Multiple ratings within
Chapter 43: Insectipuma II
Title: Insectipuma II
Rating: M
Even at a private school, lunchtime was
a somewhat loud affair. Turned away from his more louder and
obnoxious classmates, sat a young Insectipuma; staring quietly and
ignored out the classroom window. He only glanced away when he saw a
shadow move towards him in the glass' murky reflection, suppressing
his smile as he turned his helm to his cousin. Kickback grinned
loosely as he drew up to the other's side, holding out a lunch tray
with the chef's special dish that orn.
“You not eat yet; yet,” he
informed, “You should; should. Good to keep strength up; up.”
Shrapnel this time smiled, shortly and
reservedly, turning to his desk and sitting. The taller mech
followed, setting the tray down and grabbing another chair from a
nearby desk, sitting across from his cousin. Not saying anything,
Shrapnel gave quick thanks to the deities above, blessing the food
for himself, before digging in politely. Kickback watched him, optics
dim.
“Other day; day.....,” he started.
The smaller youngling paused with a
fork half-raised to his mouth, shuttering his optics up at his
companion. Kickback glanced away respectively. “Other day, that
mech; mech,” he continued, despite the flinch Shrapnel gave, “He
said some awful things; things. Could not ask when we got home, but;
but..... Were you okay; okay?”
Scowling, Shrapnel dropped his fork
back on his plate, leaning away from his lunch. “N-no; no.....,”
he hissed, making sure to keep his voice down. He did not need to
have his classmates overhear and have yet more to harass him with.
“That m-mech insulted me; me! M-made fun o-of o-our p-people;
people..... He is no Insectipuma; puma! He is o-one of them; them!!”
The enraged kittycon glared at his
classmates, fur bristling as they laughed and a few leaned into kiss
and whisper lewd things to each other. Their indiscretion was
appalling; their behaviour outrageous. They had no restraint, no
morales, no thought of consequence for their sinful ways..... They
would suffer. All of them.
Twisting his helm away from the others
sharply, Shrapnel turned his gaze back to the window, staring out its
foggy glass to the wet fields beyond. “I-it; it..... doesn't matter
anymore; more.....,” he grumbled softly. “S-soon; soon...... We
will not have to come back here anymore; more.” Violet optics shyly
glanced at Kickback. “You; you..... you and I; i.....”
Gold tipped ears perked at the unspoken
words; the taller mech straightening up in his seat in shock. “Soon;
soon?,” he asked quietly. “When; when?”
Shrapnel blushed, suddenly shy. He
scowled a little, turning his puzzled and affronted gaze to the desk.
“I-i'm surprised they haven't informed you yet; yet,” he
answered. He sighed, shaking his helm a little. “Elder has t-told
me that we will be bonded come the end of this school year; year. We
won't have to come back to t-these fools and their ignorant ways no
more; more! And; and..... and I will not be insulted anymore from
outcast tribal kin; kin.”
Kickback raised his servo to stroke the
stressed, flattened ears, but he stopped part-way; lowering his servo
and respectively clasping the two of them in his lap. “I
understand; stand. It is soon, but we still have a few months to
prepare; prepare,” the taller youngling replied. “We shall do our
clan much honour; honour.”
“Yes; yes......” Shrapnel agreed.
He had noticed his cousin's close slip-up and struggled to keep his
blush down. Because of the outsiders, a lot of their traditions had
been demolished or were no longer possible in this new world. Before
they had been rounded up in filthy, little camps, the idea of the
Royal heir seeing one's bondmate before their ceremony was altogether
taboo. But the Elder could not have sent their only Royal child to a
school in a stranger's land, without fear that they might possibly
become corrupt through the other younglings.
So they had sent Kickback along as
well, so he might learn and grow the same with his betrothed.
Still..... they were never to touch or speak out of turn with one
another, even if they were free from the strict, confining rules of
their society.
A hard thing to keep to, at all times.
“You; you.....,” the smaller puma
started, turning his gaze up to his companion. He knew what he was
about to ask could be considered heinous -knew that in the presence
of his Elders that such musings would have him punished, or worse,
stripped of his title- but..... he had to know. Curious, violet
optics shuttered back at him patiently. “You are; are..... happy to
be my betrothed; betrothed?”
