Mabaya ch 13 Visiting Hour

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

PG
IDW Mabaya AU
Deadlock/Drift, Perceptor, Turmoil
General mindfucking: ie Turmoil at his Turmoil...iest.

WAAAAIT! What did I miss?!

Only the Strong (Perceptor, Drift, Turmoil)
In Darkness (Turmoil, Drift/Deadlock)
Caught (Turmoil, Perceptor)
Coming to Light (Perceptor, Drift)
Disconsolate
Visit
Decompensating
Tangled
Already Lost
Errant
Rut
Losing Ground

Turmoil knew only that Deadlock had failed.  He had expected nothing less. After all, as he kept saying: Deadlock never disappointed.  Every moment he dragged this out, every moment he suffered, was a payment for what he had cost Turmoil.  Bringing Deadlock back would more than even the scale: it would allow Turmoil to reclaim his honor, his command dignity.  Deadlock had cost him, in the optics of the others, and Deadlock’s return, his obedient return, would definitively prove Turmoil’s ability, his mastery.  And the thought, if Turmoil were honest, of Deadlock, back, under his command, but tamed, managed, sent a thrill of raw crystalline lust through him. 

He waited, outside the cell, watching them.  Letting them eventually realize he was there, letting them wonder and worry how long he had been there, staring, motionless. Letting them realize how powerless they were even in such basic things as privacy.

Deadlock saw him first.  A natural soldier, Turmoil thought, Deadlock knew to scan his perimeter.  So it was only a matter of time before the red optics flared, catching sight of Turmoil—a shadow in shadows. 

He stiffened, somehow telegraphing something to Perceptor, who had hunched on the far side of the room.  Deadlock had failed, but apparently progress had been made: Deadlock and the Autobot were no longer curled, entwined together as he’d seen them before—after a long moment, the red mech’s gaze seemed to follow Deadlock’s eyeline like a trail.

Turmoil moved, placing a hand on the force barrier.  “Come,” he said to Deadlock, not acknowledging Perceptor’s presence.

“Come yourself this time?” Deadlock snapped, but he climbed slowly to his feet.  Turmoil saw a trickle of dried energon under Deadlock’s chin, spattered over the white chassis, the clear windscreen. Interesting.  Something had happened.  Turmoil’s engine revved, an image flashing from his processors: Deadlock, pinned beneath him as he licked the wound, his glossa tasting the sweetsour taste.  Deadlock writhing, hating and wanting simultaneously.

“I crave variety,” Turmoil said, flatly, pleased by Deadlock’s rising.  “Now.  I have work for you.”

“Work.”   Deadlock’s tone was sharp. 

“He doesn’t work for you,” Perceptor cut in. 

“He has.  He will.”  Turmoil didn’t even bother to look over at Perceptor. 

Deadlock moved to the barrier lock.  “What work?” 

Not a refusal.  Turmoil grinned under his mask.  “Does it matter?”

“I’m not going to fight for you.” 

Turmoil tilted his head. “You really think I’d throw you into combat, Deadlock?  With so many open opportunities to betray me?”  He shook his head. “Truly, Deadlock, you insult my intelligence.” 

 “What work, then?” Deadlock pressed closer, face nearly against the force barrier. 

“Weapons maintenance.  You used to enjoy it.”

Perceptor started to say something, squelched it down. Also interesting, Turmoil thought.  And all the more reason for what this was really about. 

“That’s…all.”  Disbelieving.  Part of the game, of course.

“That’s all.  It’s tedious work. And I imagine you’d like a change of scene. Perhaps some time by yourself.”  He wouldn’t really be by himself: the armory had more video and security protocols than any other room on the ship. And Turmoil, honestly, was curious to see if Deadlock would actually maintain the weapons, or attempt to damage or sabotage them.  He considered it…a barometer of Deadlock’s condition.

“By myself.” The question implied.

“I thought I might want to…reacquaint myself with your scientist friend.”

“He’s not my friend,” Deadlock said, and Turmoil could hear that it was automatic, a denial attempting to protect Perceptor. Perceptor, however, did not hear it that way: Turmoil could hear the sharp click of hydraulics as Perceptor recoiled.  Turmoil allowed his gaze to flick over, to savor the hurt on the Autobot’s face. 

“Then you won’t mind,” Turmoil countered.  And Deadlock’s shoulders sagged, defeated in this, at least. 

“Fine,” Deadlock said, quietly. 

