Rating: M
Chapter 5
Business was just business, as they
said.
Tracks checked his reflection quickly
in his pocket mirror, smoothing out the last of the small wrinkles on
his clothes, before closing the mirror and slipping it away in his
coat pocket. He could feel optics focused on his back struts, and
with a coy backwards glance, postured his hips enticingly; stretching
excessively as he slipped on the sleeves of his Designer jacket. “I
look forward to our next meeting,” he said to the staring mech.
His partner -another autodog- merely
sniffed derisively, crossing bulky forearms over a buff chassis.
“Don't take this so seriously,” the rottweiler sneered; the
impudent attitude having returned after their blissful interface.
The slim autodog turned about, striding
up to the other 'bot and pecking him on the cheekplates before a word
could escape the mech's vocalizer. “I don't,” he answered back,
pulling away and out of servo range. “I just appreciate a mech
whose good in the berth and out of it. Your.... oh, what was that
chap's name again....,” Tracks drawled as he sashayed for the door.
He could feel the autodog getting tense behind him and didn't mind
that his teasing was bound to send the other into a rage.
“Ah, yes,” he exclaimed, having
drawn up the name, “Optimus. He is lucky to have your
affections. Just wait 'til he knows all the amazing things he can
experience with a spike like yours.”
“Shut up,” came the
expectant growl.
Tracks had already made it to the door
though, and felt no threat from the dangerous sound. He turned one
last time, flashing the other mech with a cheeky grin. “I thank you
for all your business today. Please feel free to call our company
again when you require my services, Mr. Sentinel Prime.”
And then he was gone, with a shake of
his beautiful pomeranian tail.
xxXxXxx
It was hard living the glam life.
Most 'bots wouldn't have bothered. The
pedigrees, the reputations, the styles and the trends..... it was too
much work for most others to waste their time and energy on. The
economy shifted too often to fall into the business side of money,
and fashion expired almost every cycle -something new, something
better chasing just after its predecessors' heels. To stay on top of
that ever-changing chaos shook the core of mechs and femmes alike,
who opted to have inner stability than to grovel for illusions and
smoke.
Tracks could not do the same though.
Born a pedigree, he was introduced to
the life of high-class society through most of his sparkling years.
Everything he wanted, and more, was given to him. He had every
luxury, every item, every dream and all the aft-kissing affection he
could hunger for. But like money had a tendency of doing, the money
that built his family was soon lost, and they were once again demoted
to a standard way of life. His creators, having been New Bloods to
start with, were quick to make the transition back to their old
common ways. For Tracks though, it wasn't as simple. Each memory of
gleaming silverware, diamonds and gold silk stood out avidly in his
processor; tempting and teasing him with things that were so far out
of his reach now. A love for the aesthetics implemented itself into
his young CPU; shaping his disdain for anything simple and robust,
and building a sharp optic for reading and interpreting the trends.
The belief in his spark that only those
chaotic things of high-class standards were worth his attention
gained rapid foothold in the sparkling, and the world got an eyeful
of the Tracks that would forever be.
Throughout his school stellar cycles
-elementary and high school- the pomeranian pup maintained the best
looks; keeping a top priority for hygiene and fashionable clothes,
garnering many envious looks. He wasn't always able to get all the
most trendy gadgets, having been put in a restrictive budget
lifestyle, but he saved the credits he received from his creators as
allowance and when a major shift happened in the market, Tracks was
one of the first to have the newly appointed gizmo or accessory. But
he didn't just stop there. Oh no, indeed not.
Though holding a high preference for
beauty (as it was shaped by the rest of the world), Tracks was also
aware that aesthetics weren't enough. Money wasn't susceptible just
to the beautiful (they did gain some extra lead though); it was also
a given for the intelligent, who made a habit of keeping and gaining
more money after being pretty was no longer an option. Knowing this,
the autodog put a fair amount of his time into his studies as well.
Granted, he wasn't a genius.... but his marks were never a decimal
below a ninety percent average, and he still looked handsome doing it
all. He wasn't just limited to his school courses either.