Kickback swallowed back his gasp,
quickly glancing around the room. He realized only a moment after
that they were not surrounded by his kin; Shrapnel would not be
dragged off and whipped for wavering doubts. Shoulders slumping after
being so tense, the bigger Insectipuma tried to smile kindly at his
companion, still a little shaken up from his surprise at the
question.
“I am very glad to be your intended,
Shrapnel; Shrapnel,” he answered, servo sliding across the table
just a little bit. No more than half way. “I look forward to our
bonding and becoming your mate; mate. I promise I shall do all in my
power to make your wishes come true; true. I love you and I will love
the brood we make as well; well.”
He couldn't help the tears that started
to well up in his optics. Shuttering them back quickly, Shrapnel
smiled back, his spark appeased by the polite, but soothing words his
cousin had spoken. “And I am glad that you were chosen to be mine
too; too,” the youngling confessed softly. His servo joined
Kickback's on top of the desk, fingertips only a couple centimeters
apart. “I will bring our Tribe hope and happiness; ness.”
Kickback canted his helm to the side,
optics glimmering happily at the familiar, bold statement. He'd heard
Shrapnel speak it his whole life. “I know you will; will.”
xxXxXxx
Bombshell watched with a growing grin,
holding back his chuckles as he eyed the old Insectipuma reaching
shakily for the crate of narcotics. It had taken several weeks to
perfect the blend, but with some well-spent time and information
collecting from his other customers, he'd made a batch worthy enough
to coke up the Gods.
“You'll find it's really aromatic
-floral- giving you a weightless, surreal sensation while also
decreasing motor functions and sensory feedback,” he explained,
“Good for your growing joint and circuit pain, I'm sure.”
The other kittycon paused, his servos
sliding across the lip of the box, his greedy optics counting each of
the pristine little bottles, with their finely ground powder, nestled
safely in their own little slots. “G-good..... you say?,” he
mumbled back hoarsely, his attention forcing itself away from the
drug.
Bombshell didn't mind. He already had
the mech, anyways. “Of course, Elder,” he smirked darkly,
stepping forward and slipping one of the tiny bottles out. “This
very powder is a gift from the heavens; like stardust itself. Not
only will it free your mind from all mundane and useless doubts, but
its very effects can heal and warm your people. No more will they
have to feel scared, or hungry, or tired or weak.....”
He paused, pouring some of the narcotic
into a smoke pipe, and handing it to the grasping Insectipuma. “Even
selling this to the other tribes will ensure you plenty of riches to
help your struggling kin back on their pedes,” his hypnotic voice
crooned as he lit the pipe for the old mech, “You could be strong
and independent once more, even amongst all this pathetic, political
power-swapping. Isn't that what you've wished for since your Tribe
has been slighted?”
The Tribesmech took a deep drag from
the pipe, moth-eaten ears flattening against his helm in bliss as the
acrid smoke burned a sour-sweet scent through the room. His one good
optic lit with fervent light, the puma wheezed desperately as he
finally slipped the pipe away from his ragged lip components,
reaching for another bottle. Bombshell quickly yanked the box away.
Scowling a little as he realized he had been denied, the Elder looked
up at the other mech, thin claws already tightening around the pipe.
“.....you come with a price,
stranger,” he stated slowly, his tone much crisper than before.
Still, his optics glanced frequently for the jars; his fingers
twitching in need.
Bombshell chuckled. “A treasure this
precious would not be free, my dear Elder. I allowed you a taste, so
you can understand the power of such a nectar, but you may not have
the flower until I have had my payment in order,” he informed, all
manner of business. He grinned darkly. “Come on..... ask me for my
price.”
The decrepit Insectipuma was silent for
a moment, before he wearily sighed, setting aside his pipe; already
missing the heavy taste of the fine-powdered narcotic filling his
vents with its poisonous fumes. “We do not have much, stranger.
What do we have left, that we could offer you in trade for your
wares?”
This was the moment he had been waiting
for. Bombshell politely held out his servo, standing that way until
the confused mech set the pipe back in his grasp, before he leaned
back, delicately reaching for another bottle. “You do have one last
treasure,” he started smoothly, pouring a generous hit onto the
pipe's bowl, “A very special one.....”
