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anon-e-miss · 8 months

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The Desert Blooms - 9

“Where’d ya find the moonstone,” Ricochet asked. He and Jazz had not spoken about it but they seemed to be on the same wavelength so far as their “matches” were. Ricochet could not disagree with Ori’s subtle manoeuvring. The prince would suit Jazz better than the hot-helm and Ricochet supposed the hot-helm would suit him better than the stoic prince. Discovering Barricade’s interest in carving was a boon.

“A scrap heap,” Barricade replied. “Someone got a long way in carving a brick before they found a fissure.

“Barricade is forever searching scrap heaps for useful stones,” Prowl replied.

“Ya carve the table ‘n chairs?” Ricochet asked.

“Yes,” Barricade replied. “The Duke sent the granite from Praxus.”

“Did ya wanna see where ya can find some bigger pieces to work wit?” Ricochet asked.

“The private hoard Punch mentioned?” Barricade asked.

“Ori’s been tellin’ tales,” Ricochet exclaimed, with a chuckle. “Ain’t really my hoard. ‘M sure ‘m not the only carver that goes down there.

“Down where?” Barricade asked.

“Caves,” Ricochet said. “Most Polyhexian cities are mostly underground, outta the elements, except for businesses o’ trade ‘n the like. Ya seen how Darkmount is sorta in a bowl? That’s cause the walls o’ the main cavern collapsed. The smaller ones were abandoned outta... convenience? Who knows.”

“I do have something big I’d like to work on,” Barricade confessed.

“Great.”

Ori beamed and Ricochet rolled his optics behind his visor. Barricade was already standing before Ricochet thought he out to offer him a servo. He had been raised in camps and caves cut into the cliffs, not the court and he had no courtly manners. Jazz came to it naturally. His charm would make up for any misteps. Ricochet was rougher around the edges and with none of the charm. It would be Jazz who would lead the way when, eventually, envoys came to call, Ricochet thought he would do less damage if he smiled and nodded. Barricade may not have emerged to the Duke but he had been raised in his home a long time. Though how Praxian manners really translated in Polyhex’s court, Ricochet did not know. He tried to think of something to say but empty prattle had never been his thing.

“This way,” Ricochet scowled to himself as he realized these were the first glyphs he had spoken in the breams they had been walking. Barricade’s red optics narrowed. “Y’re fine. ‘M just thinkin’ I ain’t been much o’ a guide.”

“Oh?” Barricade asked.

“Well I outta be tellin’ ya where we’re walkin’,” Ricochet said. “What all this ‘n that is.”

“I don’t mind silence,” Barricade replied. “I grew up with Prowl.”

“He ain’t chatty?” Ricochet asked.

“He can be,” Barricade said. “If something interests him. You’ll see how he is eventually. When he gets into his own helm, he goes down deep. Whether he’s gardening, painting or just sitting at the same time, he only comes back up in his own time.”

“Ya don’t mind it,” Ricochet said.

“It’s how he is,” Barricade replied. “Enough mecha hate him for drawing breath, I figured as his brother, the least I could do is work with him.”

“How’d he react when the Duke brought ya home?” Ricochet asked.

“He took care of me,” Barricade replied.

***

“They did not even wait for the rent to come due,” Barricade peered up from under the box he was using to shield himself from the rain and saw an elegantly armoured mech, wearing a heavy velvet cloak looking down at him, sitting amongst the trash in the alley next to the boarding house he and his origin had lived, where his origin had died. Barricade scowled at the well-spoken stranger. The way his armour was cut reminded Barricade of his progenitor and he hated this mech on sight.

“What do you want?” He hissed. The stranger knelt in the puddle in front of him and pulled back his hood. Like Origin, the stranger’s faceplates were gold, though his optics were blue.

“I am designated Camshaft; your progenitor was my consort,” the mech said. Everything amount the mech, down to his accent, was so fine, unlike Barricade. “I found the letter you wrote him, telling of your originator’s death. He has passed as well. I am here to take you home, Barricade.”