Tracks threw himself into nearly
everything -strategies, music, business and culture for example. He
sought out knowledge where he thought it to best be and soaked it all
up like a dry sponge. By the time he was entering into his youngling
years, the little pomeranian was ever so refined and smart that
nearly everyone he met hated him, for they saw him as nothing more
than a snooty, spoiled rich mutt. Tracks didn't really care; at the
end of the orn, they still all wanted to be him anyhow. Staying true
to the portrayal that he was one-up on the other autodogs, Tracks
even learned everything he could about interfacing and biology.
Granted, at such a young age the thought of that much open sexual
expression and domineering prowess made the pomeranian curl his nose
with slight disgust; being too reserved and untouched to find any
sense in what he had learned.
That changed as well though, after
having his spark-broken by a mech he truly cared for and shared his
first interface with. Not allowing himself to slip into depression
after that ordeal, Tracks returned to his archived memories of
interfacing and began to put those lessons to use. The world had
never seen a more harrowing sight than of that orn when beautiful,
refined, intelligent Tracks stepped outside the safety of his home,
oozing such amazing confidence and sexual appeal. Even the most
austere of 'bots had a hard time keeping their processors off of the
seductive pomeranian afterwards. Empowered by this new trait, the
autodog came to the epiphany of a life-time, ensuring him the best
and straightest path to his life-long dream: a place up among the
rest of high society, surrounded by glamor and money.
Tracks realized, a youngling just
cresting the last of his high school stellar cycles, that with his
looks and his smarts and his sexual dominance, he could easily be
getting other 'bots to pay him for the time spent in his presence.
After all, it was only reasonable.
It seemed almost like destiny that
Tracks found himself on the pay-roll of the city's most elite Escort
service only a decacycle after coming to this decision.
xxXxXxx
“Good afternoon Tracks. Had a good
lunch?”
The pomeranian stopped in his strut,
turning to the speaker, a smile coming to his rouge-coloured
faceplates once he saw who it was. “Ah, Mirage,” Tracks greeted
warmly. He quickened to the table that the other autodog sat at,
sitting in one of the ruby, plush chairs. “Terrible bit of news my
charming friend -there'll be a staggering drop of value in diamonds
soon, so best to refuse those flashy little gems. You'll want to get
your clients to buy you sapphires. Those'll be of top value in the
market once the diamonds go.”
“Oh?,” the yorkshire terrier
replied, fork playing with his small plate of servo salad
distractedly. “How kind of you to share this with me, Tracks. You
aren't always so charitable.”
“Indeed not,” Tracks hummed. He
leaned in quickly to the fallen Noble and placed a chaste kiss on his
lip components before drawing back and reclining easily in his seat
once more. “But you are my favourite mech here, and I wanted you to
know. Besides, you look best bedecked in sapphires.”
Mirage pursed his lips sourly at the
flirtatious comment, surplussed that his companion had kissed him
without permission. Again. “You really need to stop doing that,”
he said, stabbing his salad viciously now before taking a monstrous
bite. He did not care that his other coworkers in the lounge stared
at his classless behaviour; it was none of their slagging business
anyhow.
Tracks merely smirked at the yorkie's
temper, ears perked in evident amusement. “Oh, yes, you asked me
about my lunch, didn't you?,” the pomeranian began, having
remembered the initial conversation.
“Not sure that I really care to know
anymore....,” the blue mech grumbled, but he was dutifully ignored
by the taller autodog who went on to answer the question.
“I had a terrific lunch today. Yes,
indeed..... Regular client who needed himself a fix before the start
of the afternoon shift. It's amazing how much stamina he has......
truly a wonder that we were even able to stop before his lunch hour
was over,” Tracks beamed, optics half-shuttered as he replayed the
memory files of the past joor.
