left feeling like you’d put your hand on chewed up gum that was still wet under a table afterwards, and when he got comfortable and let the mask slip it was just. Unsettling. So he didn’t actually want to talk to him, especially now that Vortex seemed to know that the dead look in his eyes made him uneasy and that the way he assessed him as if he were looking for weak spots made him squirm and did it on purpose for his own amusement.
So that left Brawl. And while that wasn’t to say he was perfectly fine and completely normal and there was nothing at all wrong with him, because he absolutely did have a few screws loose and his temper was extremely easy to trigger, he actually seemed to want to talk to people and didn’t consider him to be a nuisance. Or in the case of Swindle and Vortex, prey.
The only problem was his default speaking voice was yelling.
He’d need to take him elsewhere. He couldn’t risk anyone overhearing - he just. Couldn’t. It wasn’t worth the risk. It lead to the conclusion that he would have to invite him off base, and now he would need to find an excuse to get him out and away from anywhere Megatron had eyes and ears.
Why is it so hard to think when I really need to?
The same brain that kept him up at night with incessant thoughts and ideas and realisations was now frustratingly quiet. Thundercracker scanned the outdoor area for a familiar figure, frowning into the crowd that had come to enjoy the good weather. No sign of him. Disappointment filled his chest at the same time as relief - he had more time to think of an excuse, but if he didn’t find him in time…
“Oh, good, you are here!”
Thundercracker just about jumped out of his skin as Brawl materialised behind him. He wasn’t sure how he managed it given he was literally audible as he walked, jingling all the way with his earrings and the keychains on top of how his feet pounded the ground.
Brawl continued. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Stay still, will you?”
“You’ve been looking for me?”
Brawl had something in his hand and he lifted it to show him with a wide grin. It looked like a bundle of fireworks - maybe firecrackers?
“Wanna go set these off together?”
Oh, Brawl, you genius.
“Yes!” He responded a little too eagerly.
They couldn’t set off the firecrackers too close to base, so they’d had to go further out to do it. People had seen Brawl and Throwable Explosives and promptly decided that they actually didn’t fancy going and seeing what the fuss was about, and so they remained very much undisturbed as they went out to their secluded spot.
Fireworks were a rare novelty these days. Explosives were pretty much reserved for military use - recreational explosives were so highly restricted and regulated that they didn’t exist any more to the common man. Those who had access to the raw materials could make their own, but…
Brawl was taking a lighter out of his pocket when Thundercracker put his hand on his hand to stop him.
“Actually, I need to talk to you about something first.”
He, surprisingly, listened intently. Thundercracker tip-toed around his dissatisfaction but Brawl was blunt and to the point with his own. He didn’t like working with Megatron and neither did his boss; if it screwed him over even a little bit, they would do it. Apparently they were looking to bounce themselves in the near future. Something was getting hotter than they liked and they knew their time was limited - what was it if they took an extra head with them in the chaos? They could probably use the help. It was a promise that had Thundercracker linking his little finger with Brawl’s and closing his eyes, the ancient gesture of a pact that sealed itself where skin met skin. He would be coming back for him.
The firecrackers danced across the sand as they loudly cracked and banged. Their cheers echoed against the rock face.
Every time they fought and bickered, Brawl always followed it up with an angry last word that Thundercracker could never find a response to. I’m still coming back for you, a finger sternly pointed to him. A reassurance. This doesn’t change anything. We promised each other.
People were starting to get the wrong idea about what he meant, but neither of them corrected it. How could they explain what he actually meant? It was impossible.
Maybe part of the difficulty was because Thundercracker didn’t want it to be just a rumour - they’d had a few flings together, sure, the brief periods of time they had and the lack of privacy didn’t allow for much more, but it would have been. Nice. If it was something more. Permanent. Maybe. Thundercracker thinks, anyway - he’d always found that he wasn’t sure what he wanted when it came to other people.
They’d suddenly vanished into thin air one day. Nobody had heard a thing about them or what had happened - communications just suddenly stopped and all of their sources said the same thing. They were there one day, and weren’t there any more the next. Poof. Gone, as if they’d never existed. That kind of thing just didn’t happen. Whole teams of mercenaries as notorious as them didn’t just wipe themselves clear off of the surface of the Earth without someone talking about it, but nobody knew where they had gone.
Did they do it? Did they get away? Or did it catch up to them?
It was a question that hung around him and clung to the back of his mind as he did his best to rework and plan his own escape. He couldn’t turn to them any more. For whatever reason, Brawl hadn’t kept good on his promise to him. He’d be figuring it out on his own.
Hot Spot, for all intents and purposes, had quite a normal childhood. Growing up in Scotland, he had the luxury of being able to avoid the worst of the invasions and he didn’t actually see a Quintesson until he was thirteen years old. It had washed up dead on the beach. People died from coming into contact with its blood before the authorities could step in and block off access, and he still had vivid memories of the blue that stained their sclera bright cyan and poured from their noses. The first time he saw a live one he was sixteen - and by then he knew that he didn’t want to stay on the farm for the rest of his life anyway. He couldn’t be a pilot - having not been conscripted as a child due to his vital worker status he just didn’t have the experience required and was on a severe back-foot compared to his classmates - but he could go into the search and rescue branch. With the emergency services as stretched as they were, he’d spent every single summer since he was big enough to reach the pedals driving tractors with huge water tanks to put out fires on the farm, and when he was a little older still he went out to the neighbouring farms to help them whenever he saw smoke on the horizon. Nobody ever reached them in time. It was up to them to do it themselves, and Hot Spot found that he loved it.
