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It had started so small – taking over a shift here, do some extra cleaning duty there – and looking back Sunstreaker could not pinpoint the moment when the requests had turned from professional to personal. All his focus at the time had been on being helpful, useful, hoping that some day his brothers in arms would forgive him for his past mistakes and trust him again. He had known that any such process would take time and patience on his part but he had been determined to succeed.
That felt like an eternity ago, and in all honesty he wasn’t sure if he had made any true progress at all.
Doing extra shifts of monitor duty, washrack-cleaning, inventory and other tedious tasks was, although boring, not a problem. Running errands and basically playing fetch for some mechs was more or less okay, even though he could tell much of it wasn’t strictly necessary and intended solely as a way of testing his limits.
The first thing he remembered that was completely personal was when Mirage had asked him to polish his frame after a stint in the medbay. At first Sunstreaker had felt flattered and hopeful – not only was Mirage meticulous about his finish and Sunstreaker being entrusted to work on it seemed like a huge step forward, even though literally everyone knew that the yellow twin was a pro with paint and buffer; The white and blue spy had also suffered personally from Sunstreaker’s act of treason, having been accused of being the traitor himself, and if he was willing to give the yellow twin a second chance it surely must mean Sunstreaker was making progress.
After that first time the polishing had become something of a routine and Mirage had started allowing Sunstreaker in his presence even in public, which had had a striking impact on how the frontliner was treated. He still wasn’t a popular mech by any stretch of the word and no one really talked to him, but the hostile glares lost some of their fervor and mechs stopped going quiet and leaving as soon as he entered the room.
Then came the orn when during the by now ornly polishing sessions the former noble had retracted his interface panel and expected Sunstreaker to work on his intimate hardware as well. Sunstreaker had stared at him in astonishment, which had quickly morphed to anger and disgust as the former noble had merely smiled down at him. He’d stormed out of Mirage’s quarters without a word.
For five orns after that Mirage had completely ignored Sunstreaker’s existence, even going as far as deliberately looking right through him. This had the effect of other Bots, all of whom had been aware of the noblemech’s apparent patronage of the yellow frontliner, suddenly avoiding him as well.
The renewed isolation was more than Sunstreaker could deal with and when Mirage approached him on the sixth orn as if nothing had happened he had followed him without a word, doing everything he was asked.
As he had feared the polishing soon turned into a hand job. Four orns after that his hand had not been enough anymore and he had found himself with Mirage’s spike between his lips. He had just barely managed to keep from purging his tanks until he was back in his own quarters afterwards, humiliation burning in his entire frame. He vowed never to touch the mech again, social consequences be damned.
The decision held for no more than three orns.
Just like the polishing, the blow jobs became an ornly routine. Thankfully the noble didn’t seem to have the least bit of interest in actually interfacing and he never actively touched Sunstreaker, for which the frontliner was grateful. Emotional detachment from what he was doing didn’t take long to establish itself and at least he wasn’t alone. That was a good thing, wasn’t it?
The next hurdle came the orn when Mirage wasn’t alone in his quarters when Sunstreaker arrived. Sunstreaker had almost turned and left but the look in the former noble’s optics had stopped him. He knew what would happen if he left, and when Mirage calmly informed him that the mech – Sunstreaker didn’t know him by name – was only there to watch he forced himself to believe that one witness to his humiliation was the lesser evil. Even so, his spark had burned with shame as he knelt before Mirage and heard the unknown mech’s fans kick up in arousal.
Soon witnesses became a routine, too, and there were usually two or three other mechs present during Sunstreaker’s sessions with Mirage, pleasuring themselves while watching the handsome golden warrior work the former noblemech’s spike with his mouth. Sunstreaker shuttered his optics and took his audios offline to escape the sounds and sight of them but no matter how hard he tried he could not block the flares of their EM-fields or the ozone and static in the air from their overloads.
