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Whirl is welcomed back into society with a crushingly powerful hug, one that makes it tricky to determine if Cyclonus is demonstrating the firm hand with which he will rein in Whirl's destructive tendencies or the undying bond of friendship that they share. Either way, the sentiment is deeply appreciated. There is only so much physical affection Whirl can tolerate, however. Cyclonus lets go just as Whirl is making plans to escape.
"Ha ha," Whirl wheezes once he manages to reboot his ventilation cycle. "Nice to see you, too. Where's Tailgate?"
Cyclonus' significantly shorter significant other still doesn't come into sight even after Whirl casts his gaze downwards.
"At work. He was going to come along, of course, but then the day of your release was postponed..." Cyclonus directs a severe stare at him. Whirl shrugs. It's like a natural law of the universe. Whirl has never come across a fight he doesn't get drawn into eventually and the pathetic brawl in the exercise yard was no different. Arguing as such didn't do anything to lighten the punishment. And so his release was delayed, and the happy reunion Whirl pretended he didn't spend every waking hour thinking about was incomplete.
He doesn't look back as they pass through the gates. The judgement Cyclonus radiates isn't going away anytime soon, which irritates Whirl so much he challenges the jet to a race.
"You don't even know where we're going," Cyclonus protests, although he transmits the coordinates on an open channel anyway. Whirl gives a wild whoop and takes off into the air.
"On three," Cyclonus says, hovering next to Whirl. "One, two—" Whirl is already zooming away with shameless speed. Being able to push his engines to full throttle after so long cooped up feels incredible, and he even relishes the sooty clouds of air pollution that pass over his exterior.
Despite having cheated, Whirl touches down to see Cyclonus standing in the apartment lobby, arms crossed. He gestures at the lift.
"After you," Cyclonus says with infuriating politeness. There's obviously some kind of shortcut he didn't tell Whirl about. Whirl resolves to plant a tracker onto him in his sleep.
Cyclonus has to duck his head when they enter the apartment. It's a small, minimalist space that does not befit the aura of old money that clings onto his ancient frame, but looks obviously lived-in. Whirl's optic roves around to soak in every detail. There are footstools scattered around for Tailgate to hop on, and almost all the shelves have ladders attached. A rack of broadswords occupy pride of place above the holoprojector, the kind of display that would be ceremonial or even decorative in another home although upon closer inspection the weapons prove to possess the sheen of regular use. With tremendous self-restraint Whirl manages to keep his pincers to himself and obediently trots after Cyclonus on the grand tour.
“And this is your room,” Cyclonus says, sliding the door aside to reveal a space that can fit three of the cells Whirl has been living in on-and-off over the years. He instantly decides he likes it. There’s even a balcony that opens up into a patch of sky, albeit hemmed in by other apartment blocks and some skyscrapers, but direct aerial access is a luxury Whirl hasn’t enjoyed for a long while. He wants to disable the forcefield railing that would prevent him from simply stepping off into lovely empty air but remembers about Tailgate. That’s why Cyclonus hasn’t chosen to share this room with the minibot.
“Cool,” Whirl mutters. The enormity of what accepting Cyclonus’ offer means is starting to sink in, and this astounding generosity would probably make a lesser mech uncomfortable. Whirl just knows he deserves it all.
“I’m going to fetch Tailgate from work,” Cyclonus says. “Please be careful. I trust your tenure as a Wrecker has long expired.”
“Very funny.” Whirl waits for Cyclonus’ contrail to taper into nothing before snooping around.
He examines little holo captures of the two of them projected on walls around the house. Brainstorm hadn’t been kidding when he said that they had travelled a lot. Maybe it’s because Cyclonus couldn’t show Tailgate the magnificence of the Cybertron in his youth and settled for the wonders of the natural universe instead. In one picture there’s a tiny Cyclonus up to his knees in a swamp, and an even tinier Tailgate perched on his shoulders and reaching for a flower. Whirl had figured that the minibot would have mellowed him out but this is sickeningly sweet stuff. Turning away from the holo, Whirl waits for the resentment to well up. The feeling that curls up inside him is worse, though. So much time had been wasted. If he’d swallowed his pride, tried to ask Brainstorm to contact Tailgate for him—perhaps that nice room would have been his far earlier.