The older puma stared up at the
stranger with unease.
“What treasure do you speak of?,”
he asked hoarsely.
The younger mech chuckled softly. “The
only one worth pursuing- your darling, little prince.” His optics
glowed brightly, his grin twisting up and over his face as he watched
the Elder start to snarl, struggling to rise to his old pedes.
“You dare address his majesty so
familiarly!?,” he hissed indignantly. “You do not have the right!
You are a-an outsider; y-you are-”
“Ssh, shh.....,” Bombshell soothed,
circling around the room and gently pushed the Elder back to his
seat. “You are getting much too upset for someone in your fragile
age.” He slyly slipped the pipe back into the shaking puma's
servos, lighting it.
“You believe I do not understand the
importance of your Tribe's only heir,” he continued, pacing around
the room again, stopping before the old mech and his crate of
narcotics. He plastered his best grin on his face as he leaned across
the table. “But I do. He is your God, practically, and I do not
wish to slander him..... in fact, I wish to worship him, in the
greatest form possible.”
“I want to take your prince and
bestow upon him all that he deserves..... and more importantly,”
Bombshell purred, “I would like the honour of being the one to
further your Tribe. Please do not think of this as a bargain or a
trade, but think of it as a fair agreement -an assured source of
security and income. And of course,” he waved a servo over the box,
“A life-time supply of your precious, new asset.”
The Elder shuttered his poor optics at
the other Insectipuma. “But..... you are not part of the Tribe.....
y-you.....”
“But I am still Insectipuma-
not autodog; not kittycon,” the other rebutted smoothly. “And, I
am apart of this new world. I am the only one with the resources and
knowledge to possibly help you navigate out of this choking red-tape
contracts that have led your Tribes to such disaster...... Are you
really going to turn down all that I have to offer you, dear Elder?”
The old mech opened his mouth again,
but hesitated. Wheezing, he took a quick drag from the still-burning
pipe, trying to look anywhere but at Bombshell. A useless effort, the
younger puma knew. He hadn't spent all that time making his best
batch of narcotics, while weighing the pros and cons of approaching
the Insectipuma's most vulnerable and corruptible power in the Tribe,
to simply lose. And his plans were flawless.
“.... He is betrothed.....,” the
Elder started.
“So, break the engagement,”
Bombshell quickly interrupted, “Go through the rituals; mark me as
the prince's new bondmate-to-be. Declare his chosen as no longer
suitable, and you will have everything else at the tip of your
fingers......” He grinned. “I am willing to confirm to any
contract or oath, of your choosing.”
The decrepit Insectipuma waited for a
klik longer before he realized that he had run out of powder to
smoke; scowling, he set the pipe aside, shifting weakly on his bed of
pillows. “Very well, stranger.....,” he agreed hoarsely, coughing
as he turned to his hookah. He would need another hit to keep his
buzz going. “Please stay for a little while longer. We will discuss
the future of the Tribe.... and the prince..... over dinner and
drink.”
Just what he wanted to hear. “Of
course, Elder,” Bombshell smirked toothily, “Whatever you wish.”
xxXxXxx
A month left of school, Shrapnel was
allowed to take his exams early and was excused from the rest of his
classes. He left school for the last time with a spring in his step
and a smile on his usually scowling faceplates. No more would he be
forced into attending this den of heathens, but -and more
importantly- now he had to go through the last couple weeks of
training and ritual in preparation for his bonding at the end of the
month.
Suffice to say, the youngling was
ecstatic. The orn he had dreamed of for so long was finally
approaching and Shrapnel prayed fervently to the deities, asking that
they would bless him with a sparkling to lead his kin out of the
darkness they had been ruthlessly shoved into. The puma took the
continuous good weather to be a sign of the heavens' good will over
him.
Rising one morning, Shrapnel allowed
himself to be led to the baths by his sanctioned handmaids; cleaned
and purified by holy oils that the femmes rubbed politely into his
ears and wrists, before they dressed him in his robes and another set
of guards led him to the Elder's house. A summons had come from the
ancient mech the night before and Shrapnel was excited to hear what
the older puma had to tell him now.