The first time any of them touched him was another moment when he almost caved and fled, only held back by Mirage’s words that a frame as beautiful as his surely deserved to be worshipped, didn’t it? Deep inside Sunstreaker knew that the noblemech was only mocking him but the battered remains of his self-esteem wanted it to be true, longed for any kind of approval, and so he held still as they touched, fondled and caressed him, only his helm moving in rhythm with Mirage’s undulating hips.
Then one orn one of them started digging at his interface cover, and this time Sunstreaker did snap, pushing them all away and storming out of the room without finishing Mirage. He didn’t even fully register what he was doing until he’d reached his own quarters, trembling with rage and something else he couldn’t put words on. Once more he swore never to let Mirage or any of his disgusting sidekicks touch him again, no matter what.
Eight orns later a rumour start flying around the base. No one seemed to know who had started it but it spread like fire in a refinery.
“Did you hear about Sunstreaker? Apparently he tried to take things a bit too far with Mirage in the washracks about a decaorn ago. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Primus knows what would’ve happened if someone hadn’t walked in on them. That’s why Mirage’s been avoiding him ever since.”
“Frag, I knew the mech was a psycho but I had no idea he was that far gone. And to try something like that against Mirage of all mechs, who’s actually tried to be kind to him. What an utter glitch.”
And so it went on. The yellow frontliner tried to ignore the whispers and the way mecha either glared at or shied away from him when he met them in the corridors but it happened all the time, a nagging, constant reminder that in spite of his efforts to redeem himself the apparent progress he’d made was nothing but an illusion.
All because he’d wanted to cling on to what little dignity he had left and refused to let Mirage’s accomplices use him.
A couple of orns later the rumours had reached the higher ups and Sunstreaker was summoned for a talk with the base commander. He spent the better part of three breems listening to the mech rant on about how this kind of behavior was beyond deplorable and anyone capable of committing such an act was utterly unworthy of wearing the Autobrand. The only reason Sunstreaker wasn’t already in the brig was that Mirage had not wanted to discuss the matter and declined to press charges.
For every klik Sunstreaker found it increasingly difficult to remain silent. He wanted to scream at the mech that it was all lies, that he’d never touched Mirage except for when he’d been coerced into doing so by the former noble himself, that it was Mirage who’d been taking advantage of him and not the other way around.
Even so, apart from a terse ”yes, sir” in response to the officer’s stern comment that he hoped Sunstreaker realized just how serious this all was, the yellow mech didn’t utter a word. After all, what could he say? The commander hadn’t even asked for his version of events or given him any chance to explain and was obviously already biased against him. Any counter accusations against Mirage made by Sunstreaker would only serve to make his case even worse.
He returned to his quarters in a cold rage, glaring daggers at the mechs he met on the way, all of whom looked at him with poorly disguised disgust and contempt.
He had not been officially confined to quarters but since his pet insecticon Bob was the only creature whose company he currently didn’t mind he rarely left except when he was on duty – which, he noticed bitterly, was now limited only to tedious tasks like cleaning and loading/unloading cargo shipments. Apparently they no longer trusted him with either monitor or guard duty, and since patrols always went in pairs and no one wanted to be alone with the alleged offender that wasn’t an option either.
More isolated than ever Sunstreaker tried to tell himself that their opinions didn’t matter, that he’d always been an outsider anyway and didn’t give a flying frag if no one wanted him around; that he didn’t need them and would rather spend any day on his own than being taunted and used by his fellow soldiers. Deep inside he knew it was a lie, that the isolation did bother him and that he was desperate to win their approval, but he refused to listen to that voice.
The only time he found a modicum of peace of mind was when he left the crowded parts of the base and withdrew – he refused to use the word ‘escaped’ – to the roof of the complex where he could be alone with the stars, Bob and his thoughts of happier times.
And that was where it happened.
He’d been on the verge of entering a light recharge, trusting Bob to keep guard, when his battle-honed senses picked up the sound of covertly approaching steps. Quickly he got to his pedes but before he could do anything two shots were fired and Sunstreaker felt his frame lose power and sag back towards the roof surface as a stun blast hit him squarely in the chest, scrambling visual as well as audial input and setting his processor spinning wildly.
