Chapter 24: Insectipuma VI
Rating: T
Shrapnel hadn't returned.
Bombshell scowled, glaring at his black
t.v screen, seeing only his reflection staring back at him; equally
as frustrated and sprawled lazily across the couch. The month had
ended, and whatever festival was going on in the Insectipuma lands
must have come to a close by now, yet still Shrapnel had not come
back. There was no word or indication that the brat was ever going to
return. That should have been a blessing to the mech really, but
Bombshell found himself only growing more and more annoyed.
He had married the prince. He'd wanted
that gorgeous, lil' frame and he'd even subjected himself to the
foolish notion of marriage to have him. And now the youngling had
disappeared back off to his tribe, leaving Bombshell alone, jacking
off to porn and spending quiet nights in a berthroom that had long
since stopped being his own. The kittycon was horny, slaggit!
Not to mention, confused and angry as
frag, since Razorclaw sent him a comm, wisely informing the fellow
Wrecker to stay away from headquarters unless he wished to be
disemboweled by a strangely irate Divebomb.
What was all that about anyhow?
Shaking his helm, Bombshell decided to
put the hormonal femme out of his processor, continuing his glaring
at the dark t.v; disinterested in what pay-per-view had to offer this
night and once again wondering what had become of his dutiful,
religious nut of a bondmate.
xxXxXxx
“What now, Bombshell?,” Swindle
sighed, the kittycon's exasperated face flashing onto the vid screen.
The puma paced back and forth before
his desk angrily, tail tapping against the ground like a drum beat.
“I require your services,” he replied, lip component slightly
curled.
“With your attempt to woo the tribal
prince? I thought you-”
“No!,” Bombshell quickly snapped,
rounding on the screen. “I've already been bonded to him. For
almost a year now. The lil' brat was insistent on coming back to the
city with me and he's lived in my place since then, but now he's
disappeared somewhere off into Insectipuma territory!”
Swindle shuttered his optics slowly.
“Wow.... You actually fragged with the Tribes and stole their
ordained heir....,” he stated slowly. “You truly have no shame.
So what do you want me to do now? The kid probably smartened up and
realized what a greaseball you were and returned to break the
marriage.”
The narcotics dealer scoffed at that.
“As if that was possible! The brat would sooner die than lose face
before his people. No,” the puma growled, pacing again, “Shrapnel's
too proud for that.... Yet, he was cowardly enough to run away after
trying to poison me, and won't come back! That's why I need you.”
“Wait,” the younger mech gaped,
leaning in a little closer to the screen, “Are you for real? He
actually tried to poison you? Slag, I would have probably run off
too!”
Bombshell glared at the screen, tail
twitching nastily. Rolling his optics, Swindle straightened in his
seat, taping away at a laptop to his left. “Alright, listen, I can
track him down but you know it's going to cost you. Though I don't
see why you don't just go back to Insectipuma tribes yourself and get
him.”
“Just do it,” the narcotics dealer
hissed, “While you're at it, find out what this supposed tribal
festival is. It started last month, on the first. Apparently, it's
important.”
“Certainly,” Swindle sighed.
“That's also extra. There won't be much accessible via regular
channels, so I'm going to have to-” An explosion rocked the
apartment on the devon rex's side of the screen, knocking the
kittycon out of his seat. “MOTHERFRA-”
Bombshell, alarmed, moved closer to the
vid screen. “What the slag is happening over th-”
“I-i have to get back to you later!,”
Swindle shouted, scrambling into sight again.
“What?! No!,” Bombshell growled,
“Swindle, unless you're dying, I want this information within the
next HOUR! You got me!! If you don't, I'll be sure to trash some of
your contacts!”
“WHAT?,” the tan mech screamed
back. “You arrogant, sick fr-” Another explosion rocked Swindle
on his pedes again. “Fine!,” the devon rex continued loudly.
“Whatever! I'll fragging see you in a cycle!!”
And then the line went dark and
Bombshell, with nothing better to do, went back to pacing angrily in
his living room.
xxXxXxx
Bombshell was just
grabbing himself a beer from the fridge when there came a pounding at
his door. “Who the slag are you?,” he shouted, slowly walking out
of the kitchen, in no rush to head for the door.
“It's Swindle!,”
the familiar vocalizer replied through the wood. “Now hurry up and
open!”
“Swindle?,”
Bombshell gaped, unlocking and opening the door. He was immediately
shoved aside as a little blur went tearing by, Swindle pushing in as
well. “Woah, hey! What the frag are you doing here? I didn't invite
you!”