“If you behave—if he behaves—no harm will come to him.”  Turmoil threw this at Deadlock, to gauge his response.  Ah, a flicker of concern. Deadlock was not his…yet.  Turmoil reached his arm through the force barrier, enjoying the raw irony that to pass through, Deadlock would have to take his hand, let the EM phase synchrony initiator read over his own.  Letting himself, in a sense, be covered by Turmoil. 

Deadlock’s hand was numb in his, stiff, as he stepped through. 

“You know the way.”                                                                           

Deadlock nodded.  Too quickly—either he was too much still this…Drift, or he was plotting something.  Turmoil’s interest piqued.  He could hardly wait to discover which one it was.

But for right now….

Turmoil stepped through, the static of the force barrier rippling through his net.  It hurt, but it was a quick, raw pain that he could not entirely call unpleasant.  He crossed to where Perceptor sat on the floor, still leaning forward after Deadlock’s departing frame.  Turmoil stayed out of the way, letting Perceptor stare as long as he wanted.  Yes, he thought. He is leaving you. And leaving you to me.  Whom you know he does not trust.

He waited until the blue optics floated over to him, working their way up his frame, trying to sense weaknesses.  Turmoil snorted.  One didn’t survive to his level of command by sporting obvious physical vulnerabilities. His own mechs would have taken him down ages ago if he were that easy to read.

Turmoil sank into a squat, tilting his head.  “Well,” he said, fighting to keep the amusement from his voice.

“What do you want?”  Perceptor’s voice was edged, doubtless remembering pain. 

Turmoil spread his hands. “As I said. Merely to…talk.”

“I have nothing to talk about.”  The arms folded protectively over his chassis.

Turmoil smiled behind his mask. “Well then. I shall have to start.”  He rolled forward in his squat, to rest one massive knee on the ground. “Has Deadlock told you about his past?”

“Enough.”  Deliberately closed down.  Some vulnerability there, Turmoil thought.

Ah. “And how much is this ‘enough’?”

Perceptor’s optics jumped to his face from studying Turmoil’s knee, next to his leg. Evaluating it for a threat, as if he could read intent from the limb. “Enough that I feel no place to judge him for his past.”

Turmoil laughed, letting the echo fade, watching the confusion in the blue optics.   “Let me ask you something.” He caught Perceptor’s sudden stiffness. “Oh, I assure you, merely a philosophical question.  I would not ask you to betray any of Deadlock’s confidences to you.”

“Drift.”

“Still playing at that…delightful delusion,” Turmoil nodded, easily. “I concede. Drift.”  As though Perceptor were too stupid to keep them straight, as though he were conceding to Perceptor’s inability.

He saw the startlement in Perceptor’s face. Which of course was his intent.  Keeping the Autobot off his footing was both a tactical advantage and very, very entertaining.  

“Your question.”

“Certainly.  Which matters more, in judging a mech: his past or his current behavior?”

Perceptor frowned, one dented lip-plate cracking open. “This is about Drift.”

“It is a question. I cannot stop you from extrapolating.”  Yes. Of course. Like you thought it would be anything else.

Perceptor met his gaze steadily, light glittering on the spiderweb cracks of his shattered lens.  “Behavior.  The past has too many factors.” 

Turmoil nodded. “And, based on that, since you have guessed.  How would you judge your…Drift.” 

“He’ll never join you again.”

“No?” Turmoil propped one elbow on his knee, chin on the hand.  “Define ‘join me’?”  A beat. “Right now, he is obeying my orders.  Before, he willingly came to me.  Did he tell you what we did together?” A measuring look. “No, of course not.  Sweet how he tries to protect you.”

Perceptor’s hands clenched, as though over an imaginary weapon. “He didn’t try to protect me. He doesn’t need to.”  Something there, Turmoil thought. Some crack in the red Autobot’s own psyche.

“So he told you that we interfaced.”  Deliberately blunt, a casual shrug, as if it were no small matter. Just to underscore the shock of it.  

And Perceptor’s face reacted as if Turmoil had struck him with an electrowhip. “No...,” Perceptor breathed, in pain. He amended, hastily, “no, he didn’t tell me.” 

“Present behavior,” Turmoil reminded, grinding  Perceptor’s own words into the wound. “Or did he interface with me to…protect you?” Pushing that button again, stifling his laugh.

Perceptor remained silent. He could control his vocalizer, perhaps, but his emotions ran over his face like a fast-scrolling datapad.  It occurred to Turmoil that he might profit by asking Deadlock about this scientist.  Another tool, another weapon to use against him.

Turmoil sat back.  “So.  I have been open with you.  Surely you will grant me the same courtesy.  How do you possibly think you can save him?”  From being what he is. 

“I…don’t know.”  Perceptor said.  “Honestly.”