He felt the slight tremors of the approaching steps and heard someone say something but couldn’t make out the words, nor identify the voice. There was laughter and then someone rolled him over on his back. His vision was beginning to clear but before he could make out any identifying features of any of his attackers one of them shoved a can of spray paint into his face and emptied half of it in his optics, coating the lenses completely and turning Sunstreaker’s world black.
“There we go,” said one of the voices with a clearly audible grin and Sunstreaker tensed and tried to growl as whoever it was grabbed him by the chin and turned his helm back and forth, presumably to make sure the frontliner was well and truly blinded. His vocalizer only spat static, a common side effect of stun shots with an EMP charge, and the mechs around him laughed again.
“Just look at him: the high and mighty Sunstreaker, finally dignifying us mere mortals with his divine presence. You didn’t really think we’d let you get away, did you? Filthy traitors like you don’t deserve a second chance. The only redeeming quality you have is your gorgeous frame but of course you were too stuck up to share it, even after all Mirage and the rest of us did for you. Well guess what, pretty mech, we’re going to have it anyway. You may tell yourself that your good looks make you special but without them you are nothing and you know that as well as we do, don’t you? So tell me, sunshine, who do you think would care for you if it weren’t for the pretty façade, eh?”
The speaker pressed something hard and sharp – a claw, a dagger? – against the corner of Sunstreaker’s left optic, applied some pressure and then slowly pulled downwards, carving a deep scratch all the way down to the yellow twin’s chin. Sunstreaker grunted in equal parts pain and anger and tried to lift his arms to push the slagger away but his limbs wouldn’t obey him. He felt another cut being made on his other cheek, then someone else scratched what felt like a large glyph into his chest plate. He couldn’t make out what it said but was convinced it wasn’t flattering.
“Very pretty,” one of the voices said, followed by a snicker from someone else. A pair of hands swept over his chest in a mocking parody of a lover’s caress and another set appeared on his abdomen, sliding suggestively along the edges of his hip armour. The frontliner tried to snarl at them again, wishing he was able to tell them just what Primus forsaken smelting pit they should go and throw themselves into, but as before his vocalizer produced nothing but static. Then someone pushed his legs apart and started fondling the inside of his thighs and yet another set of hands – Primus, how many of them were there?! – grabbed his helm, tilting it backwards as a glossa sneaked in between the yellow mech’s unresisting lips, catching them in a very one-sided kiss. Sunstreaker’s engine revved in protest but there was nothing he could do to stop them.
“Hmm, something tells me our lovely avatar of Primus isn’t very happy with our efforts to worship his frame,” the voice from before continued, again to general amusement. “Lucky for him then that we have such an extensive program prepared to demonstrate just how much we appreciate his beauty, eh?”
Sunstreaker tried to shut out the cheering and the chorus of ‘frag yeah’ that followed, feeling sick to his core. He had known from the moment the paralyzing shot hit him what was going to happen but that made neither the taunting nor the violation any easier to bear.
Someone unceremoniously deprived him of the cover over his interface panel and Sunstreaker felt a pair of fingers probe the entrance of his valve. He tried to force his legs to move, wanting nothing more than to plant his pedes right in the face of the mech molesting him, and again felt furious frustration when his limbs didn’t even twitch. Not being in control was something he hated even on a good orn and being so utterly helpless to protect himself made him feel weak and pathetic.
“Anyone’s got any lube? He’s drier than dust in there.”
Some shuffling around was heard and the probing fingers were withdrawn, only to reappear moments later coated in something cold and gooey. They slid in easily this time and even though Sunstreaker certainly felt tense his paralyzed frame was actually limp and unresisting which helped make the penetration painless, albeit far from comfortable given his unaroused state.
“Don’t you worry, sweetspark,” one of them said as if they’d read his thoughts, “we’ll get you all wet and warm soon enough.”
“What’s he feel like?”