The puma chased
after the devon rex, who went straight for the living room, taking up
perch at his desk before pulling a laptop out of his satchel bag.
“Well, too bad,” the merchant replied. “You wanted results
within a cycle, this is the only way you're going to get them.
Wildrider, stay away from that oven!”
“Wildri-”
Bombshell turned around as he heard something crash, finding a grey,
little sparkling smiling up at him with his mouth of fangs; standing
on top of the oven door he had managed to unhinge from the unit.
“What the frag is that thing?!”
“That,”
Swindle answered, not turning away from his computer, “Would be my
son. Keep an eye on him. He's already blown up one stove tonight -I
don't really care to experience that twice.”
“Excuse me, blew
up?” Bombshell shook his helm, almost spilling his beer as he
waved a servo around. “Okay, no, listen, I hate kids. You need to
leave. And take this fire-hazard with you.”
“How do you
think I feel?,” the devon rex smirked, not budging. “I'm
afraid you'll just have to deal with it for an hour, Bombshell. You
want your answers, and I would like a good night's sleep for once,
but since I'm not getting that, I'm going to need the finances to
replace and repair anything Wildrider damages.”
“No, no, I don't
thi-” Another crash. This time, the puma turned and immediately
rushed for the sparkling, grabbing him by the scruff of his neck and
pulling him out of the oven. “Alright you lil' runt, come play out
on the balcony. It's got short walls and sheer drops down the side of
the building!” Without a second thought, Bombshell tossed Wildrider
out onto the balcony, shutting the door and locking it.
“...is that the
Wreckers file database?,” the narcotics dealer asked incredulously,
coming up behind Swindle. “How'd you get in without Yoketron
knowing?”
“I just use
Onslaught's account,” Swindle replied casually, tapping away at the
keys. “It's come in quite handy over the years.”
“And how does he
not know that you're using his pass to get in?,” Bombshell
inquired.
“Oh, please,”
the merchant scoffed. “My dad doesn't even realize he has an
account to the database. I swiped the information from his office and
have been using it since. It's not even like he understands how to
use computers anyhow.”
The larger
kittycon couldn't help the chuckle that escaped. “You have some
ball bearings on you, cub.”
“Yeah, yeah....
That's nice,” Swindle returned flatly. “Now go sit down while I
work. Hovering is a nuisance.” Not going to take too much insult to
that, Bombshell turned and plopped on his couch, stretching languidly
as he sipped at his drink.
It was quiet for
some time, oddly so; just the taping of keyboard keys and the
occasional muffled ruckus from Wildrider out on the balcony. It was
beginning to lull Bombshell into slumber before Swindle spun around
in his seat, exclaiming loudly, “You idiot!”
“H-huh? What?”
The puma shook his helm, glaring as his attentiveness returned. “What
the frag is your problem?”
“See, see this
is exactly why you shouldn't have messed around with the Tribes!,”
Swindle groaned in annoyance, turning back around in his seat.
“Primus, the least you could have done was make use of the
Wreckers' collected resource material on the Insectipuma tribes and
familiarized yourself with their most important traditions!”
“What the slag
are you gabbing on about now?,” Bombshell grunted, sitting up.
“He wasn't
trying to poison you, you big, dumb idiot,” the tan mech
elaborated, facing the puma again. He fixed the older kittycon with a
flat look, before turning his attention to his laptop. “It was a
fragging aphrodisiac. Harmless. For some hotshot narcotics
dealer, you obviously can't tell the difference between a fun,
organic sex-enhancing drug and your run-of-the-mill poison.”
“Anyway!,”
Swindle continued, throwing up a servo when Bombshell opened his
mouth, “It's all part of a tribal festival, sort of like an opening
ceremony. All the tribes partake in the festival this month, but only
the Insectipumas celebrate all month -starting by sharing traditional
dishes made in honour of the Fertility Goddess. Part of that ritual
includes a 'bot offering their mate with the laced food. This totally
explains why Divebomb almost ripped off your head....”
“You know about
that?,” Bombshell asked, surprised.
Once more, the
devon rex looked at the other mech dryly. “....The tribes don't
have a lot of religious ceremonies, and though the Insectipuma tribes
have the most number of various celebrations and events, this is the
only one that bears the greatest significance,” Swindle added. “The
hope is that the Goddess will look down upon their offering and be
pleased, and provide the tribe with health and happiness and an
abundance of offspring.”
