Rating: M
Chapter 24
C.M.D: Hello all my dear fans and readers! It's great to be back, and what a better time to post up a brand new chapter than on Valentine's weekend! Though perhaps also bad timing with the upcoming drama.... Ah well! With all my love, please enjoy~
Fingers were trembling as they twisted
into the silk sheets, a drumbeat of fear playing a violent tune upon
his spark as he waited to see what was coming his way. The door swung
open smoothly, no creaking of the hinges or anything, as a white helm
popped around the door frame; taking away the pomeranian's intake and
terror as well.
“Mr. Tracks.”
“Ratchet....,” the escort vented,
falling back against the incredibly soft pillows. Relief chased off
the chill that had plagued him for the briefest of moments, while his
spark casually returned to its' regular puttering.
“I'm glad to see that you're awake,”
the labrador stated, coming forward. The door shut gently behind him.
“I apologize for the scare. I didn't mean to startle you.”
Tracks waved a servo weakly, still too
weak to do anything more. “No, no... It's fine,” he replied. “I
just.... just woke up. I...” Again, he realized he didn't know
where he was or how he had gotten there.
“Don't know where you are?,”
Ratchet finished for him, as if reading the other autodog's thoughts.
Tracks nodded uncertainly, beginning to feel anxious as the vet
finally reached the berth; setting his medical bag down on the edge
of the mattress, before opening it. “It's alright, pup,” the
older mech added, drawing an otoscope from the bag, “You're in a
good place; no harm will come to you. But considering last night's
events, temporary amnesia is common. Everything should come back to
you shortly now that you're awake.”
“What do you m-” Tracks didn't get
to finish his question before Ratchet was prodding and poking at him,
checking him over from helm to pede. He made a couple more attempts
to voice his concerns but quickly silenced himself when the labrador
pulled another, more familiar device from his bag.
“Lift your shirt, please,” the vet
politely asked.
Squirming minutely in discomfort, the
escort did as requested: lifting his shirt over his rotund abdomen
and staring off to the side as the other autodog squeezed some
medical lubricant onto the plating. “They're doing well,” Ratchet
spoke again, after a few kliks. He wiped up the leftover jelly and
put his portable sonar back into his medical bag. “Two very strong
spark rates. Rest some more and tomorrow I'll-”
“W-wait,” the pomeranian
interrupted with a squeak, clutching at the sheets in alarm. “T...
D-did you s-say t-two sparks? A-as in.... A-as in m-more th-than
one?”
There was too much going on, too fast.
Tracks felt like he was struggling at sea, trying to keep his helm
above water but the waves kept throwing him back under, crushing him.
Raising his servos to his helm, the pomeranian tried to roughly rub
the sudden, throbbing pain out of his helm; jumping when gentle
fingers pulled them away from his face.
“Just breathe now,” Ratchet
soothed, his optics sympathetic as he gazed into the younger
autodog's orbs. “Just a slow breath. Easy.... There. Just like
that. Take another one for me.... Good, good...”
Tracks swallowed and cycled intake
after intake, choking between every vent. He thought to cry or scream
or something, but terror had him grasped tightly with this new
revelation, and nothing could get out. “D-do.... I-i....,” he
stuttered, taking another moment to force through an intake, before
continuing in a desperate keen, “C-can't I-i t-termin-nate?”
Ratchet opened his mouth, but with
heavy shoulders, shook his helm. Frightfully hopeful optics fell
before his gaze, dimming in their collapse.
“I know you've been having a hard
time and that you're under a great amount of duress because of your
contract....,” the labrador shared, taking a shaking servo and
giving it a comforting squeeze, “But listen when I say it'll be
okay. It's too late to terminate, not safely anyways, but... but you
don't have much longer 'til the sparklings are full term. And I'm
always here to help, remember that pup.”
Soon, huh? Tracks thought to laugh
bitterly but he was just so tired and frightened and confused....
Strangely enough, the revelation that he was halfway through this
nightmare, was both a comfort and oddly not. Ratchet kindly lowered
the pomeranian's shirt down and pulled the comforter back over him,
as the stunned mech sank deeper into his seat of pillows.
“Pup...,” the vet sighed, touching
the younger autodog's brow. Coolant-laced optics turned up to him.
“It... It's going to be alright. I'm here for you, straight to the
end,” Ratchet assured, trying to smile in encouragement, “I'll be
coming back tomorrow with an ambulance to have you transferred to the
hospital for the last few months. Try to rest as much as you can
today, okay?”