Doing it in the city wasn’t much different. They couldn’t always rely on their alert systems being powered, especially when the heat of the summer kicked in full force and the national grid struggled to cope with it, so they relied a lot on visual cues. First Aid had a sensitive nose. Whenever he paused with his nose up in the air, Hot Spot was quick to grab the binoculars and scan the skyline.
It was summer. The day was hot and the climate control in the mech only did so much when he was working so hard - sweat dripped down his forehead and dampened his under layers and he couldn’t wait for a shower.
The quintesson fell down dead into the sea with a splash that lapped up at the thighs of the mech – of Onslaught. Hot Spot could feel the tactile sensation of the water on his skin and shivered. There wasn’t a way to describe how it felt. It was weird, but refreshing – it took him back to being a kid and wading into the loch on the days when it was just too hot to do anything. He’d walk past a strawberry bush and swipe some on his way under his parents noses to snack on as he sunk his toes into the cool silt beneath the water.
Onslaught gave him the impression of a man who was angry, defeated, and yet still defiant. The embers had burned low but they still had a warm glow that was ready to ignite at a moments notice. The wind just needed to change and the flame would catch. He didn’t talk all that much in the beginning, mostly one word answers – but slowly Hot Spot could feel him warm up to him. They would never be friends, but they could work together, and that suited him just fine. Patrols were passed with stories of shared experiences, or of things that the other could never imagine their team getting up to. A lot of Onslaught’s sounded downright illegal. Onslaught said that his team sounded like they would have been rejected as kids from the military, so it was probably a good thing they didn’t end up conscripted. It raised his hackles but there wasn’t a malicious thread in his thoughts on the matter – more an observation.
The sore spot came with his team. Specifically, Blast Off. He’d made the mistake of referring to him as Jean-Luc once. It was not a mistake he would be repeating, the back of his head still smarting where Onslaught had whipped it with the back of the chair.
He was painstakingly being repaired by their team still – they’d found more damage than initially expected and were taking the time to reinforce his abdomen so that they’d have a harder time getting in and taking the mech down again. Swindle had a grim face stained with guilt whenever he looked at him and he’d overheard him talking to Cosmos about how he should have designed him better, how he’d never been a close-combat fighter and he should have had more armour. Whenever he went out on a drop with Onslaught he felt bare, like he was missing something. It left a sick feeling deep pit in his stomach and he could feel a memory teasing at the back of his head that slipped between his fingers whenever he reached out for it. Something about Jean-Luc and him getting hurt – getting hurt bad. To the point where they weren’t sure if he’d be coming back. It lasted as long as it took for Onslaught to hastily rip it away from him and left him reeling to catch his breath.
“It’s the kind of weather that makes you wish you had strawberries, doesn’t it?” Hot Spot asked as they waded back through the ocean and towards the Shatterdome. Vortex was somewhere behind them splashing in the waves – apparently he liked to jump on the corpses to see how they burst underwater. Onslaught easily dismissed it but Hot Spot found it a bit harder when he thought about First Aid in the cockpit.
A memory slipped free from Onslaught’s side of the connection. A young boy – young enough that he couldn’t possibly have been of conscription age – sitting in a garden on a swinging bench and eating the biggest, juiciest strawberries Hot Spot had ever seen.
“They still grow?” Onslaught asked.
“Did you struggle to get them?”
“I haven’t seen a fresh one since I was nineteen.”
Oh. That was sad. Hot Spot had learned early on that if he showed the pity on his face he’d feel Onslaught whacking him on the forehead so he kept his expression politely neutral.
“I guess MRE’s didn’t prioritise fresh stuff, did they? I don’t remember seeing anything that resembled a fresh fruit or vegetable in the ones they gave us.”
“Defeats the point of an MRE.”
“True.” He wistfully sighed. “They could have tried to make them nicer, though.”
“I think they wanted some of us to starve. The only person I know who actually liked them is Vortex, but he’s not a standard to be held to.”
Hot Spot couldn’t stop the change in his expression as he grimaced. “Yeah, no thanks. No offence.”
“None taken, he is a nutcase.”
Hot Spot snorted. “I don’t think you should talk about your team like that.” He chided. He felt the sensation of a shrug and of someone folding their arms over their chest.
“He knows full well what we all think of him and he embraces it.”
“He sounds like Blades.” Hot Spot began pressing buttons to initiate their return to base – adjusting the radio, making sure their weapons systems were fully offline, beginning the protocols that would let Onslaught properly shut down. Onslaught hadn’t quite fully figured out how to do the controls himself yet, so had begrudgingly acknowledged that he needed to step aside to let Hot Spot take on the task. “Do you think they’d get along?”
“I think Vortex would eat him alive.”
“I think you’re underestimating Blades – he’d give him a run for his money. The only thing keeping him in line is me and the fact he doesn’t have a mech.”
“Sounds like quite the wildcard.”
“He really is.” He input the final code as they got to the dock. “God forbid anything happen to First Aid, but if Blades ever had to step in for him I don’t think we’d have a Shatterdome any more.”
Onslaught laughed and the corners of Hot Spots lips curled up.
It's the one I can't post to here again! A double up, oooohhh. Vortex gets his hands on that ass one more time & Onslaught experiences post-nut clarity ig