“So.....,” the
narcotics dealer drawled, still perplexed, “What does that mean?”
“Well, seeing as
how you brutally rejected the prince's offering to you, and thus,
shamed him thoroughly, especially on the most important night of his
entire, religious life, and before his deity... You're fragged!,”
the younger mech beamed.
Standing up,
Swindle slipped his laptop back inside his bag, opening up the
balcony door and grabbing Wildrider before he could tear inside. “I
expect payment to be sent to my account by the time I arrive at the
hotel. I've already sent you my invoice, with the costs, so you can't
skim. And-”
“Woah, woah,
woah!,” Bombshell growled, leaping to his pedes. “Wait a klik!
Where do you think you're running off to? You aren't finished! I told
you to track him down as well!”
Sighing, the devon
rex held his squirming sparkling under one arm, staring at the larger
mech head on. “Listen,” he replied, “The prince hasn't gone
anywhere. He's in the exact same place as when you went to go,
unwisely, trick and marry the brat. You've obviously managed to piss
him off royally with your ignorance, and considering the festival has
come to an end and he's still there, I'd say it's a safe bet he's
never coming back. You've fragged things up good, so awesome!”
Swindle
sarcastically gave the puma a thumbs up, before pushing past him and
heading for the door. “Don't forget to pay me!,” he called back
as he left. “Oh, and Bombshell, don't even bother trying to get
back into the Insectipuma lands. After this affront, you're stuck
with pornos or prostitutes.”
The door clicked
as it closed, leaving Bombshell in stunned silence.
xxXxXxx
Silence
encompassed the dim room, not even the business of the tribe from
outdoors heard through the thick curtains. Poised in royal rebellion,
Shrapnel amused himself with watching the maidservant clip the long
hairs from the Elder's scraggly ears. The Elder himself did nothing;
his glassy optics both unseeing and his helm canted weakly to the
side, while his frame lay lazily hunched in his seat, as slacken as
his near-fangless mouth. The pathetic mech didn't even notice the
flies that circled his frame nor did he move to swat them away when
one daringly landed on his wide optics. The maidservant callously
left it there.
With not an ounce
of fear, she rose, with her little bowl of fur clippings and left to
her other chores, and not even Shrapnel bothered to stop her on her
negligence. After all, she had suffered equally as much at this
glutinous fool's servo before the prince's departure. It was almost
intoxicating, being in this level of control over the discovered
traitor, but his almost death-like state did glean a bit from the
overall enjoyment. Still....
“You're such a
pathetic piece of trash; trash.” Speaking to the incapacitated
Elder had its merits. “You try to disgrace me and instead, the Gods
see fit to rob you of your freedom; dom. Though I bet that has more
to do with smoking Bombshell's toxic brew; brew.” Shrapnel allowed
himself a moment to smirk cruelly, thinking kindly of the kittycon in
that klik. But then he remembered why he was still here within his
village, tucked away in the Elder's house, his pride hurt, his
beliefs shattered and his spark left tender and raw.
“...I bet you
thought I'd hate him forever; ever,” the prince continued softly,
still trying to speak with an air of superiority; yet failing as the
aching of his spark flared anew, “Sell me into prostitution, watch
as I floundered and flailed, dishonoured again and again; again. Your
latest poison seemed to show your true colours; colours.... I'm
surprised you never had a sample of me during our private lessons as
well; well....”
Shrapnel rose from
his seat, tipping the Elder's chair back casually, not even bothering
to watch as the lowly moaning mech toppled over to the floor as he
headed for the window. A crack in the curtains was the only gateway
out into the real world, and the youngling stared through it like a
beggar, unable to stop the rising heat that came over his optics.
Outside, his people moved about contently, ignorant of their shambles
and lack of necessities; young couples enjoying their new moments
together, sparklings running around and hanging off the arms of their
creators. Happy. In love.
And loved in
return....
For the first time
in a while, the puma regretted. He knew it was silly to hold any
ideal, that since his creation, he was born to marry that whom was
preordained and bring an heir to his collapsing Kingdom. His was a
marriage of duty, never love. Yet, he'd secretly hoped in the deepest
depths of his spark, that he would have a love even greater than that
of his poor subjects. In Kickback, that may have been possible. He'd
already had all the time in the world to grow and love his cousin,
and he'd anticipated their union far more than he knew he should
have. Then the Elder had grown greedy, sold out his own prince for
some common fix, and pushed Shrapnel into the arms of a
smooth-talking crook, who only used him before rejecting him
entirely.