As it turns out, Cyclonus wants him to earn his keep.
“Watch out, the last tenant said there was a glitchmouse nest,” Cyclonus calls out from behind as Whirl starts up the stairs. Apparently this is what he does for a living now, looking for the cheap homes built right as the waves of neutral migration back to Cybertron ramped up and demand for accommodation was indiscriminate. Most of these places are abandoned now, since they served to house people while nicer apartments were built. The ones still occupied are in poor condition, reeking of bootleg engex and sin. Cyclonus buys these houses for almost nothing and renovates them really nicely. The money for reselling them is good, not that he needs it. Tailgate had explained to Whirl that he’s motivated by a kind of patriotism.
“He sees these ugly houses as a kind of personal insult,” Tailgate had said. “Like, Cybertron shouldn’t be defaced by such badly-constructed buildings.”
It sounds mad, but Cyclonus obviously takes pride in his work. He doesn’t just boss the workers around and actually lends a hand sometimes, hauling loads of rubbish to the landfill on the edge of town. Whirl accompanies him on these trips until it’s decided that his talents lie in fixing up the wiring and other delicate electronics. On occasion they repair crumbling temples for free. These often prove to be more interesting jobs. Cyclonus holds a short ritual before they start working and everyone keeps quiet as he chants in forgotten tongues, holding a small brazier of oil. Cleaning away accumulated dirt and grime reveals beautifully intricate laser-etched scenes from the primal sacraments: Solus forging the requiem blaster. Mortilius guiding the souls of the dead with a high-frequency transmitter, ensuring they didn’t follow the wrong signals. And the most elaborate mural of them all, Primus holding a handful of sentio metallico that spills out to form tiny mechs at his feet.
Whirl wonders if the cold-constructed feel left out of the creation myth. He pings Brainstorm, and the jet responds almost instantly.
BS: I’m an atheist, but if the cold cons want a god I could volunteer.
BS: How’s staying with Cyclonus and TG turning out?
WH: ok
BS: Is that a happy ok?
WH: an ok ok
WH: idk is it bad to be a third wheel if im a steering wheel? nobodys bossing me arnd or anything but they r so lame i wanna SCREAM
WH: tg has a little sword cy is making him practice with he sucks so bad
BS: Why not show him some moves?
WH: im too powerful to train with him all it took was one collapsed bookshelf for cyclonus to ban me from holding a sword indoors
BS: Tragic.
Whirl can feel Cyclonus’s eyes on him, about to call him out for slacking off. He closes the commlink and hops down to ground level. There’s a promisingly rusty bunch of gears awaiting clean-up, and Whirl wants first dibs on digging up some creepy crypt.
Life settles into a predictable, comfortable rhythm. It would bore Whirl’s brains out if not for how peaceful he feels serving as free labour on Cyclonus’ work crew, and demolishing stuff (with permission) for once is far more fun when he doesn’t get jailed afterwards.
Whirl jerks awake to the sound of the fire alarm, followed by the hiss of insulating foam spraying from the home damage control system. By the time he reaches the other habsuite down the hall and breaks in, Cyclonus has stopped swearing in Vernacular and is merely trying to wipe the bright green foam off Tailgate’s chassis. Cyclonus has the stuff splattered on himself too, although Tailgate seems to have gotten the worst of it. The minibot waits patiently as Cyclonus scrapes the foam away, mindful of his claws.
Cyclonus removes one big patch from Tailgate’s shoulder to reveal a smear of purple, too dark to be spilled energon though vivid enough against his white plating to make Whirl freeze momentarily as false warnings scroll across his internal display. He dismisses them only to see Tailgate duck his helm away shyly. The minibot attempts to cover up the paint transfer with one hand, nevermind how it’s already too late.
Whirl leans against the doorway to hide his own discomfort.
“Need help buffing that out,” he asks. “Or will Cyclonus take care of this too?”
For someone without a face, Whirl thinks he can give a pretty good leer. Cyclonus certainly looks disturbed. Tailgate’s visor goes incandescent.
“Sweet Solus Prime, I swear staying with you two is making me miss the delicious slumber I got at Garrus-10. At least people getting beat up were more quiet than the two of you going at it like turbofoxes—” Cyclonus bodily evicts Whirl from the room and slams the door shut.