It was hard, but Tracks mumbled a weak
“Okay” and watched as his only ally left the gilded room.
xxXxXxx
He couldn't believe it. Rodimus paced
back and forth in his motel room, shaking servo to his mouth as he
fought to keep from being sick. An inconspicuous folder sat on the
messy berth, contents spilled across the sheets; partially crumpled
and nearly torn around the edges. What they said.... It couldn't be
true. How could any of that be real?!
Fighting back nausea, the golden
retriever returned to the berth, scooping the pages up again and
staring at them intently. This was the umpteenth time that he'd
scanned the printed words now and he'd somewhat hoped that it was all
an optical illusion or something, yet the page stayed the same.
Choking on a sob, this time Rodimus threw the papers away from;
dropping his helm between his knees and hacking dryly.
The urge to purge was more persistent
this time, his frame wracked with chills, and yet nothing came. It
had to be some sort of lie, the autodog tried to convince himself,
some sort of cruel trick by Blackout to upset him further. But
Rodimus couldn't believe that. There wasn't any proper watermark or
signature on the paper, but the golden retriever knew the type of
parchment -there was no way that sleazy, backstreet kittycon trash
could even afford a single sheet, let alone get it printed with a
header in gold. It had to be legit, there was no easily faking it,
but....
Primus, how could it be true? Rodimus
swallowed back more sobs as the anguish started churning his fuel
tanks faster and faster, yanking at his ears in despair. All these
stellar cycles of being the good sparkling, of doing anything that
Ultra Magnus wanted, of always following through and trying to prove
his worth before the great dane.... For nothing! To find out that his
affections were pathetic, worthless, that he never had a chance and
to even think that he did was....
It wasn't fair!
Anger sparked suddenly, flaring into an
inferno, as if all the pain he felt was a jug of oil. Lifting his
helm, Rodimus stared at the cursed papers scattered across his floor,
feeling rage swell up larger in his chestplates, dissolving the knot
that had inhabited his throat. Here he was, hating himself because he
believed he had done something so irrevocably wrong; that he'd
betrayed Ultra Magnus' trust and made a mockery of himself when
Blackout outed him. That was unfair.
The autodog got to his pedes, growling
lowly as he scooped all the sheets up, tucking them back into their
folder. Because of one mistake, he'd had to leave his home. Because
of one, little mistake, he couldn't face the great dane at work
anymore. Because of one, miniscule, forgiveable mistake, Rodimus no
longer could ever hope to confess his feelings for the mech who had
raised him like a sire... and yet, it was Ultra Magnus with the real
shame. The older lawyer was the one who was keeping the biggest
secrets and yet had the audacity to talk down on him?
Rodimus wouldn't stand for this.
Couldn't.
It hurt too much to be ignored.
xxXxXxx
Pedes pattered harshly against the
sidewalk as he ran, weaving and staggering as his strength
continuously swelled and ebbed. Thunder boomed overhead, as lightning
flashed alongside her eternal partner; a symphony in the black sky as
the clouds shed their tears. The storm had come on so unexpectedly
and his thin nightgown had instantly lost against the downpour, yet
the pomeranian kept running despite the clinging clothe and
sensor-nipping chill.
He was free. There was nothing else
that mattered in this moment than the fact that he had finally
escaped Flare-up and her ever watchful gaze. The rain and thunder and
wind were testimony to his liberation; they were allies when everyone
else had abandoned him.
Intakes misted in the cold air as
Tracks almost slipped, catching his balance against the side of a
building. His ankle joint throbbed from where he'd nearly had his
nasty fall due to the slickened sidewalks, yet the pomeranian pushed
himself back up and kept running; limping and waddling mostly at this
point.
There was no direction in mind; he
had no where to go. His entire life had been the apartment he had
fled from and the condo Flare-up owned. He had no friends, knew of no
one that he could turn to on his run for freedom. Still, he ran.
Tracks had to get away, that's all he could think of, and somewhere
along these empty streets and rainy displays of traffic lights, he
would find a safe haven. Water ran into his optics as he stumbled
around another corner (was it rain or his own tears?), jogging down
another strip of dark and empty street.
Primus.... he was tired. He was
exhausted and sick and just not able to....