“Well, his baseline config is pretty tight so I’d say he either likes being stretched a lot or this thing hasn’t seen much use over the past few vorns.”
“Of course it hasn’t,” someone else said, voice dripping with scorn. “After all, who would be willing to put up with him long enough to actually get him into a berth?”
“Well, as long as he’s this accommodating I for one certainly don’t mind ‘putting up with’ him,” another voice added in a lewd undertone. "Just imagine how popular he'd be if he was like this all the time!”
Raucous laughter met that remark and Sunstreaker felt humiliation burn at his spark, all the fiercer because he knew there was more than a grain of truth in their words. Nine mechs out of ten would probably rather see him splayed out like this, as an object for their sexual fantasies, than spend the time and effort to actually get to know him, and that one exception was more likely to avoid him altogether than the alternative.
“I guess we’ll have to give him a proper stretch then and see if he still remembers how to dilate.”
The lubricant-coated fingers were pulled free of his valve and Sunstreaker felt the mech between his legs change positions. Mentally bracing himself the yellow mech struggled to distance himself from his frame as the other’s spike begun working its way into him. The lubricant did a decent job of smoothing the surface friction but the stretch still hurt as the systems that should have helped him adjust to the other’s girth were offline due to his lack of arousal. The only thing that would shift the mechanisms while they were unpowered was pressure, a lot of it, and in such a sensor rich area Sunstreaker knew – as did his assailants – that that would not be a painless procedure unless you were very, very careful.
Unsurprisingly, none of them were. The first one only took about half a klik to force himself in completely and the burn from that only worsened as spike after spike followed. Enough of them choose to overload inside him that their transfluid kept keeping friction low but after nine or ten of them had used him – or maybe there were fewer of them and they’d merely started another round, Sunstreaker couldn’t tell – the constant chafing was beginning to wear on his valve lining.
The longer the assault lasted the more grateful Sunstreaker found himself that his lack of motor control prevented him from showing much in way of reactions. Like this he could at least keep up a hint of an illusion that he was stronger than they thought him, that they couldn’t break him no matter how hard they tried. The only thing they got as it was was the occasional burst of static from his malfunctioning vocaliser and Primus knew they already made enough of that, mocking and laughing at him every time it happened. He just knew they would have loved to hear him scream and he was no longer sure he’d have been able to stop himself from doing so had he had the ability.
He would rather deactivate than give them that satisfaction.
After what seemed like an eternity the mech inside him withdrew and no one stepped forward to replace him, and Sunstreaker hoped with all his spark that meant they were finally done with him. He currently lay draped over something that felt like a large pipe, his forehelm against the floor, aft in the air and with sticky, semi-dried fluids splattered all over him, causing his plating to itch. He heard his tormentors talk about the “piece of art” they had created, what a lovely display it was and how they would treasure the memory files and the image captions forever but Sunstreaker felt too drained to really care anymore. He just wished they’d leave him the frag alone so he could lick his wounds in solitude. He had noticed the paralysing effect was starting to slowly wear off; he couldn’t really do more than twitch fingers and other small, random plates yet but he thought it might only be another half joor or so before he was able to move, albeit slowly, under his own power again.
Suddenly it was suspiciously quiet around him and Sunstreaker found himself wondering if he’d zoned out for a moment and missed the sounds of them leaving. He strained his audios and picked up a shuffling sound somewhere behind him but before he could figure out what it was someone grabbed his helm and turned it sideways. The yellow frontliner grunted in protest and flinched as whoever it was gently touched the gouges that had been carved into his face. They were deep and uneven and Sunstreaker knew they were likely to scar unless a very good medic oversaw the repair process.
To his surprise he caught the smell of solvent and a moment later a soaked cloth padded his optical lenses, removing the paint that blinded him. It took almost three kliks for enough of it to come off to let him catch a blurry image of what was in front of him, and when it did he first felt icy fear and then searing anger race through his spark.
It was Mirage.