He assumed it was the status of his
bondmate-to-be, who had been take out of the reserves by his own
escorts to fulfill his part of the pre-ceremony rituals.
Entering the Elder's home by himself,
Shrapnel paused to light a stick of incense and pay his respects to
the idol set in the alcove by the doorway, before sweeping into the
main room with well-practiced flourish.
“Good morning, Elder; Elder. You
wished to speak to me; me?,” he began. The youngling paused in
surprise when he saw that there was no one in the room.
“My, my, my....,” a voice purred
lowly behind him. At the familiar tone, Shrapnel whirled around,
stepping back in horror from the mech that stood casually in the
doorway. The outsider puma, he panicked silently. Why was he here?!
Bombshell smirked at the smaller mech's
actions; matching each of Shrapnel's steps until the youngling had
walked himself into the wall, trapped. “You know, you wouldn't
think it,” the kittycon murmured, bracing one servo on the wall as
he leaned in, “But I think you actually look better in robes than
that tight school uniform of yours. They... flow.... so lovely
against your frame.”
Shrapnel whimpered weakly as Bombshell
got dangerously close. Still terrified and confused, the youngling
could only shutter his optics tightly and press back into the wall,
trying to shrink into himself as he felt hot intakes brush against
his flattened ears.
“Mmm....,” Bombshell purred,
cycling a deep intake, almost brushing the smaller puma's fur, “I
see they've even bathed you in ritual perfumes. I must say the scent
on you is delicious.”
“D-don't-,” Shrapnel choked,
shivering fearfully. “D-don't touch me; me!!”
He wriggled around Bombshell quickly,
bolting for the doorway. He didn't care if it was dignifying or not
-whereas he knew his kin held him in high regard and would not shame
him because of their society, he did not trust that an outsider of
the clan would take his sanctity just as seriously.
The distance between them now allowed
for him to grab hold of his fleeting courage, facing the mech and
hissing lowly. “Y-you will not touch me; me!,” Shrapnel
commanded, fuelled by righteous anger. “I am made holy for both the
Gods and my intended; tended. To touch, let alone speak to me, is a
crime punishable by death; death! Leave outsider, before I become
merciless; less!!”
Bombshell remained where he stood
across the room, laughing at the smaller puma's declaration. “My
prince....,” he half-bowed in mocking fashion, optics sliding down
the youngling's frame quickly. Shrapnel shivered at the action. “...I
won't be going anywhere.”
“What; what....?”
“Prince!,” a third vocalizer
snapped disapprovingly. Shrapnel jolted in surprise, turning and
bowing at the Elder's entrance; noting from the corner of his optics
that Bombshell did the same. The ancient kittycon coughed, waving off
their respect; shuffling for his seat, servo shaky on his cane.
“D-do.... do not a-address your m-mate so,” the old puma hacked,
“I-it is dishonouring. Y-you make the Gods upset.”
The youngling missed the last part of
the comment, his horror fixed entirely on the Elder's prior words.
“W-what; what.... what are you
saying, Elder; Elder?!,” he cried in alarm, hurrying to the other's
side. “I am to be bonded to Kickback; back! He is my chosen- for
years he has been such; such!! What madness brings you to play such
cruel tricks; tricks!?”
The Elder frowned down on Shrapnel,
yanking his arm free from the youngling's anxious clutching. “Bite
your glossa,” the old mech ordered testily. Shrapnel flinched at
the unexpected reprimand. For a moment, the Elder fumbled with his
hookah, ignoring the prince, until Bombshell stepped forward; loading
the pipe with a fresh load, lighting it and handing the pipe back to
him.
Eagerly, the aging puma wrapped his lip
components around the mouth piece, taking a deep drag and exhaling
with a relieved sigh. Horrified, Shrapnel leaned away from the other
puma; glancing between the hookah and Bombshell with growing
realization.
“Kickback has been found guilty of
several crimes and is deemed no longer suitable as your intended,”
the Elder rasped slowly, leaning back in his chair as the drug took
effect. “This mech comes at a desperate time, when another must be
selected. He proves himself very worthy and he brings offers of
wealth and security to our people.”