Pede slipped again on the corner of
the sidewalk and the pomeranian fell towards the street, into the
path of a lone truck. For an astrosecond, everything slowed, Tracks
watching in his descent as headlights flared brightly, swallowing up
his entire view as the truck drew closer like a pouncing beast.
“TRACKS!!”
A horn blared angrily through the
night as vertigo suddenly rearranged itself; the escort crashing
against something warm and equally as soggy. He tried to move but his
near-death experience had taken its toll on the last of his strength.
He couldn't even lift a finger at this point. Primus, he thought,
shuttering his optics.... Primus, why didn't you take me?
Gravity shifted and Tracks saw
through one bleary optic that he was rising up off of the sidewalk.
He was turned about gently, spooned and cradled, held close in a
crushing embrace as rain continued to pour down upon him. It was so
cold..... The revelation was short to come, but the rain felt like
liquid ice as it cascaded down his plating. How had it ever felt warm
before?
“Tracks..... Primus, Tracks....”
That same vocalizer, from the angel that had yanked him from certain
death.
The autodog tried to lift his helm,
to see his savior, but his vision was beginning to pixelate; draw out
of focus and blacken altogether. He only caught a glimpse of red -so
soft and bright and full of concern- staring down upon him against a
grey-washed world, before exhaustion stole away consciousness, and
Tracks surrendered to the warmth and security of his unknown angel.
xxXxXxx
It wasn't very often that Wheeljack did
laundry for Perceptor (at least not since the twins' were teeny tiny)
but he was glad to help out when he could. Perceptor himself had been
putting in extra cycles at the lab, citing that he'd missed way too
many shifts the last decacyle. Unfortunately, that had put a few of
his regular chores aside for a couple orns, and to take care of them
(as well as surprise the scientist in Wheeljack's continuous attempt
to woo him) the bulldog had taken it upon himself to spend his orn
off tidying up the apartment. He'd already scrubbed the walls and
floors, taken out the trash, cleaned the bathroom and now the only
thing left was the laundry.
Setting down the baskets, Wheeljack
first checked to see if the rusting machines were working and clean
(Primus, help him if he ever found the person who took a dump in one
of the dryers) and double-checked that no one had tampered with the
credit slot. Again. Thankfully, everything was in working order, so
Wheeljack poured the detergent into the machines respective slots and
set to getting the clothes in next. Trying not to blush, Wheeljack
meticulously put Perceptor's things in, piece by piece, ensuring that
anything wasn't rolled or caught in something else, and turned
inside-out like it needed to be.
Not surprisingly, the border collie's
things were already as they should be so the engineer shut the door
and started the washer. Next was the twins' things, all perfectly
prepared as well, and finally towels and sheets. Wheeljack threw
Perceptor's in first, but as he reached for Jetfire and Jetstorm's
sheets, his olfactory sensor wrinkled, catching whiff of a sour
smell.
“What the....”
Slowly the bulldog lifted the flowery
bedsheets, carefully prying them apart as he twisted this way and
that in study. The sheets were stuck together in odd blotches, dried
that way from whatever adhesive coated them; sprinkling little flakes
everywhere as parts give way and others didn't. Just what in the slag
was on the sheets, Wheeljack wondered, madly confused by the
material's state. He hesitated a closer whiff, as a huge section
mercifully came apart without tear, and froze; optics flared in alarm
as he snapped his neck back.
The sour scent was more distinguishable
now, closer to its center, and it left the engineer reeling.
Jetstorm, Jetfire.... in heat?! When had that happened?! How-?
“Oh sweet Primus...,” Wheeljack
vented, staring at the wall as the revelation hit him. “They
weren't sick, they had been... were...”
His words trailed off silently, even
though his mouth kept gaping ridiculously behind his blast mask. And
then only one other sound escaped the bulldog as something else
struck him.
“Ratchet....”
xxXxXxx
Kicking in his fuel tanks had roused
him from recharge. Slowly, Tracks onlined his optics, laying in the
berth for the longest time; one servo on his abdomen, right above the
quirky fluttering. For a moment, he forgot where he was, but then the
events of this morning came back and the autodog felt even more
nauseous. There were two of them inside.... Not just one. Two.
Cycling a heavy intake, Tracks shifted
slightly, rubbing at his protruding middle; still too weak in the
joints to move further or get up. What was he going to do? He
couldn't terminate at this point, Ratchet had told him, but...
Primus, could anyone give him some answers? Some sense of direction?
