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SIMULATION RECALL : ACTIVE
>select search engine?
…>CHRONOLOGICAL
……>[SELECT]
>search engine ‘chronological’ set
>select search parameters?
…>MINUS250000ANNUM—PRESENT
>search parameters set
>compiling…
>1 result found
…>SIMULATION, ‘hot rod hunt’
……>[SELECT]
>SIMULATION, ‘hot rod hunt’ selected
>run selected [YES/NO]?
…>[YES]
>’hot rod hunt’ running, please wait…
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[ SET ]
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If someone was to ask Deadlock how this whole ‘Autobot obsession’ slag started, he would gut them. Through the weak point in the abdominal armor, where the chestplate sealed together and protected the more malleable chassis structure beneath. Typically, the survival protocols in a mech’s cranial unit would circumvent conscious processing if the central chassis was breached, drawing all resources to protect the spark by temporarily overcharging it in case of a spark chamber breach. That made the fuel pump sitting sulphurfowl. Deadlock’s reinforced claws would rip it out easily, and if he’s lucky, take the fuel tank with it. Oh yes, they could protect their precious spark all they wanted, but without fuel they weren’t going anywhere fast. And Deadlock was patient.
He’d always appreciated a hunt, even before joining the Decepticons. His frame was quick, quiet when it needed to be. His basic sensory hardware was of solid make—he was old enough to have been born before the Senate started cutting corners on non-function-based components. Millennia of substance abuse had taxed it, but nothing was ever damaged beyond repair. Starvation had colored Drift’s raids in Gasket’s gang with a sickly desperation, but now, well-fed and modded to his own specifications with top-of-the-line tech, Deadlock could admit he got a bit of a high from it. The good kind; the kind he could control. The kind he earned. Eighty-percent of an assassin’s work was planning; eighteen-percent was waiting. His kill list was not as long as his fellow officers, but that fact had never bothered Deadlock. Anyone could mow down a platoon of Autobots with a big enough gun. It took a specialist to feel confident that they could kill any singular Autobot, given enough time and resources.
And the Autobots were interesting, in a nauseating way. Of course there was scum in their ranks—there was scum in every army—but there was a significant proportion of Autobots who genuinely believed in their ‘cause,’ who believed that love and warm fuzzies would solve eons of systematic abuse and discrimination. Maybe they got some kind of pleasure out of taking the moral high ground. Enough that it deluded them into believing that if they just defeated the Decepticons, everything would be sunshine and rainbows—now that Megatron had blown up the corrupted mechs holding the reins. But Deadlock knew better. What the Autobots were on was no better than circuit boosters, and one of these days, their habit would catch up with them. He planned to be clear of the blast radius of that particular meltdown.
Still, he could admit he got entertainment value out of the more delusional of Autobots. Their comms and messages and radio chatter were far more entertaining to listen in on than that of the ‘Bots selling drugs or running small-scale black markets or even just crudely shooting the slag with their barrack buddies. Deadlock got enough of that walking down the hallway of the Tascitorque. He kept tabs on a few ‘orange’ targets simply for the novelty of listening to them pontificate, with no one but Ravage—and therefore, Soundwave—any the wiser. She had handed over the monitoring gear with a lingering side-eye, but didn’t report Deadlock to Turmoil for diversionary actions, so Deadlock took it as tacit permission, if not approval of his…hobby.
And after years spent on his hobby, it was only natural for Deadlock to have a favorite. It seemed fitting that he, one of Megatron’s proteges, should take interest in one of Optimus Prime’s. Hot Rod, despite only ranking as a scout, had been a pain in many a Decepticon’s aft. He was quick—maybe even faster than Deadlock had been, early in his functioning. And with a flame-based outlier ability at his behest, if he was caught it wouldn’t be for long. He had this nasty habit of cooking his captors alive. He was held together by cockiness and pride, the likes of which Optimus had never possessed, and was never afraid to flounce his lewd little spoiler under the nose of a ‘Con to see if he could entice them into a chase.
He may, on occasion, have tempted Deadlock into a chase.