Mirage fully scowled now, ears
flattened against his helm with apparent revulsion. “I don't
understand how you can say such things like that, let alone sleep
with a strange mutt. Sometimes I wonder if this job isn't just a
glorified whore house.....” The yorkshire terrier rose to his
pedes, grabbing his plate of half-eaten servo salad; decidedly no
longer hungry. The pomeranian copied his motion, walking by the other
autodog's side as they crossed the room.
“Come, come now, Mirage,” his
partner said. “Don't be so cynical. Not all escorts sleep with the
clientele -certainly I would never interface with a 'bot that I found
displeasing.”
“You wouldn't even take the client if
you found them displeasing, no matter the job,” Mirage pointed out
snippily.
“Exactly!,” Tracks rebutted. “That
there is the difference between the work we do, and a pleasure 'bot,
my friend. We have the ultimate choice in the end to accept or
refuse our customers. Whores don't have that option. They don't have
privacy either, where as us escorts are low-key and protected by the
company, so that our self-respect is maintained. Plus, not all
assignments require sleeping with our clients. Many of them just
require us to look pretty and speak proper so that the customer has a
beautiful, respectable date for an evening out.”
“And so your lunch-time romp is....?”
“Just a middle-class mech,” the
autodog answered, waving his servo dismissively. “Nobody really
important. He does some security work and has some top-notch
credentials, but he's nothing like my other clients. Then again, it's
not as if he's asking for a date..... he just needs someone for an
interface here and there, but a 'bot that is clean and reputable so
he won't be tarnished either should our interactions get out. I
wouldn't comply to his requests if he wanted to show me around.”
Mirage tossed the last of his meal into
one of the garbage cans, putting his plate on the counter over top of
the bin. “So basically, as long as he's not trying to take you out
to the theatre or the club, you'll willingly have a quick interface
with him in a storage closet,” the yorkshire terrier noted.
“Yep!,” Tracks replied. The pair
walked out of the lounge together, heading to the elevator lifts. The
company they worked for was set in a privately owned condominium
complex, who was kind enough to let their employees rent out
apartments in the building for a subsidized rate. Mirage and Tracks
were literally neighbours, sharing the only two apartments on the
seventh floor. As much as he enjoyed the other autodog's company,
Tracks wished he had the penthouse suite. It was a better living
arrangement for his glamourous life, as the pomeranian viewed it. But
nobody was able to rent the penthouse -it was the home and head
office of their manager. “It would be nice to move into something
more spacious, with a 360 degree view,” the multi-coloured mech
sighed, pressing the button for the lift.
Mirage merely shook his helm, crossing
his arms over his chassis loosely. “You'll never be satisfied with
what you have, will you?” It was a rhetorical question, so Tracks
did not bother to answer.
“Speaking of satisfied,” the
pomeranian piped up as the elevator doors dinged open before them. “I
hear there is going to be an opening bash at that new club downtown.
It's gossiped to be the ritziest thing since Botanica's greenhouse
gallery was opened. Want to come with me tonight and test the waters?
Only the beautiful and rich are getting in today.”
Mirage mulled it over as he stepped
into the elevator with Tracks, his finger pressing the button for
their floor. “No, I think not,” he eventually answered. “Clubbing
really isn't my thing.”
“Psh,” Tracks denied. “You, my
dear Mirage, need to get out some more. Blue Blood or not, if you
don't get into the scene quickly, you'll be shut out for good and
then how will you go about regaining your family's wealth?”
At that very moment, the pomeranian's
cell began to ring; saving him from the other autodog's wrath and
scandalized glare. “Yes?,” he asked, flipping the cell open. It
was quiet for a few astroseconds as Tracks listened to someone on the
other line, humming back his own retinue of attentiveness. “Alright,
I'll be up in a breem.” He closed the phone, slipping it back into
his jacket pocket.
“That was our dear house mother,”
the slim mech informed. “I'm wanted upstairs. Another client has
asked for me tonight.”
“Fair enough,” Mirage replied,
feeling all his anger leave him with the release of an intake. There
was no point getting mad over every little thing that Tracks said,
after all..... sometimes the mutt was as proud and ignorantly rude as
the people that the blue mech had grown up with. “I suppose then
that you won't be going to that club.”