Feeling heat rise to his optics, the pomeranian rubbed his face into
the pillows, forcing himself to cycle even intakes. There was no
point letting himself get overwhelmed again, and anger would help no
more either. He still didn't even know where he was, Tracks realized.
Glancing around the room as he had done earlier that orn, the escort
noticed just then that there was a tray on the little coffee table in
the sitting area; laden with what looked like breakfast, and
accompanied by a gorgeous, porcelain tea set. He didn't know when
that had been brought in or for how long it sat there, but it surely
must of gone cold by now. Should he eat it still? Was there any
reason to?As he pondered if he was truly hungry or not, the door
opened, and a strange femme wandered in, dressed in black and
carrying a covered tray.
The maid paused, noticing that the
pomeranian was awake, then glanced at the coffee table, where his
breakfast laid untouched. “I have brought lunch,” she announced,
heading over to the sitting area. She swapped the trays and even
picked up the tea set. “I'll have another pot brought in shortly.
Dinner will be served at five o'clock.”
Tracks didn't say a word and the femme
didn't seem to care. She left, not looking back once, and the autodog
didn't blame her. Who would want to stare at a pathetic, ugly,
pregnant has-been escort anyway? Noticing that he was still rubbing
his belly, the autodog finally stopped, pushing himself up slowly. It
took some effort, with how weak and rubbery his limbs felt, but
Tracks eventually made his way over to one of the large windows.
Beautiful gardens and long sloping hills tapered down to a valley
that the mech realized was Iacon city itself.
Hill estate, attending servants and
gorgeous rooms.... Where ever Tracks was, he was most definitely at
the mercy of someone rich. But who could of possibly....?
The door opened again, and turning his
helm, the pomeranian wasn't surprised to see the maid returned, with
a new tea set as she had said. She didn't comment on his strange post
beside the window nor did he say anything to her as she went about
setting the tea pot and accompaniments beside his lunch. When she was
almost at the door, he said softly, “...Who is the master of this
household?”
The femme paused and turned to him,
curtseying slightly as was likely part of her duty. “The Estate and
everything within in belongs to Mr. Soundwave,” she answered. “He
asks that your every need be met, so please, do not hesitate to call
for anything.”
The maid waited about a klik, but
Tracks could say nothing. A part of him was stunned, yet another part
not, and seeing that no response was coming, the femme finally left.
He was in Soundwave's home....
xxXxXxx
Ultra Magnus startled as the front door
slammed; turning, he watched as Rodimus practically storm into the
kitchen, lip components twisted in a snarl. “Y-you... you...
fragger!!,” the golden retriever bellowed, throwing a maroon folder
at the larger mech. “How dare you-”
“Rodimus!,” the great dane
interrupted, scowling, “Watch your tone -you're indoors. Have you
come to apologize for your behaviour the last week?”
The golden retriever gaped, pausing,
before laughing bitterly as he backed away a couple pede steps.
“A-apologize...? Really? Y-you want me to apologize for y-you
running me out of the only place I've known as home,” Rodimus
struggled to say, coolant glazing over his optics, still smiling in
disbelief, “F-for you treating me like s-some... some.... stray
after what happened with that kittycon?!”
“You were fornicating in the entry
way, Rodimus,” Ultra Magnus replied crisply, untying his tie and
yanking it off quickly. “I saw what was taking place: the fervent
and senseless lust that you were giving into, the inappropriate
display of debauchery I had to witness. I had raised you better than
this!”
“O-oh, oh,” the red mech bit back,
“You're going to bring that up? Now? I'm sorry, you must of
forgotten that jug of high-grade on the counter beside the fridge
there. Is that a seven litre jug or a five litre?”
The older lawyer stiffened, turning his
helm and catching the fore-mentioned jug. How could he have forgotten
that it was there? “What I choose to drink and when is my own
business,” he said, facing the younger mech once again. “We are
on the topic of your frivalous interfacing habits.”
Rodimus snorted, stepping forward.
“Well, before we start attacking me again for having a one-time
mistake with a loser, let's take a gander at your own sins!!” An
accusatory finger pointed to the folder that Ultra Magnus still held
tightly in one servo. “Go ahead! Open it up -you'll be fragging
surprised at what's inside! I know I was!”
“What are you-” Ultra Magnus cut
himself off before he could even finish, flipping the folder open
carelessly and watching in abject horror as a photograph came
tumbling out. Silence fell onto the kitchen then. Cycling intakes
slowly, the great dane refrained from picking up the picture, instead
raising his optics towards the waiting autodog.