Maybe more than occasionally. Deadlock was very good at being in places that Hot Rod was going to be deployed to, even if it was nowhere near his last known location. Hot Rod wasn’t subtle enough for spec ops missions, so as long as the encryption on his deployment notice wasn’t a multi-tiered nightmare, Deadlock could dedicate a few hours of downtime to brute forcing the lock. It helped that he knew the mech who seemed to be in charge of wrangling Hot Rod—Ultra Magnus was not a ‘Bot easily concealed from Decepticon surveillance, and since he was a heavily monitored ‘red’ target, Ravage could usually snatch the raw data from his personal comms to Hot Rod out of the datasphere whenever Deadlock got a tip. Personal comms, because Primus bless his rebellious little spark, Hot Rod did not read the heavily encrypted deployment notices from Autobot High Command.
Deadlock had engineered a ‘relationship’ of sorts between them. He was careful to make their encounters innocuous; happenstance. Sometimes, when they were on the same battlefield, he wouldn’t even engage Hot Rod. But when the terrain looked ripe for a chase, Deadlock would seek him out. And then, finally, Deadlock would have his attention. Not just a fly on the wall—Hot Rod was directing insults at him, firing on him, spraying gravel against him. For an hour or two, there were no mechs in Hot Rod’s processor but himself and Deadlock. Oh, they had fun. Sometimes Deadlock wished Hot Rod knew he didn’t actually want to kill him so they could interface after the chasing game. Deadlock might have been able to talk him into it if Hot Rod ever let him get more than a few words out. But Hot Rod wouldn’t let Deadlock catch him, even if he was grinning and whooping the whole time they played, so Deadlock had to settle for letting him get away and tugging his spike to completion alone until the racer’s high wore off.
He tried to convince himself that it wouldn’t be good; that Hot Rod would come too fast, or that his valve would be too hot or too dry, but he’s no good at lying to himself. He wouldn’t know until he had it or stopped wanting it, and Deadlock really wanted it. He supposed it was that rare, authentic charisma with which Hot Rod carried himself. Deadlock didn’t want to fuck a jaded survivor, like himself, or a sadist, or a loose hedonist. He wanted the fantasy. He wanted to chase, to catch, to take. He wanted to crack that cool, tough exterior of Hot Rod’s. He wanted to hit it until it broke.
Hot Rod didn’t seem like the type to balk at cross-faction interfacing. He probably had his share of ‘Bots and ‘Cons who were salivating to take his sweet, speedster aft to berth. It was possible that Deadlock would bring nothing new to the table; that he might actually be inferior to Hot Rod’s past conquests. Thinking about it too hard put Deadlock in a mood. He didn’t want it to be true, and tried to avoid dwelling on it often.
He resolved to keep it a fantasy, to keep Hot Rod just out of reach so he couldn’t disappoint Deadlock. Emotionally and sexually, anyway—like all known targets, there was no ‘out-of-reach’ in the sense of proximity when it came to Deadlock. Which was why he was on top of a building on Velocitron, across from the club Hot Rod and his Autobot friends had ventured into earlier in the night. His left audial was tuned to the frequency of the bug he’d placed in the dark, scummy alley outside the piece of shit club.
(Deadlock had been before—weak engex and overpriced party drugs. Obnoxiously prolific date rape culture. He was pretty sure they still had his portrait up behind the bar as mecha-non-grata for killing five locals who tried their luck on fifty-seven tons of bristling kibble and guns. ...Maybe a bystander or two. In his defense, he had been very drunk.)
The alley, somehow, was shittier. Why Hot Rod was letting himself be pushed up against a wall by some racer with a chassis Deadlock could punch a hole straight through escaped him. He was annoyed, and irritated by the fact that he was annoyed. The racer shoved a leg between Hot Rod’s thighs. Ooo, bitty, you’re so hot down there. Hot Rod laughed. You’re not so bad lookin’ yourself.
Deadlock mimed gagging.
He debated, moodily, if he was really going to watch nitro-for-brains down there fuck his Autobot. It was different, when he read Hot Rod’s recollections of what a wild night he’d had as he comm’d his friends. That was in the past, and there was nothing Deadlock could do about it. But this was the present, and Deadlock was not only on the same planet, but on the same block as Hot Rod, with no other pressing engagements to dissuade him from interfering in this nonsense. Maybe Deadlock would wait until Hot Rod opened his valve panels to entice the bozo into spiking him. Then Deadlock could kill him, splatter Hot Rod’s valve with his racing-hot energon, and take his place. Deadlock wouldn’t be fast enough to go unnoticed by the crowd, but guns, a Decepticon emblem, and energon covering your abdomen did a hell of a job keeping mechs’ mouths shut.