“L-lies; lies!!,” the youngling
shrieked, jumping to his pedes. “Elder, this mech is a
sweet-talking heathen; heathen. He dangles treats and coins but only
pushes poison; poison. He embodies everything ill and will only bring
doom to our clan; clan! I will not marry such a demon nor allow him
to stay; stay!”
Bombshell only grinned by the Elder's
side, unconcerned by everything that Shrapnel had just spoken about
him. Rising forward, the old mech brandished his cane, snarling at
the prince as he set his pipe aside. “Silence that ungodly glossa,
cub, or be prepared to face the contempt of this tribe,” he hissed.
“You have only been granted that throne by the Gods and they can
take it away from you just as easily! Kickback is forbidden from
becoming your bondmate, but this mech has graciously been led to us
by the deities to replace that which has been lost, saving us from
the disgrace of a mateless ruler. You would do wise not to arouse the
anger of the Gods or bring shame to your people.”
“B-but; but... I; i....” Shrapnel
choked, finding that he could not argue any longer. He was
energon-bound to his people: by tribal decree, he was to marry only
whom had been selected and sanctified for him by the deities and the
Elders. If his selected was found unsuitable, it was considered an
unspeakable offense. But if he himself was to remain unwed come the
time of his ceremony, that would be a bigger disgrace to the clan.
Even if he continued to protest, there
was nothing for him to do. Kickback had been marked; the clan would
find him cursed and would not allow him near his cousin any longer.
And if Shrapnel kept calling for him, he would be stripped of his
crown and rights, curse-marked, and then exiled from the tribe.
That was a punishment he knew he could
not survive.
Tears filling his optics, the youngling
shakily dropped to his knees, bowing at the Elder's pedes. “Y-yes;
yes... Elder; elder.... I w-will m-marry whom is w-worthy;
worthy.....”
The old mech relaxed once more, puffing
away at his pipe; victorious optics glittering darkly on Bombshell's
face behind him.
xxXxXxx
He was victorious. Bombshell hid his
smirk as best as possible, accepting the ceremonial wine from the
priestess; drinking down his share deeply, before handing it back to
her. She then crossed the podium, holding it out for Shrapnel. The
youngling lifted his helm slowly, looking at her and the bowl with
dim optics, before he too took the wine.
The poor thing looked distinctly
spark-broken as his trembling fingers circled the bowl's
circumference, bringing it to his pressed mouth. Bombshell watched
him intently, following the slight lift and fall of his neck cables
as Shrapnel swallowed, finding himself enthralled. He had spent
stellar cycles away from the clans; had lost much of their teachings
and other ancient traditions. Not that he cared....
They were all silly, really.
Except for this. Bombshell relaxed a
bit in his plush seat, staring unabashedly at the prince. Like any
proper royalty, Shrapnel was adorned in the barest riches the Tribes
carried. Fur-trimmed silk robes hung from his frame loosely, showing
the plain, but pure, soft cotton underneath; simple gold chains and
bangles covered his neck and wrists; precious gems glittering from
his fingers and the old, hand-carved crown on his helm.
As was traditional, the heir was
dressed up like a star from the heavens, both a symbol and offering
to their Gods. The medallion around his neck -the one the with a
moonstone the size of Bombshell's fist- had the older mech's full
attention. As part of the rites, after he hunted the wild boar and
proved himself worthy of the hunt (aka, marrying the next-in line),
Shrapnel would present him with the medallion, symbolizing the giving
of himself and a share of his throne. Afterwards, the Elders would
speak the ancient puma scripture over them, bless the Deities and
them with the boar's blood, then the village would drink and party
while the newly-weds retired to consummate their union.
Admittedly, Bombshell looked forward to
both the hunt and berthing the youngling later. He wanted those
optics to look at him, to lift and shimmer and be struck with awe and
forbidden desire as they focused on the kittycon. Not be lowered so
demurely.... sad.... broken.... lonely....
A horn erupted, tearing the mech from
his thoughts. Turning his helm up, Bombshell saw that the Elder had
put down his pipe and was now approaching the pair. “Come, hunter,”
the old puma wheezed shortly. He held out a knobbly servo, gesturing
to the woods. “The beast has been released, and now, you must hunt!
Failure will bring shame and misfortune upon you from the Gods....
but succeed, and the Deities shall recognize your skill and prowess,
and will shine good-will down you for the rest of your life.”