The mech was smiling at him but it was a cold, mocking smile and Sunstreaker knew the mech had come for the sole purpose of gloating. He was fairly certain that the former noble had not been among the mechs raping him but he had little doubt Mirage was the one who had masterminded the attack.
For almost an entire klik the two of the just looked at each other, one smugly, triumphantly superior, the other burning with furious, impotent hatred.
Mirage swept his thumb over the cuts in Sunstreaker’s face again, clearly not caring that his fingers got stained by the transfluid left there by the rapists.
“Tell me, Sunstreaker, how much do you know about insecticons?”
Sunstreaker glared suspiciously at the him while his processor struggled to make sense of the former noble’s question. He knew it had to be part of a threat or an insult of some kind, but unless they were planning to take him off base, dump him somewhere and let him lie there until he was found by the swarm and presumably eaten he just couldn’t figure out what Mirage was driving at with his obviously rhetorical question since he knew full well Sunstreaker couldn’t reply.
“They are quite fascinating creatures, actually,” the noble went on in a conversational tone. “Strong and fierce, and despite their limited intelligence they have managed to thwart our every attempt to exterminate them. And they have an interesting ability that we Cybertronians lack: they can create their own young. Apparently their frames somehow form pods out of the fluids produced during interfacing and these globs eventually turn into fully functional insecticons.”
Sunstreaker was still failing to see the point of the noblemech’s rambling and suspected the mech was either just messing with him or trying to distract him from something.
“Now, the thing our scientists disagree on,” Mirage continued, “is whether the insecticon carrier actually contributes anything vital, chemically speaking, to that process, or if they are merely the vessel for the young to form in. One way of finding out would of course be to have an insecticon try to impregnate something else and see what happens, but as far as I know no such experiment has ever been carried out… yet.”
Mirage’s lips curled in a wicked grin and Sunstreaker suddenly felt a shock of disbelief mixed with revulsion and terror flash through him. Surely the mech couldn’t possibly be intending to…!
Mirage’s grin widened as he saw understanding in the yellow frontliner’s optics.
“Aren’t you proud to be part of such a noble endeavour, Sunstreaker, to help us better understand our enemies? I’m sure you will be remembered practically forever for this.” He gave Sunstreaker’s cheek an insulting little pat and at that same moment the frontliner felt some thing rub against the back of his thighs and heard an all too familiar kind of chirring and clicking of mandibles.
It was not possible! Had they really risked their lives to capture an insecticon just for the fun of watching it try to… to impregnate him? Mirage was obviously not afraid so they must have some very reliable way of controlling it but wild insecticons were still incredibly dangerous. And how did they know it wouldn’t just try to eat the frontliner, rather than ‘face him?
Then he felt something familiar in the creature’s field and realised it wasn’t a wild insecticon at all; they were using Bob! Sunstreaker had completely forgotten that his pet bug had been with him when they attacked and now they had done something to the insecticon to induce him to –
Sunstreaker cut that processing thread before it got any further. He could not bear thinking of it.
“It’s not difficult to chemically trigger mating protocols in mechanimals,” Mirage said, still sounding calm and completely unaffected by the atrocity he had set in motion. “In the Golden Age, when Cybertron still had a fauna, we used it all the time to encourage the beasts we wanted to breed, and as I suspected it works just as well on insecticons.”
Sunstreaker shuddered as he felt Bob sniff at his aft and tried desperately to summon the strength to move. He couldn’t let this happen, he just couldn’t.
“Right now it’s investigating the traces of your previous partners,” the former noble continued, “to see if any of them is a rival it knows it needs to avoid. The smell will also help it determine if you are already carrying, in which case it’d leave you alone, but since we all know you aren’t…”
Shut up, SHUT THE FRAG UP! Sunstreaker screamed in his mind, a burst of static echoing his demand out loud. The sound seemed to puzzle Bob who stopped nuzzling his master’s aft for a moment before resuming as if nothing had happened.