They can’t avoid him at breakfast, however. Whirl sprinkles an unholy amount of titanium flakes into his cube and watches the flakes disperse throughout the pink liquid to settle at the bottom.
“How long has this been happening, exactly,” Whirl asks conversationally. “This ‘setting the berth on fire with the heat of your passion’ thing.”
Tailgate drops the aluminium shaker inside his own cube.
“Doesn’t it seem, I don’t know, a little rude to pry into the sex lives of two people you haven’t seen in a few hundred years?”
Tailgate remembers with a guilty pang whose fault it is they hadn’t talked for so long, but Whirl has already latched onto something else to give him grief about, bless his spark.
Whirl snaps his pincers loudly. “Hey, hey. You should thank me for getting a sex life in the first place!”
“Remind me again why I thought this would be a good idea,” Cyclonus mumbles into his energon. Tailgate reaches up to pat his shoulder guard comfortingly. “It’s just the initial adjustment period,” he says. “I’m sure Whirl will settle down soon enough.” The minibot’s friendly expression doesn’t change even as his field flickers in warning.
“Yup, model citizen in the making right here,” Whirl says after a beat. For such a tiny mech, Tailgate’s static shocks are no joke. The entirety of Whirl’s criminal record may be longer than an omega sentinel’s exhaust trail but he has a feeling that this is going to be the end of it.
“The repair company says it’d take a week to replace the wiring,” Cyclonus announces. He’d been having a long and heated conversation with Whirl about the viability of doing it themselves, though perhaps his reluctance to let Whirl help had more to do with embarrassment rather than the difficulty of fixing a melted love nest. Whirl has no idea what the two of them have been doing, to be honest. His most interesting interfacing accident has been making the other guy convulsively transform.
“I’m thinking of spending the time at my asteroid belt. There’s a place we can stay there, though I’m not sure if the generator still works.”
Cyclonus says ‘my asteroid belt’ like everyone he knows owns one. Apparently there’s a mined-out field where Nova Prime had built some villas as political gifts, and being one of his favourite lieutenants Cyclonus had naturally received one. It has been eons, and the environmental shielding may have broken down to leave nothing but dust behind. Whirl thinks going there is a marvellous idea. His alt isn’t space-worthy so they have to charter a shuttle.
The villa—a mansion, really—is thankfully still intact. Evidently, Golden Age construction spared no expense, and all the fixtures remain in working condition. Despite the thick layer of dust underfoot and how yellowed sheets of protective plastic cover all the furniture, there’s no detracting from the grandeur of the place.
“Oooo, pretty,” Whirl says when a light fountain activates as he brushes a claw over it.
“Stay close to me,” Cyclonus calls out. He doesn’t want them wandering off since it’s a big place. Even Cyclonus doesn’t know the exact layout, having spent very little time on-site. A kind of monk shack was his home whenever Nova didn’t call upon his bodyguard to bodyguard.
They take a break exploring these parts unknown to fuel up. Whirl is mildly disappointed by the lack of torture chambers and opulent oil baths though he guesses they would show up somewhere later. It is a house built by the crazy imperialistic leader of their world who wanted to annex the entire galaxy and then some.
Whirl finds himself regretting he hadn’t wished so hard for something interesting to appear when it actually happens. The thing is, he’d just been innocently poking around a dusty rack of books—actual physical manuscripts engraved in silver ink on thin sheets of carbon paper, and there was one sticking out in a way that simply begged to be put into place. Whirl isn’t the sort to fuss over being neat but it was just that one book. He shoves it back into the stack, grunting in exertion when for some reason it turned out to be heavier than expected, and is just stepping back to congratulate himself when the tiles beneath shift and depress.
“What was that,” Tailgate asks, walking over with some antique datapads tucked under one arm. They are wider than his torso and full of forgotten lore Whirl has absolutely zero interest in. The library is super big, the kind where datapads on only one topic can occupy shelves that stretch from floor to ceiling.
They watch in amazement as the tiles sink down and down in succession to form a spiral flight of stairs that disappear out of sight into inky blackness.