How could he
return to Bombshell now, knowing that the brute, though carrying
their energon and kinship, cared little for his own kind and had
twisted the youngling into nothing more than a sex toy within his own
mind?
Shrapnel may have
squashed all chances of love and happiness from his processor the
moment Bombshell drank of the ceremonial wine, but never had he
thought that the one who would become his bondmate would turn him
into a simple object.
“Like I said
though; though...,” the puma muttered softly, wiping quickly at his
optics. “You will never see myself shrouded in shame; shame. I
shall conquer this tribulation and bring fortune to my Kingdom; dom.”
Shrapnel turned, optics flared as he approached the Elder where he
still laid; glassy optics rolling, crooked servos stiff in the air
and slacken mouth wheezing around indiscernible words.
“And; and,”
the prince added, putting his pede on the older mech's face, slowly
adding pressure, “You'll be nothing but a rotting scraplet-bag, not
even buried, but left for the beasts and critters in the banished
earth of the Red Lake, where your crooked soul cannot even escape;
cape. As befitting a crime of treasonous scum such as yourself;
self.”
The poor Elder
merely moaned weakly under his pede and snorting in derision,
Shrapnel turned; returning to his own private house.
xxXxXxx
After about a
week, the scent of Shrapnel's strange incense was gone. A few orns
after that, the cleaning maid had even moved the rest of the prince's
things into the unused closet. The sight was such a shock, that after
coming home, all Bombshell could do was stare quietly into his room
-fixed up like it had once been and devoid of any of the youngling's
presence. It smelled faintly of hot dogs and beer as well.
Primus, did that
scent make him sick.
Closing the door
to his berthroom, without even once stepping inside, the puma stood
for a while longer in place, the first time in forever feeling
uncertain. He didn't care about the brat or his ridiculous
traditions.... His room looked a slag ton better without all the
drapery and rugs and weird-smelling candle scrap that Shrapnel was
insistent on lighting. Yet....
Yet, with all of
that gone, his berthroom appeared dead, barren. It lacked any life or
personality and in a strange, twisted way, it felt that Shrapnel had
died as well. Bombshell hated that feeling.
“...he was just
a simple brat,” the kittycon hissed to himself, forcibly turning
away and awkwardly marching for the kitchen. He opened the fridge and
was equally as stunned by how empty it was. A couple take-out
containers from the other night sat on one of the shelves, a case of
beer and a lonesome jar of pickles (now just liquid) were the only
things within.
When Shrapnel had
been here, he was the one that informed the staff of their weekly
grocery requirements, keeping his fridge and fuel tanks full.....
Now there was no
one to do even that.
Grabbing a bottle,
Bombshell closed the fridge door, wearily heading for his couch now.
He hadn't done much in terms of work this orn (just pushing around
his hot dog stand again) and yet he was exhausted. Drained, really.
He mulled over the reasons half-heartedly, drinking his beer until
even that was empty. The narcotics dealer set it to the side without
a second thought... and jolted when the tiny clank of its bottom
hitting table top echoed loudly in the silence.
Shrapnel's voice
would usually have taken up the entire room by now, having come out
of his retreat to chastise the older mech on his late return; remind
him of the dinner ('an actual meal' as he used to say) waiting in the
microwave and then throw insults at him with clear directions to
bathe before seeing him that night.
Now that was gone
too and Bombshell had no choice but to admit that he missed every
slagging thing about that youngling, and he felt so fragging stupid
for never thinking to find out more about what Shrapnel was up to
before it was too late.
“Such a fragging
stupid... Primus!,” he snarled at himself, one servo
covering his face as he hunched over in his seat. He'd never
bargained on the prince becoming an intricate part of his life -he'd
only wanted to frag the virginal heir. Now everything seemed wrong
without the mouthy youngling around. It wasn't right. Shrapnel
belonged here. “I.... I gotta make amends. Somehow...”
Bombshell lowered his servo, staring at nothing in particular as he
pondered. “But how? I mean....”
Then it hit him.
“Razorclaw,” he mumbled, quickly rising to his pedes. He grabbed
his cell, dialing in the long distance number, pacing the length of
his apartment anxiously, waiting for the connection to finalize.
The predacon would
know what to do. Sure, he wasn't Insectipuma, but he was part of the
Tribal lands and if anyone knew the sort of rituals one had to do to
make good with their bondmate, then he would.
Because, slaggit
all, Shrapnel was his bondmate and Unicron be damned if he let
the youngling just walk out of his life forever.
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