He was halfway to talking himself into it when he noticed something was…off. The racer went to stroke Hot Rod’s array, but his hands were caught and smoothly redirected to Hot Rod’s hips and down, catching on the curve of his aft. The racer huffed and chuckled, but obediently pawed at his aft and pulled Hot Rod closer, grinding their arrays together. Hot Rod shuddered. He looped his own arms around the racer, one hand pushing on his chest and holding him back with deceptive strength.
“I thought you were going to tell me about the locals’ racetracks?” Hot Rod accused, still with a teasing edge to his voice.
“And I thought you saw right through that flimsy deception,” the racer accused right back, also teasing. “C’mon, Roddy. We weren’t getting anywhere in there. That pink femme friend of yours does not like me.”
Wonder why, Deadlock mouthed silently.
Hot Rod laughed. “What kind of mech do you take me for? I’m not going to interface with you in a dirty alley.”
“It’s not that dirty,” the racer grumbled. “Let me persuade you.”
He leaned in and kissed Hot Rod deeply, licking into his mouth and forcing Hot Rod to tilt his helm back until it pressed against the wall. He stroked up and down Hot Rod’s sides, coaxing.
But, although Hot Rod’s array was clearly heating up, his hands stayed still. He did not cant his frame up into the racer or kiss him back. Nothing in his stiff body language indicated receptiveness to the advances. Deadlock might have suspected that a roofie was involved if not for Hot Rod’s clear-headed speech.
Hot Rod’s words confirmed it for him. He broke out of the racer’s kiss. “I think that’s enough. Let’s head back inside.”
“Aw, Roddy—”
“Listen, Checks, you’re hot and all, but this isn’t how I imagined my first time going down.”
Deadlock’s processor stalled. He must have heard that last bit wrong.
Checks scoffed. “Seriously, mech? I suppose now you’ll tell me you’ve got a special someone waiting for you back on Cybertron.”
“No, but I have a little more class than to let my metaphorical seals pop drunk, up against a wall outside a club, with a guy I met a couple hours ago.”
There it was again.
Checks rubbed his forehelm. “Ugh, I guess you’re right. You’re still—I mean, don’t get me wrong, mech; you’re a hot little piece of aft, but I pegged you as more loose in the calipers. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Tourists and soldiers usually party hard around here. Can’t blame a mech for trying.”
“Better luck next time,” Hot Rod said dryly. “But hey—if we’re not too hungover in the morning, I’m still down to race.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good, Roddy.”
They parted and headed back into the club on good terms. They exchanged a few more playful jabs on the way, but Deadlock didn’t process them. He hadn’t processed any information since Hot Rod said the words “seals pop.”
He laid on his back and stared into the dull grey sky, polluted with light from the planet that never slept.
Hot Rod was a virgin.
This changed everything.
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[ EXECUTE ]
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Deadlock could not say he had a preference for the unsealed. He did not have a preference in either direction, because he did not much enjoy interface. It was necessary—his array got hot, his spike got needy, and he had to dump his transfluid into a mech every now and then. But for all that he was good at it, he did not enjoy the process of soliciting interface or all the drivel that led up to his overload. Logically, it should be the same with Hot Rod, who was nothing but a potential conquest Deadlock had taken a passing fancy to.
But nothing about his attraction to Hot Rod was logical.
Deadlock felt sick with it. He had already touched himself a few times to his memories of chasing Hot Rod and imagining what the ideal rut with him would look like. But after Velocitron, it was constant. Any time Deadlock let himself dwell on Hot Rod, he became aroused. It was to a painful, enraging degree. He fucked his subordinates, but they couldn’t satiate him. More than once he broke off the engagement before overloading, too frustrated that they weren’t what he wanted. What he craved.
His Autobot.
Untouched. Unclaimed. Unknowing of what another mech’s spike could do to his internals. How Deadlock could stretch him wide, flex inside him and rub up against all the deep node clusters that no toy could ever reach. It was different with a live mech, panting and shifting over him, whispering filth into his audial as he pushed him further down his spike. Hot Rod didn’t know. He would know.
If Deadlock could not be satisfied by another mechanism, then he could not allow Hot Rod to be satisfied by any other than himself.