“Woah,” Whirl says, and his voice echoes. The stairs below must lead to the Pit. Naturally, he starts to go down them.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Cyclonus,” Tailgate asks, and Whirl shrugs. The minibot hops down to join him and they trot into darkness.
Tailgate gives a little scream and points upwards. The stairs are sliding back into the sides of the circular depression. Whirl is about to point out the obvious and promise to give him a lift until the entire hole starts to close up, tiles shifting back into their original positions.
Alerted by his conjunx’s distress, Cyclonus shows up just in time to see them getting swallowed into the ground. Demonstrating extreme agility and zero intelligence, he dives for the rapidly contracting opening and manages to crash right into Whirl. The stairs underfoot are already moving. Cyclonus and Whirl activate their searchlights and fly upwards, though no matter how they look there’s no visible mechanism to reverse what just happened.
“Look, I told you over and over again. There was this hidden lever in the shelf. I have no idea how it works.”
After a bit more arguing they decide to descend to wherever the hell this shaft leads to, which ends up being a very rustic dungeon. There’s a control box that Cyclonus spends an inordinate amount of time cussing at while flipping dead switches.
“What kind of rancid pitslag is this,” Whirl yells, kicking at the wall. It hurts his foot more than the solid block of stone. “So this place has enough power to activate some hidden trapdoor and send us here, but not to unlock the stupid door?”
“Can we boost the power system ourselves? That’s what interfacing is, right? Send a big enough jolt and we can wake it up long enough to get out.”
Tailgate is literally the last person Whirl would have expected to propose such an idea, though he supposes people change.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Cyclonus says immediately.
“Why not? We can make Whirl look away.” Tailgate has propped his hands on his hips like that makes him look any more imposing.
“I mean, I also don’t think we should interface any more. It’s dangerous. I apologise for lying earlier but the fire happened not because of a manufacturing defect, Whirl was right. It was my fault.”
In the dim dungeon Tailgate’s visor very clearly glows with hurt.
“It’s the power differential,” Cyclonus finally says. ‘Aircraft have—significantly greater upper limits on their output during interface. I didn’t want to hurt you and tried to tamp it down, but this wasn’t a real solution.”
“So you wanted to stop interfacing with me?” Tailgate’s visor has dimmed almost all the way down.
“No, no. I would have been fine with a one-sided connection.”
Tailgate crosses his arms. “How selfish do you think I am? That isn’t the same at all.”
It’s great that they’re resolving their communication issues once and for all, but Whirl thinks it’d be more productive if they actually try to find a way out of here. No matter how he doesn’t want to point out the obvious, without any fuel available there’s a significant chance they’d all have to fight to the death and drink the loser’s energon. Tailgate’s chances don’t look too good, but then again Cyclonus is the kind of conjunx who would happily murder Whirl before committing suicide and letting the minibot subsist on their corpses. And so, Whirl wades into the lover’s spat and does the most logical thing.
He suggests a threesome.
“Oh great, that’s something I’ve always wanted to try before dying,” Tailgate snaps, and Whirl wonders if he actually means it before Cyclonus is shoving him against the wall.
“Hold—hold up,” Whirl struggles to say as his arms are wrenched against his back. “I’m not being opportunistic here! Listen, ow—”
Cyclonus eventually tires of trying to break his arms and Whirl is given room to glare at him.
“Okay, so the thing is establishing a circuit between yourself and a flightframe when you aren’t one is really dangerous. Damn, I’m not sure how you guys managed to frag this long without burning down the entire building. Bringing in someone else capable of modulating the charge will prevent it from reaching hazardous levels while hopefully unlocking the door.”
Intervening may also give Cyclonus the long-overdue overload he so desperately needs. Whirl should have picked it up earlier but in hindsight the reason for his surlier mood is so obvious.
“The Autobot code has a whole chapter on interpersonal relationships,” Tailgate says. “Granted, it’s geared for dealing with the difficulties of having the same people be your partners and colleagues but I think the section on best sexual practices is very clear on this. We’re not going to make you interface with us because we need you. There has to be clear, ongoing consent among all involved parties, and I don’t know how interfacing with you will change my relationship with Cyclonus.”