Rodimus was stiff, tears pooled thicker
along his optics as he stared back at the bigger lawyer angrily.
“....I knew it,” the golden retriever barked shortly. “Y-you....
you torture me over one interface, while you-”
“I had nothing to do with this
youngling, this-”
“DON'T LIE TO ME!!,” the younger
mech shouted. “Y-you criticize me for t-that, that... mech, and
you've been seeing a youngling in secret, popping boners over his
skinny a-aft, OH! OH! Not to mention he's also a KITTYCON. So not
only are you into kiddies, you're a fragging racist aft unless things
are about you!”
Ultra Magnus took a step forward,
looming over the golden retriever tensely. “Silence!,” he
growled. “I don't know where you got this information from, but I
am not debating this with you. You are my son; that is my private
life and you are never allowed to step over that line!”
At the intimidation tactic, Rodimus
reacted, shoving the great dane back with more strength than he
seemed to have in his slimmer frame. Caught off-guard, the older
lawyer tripped, slamming into the table and hearing a worrisome groan
at the impact.
“Stop. Calling. Me. That!!,” the
golden retriever hissed, optics lit with furious light as the tears
finally broke free and cascaded down his cheekplates. “I'm so sick
of.... Frag you!! You take away all of my identity and force me into
your little 'pretend house' but guess what: YOU'RE NOT MY REAL SIRE!”
“Rodimus, you-” Ultra Magnus
started to growl, but Rodimus had already twirled on his heel and
fled; the slamming door heralding his exit.
xxXxXxx
It was dark before Soundwave finally
left his office to go eat. The servants were just wrapping up the
routine cleaning of the dining room when the persian entered, and
surprised, he went to apologize, but the servants didn't allow him
the chance. They gathered their items and kindly told the kittycon
that they would inform the kitchen staff that he had come down and
dinner would be brought out shortly. Seeing as he didn't have much
choice in the matter, Soundwave thanked them for their hard work and
took his usual seat at the table.
He stared down the length of it as he
waited, eleven empty seats staring back at him. The blue mech
wondered why he had ever agreed to buying this ridiculous table. He
never had any guests over to fill it, no family or friends either,
leaving all the extra chairs to simply taunt him in silent mockery.
Though, that was to change soon....
Two. He had two sparklings soon to be
protoformed. One had been more than plenty when he had heard Tracks
was carrying, sending him off to fantasies of two less chairs to pick
at him cruelly during dinner time. At least now, there would still be
two chairs to fill in the near future, as he finally gave in to the
fact that the autodog would probably never feel anything for the
persian but animosity. Ears flattened and even his frame slouched a
tad in his seat. He shouldn't have forced Tracks to keep the sparks,
Soundwave realized with regret. In doing so, the kittycon had
effectively turned the pomeranian against him and lost any chance at
pursuing a real relationship with the beautiful mech. He'd never
hated himself more than Soundwave did just then.
He'd already discussed things with
Ratchet, and tomorrow Tracks would be taken to the hospital for the
duration of his pregnancy. Flare-up was still angry that her employee
had managed to escape his house-arrest, but she had conceded to the
vet's point that his current situation was not faring well on his
mental health and could end in more harm done to the sparklings than
not. There was no resistance from the femme as she signed over
Tracks' release to Ratchet and no comment either on Soundwave keeping
the autodog at his mansion temporarily.
As if the persian would allow her to
take Tracks back after the other night....
The kittycon was spared from his
despairing thoughts as a few of his servants strode in, carrying
trays of food, dishware, dessert and wine; setting the table up and
leaving the mech to his meal. Quietly, Soundwave began to eat,
distracting himself from thoughts of Tracks or the sparklings that
would come soon; all the while unaware of the pomeranian quietly
peeking into the dining room from one of the other doorways.
C.M.D: What is this? Ultra Magnus isn't Rodimus' sire? Tracks is at Soundwave's? Wheeljack knows the jettwins were in heat?! I wonder what will happen next.... Stay tuned to find out!
P.S: The youngling Ultra Magnus has feelings for is brought to you by DA user Drago-night who, though the character belongs to another user, made me like their shipping of Ran/Rapidshock (the youngling) with Ultra Magnus. So much for my ever loyal UMxHot Rod ship...
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