“We'll see,” Tracks grinned,
reaching over and pressing the button for the top floor.
xxXxXxx
He had been, in fact, able to go
clubbing that night.
Tracks wound his arms about the femme's
waist, pulling her flush against his body as they gyrated to the
throbbing music; pulsing lights flashing overhead, and hot frames
pressed in around either side of them. Her pretty little labrador
tail thumped lightly along his inner thigh, following the tempo of
the music that they were dancing too. He was having fun, Tracks would
have to admit, but he was getting tired of it all. A drink, he
surmised, was in order. Perhaps afterwards he could muster the will
for a couple more dances before guiding the other autodog out for a
late night espresso, followed by a walk home. Swaying to the song
still, the pomeranian began the anticipatory countdown -waiting for
the right moment to pull back and state his desire for a drink as the
music fell to a momentary pause before swelling again. As usual, he
timed it just right, and was drifting through the mashed-up crowd of
fellow dancers in only a few astroseconds. His 'date', as it were,
followed after behind him.
The bar was a masterpiece of shattered
glass fragments and gleaming metal, sculpted together in rare
harmony, that drew in and reflected the lights all around it in a
stunning display that was hard to avidly describe. Tracks could only
stutter on the word beautiful; finding that such an adjective still
fell short of the masterpiece before him. Tearing his optics away
from the exquisite bar, the autodog focused on the mech just behind
the counter. “Two high-grade cocktails; cold and bubbly,” he
ordered.
The surely autodog nodded his helm in
acknowledgement at the order, turning around to start mixing the
drinks. “I'm just heading to the powder room for a moment,” his
partner whispered to him, servos pressing on his forearm as she
reached to speak into his ear.
“I'll be waiting, darling,” Tracks
replied, turning to face her, fingers lifting that gorgeous chin of
hers. The labrador smiled at his flirtation, optics sparkling in
mischief. She pulled herself free from his grasp, turning about and
disappearing into the throng of 'bots. Content to sit and relax,
having optics shooting him interested glances over drinks and
shoulder platings alike, Tracks found his own optics roving over the
party scene this night. This club really had style, and the
pomeranian could see it retaining high-class business for the next
couple stellar cycles, if not more. He would definitely have to come
here again and possibly drag Mirage along as well.
The bartender placed their drinks on
the counter, and thanking the mech graciously, Tracks grabbed hold of
his own glass; returning to his viewing as he sipped at his cocktail.
As if pulled by an invisible force, the autodog found his optics
being drawn to the doorway. At that very moment a small entourage of
'bots were entering, a blue persian kittycon heading the pack. Tracks
could feel an optic ridge rising with curiosity. That mech was
dressed to the nines..... the most fashionable suit of the week, an
expensive designer silk tie, gold cufflinks and silver wrist watch.
This stranger was someone new, fresh and evidently prosperous. The
pomeranian could almost feel his wealth and opportunity from across
the room; the aura of skill and good fortune trailing after the
kittycon. It was hard for the autodog to tear his attention aware
from the 'bot, and it didn't help that the persian was unbelievably
handsome as well.
Tracks kept his optics on the group of
newcomers, watching as they headed for a staircase just beside the
DJ's platform and upstairs into the private booth on the second
floor. A large, blackened mirror kept the interior of the room hidden
from prying optics, but no doubt it allowed the people inside a
chance to view the dance floor below. The autodog felt a sudden urge
to get back out there and shake his tail. The thought of having that
mech's sharp, red-lit visor on his form made a shiver run down his
back struts. But before he could do so, his date for the evening
returned from her trip to the powder room; hips swaying as she
strutted up to the pomeranian.
“Ready to get out of here?,” she
asked, looking around the room in a motion that clearly stated she
was bored now.