“Next step will be making sure there is no transfluid left inside you that might contaminate its own… donation,” Mirage pressed on relentlessly, obviously taking great pleasure in the effect his words had on the helpless mech. “I’m told they tend to be very thorough in this.”
Sunstreaker once more felt the urge to scream as something thin and wet started flicking around the rim of his valve and he soon realised Bob was licking him. He hadn’t even known insecticons had glossas, and when the strangely shaped but very nimble organ went into his valve he thought he was going to purge. The touches were surprisingly light and didn’t hurt much in spite of the battered state of his valve but the sensation was so utterly wrong , like having a living parasite crawling around inside him.
“And now I’m going to back away,” Mirage said and gently lowered Sunstreakers helm to the floor again. “Once it mounts you it’ll view you as its mate for now and anyone venturing too close will run the risk of being attacked. I’d really rather not kill it at this stage, or explain to Medical how I managed to get myself bitten. But we’ll all be close by, never fear. Just relax and enjoy yourself.”
With a final, patronizing pat on Sunstreaker’s helm the noble rose to his pedes and slowly moved away. Bob froze for a moment and hissed after him but then returned his focus to cleaning his master’s valve.
Sunstreaker fought to keep panic in check as he tried desperately to think of anything that might prevent what was about to happen. He didn’t know how much of what Mirage had said was actually true, but the mere possibility that this might result in tiny insecticons crawling around inside him was enough to nearly make him glitch.
He managed to focus his EM-field and push it against the insecticon in a signal that meant ‘go away’. Normally Bob would obey such a command at once but this time all Sunstreaker got for his trouble was a chirr and a nuzzle that sent shivers along his back strut. He tried again and again but the insecticon seemed completely insusceptible to anything outside the influence of the mating protocols and just kept licking Sunstreaker’s valve. The frontliner heard Mirage and the other mechs laugh and make comments from some distance away and cursed them in every language he could think of. As if rendering him helpless and using him as their frag toy wasn’t bad enough, they’d stand there pointing and laughing as he was molested by a heat-driven beast they had unleashed on him.
And mecha called him a shame to the Autobrand.
His field flared again and he felt what must be Bob’s tiny, armlike second pair of forelimbs gently stroke the back of his thighs in what was probably an instinctual, soothing reaction to the stress the bug picked up in his master’s field. Sunstreaker was torn between absolute disgust at the entire situation and a kind of bitter gratitude that Bob, at least for one of his kind, was trying to be gentle and caring.
Unlike his fellow mecha.
It took another three kliks before Bob was content with his cleaning but once he was he quickly climbed on top of Sunstreaker, using his powerful front legs to lift his master’s torso and pin it against his chest. Sunstreaker made one last desperate attempt to tear himself free but his limbs were still barely able to move at all and it wasn’t anywhere near enough to break the insecticon’s grip. He heard whistling and cheering from his audience and felt anger and hatred collide with disgust and fear as the sore rim of his valve was prodded once more. Sunstreaker had no idea what an insecticon spike might be like or even how large it would be and he hoped and prayed it wouldn’t cause him irreparable damage.
It was something of a relief when the insecticon’s spike slid home and it proved to be fairly similar to that of an average mech both in length, girth and texture. It still hurt but not beyond endurance and the bug seemed satisfied with moving in and out at a leisurely pace, with none of the vigorous pounding he’d been subjected to earlier, and Sunstreaker was grateful beyond words for that small mercy.
The calm rocking continued for several kliks and the jeering from the spectators died away as they had obviously hoped for a livelier show. It gave Sunstreaker a small sense of satisfaction, no matter how inconsequential a victory it was in the midst of his suffering. He then felt the pace slow even further until Bob came to a complete standstill, resting heavily on Sunstreaker’s back while he held his spike fully hilted in his master’s valve. The golden mech almost dared to hope that would be the extent of it, that there was something an insecticon valve would have that he lacked and that was necessary for the mating to be fully consummated. Even though he didn’t blame Bob for his part in this it didn’t change the fact that being unwillingly ‘faced by a beast was disgusting enough on its own but the thought of being filled with its possibly pod-creating transfluid as well was many, many times worse.