“Home?” Barricade asked. “They kicked me out.”

“So I see,” Camshaft replied. “I will send someone to collect a refund on the rent remaining for this quartex. No, Barricade, I am taking you to my home, yours now as well.”

“I don’t understand,” Barricade said.

“I will explain,” Camshaft said. He took off his cloak and wrapped it around Barricade before picking him up. “My carriage is close.”

Origin had always told Barricade to be weary of strangers, even well armoured ones, but origin was gone. Barricade wrapped his arms around Camshaft’s neck and his legs around his waist. He shivered, the rains had soaked into his protoform. The strange mech crooned to him as he carried him down the block. Rain drenched Camshaft but he did not seem to care. He only paused a moment to pull the hood better over Barricade’s helm, shielding his faceplates from the rain. Barricade heard a scandalized gasp. Camshaft made no sound at all. Head heard doors creak as they were pulled open. When Camshaft set him down, Barricade pulled back the hood, far too big for his helm and looked around as the stranger climbed into the carriage with him.

“Take us home,” he ordered the coachmech. He turned to Barricade and gave him a soft look. “You are soaked to the struts, poor thing. Turn up the heat.”

“Where are we going?” Barricade asked. Hot air blasted all around him and Barricade was warm.

“To my home,” Camshaft replied. “I live on an estate in Petrex with my mechling, Prowl. You are his brother and thus you are mine so you will live with us now.”

“But... I’m just a bastard,” Barricade said. “I’m not even your bastard.”

“The only bastard in all of this was your progenitor,” Camshaft declared. Barricade could not argue that point.

At first, Origin had just had a little cough, something he had said, he figured, he had picked up backstage. But then the coughing had gotten so bad Origin’s armour rattled with the force of it and at the same time as he had spiked a fever, a rash had appeared on his chassis. His vocalizer had swollen so much he could not speak. Barricade had tried to fetch a medic but Origin had not been paid for his last performance. He had gone to the hall but the manager had said he had deducted fees because Origin had failed to appear for the last few shows. Only after exhausting these avenues had Barricade written to his progenitor, a mech he had only seen three times in his whole life. He had only answered once, to tell him his whore of an origin was not his concern. No matter how much Barricade had begged in letter after letter, he never sent a shanix, or another glyph. No medic had come, no matter how much he had begged them, no priest either, not even when Origin had ventilated his last.

“I am so sorry, Sweetspark,” Camshaft said as he wiped a tear from Barricade’s faceplates.

“They wouldn’t give him Last Rites,” Barricade cried. He wriggled out of he cloak so he could climb off of his bench and into Camshaft’s arms. “They didn’t want to catch it.”

“We will build your originator a shrine,” Camshaft promised as he stroked Barricade’s helm. “And we will light his path to the well.”

“Promise?” Barricade asked.

“I promise,” Camshaft said.

Barricade believed him. There was something about Camshaft, something different than his progenitor, that made Barricade feel like his glyphs were true. He set his helm on the stranger’s shoulder and closed his optics. Camshaft hummed and the lullaby, along with the rocking of the carriage, lulled Barricade into recharge. Sometime later he woke to the carriage rolling to a stop. Camshaft stroked his back and hummed a reassuring note. Soon the carriage was on the move again and Barricade looked out the window to see that they were riding down a long drive. Fields covered in wild blooming crystals stretched further than Barricade could see. When they came to a stop again, Barricade could not see the habsuite but he imagined it was huge. The doors opened and a coachmech stood in the opening.

“I’ll take him to the servants quarters,” the mech said.

“You will not,” Camshaft declared. “Barricade will live in the nursery with Prowl.”

“But that is... scandalous...”

“I am the Duke of Petrex,” Camshaft replied. “This is my estate and my household. I will manage it as I will. Let it be known to my staff, Barricade is equal to Prowl and should I find out he is being treated in any way less, there will be Pit to pay.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” the coachmech said, bowing low. Barricade looked up at Camshaft... highness?