Bombshell refrained from snorting,
rising to his pedes and stepping down from the podium. He stripped
off the simple cotton robe he had been given; watching and smirking
in amusement as the gathered villagers gasped softly, breaking out
into reverent murmurs at the number of deep and old scars across his
plating.
Shrugging off their looks, the mech
made sure the belt around his pants was still tight, before strapping
the offered dagger onto it. Firearms were considered taboo in the
tribe, which meant shooting the boar was not an option. Taking the
bow and satchel of arrows that a handmaiden came forward to give him
-the only substitute item Bombshell was allowed to take with him- he
was only glad that his service in the war had required some time with
a crossbow.
The villagers applauded and cheered as
the outsider slung both over one shoulder; marching dutifully to the
woods to complete his final tasks. Bombshell ignored them. There was
only one that the Insectipuma was putting up with all this for, and
it happened to be the somber youngling sitting on his little throne,
at the top of the podium, with his helm turned down, ignoring the
older mech.
xxXxXxx
As soon as the crowd had dispersed,
heading off to the edge of the forests to wait for their “champion”
to return with his kill, Shrapnel rose to his pedes; stepping down
from the podium and to the small dais that the Elder himself sat
upon.
He lounged easily against his pillowed
seat, puffing away at his hookah. Shaking, the youngling bowed,
half-crawling towards the old puma. “E-elder; elder,” he started
weakly. He struggled to keep the sorrow out of his vocalizer, to not
sound weak or scared. It was hard though. “Elder; elder.... please;
please.... I know Kickback has been deigned unworthy; worthy.... But
can we not find someone else; else? Someone worthier than this
outsider; sider?”
The Elder slowly withdrew the pipe from
his mouth, blowing a ring of acrid, green smoke. His expression was
blank as he turned his damaged optics to the prince. Cringing
slightly, again, Shrapnel bowed his helm; praying for clemency.
“I-i do not wish to shame the
D-deities, b-but I wo-worry; worry! T-this mech is n-not of our
t-tribe; tribe- he k-knows not of our w-ways; ways. He h-has been
corrupted b-by the o-outside world a-and if I should b-bring our
cl-clan glory, I m-must-”
Faster than he would have ever
anticipated, the ancient mech leaped forward from his seat,
back-handing Shrapnel. The younger puma yelped in fright and pain,
crashing to the ground. Taking another drag from his hookah, the
Elder stood, stalking toward the youngling silently. He grabbed
Shrapnel's servo, ripping it from his cheekplate and forcing the heir
to his pedes.
Shrapnel tried to twist away from the
other kittycon, dancing on the tips of his pedes as his wrist was
held at a high angle. The Elder had hit him.... That was a crime
punishable by death! How could the Elder do such a thing, to him?!
Yet, glancing away from the deranged optics staring down at him,
Shrapnel could not recognize this monster anymore.
The Elder grabbed his face next with
his free servo, twisting the youngling's helm to face him again.
“You....,” he gravelled lowly, “Tread along a dangerous line,
child.”
Shrapnel swallowed back his whimpers
and sobs quickly, but could do nothing about his trembles, or the way
he dug his claws into the old mech's arm as he was carried back to
his throne the way he was. Once on the podium, the Elder threw him
down onto his seat, as if he was something filthy.
“You will stay here,” he
intoned dangerously, his worn optics lit madly, “And you will wed
your chosen. And you will do so happily. If you refuse.... or
act out of turn.... you shall be escorted straight to the Red Lake.”
Shrapnel froze. The Red Lake was what
they called the clearing over the hill from their reserve; an evil
place where those who had committed heinous acts or had become an
abomination to the Deities was killed, so as to spare the rest of the
clan from suffering in consequence. No royal had ever been taken
there....
Shivering, torn with fear and the urge
to flee, Shrapnel hugged himself; keeping his helm bowed and away
from this evil being that hovered over him, until the Elder finally
returned to his seat, taking his madness with him.
'Deities,' he cried inside,
pressing his face to his knees in desperate prayer, 'Help
m-me....'
Only the loud trumping of the tribunal
horn (announcing the return of his chosen and his kill), echoed over
the village, mocking the youngling's hopes.
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