shadow_vector | Wakeup Call

PG-13
IDW
Banzaitron/Sixshot (yeah you read that right)
Warnings: See characters. Crack. innuendo of indeterminate smexing style,

tf_speedwriting prompt again.

Banzaitron’s optics onlined in a drowsy blur. His cortex was killing him. What the frag had he drunk last night? All in all though, the rest of him felt…pretty damn good. Loose and free of excess charge and still riding the last ebb of what must have been a spectacular overload. All right, refine and reorder question priorities: Who had he been with last night?

“Mrumph,” he managed, stretching his arms up over his head. Simply because movement felt good right now.

…Or at least up until the point when the gun barrel materialized in front of his face. Well, that answered that second question. Disturbingly.

“What,” said the flat voice behind the gun, issuing from a blank white facemask and some very, very displeased optics, “are you doing here.”

“Same thing you are,” Banzaitron said, reasonably. Well, as reasonably as one can manage while staring down a gun’s bore “Waking up after a night of drunken interfacing.” He grinned, aware of the odd effect under his mask.

Sixshot growled. Okay, maybe not as funny as Banzaitron thought. But he did think it was pretty funny. Funnier if he could, you know, remember any of it. Seemed like some sort of cosmic wrong, you know? No, not the whole ‘sleeping with an underling’ chain of command thing. The whole ‘getting it on with Sixshot and having no memory of it’ thing. Tragic. Truly.

Banzaitron did his best to ignore the white barrel a handspan from his face, letting his gaze drift around the room. “Take your work home with you, huh?” The place was lined with weapons. Guns, blades, bombs, timers, detonators, mines…it was a minor armory in here.

“That a problem.” The gun tipped up, slightly, for the center of Banzaitron’s forehead.

“Now, now, Sixshot,” Banzaitron said. Yeah, Sixshot wasn’t much known for his sense of humor. Probably a bad idea to try levity. “Calm down.”

“Perfectly calm.”

Ah. That was true. Unfortunately, ‘perfectly calm’ also meant ‘coldly homicidal’ when it came to Sixshot. Right. Try reasoning with him. This should go…well. “Sixshot. There’s no reason to shoot me. Really.”

“No reason.”

“What? We interfaced. It happens.”

“Not…to me.”

“It…did.” Banzaitron smirked. Who knew this was Sixshot’s weakness? His embarrassment was palpable. Banzaitron would have enjoyed it a lot more, though, if the gun weren’t still in his face. “Look, can we talk for a klik here? Without this?” He tapped the side of the barrel.

“No.”

Well. Fine then. Seriously, Megatron needed to start paying him more, simply for hazard pay, having to deal with this kind of thing. Phase Six specialists were useful, but a pain in the aft to have to handle. Which was, he thought, probably why Megatron had given Banzaitron the unenviable job in the first place.

Still, even Banzaitron’s patience had limits. Which were fast approaching. He whipped out one hand, fingers unerringly finding a sensorcluster in the wrist, while his other came out in a chopping blow to the elbow.

Sixshot snarled, the gun clattering onto the berth from newly numbed fingers. Thanks, of course, to a few handy Crystalocution moves. Before the white mech could bring the other gun up (seriously? Sixshot slept with his guns? Mech needed a teddy bear or something. Because there was something very, very wrong about a mech who snuggles with his guns. Perverted. …Not that Banzaitron was against ‘perverted’, though), Banzaitron levered against the elbow, flipping Sixshot down toward the berth.

Sixshot slapped Banzaitron’s shoulder ineffectually, hitting the berth hard, his vertical stabilizers slamming against the metal. He tangled his legs in Banzaitron’s, kicking up into the momentum in a large arc, carrying them both over in another roll, crashing them right off the berth and onto the floor, the larger white mech’s mass painfully on top of Banzaitron’s shoulder. Sixshot reared back, his fist balling, ready to swing down onto Banzaitron’s face. Which would be highly unacceptable. Banzaitron liked his face, even if no one else seemed to. And, after all, Banzaitron did outrank Sixshot. And reconfiguring your boss’s face would have struck anyone—but a psychopathic Phase Sixer, that is—as an unwise move.

He blocked the punch, but Sixshot pushed that shoulder down, flipping Banzaitron onto his belly, dropping his own mass hard on the grounded frame. His EM field pulsed in strong waves of excitement, battering against Banzaitron’s.

“Time out!” Banzaitron cried out, suddenly. Illumination had struck. And…something else. Finally, creeping through his hangover.

Sixshot stopped. “What.”

“I think I just solved how it happened. You and I and…interfacing.” His sensornet prickled with memory. Yes. The wrestling, the threatening, the dominance play, and then….It all made sense. More than that, it was hot.

“…frag.”

Wakeup Call

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