Unfortunately for Sunstreaker the universe had other ideas for him. Soon after the rocking had stopped Bob’s spike started swelling, first filling the channel it was embedded and then stretching it further until Sunstreaker thought he was going to be split in half. His vocalizer spat static as he struggled mindlessly to get out of Bob’s grip and away from the burning agony between his legs. He was no longer thinking, only reacting, and didn’t even hear the renewed cackling of the audience as the show got exciting once more. Bob’s strong forelegs held him like a vice though and the yellow mech’s struggles, weak as they were, only served to cause him more pain.
On the brink of unconsciousness Sunstreaker felt a shudder run through the frame pressed tightly against his back and then a burning sensation overtook him as the rod inside him began discharging its load, pumping spurt after spurt of transfluid into him. The swelled spike blocked any fluids from escaping, putting pressure even on the innermost parts of Sunstreaker’s valve. Mechanisms struggled to accommodate the intrusion but they were already fully dilated and not designed to handle this kind of abuse.
Then suddenly something cracked inside him and a new kind of pain exploded over the yellow mech’s sensor net.
With a violent convulsion and scream of raw agony Sunstreaker was plunged into darkness.
***
“What the frag was that? Don’t tell me the glitch just overloaded!”
Mirage grinned at his partners in crime, all of whom were looking at him for an explanation of Sunstreaker’s reaction.
“Oh no, he didn’t,” the noble replied, smug satisfaction in his voice. “Unless I’m very much mistaken our pretty little thing there just experienced a valve rupture. It can happen if something too large for your specs is inserted, or the pressure suddenly surpasses the strength of the overlapping seams when your valve is fully dilated.”
“Ouch!” one of the others said emphatically, although still grinning widely in admiration. “Did you know that would happen when the bug fragged him?”
“I knew there was a good chance,” Mirage confirmed. “Insecticons have an extra chamber connected to their valves, which will open to receive the donor’s transfluid once the pressure is high enough. To create such pressure insecticon spikes will swell before overload to make sure nothing gets out the wrong way. Of course,” he added with a smile, “their valves have a much simpler but sturdier construction than our kind does so they can’t be damaged by it. Apparently either the swelling itself or the added pressure from the insecticon’s overload was too much for Sunstreaker’s specs.”
Someone whistled in awe.
“Damn, that’s cool. Does that mean he now has insecticon gunk all over his internals?”
“Yep.”
General laughter met the simple but satisfied reply.
“Seriously, remind me never to get on your wrong side, Mirage. How the frag do you know so much about these things anyway?”
Mirage’s only reply was a smirk and: “Trade secret.”
“Fair enough. So, what now? We leave them up here and go back to our lives as if nothing happened?”
“Not quite yet,” Mirage said, “We’ve got some pre-emptive damage control to do first. While I very much doubt Sunstreaker is going to go and tell anyone about this we want to make absolutely sure that no one will take him seriously if he does. I’d like to stage some pictures that make it look like the two of them are interfacing consensually. Then one or two of you can start spreading the story of how you came up here one night and stumbled across their dirty secret. Show the photographic evidence after some token reluctance and the rumour mill will do the rest. Everyone will be convinced Sunstreaker is secretly having an intimate relationship with his pet and that will destroy any credibility he has left. As long as we clean him up on the outside and add some more scratches to his chest to cover that glyph – that was a stupid thing to do, by the way – there will be no physical evidence implicating anyone but his pet insecticon.” The former noble grinned again. “And I honestly don’t know what would damage Sunstreaker’s reputation more; letting mecha believe he ‘faced the creature willingly, or that he was attacked and raped by his heat-crazed pet and failed to defend himself.”
The entire group laughed at the thought.
“You really think of everything, Mirage. This is absolutely brilliant!” one of them praised. “What did you have in mind for the incriminating photos?”