The Autobot code was authored by someone who wouldn’t know what to do with his cable unless someone gave him a manual and step-by-step instructions. Since Ultra Magnus happens to be someone Tailgate highly respects for whatever reason, Whirl decides to keep this to himself.
“Fine. Think of me as a person-sized sex toy,” Whirl tries. “I know that sounds like fifty levels of wrong and probably goes against the very moral fibre of your person, but a dungeon’s a dungeon. It doesn't care how nice the people stuck inside are.”
“And you’re a very nice person, Tailgate,” Cyclonus interjects. “Resorting to such measures wouldn’t change that.”
Tailgate shakes his little head helplessly.
“I, I don’t want to interface with anyone besides you. Didn’t we perform the rites? We’re supposed to be for each other.”
“Interfacing didn’t use to have so many rules,” Cyclonus mutters, and he looks like he wishes he could take that back when Tailgate stares at him, open-mouthed. He makes an abortive movement with one arm, as if he’d wanted to cover his face before thinking better of that.
“What Cyclonus means is, well, it’s different for planes. We are built to interface without necessarily having some kind of personal investment. The high energy output isn’t for electrocuting people to death, it’s so we can give each other energy boosts on long flights. Migratory routes back then were brutal.”
Whirl watches Tailgate’s face as he digests this information. He’s going to have to take things as they come, but it looks like Whirl has to enlighten him on all the things about flightframes Cyclonus has been too prudish to share. Learning about your fundamental sexual incompatibility with your beloved soulmate is probably kinda traumatic.
“I will never leave you,” Cyclonus states. “If anything, we should be more concerned about never being able to get rid of Whirl.”
“Excuse me,” Whirl begins, but Tailgate rushes over to hug him and after a moment Cyclonus sighs and joins in, scooping up the minibot and squashing him against Whirl’s cockpit.
“Don’t feel too bad if it doesn’t work out. I’ve lived a pretty full life: rebelling against the government, turning some wannabe poet into a genocidal maniac, jetting around the universe with the last Prime. Burning to death with my two besties inside a hidden dungeon preserved since the Golden Age doesn’t seem like the worst way to go out, you know?”
“Actually,” Tailgate begins, but Cyclonus is already stepping forward to grasp Whirl’s claw with both hands.
“I am honoured by your cooperation,” Cyclonus says seriously. “The shame of having our charred frames discovered in such a compromising position may even seem palatable when leavened by your positivity. Let us not turn this den of decadence into a tomb. Rather, through steadfast will and combined effort, may we leave this place behind as a monument to the power of friendship!”
At the end of this speech Whirl is prepared to start clapping, although the kind of applause produced by victims of state-sponsored mutilation programmes has often been criticised for sounding exactly like the sound produced by two steel pipes being banged together. It’s the longest way anyone has ever consented to interface with him, although a yes is a yes no matter how overwrought.
Tailgate paces the perimeter of the space while Cyclonus and Whirl discuss logistics. In what order should they plug in? Exactly how many kilojoules can Cyclonus generate? Whirl likes to describe himself as adventurous as compared to suicidal, and as such would prefer to know what kind of power he’s dealing with. It’s mildly upsetting to realise that Cyclonus packs the greatest power unit Whirl has ever tried to cable, and he wonders about the kind of service Nova had demanded from his most loyal guard.
“Do we need music? This place is so dark and creepy, something needs to be done to fix the atmosphere. Cyclonus like the classical stuff but I guess it’d be weird to try and ‘face to stuff people died listening to. I should probably stop talking now. Sorry, I don’t think I’ve been this nervous about sex in forever.”
“Ah, don’t worry about music. I’d have Cyclonus making far more delicious noises soon,” Whirl tells Tailgate.
“We’ll see.” Cyclonus slaps a heavy palm on his back.
They take a silly amount of time to get warmed up. Given the circumstances Whirl is prepared to give them a free pass, though his patience is stretched thin as Cyclonus and Tailgate exchange gentle kisses like the lamest softcore holovid ever. Entirely outside his volition a low whine escapes Whirl. Cyclonus breaks free to cast a dark gaze at him.
Good for him, but Whirl can’t help noticing how Tailgate doesn’t bother touching the gently flexing ailerons on Cyclonus’ massive wingdiv or the slatted vents on his chestplate. Moving in sneakily, Whirl trails his pincer across the leading age. Cyclonus’ vents come in a deep whoosh and Tailgate hops back.