…It would be challenging. Deadlock could not simply rape him. That would leave Hot Rod afraid and perhaps even abhorrent of interface. Deadlock needed to be desired, even if only a little bit. Hot Rod could resist and scream to Deadlock that he didn’t want it, but as long as Deadlock felt that pulse of desire in his field, as long as he could smell heated lubricant behind Hot Rod’s valve panel, Deadlock’s spike would take care of any pesky lingering resistance. It would take time, cajoling. They needed to be alone and uninterrupted.
Fortunately, his Autobot was easy enough to corral.
Hot Rod would not back down from a challenge, to the point of detriment to either himself or the Autobots as a whole. He fired back fiercely against any criticism that implied he was weak or unworthy of attention. It was what his taunting chases were all about—see me, follow me, notice me—and in some way, yes, want me. It had been easy to manufacture their acquaintance in the first place because Deadlock wanted Hot Rod, and Hot Rod wanted anyone to want him. It would be even easier, now, to betray that acquaintance.
Deadlock found Hot Rod again on a planet with terrain too rough for their tires. He cornered Hot Rod, goaded him into battle, and they exchanged blows. Deadlock watched, resisting the urge to grin like a feral thing, as Hot Rod’s bravado faltered with every step Deadlock drove him back. They did not usually fight hand-to-hand. Hot Rod must have thought an assassin would not be much to handle up close.
Deadlock won, as he knew he would. He had chosen the worst possible match-up for a scout who relied on agility to win his battles. If Hot Rod had noticed his disadvantage, Deadlock might have been forced to retreat, but Hot Rod was blind to his own weaknesses. Deadlock knocked Hot Rod onto his aft and nestled the muzzle of his largest blaster under Hot Rod’s chin, pinning him. He permitted the gun to overcharge with a whine, sending static crackling across Hot Rod’s cheek plating and neck cables. Hot Rod’s vents came in quick and ragged with barely restrained fear. Somewhere across the field, an Autobot bellowed Hot Rod’s designation.
“Do it, then,” Hot Rod gritted out bravely.
Oh, pet. You’re mine now.
Deadlock snorted. He lifted the blaster and fired on the mech who was now barreling towards them, sending him crashing to the ground and nearly taking his arm off. Deadlock knocked the blaster back against his shoulder and got down on one knee. He leaned over Hot Rod.
“Thought you were a bit tougher than that, Autosnot. We had a thing. But it turns out you’re just as weak as every other scout I’ve killed. Boring. You aren’t even worth the ammo.”
And he got up, and walked away.
Oh, it had been hard. What if his plan had backfired? Deadlock, usually so meticulous, didn’t have a backup. But he needn’t have worried. He spent the next few days in the dark of his habsuite tuned into Hot Rod’s personal comms, and was rewarded for his efforts. He could finally come. Good and hard, the kind that left his frame trembling, while he listened to Hot Rod’s angry rants to his friends about that stuck-up glitch who was too much of a piece of work to regard Hot Rod as a serious threat. He was a soldier and should be treated as such! If he was going to be killed, he should die with honor! Oooh, if he ever saw that slagsucking ‘Con ever again…
He did. Deadlock made sure he was in full view of Hot Rod the next few skirmishes. He dedicated an entire hemisphere of his tactical matrix to evading Hot Rod’s attacks while staunchly ignoring him. He refused to react to taunts. The only time he acknowledged Hot Rod was to flick a cool glance at him before returning to excising an Autobot’s head from their frame, and a parting, annoyed, “The battlefield is no place for scraplets. Run back home to your sniveling friends and stay the fuck out of my way.”
He should have dragged it out longer. He should’ve allowed more iterations of baiting Hot Rod before he executed his plan. It had a higher rate of success if he ingrained himself in Hot Rod’s processor. But Deadlock could not bear the full weight of Hot Rod’s attention. He was going to start killing more than just Autobots if he didn’t vent his anticipation soon. He allowed for three iterations of this game before the right opportunity presented itself. They were both to be deployed to a mining colony rife with quarry-canyons rendered unstable by carpet bombings. Deadlock enlisted himself in the scouting corp and there, on that desolate, eaten-away planet, Deadlock discovered the perfect trap.
He disguised the emergency exit and carefully destabilized the outside of the mineshaft. The area had been wrung dry of energon and was too volatile to defend, but not so far from the main mining operation that two speedsters pushing the limits of their frames wouldn’t be able to make the drive in the midst of battle. Deadlock admired his hard work for a moment, and then, he waited.
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