“We can experiment a bit but at least one like they are now, as in ‘utterly spent after overloading,’ and one with Sunstreaker on all fours with the beast mounting him. I can prop them up while in stealth mode to make it look real. And if that spike has gone down enough to get it out of his valve I’d love to see his lips around it. That’d be the ultimate degradation.”
“I love the way your processor works, ‘Raj,” another one said. “Everyone knows he’s desperate for approval but to sink as low as sucking insecticon spike for it…” He chuckled. “He’ll never recover from that!”
“Exactly.”
“Oh, by the way: is there really a chance the bug may have knocked him up?”
Mirage snorted. “Of course not. He lacks the proper nanites to activate the transfluid, as well as a carrying chamber to create the right conditions for the pods to form.”
“But he doesn’t know that,” someone else continued triumphantly, “and so he’ll spend DECAORNS worrying that some little glob may remain somewhere in his internals and slowly turn into a little parasite. And he can’t really ask any of the medics or scientists about it, either, without confirming the rumours that he lets his pet frag him. He’s slagged either way.”
“Serves him right,” one of the others added.
“Yeah, you’ll get no argument from me on that point,” a third chimed in, then made a gesture towards Sunstreaker and Bob. “Think we need to tranq the bug again before we start?”
“Yes,” Mirage confirmed and pulled his gun from subspace. “It’s not really offline right now, just very focused on keeping its mate pinned until all its transfluid has been absorbed.” He went over to the collapsed pair, placed the gun against Bob’s back and fired. He hesitated for a moment, then for good measure shot the prone frontliner as well. He gave a faint, twisted smile, seemingly lost in thought for a moment, then turned to his fellow conspirators. “All right then, come here and help me get them repositioned.”
***
When Sunstreaker onlined his chrono informed him that he’d been offline for nearly two and a half joor. His first attempt at moving was met with screaming protests radiating from his abdomen and it took another two breem before he managed to get his arms under him and slowly, laboriously push himself up on all fours. He noted absently that he was no longer bent over the pipe as he had been when he went offline and concluded that they had probably moved him. He wondered briefly what they might have done to him while he was offline but it didn’t really matter - it could hardly be worse than what they’d already done before he lost consciousness.
Movement to his left startled him and even when he saw it was only Bob – now seemingly back to his normal self and acting just like he did when Sunstreaker returned wounded from a battle – it took nearly four kliks for his spark rate to go down again.
Curse those rust-ridden slaghelms to the pit!
He felt liquid ooze down his thighs and, which was even worse, along some of his internal struts. The realisation that the fluids weren’t only in his valve but in his abdominal cavity as well sent a burst of panic through him. He’d planned to get himself to a wash rack and clean out his valve - with acid if need be - as soon as he could move again but there was no way he’d get rid of all of Bob’s transfluid if it had leaked into other systems. He tried hard not to think of what Mirage had said but the mental image and phantom feeling of tiny buglets crawling round inside him proved too much for him. His frame cramped and he purged his tank, half-processed energon burning his throat and mouth on its way up. Nausea overwhelmed him and he felt his arms start to give, just barely managing to push himself aside enough to avoid faceplanting in the puddle of energon.
He felt drained inside out and had no idea how he was going to be able to get up, never mind somehow make it down from the roof in this state, preferably without attracting anyone’s attention. As a frontliner he had a very high tolerance for pain but even he had limits and the stabbing sensations that tore through his abdomen every time he moved were pushing them.
He heard Bob sit down next to him and soon felt the expected push against his hand, which was the insecticon’s way of begging for attention. When that didn’t work the bug lay down and managed to wedge his head in under Sunstreaker’s arm, giving off a distressed, whining chirr when his master still didn’t react.
Sunstreaker didn’t know why, after all he’d been through, that tiny sound would be the thing that finally broke him but it was. Emotions he normally kept locked deep inside suddenly rushed to the surface, refusing any attempt at holding them back, and a half-strangled wail rose unbidden from his vocaliser.
And for the first time in over 400 vorns, Sunstreaker started crying.