Despite his reluctance, Tracks fixed on
a handsome smirk, holding his servo out for the labrador. “Of
course, my lady.” The femme took his servo graciously, giggling
softly at his chivalry. Holding her servo firmly, Tracks led himself
and the other autodog out into the cool night; his thoughts still on
the mysterious kittycon back inside the club.
xxXxXxx
Glasses tinkled lightly, soft laughter
and muted voices permeating the air, just a notch louder then the
music being performed by the live orchestra positioned at one end of
the hall. The crowd gathered tonight was of true high-class society,
decked out in the finest outfits of silk and other gorgeous fabrics;
femmes dressed in beautiful designer gowns from the world's top
fashion icons, and mechs suited up in tuxes both bought from a
boutique and tailor-made. All manner of jewels glittered on each of
the 'bots, their fur brushed, fluffed and dressed for a night of
regaling and good humour.
Holding a flute of the finest energon
-chilled and bubbly, just as he liked it- Tracks meandered about the
party; fluffy tail giving just the slightest bounce of a wag as he
walked. He was dressed simply this night, but equally as fine: crisp,
white dress shirt under a black, double-breasted satin vest, buttoned
up the front, with matching satin pants. A silver chain bracelet, set
with sapphires, a gift from his date this evening, encircled his
right wrist; the gems set in it so large that they reflected the
lights from the crystal diamond chandelier above in spotted, deep
blue hues on the objects nearest him. Despite the lack of excitement
happening here, Tracks was having himself a good time. He was
surrounded by all the finest things and most successful 'bots in the
world, acknowledged and admired as if he was one of them.
Which he planned to be soon.
Making his way around the crowd once
more, Tracks finally took notice of a particular kittycon mingling
with a couple very important CEOs of trade industries and energon
processing within and without the city. His blue optics zoomed onto
the beautiful blue persian ears and tail, his spark practically
leaping in excitement as he recognized those distinctive features.
There was the urge to go forth and speak to the strange mech, but the
pomeranian maintained his position; recognizing that it wasn't his
place to be so forward when he was being paid to spend the evening
with his client, and when the unknown kittycon was no doubt
discussing important business with the others. It made the autodog
grin though, as if answering his unspoken thoughts, when that sharp
visor lifted suddenly, resting upon Tracks.
With a flirtatious twirl of his hips,
Tracks turned in the opposite direction, losing himself in the crowd
once again.
xxXxXxx
He recognized that autodog.
Soundwave felt his visor dim in
contemplative thought, searching his memory banks as he tried to
recall where he had noted the pomeranian from. Lost in thought, the
kittycon began to lose focus of the conversation he was currently
having; all words and comments from Megatron escaping his notice. An
archived memory file of throbbing lights and pulsing music flooded
his sensory net; a twirling, beckoning frame that moved in time with
the music. Ah, that's right..... the persian remembered now. He had
seen the autodog at the Nemesis; the new club that he co-owned as a
side project. The mech had come many nights in the past decacycle,
with or without a date. His multi-coloured frame and beautiful fur
had drawn the kittycon's attention -the fact that he saw the other
mech now surprised him somewhat, but overall, pleased him. He would
have to do some further investigations, but Soundwave was convinced
that this autodog might be the one.....
“Apologies, gentlemen,” Soundwave
interrupted, in his usual monotone. “Attention: required
elsewhere.”
Megatron scowled at being cut off, but
his companion tactically touched the larger kittycon's arm, instantly
calming the CEO down. “We do not mind,” the seeker at his side
purred, shooting his mate pointed looks. “Business can be discussed
further this week. Megatron will see to it.” Grumbling further
still, the tabby backed down, nodding his helm acquiescently.
Thankful for the pardon, Soundwave was quick to leave. He wished to
catch the autodog before he lost sight of him completely.
It wasn't hard to locate the mech in
such a thin crowd.