“I’ve never heard this before,” Tailgate says rather plaintively.
At this point Whirl is going to stop questioning how long they have been together, because they’re really just that dumb. Cyclonus has been keeping mum about flightframe physiology out of some misguided sense of protection though his silence has only served to keep Tailgate ignorant. It’s becoming increasingly clear that their sex life has been supremely fragged up. Lucky for them, Whirl is on the scene.
“He likes this, you see,” Whirl says, taking Tailgate's hand and demonstrating the right way to stimulate the tiny air sensors embedded in his wings. Cyclonus makes another low groan, and the bass reverberates in the enclosed area. In this case, Tailgate’s diminutive nature bestows a unique advantage. He can reach into the armor gaps and rub at bundled wires underneath. Cyclonus makes his approval known quite loudly, and covers up his loss of composure with a measured straightening of his shoulders.
“My turn,” he says, and they set about getting Tailgate ready. Cyclonus touches the interior of his wheel wells with confidence, mindful of his claws. It doesn’t take long before the minibot is trembling sweetly and wriggling on the ground. Tailgate’s so easy to please Whirl would be tempted to make fun of him if not for how aroused he’s already getting, feeling the buzz build under his clawtips while Tailgate makes adorable mewling noises.
Whirl is last, since it was agreed that Cyclonus should start ramping up his own charge early in order to generate the greatest possible output. It’s a risk, but the explosion will be glorious. Whirl lies back and hums a tuneless melody as Tailgate’s tiny fingers quest over his frame.
“Oh, Primus,” he gasps. Tailgate has found the central vortex airflow sensor and is ruthlessly toying with it. Cyclonus watches lazily while fingering his own air inlets. Whirl’s access panel slides away and he nearly doesn’t notice, too busy realising how goddamn good Cyclonus looks pleasuring himself.
Whirl can’t even bring himself to be outraged when Cyclonus leans in and inspects the exposed socket, shiny metal crackling with charge. He unspools Whirl’s cable and passes it to Tailgate, who rolls the jack between his hands. This manual stimulation undoes Whirl, and all his vents stall out at the same time. Tailgate makes eye contact with the two other mechs before initiating the interface. His overload washes over Whirl far too quickly to be enjoyed, ratcheting up his own need for release. Small touches on his frame only prolong the agony.
“Just stick it in already,” Whirl howls, grabbing at Cyclonus’ stupid hefty cable. The weight of it in his claws is enough to make him feel dizzy with want.
“Not yet, we need another two hundred and fifty point five watts,” Tailgate mutters. He’s staring at the jury-rigged display attached to the control panel and their own wires, which criss-cross the floor in an obscene pattern. Whirl shakes the cable in frustration, pulling a hiss from Cyclonus.
Cyclonus takes pity on him and helps Whirl guide the prongs of the cable to his access panel, patiently waiting as the socket slowly calibrates to accept this equipment. A click, and they’re all connected. Whirl feels heat building up that venting faster fails to dissipate, and as his core temperature rises he feels a slight tinge of fear. These are mere inconveniences compared to the mad rush lighting up every diode in his frame. All of a sudden Whirl realises why Tailgate had been so indignant when Cyclonus wanted to shut his panels forever. Cabling Cyclonus isn’t an experience anyone would give up lightly. Every single gate in his tantric centre has been blown wide open and still the energy level keeps rising, sending Whirl spinning upwards to new heights of pleasure. The power surge is threatening to overwhelm even his specialised hardware. His vision flickers, though just before it shuts down completely he gets a good view of Cyclonus’ smug smile, or an expression as smug as Cyclonus will allow himself to wear.
“I’m alive,” Whirl croaks. “I will never move again.” Cyclonus has one arm thrown over him and Whirl turns to rest his head more comfortably. At his side, Tailgate’s visor is still dark. Even filtered through another mech, Cyclonus’ overload packs one hell of a punch.
The two of them look up as the ceiling far above gradually gives way, light pouring in from on high. Whirl isn’t given to mysticism though he thinks there’s some beauty in this scene as they make their way out of a tunnel, marking a new passage in life.