“Good,” Camshaft said. “Come along, Barricade. It is time for you to meet your brother.”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Barricade replied. Camshaft smiled down at him.

“You do not need to address me as so,” he replied. “I am Camshaft. I am your caretaker. I am not your lord. Do you understand?”

“No,” Barricade replied. He really did not.

“That is alright,” Camshaft said. “You will.”

“You are back, Originator,” a new voice spoke. A mech Barricade’s age with a silver face and the Duke’s blue optics stood on the steps of the grandest home Barricade had ever seen. It must have been as long as the whole block Barricade had lived on.

“Yes, Prowl, I have brought you your brother,” Camshaft explained. “By your progenitor. He is designated Barricade.”

“Hello Barricade,” Prowl greeted Barricade. He had a funny tone. His accent was similar to Camshaft but different... almost flat. Barricade stood very still as the Duke’s creation walked down the steps at stops in front of him. Prowl looked Barricade up and down and then looked up to his originator and back down again. “You were caught in the rains, Barricade. I will draw you a bath and fetch some tea.”

***

“Just like that?” Ricochet asked.

“Camshaft said I was his brother and so in Prowl’s processor, it was so,” Barricade explained. “There were servants, of course there were servants but Camshaft mostly had them barred from the nursery. He, we, kept it up. The only servants allowed in were tutors and Camshaft kept a close optic on them.”

“Why?” Ricochet asked.

“Because he could never be sure who might be one of his brothers’ or originator’s assassins,” Barricade explained.

“Assassins?” Ricochet gasped. “They wanted your brother dead so bad.”

“Fratricide is the family business,” Barricade explained. “The first time Camshaft’s elder brother tried to kill him, he was a first tier sparkling and his brother a second tier. It did not get better as they got older and more brothers were added.”

“Fraggin’ Pit,” Ricochet gasped. “The Emperor is okay with this?”

“It’s tradition,” Barricade explained. “The strongest and smartest survives over his brothers to become emperor.”

“That’s insane,” Ricochet declared. “Ain’t sorry to say that… That’s just crazy.”

“It is,” Barricade agreed. “Camshaft stayed in his dukedom, he still does, versus court. It’s been a long time since they tried anything.”

“They don’t think he’s a threat?” Ricochet asked.

“No, they’re all terrified of him,” Barricade explained. “The last time he had to dine with them, he put every one of them into stasis with a bit of poison. When they came back on line, all hungover as Pit, he warned them to leave him be or the next time they wouldn’t wake up. The Emperor was furious.”

“Why?” Ricochet asked.

“Because poison is the coward’s way,” Barricade said. “And if he was going to go and do it, he should have at least done it properly and wiped them all out.”

“But he didn’t,” Ricochet said.

“He doesn’t want power,” Barricade said. “Not anymore than he has as Duke of Petrex. He loathes the court, loathes the tradition. He would have had a whole gaggle of sparkling but he only had Prowl because he didn’t want his creations pitted against each other.”

“He probably thought bringin’ ya home was a blessin’,” Ricochet said.

“That’s what he told me,” Barricade replied.

“He sounds like a good mech,” Ricochet declared.

“I’ve never met a better one,” Barricade replied.

There was love there, as deep and as loyal a love as Barricade had for his brother. Ricochet did not understand why he would not go home but then he supposed in their situation, nothing could convince Ricochet to leave Jazz’s side. Barricade and the prince might not have been twins or even full brothers, they had a powerful bond. It was something Ricochet could respect. He took Barricade’s servo and guided him over the rubble that partially barred the mouth of the cave. Barricade was sure of ped, the doorwings probably did not heard so far as balance went. He clicked his glossa as they descended into darkness, with only their headlights to light the way. Having evolved for low-light environments, Ricochet saw as clearly in the tunnel as he did on the surface, once he retracted his visor. Barricade clicked his glossa and walked along at Ricochet’s side as sure of ped as ever.