The pomeranian was standing near the
doorway to the balconies, arching enticingly as he reached for an
hors d'oeuvre off the tray of a passing mech. Taking this moment of
distraction, the kittycon sidled up behind the unsuspecting autodog;
red visor committing the 'bot's details to memory. The mech before
him was only a couple inches shorter than himself, with metallic skin
of red, blue and silver colours. The clothes he wore sculpted his
lovely chassis and hugged his slim thighs, bringing attention to his
evident good looks and gorgeous tail. For an astrosecond, Soundwave
found himself almost hard-pressed not to reach out a servo and stroke
that luscious fur. Hearing his quiet rumble of approval, the autodog
turned about, stiffening slightly in surprise before a coy smile
graced his rouge faceplates.
“Good evening,” the slim 'bot
greeted in a sexy, cultured tone. His vivid blue optics sparkled
behind his glasses. “May I be of any assistance?”
'Yes,' the persian thought,
erotic thoughts rising in the face of the pomeranian's flirtation.
Soundwave was quick to fight them back. “Designation: Soundwave,”
the kittycon replied, avoiding the question. He held a servo out for
the autodog.
“Tracks,” the mech said, that coy
smile having yet to leave his lip components. He took hold of
Soundwave's servo, giving it a sturdy shake. “Charmed to meet you,
Soundwave.”
The way that Tracks said his name made
the kittycon's visor flash almost lustfully. This autodog was well
aware of his sensual appeal and was not afraid to use it. Soundwave
admired that. He was reluctant to release the pomeranian's servo, but
he did so, not wanting to push the boundaries between them. It was
not civilized behaviour to do the opposite, after all. Tracks, having
gotten his servo back finally, placed it behind his back; bringing
his flute of energon to his lips and sipping at it daintily. The
persian watched intently, almost transfixed by the sight.
“I don't recall seeing you around
before,” the autodog started, having finished his sip.
Soundwave refrained from shaking his
helm at the fuzziness infecting his processor. “Explanation: New to
town,” he answered. “I have come to set up another company for my
business.”
“Oh?,” Tracks asked. His ears
perked in obvious interest. “And just what is your business? We
have many trade and governing support systems here; it will be fierce
competition to make your mark.”
“Concern: unnecessary. Stocks and
primary functions rest in communications. No company has yet been
able to surpass my own.” The kittycon wasn't trying to be arrogant,
but it was the truth. His business, self-started no less, was already
climbing up in the field. He was revamping the communication network,
making them stronger, better and more self-sufficient. With amazing
technology at his servos, his company was beginning to garner some
attention for the level of perfection that his work entailed; other
businesses in turn being influenced and strengthened with his
company's involvement. There was no doubt in Soundwave's mind that
within the next megacycle he would have carved himself a nice niche
at the top of the world, ensuring constant stability for himself and
his business. His goal was to unite the entire whole of Cybertron
under his communication network, making his work invaluable.
As a new entrepreneur, it was not so
surprising that his name was still unknown among the higher circle of
business.
At the persian's boast, the autodog
raised an optic ridge; his smile growing just a little wider. He went
to say something, when his attention was suddenly drawn off to the
side. Soundwave was almost tempted to see what had distracted the
pomeranian, but did not wish to tear his own optics off the handsome
mech. “I'd love to stay and chat some more,” Tracks sighed almost
apologetically, his focus returning to the kittycon. “But
unfortunately, I am not here on my own free time tonight. I must get
back to work now.”
Soundwave nearly didn't react as the
autodog walked past him, that gorgeous tail brushing his knuckles
teasingly as the slim mech walked by. Finally, the persian realized
that Tracks was really walking away from him and turned to speak to
the pomeranian. “And if I wish to speak with you more?,” the 'bot
asked, not even touching on the question of what work the autodog
could surely need to do at an event like this.
Tracks stopped in his stride, peering
over his shoulder plating with lustful, half-shuttered optics. “Oh,
I'm sure you'll be able to find me without a problem. Put your great
communication network to practical use,” he smirked, teasing
good-naturedly. The mech started walking once again. “Goodnight,
Soundwave.”
Soundwave did not offer a farewell in
return, watching as Tracks made his way across the room, looping his
arm about another mech's and standing all pretty like for the crowd
of revellers. Annoyed, and confused, the kittycon turned away;
disappearing from the rest of the party.
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