“Click,” Barricade clicked his glossa and walked along.

“What’re ya doin’?” Ricochet asked.

“Echolocation,” Barricade said.

“I didn’t know Praxians could do that,” Ricochet replied.

“Most can’t,” Barricade replied. “Camshaft taught us.”

“Sounds like the two o’ ya got an eclectic education,” Ricochet replied.

“That’s a good way to put it,” Barricade said.

“Here we are,” Ricochet replied.

“What am I looking at?” Barricade asked. “Since I don’t actually see anything.”

“Roots,” Ricochet explained. He lit a lamp and held it up. “From the trees that topped the oasis that used to sit above the cave.”

“Nice,” Barricade said. He ran his servos over a broken crystal root. Barricade took the lantern from Ricochet and studied the roots all around him. “Hmm.”

“What’re ya lookin’ to make?” Ricochet asked.

“A cradle for the bitlet,” Barricade said. “So if you have optics for something for a loftier project just tell me now.”

“I don’t,” Ricochet replied. “‘N anyways, makin’ a cradle seems like a pretty worthy purpose for any o’ these crystals.”

#valveplug #maccadams #anon-e-miss writes #tf barricade #tf ricochet #mechpreg #non consensual body modification #the desert blooms

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anon-e-miss · 8 months

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The Desert Blooms - 8

Ricochet had not really had any expectations of what they would return home to. He knew giving them the order to harvest the Hand of Adaptus had been violating to their originator. Even though its use was the only means Punch had to ensure the Praxians’ survival, being a party to it at all had made him visible ill. The very act of picking it had made Ricochet’s twin roll. Jazz would have picked one of the hated fruit for him but it that was Jazz, ready to carry the burden all on his own. As his twin, Ricochet saw it as his duty to take on his fair share. Having seen the welts and sores on Ori on rare occasions he had been able to take a break from wearing armour, Jazz was under no illusions in regards to the burden and the suffering taking the Touch meant. He believed the Praxian Prince and his hot-helmed brother undeserving of this martyrdom. They did not deserve to be martyrs to either Praxus or Polyhex but Ricochet knew the tempers of his kinsmech and there was no reasoning with them. Not a one of the council had been spared loss and among the Lesser and the Least, Ricochet had heard so many tales of sufferings whether at the servos of Straxis or a Praxian general. Though Jazz was charming, Ricochet did not believe even Jazz had charm enough to assuage their energon lust without a visible, brutal sacrifice. He had wept over the remains of his allies, tortured beyond recognition before their murders. He had seen innocent younglings mutilated. There was no charm strong enough to sooth their anger and Ricochet could not blame them; he shared a lot of that anger.. His only comfort was that theyhad not only burnt every Hand of Adaptus they had found in the Wastes, they had salted the earth they had grown in. The next time someone searched for this plant to impart the god’s blessing, their searches would be fruitless.

Because they had been satisfied with nothing but the extinction of the crystal, Ricochet and Jazz had stayed away longer than they might have. Still, so much had been done in their absence that it seemed like they had to have been gone considerably longer than a couple of orns. The damage from the rioting had been cleared away and rebuilding was already underway in spot. Darkmount had continued, with considerable more earnest in their absence. From the way Jazz was looking around, Ricochet thought he was similarly surprised. They were not splitsparks but they still had a bond closer than mere siblings. Ricochet knew without asking that Jazz’s first stop now that they were home was seeing Ori. It was his first stop as well. Though there was so much going on around Darkmount, in theory Punch could be anywhere but Jazz nodded up to the palace and the garden at its top and Ricochet nodded his agreement. That was where their originator would be.

Punch did not trust the council. They had been uneasy allies for a long time. Ricochet had no doubt that any one of them would try of his originator, if they caught a moment of weakness, to claim him for their concubine. Ori would slit his own throat before he surrendered to such a fate. Ricochet had promised himself long ago that they would never get the chance and if anyone were to try he would rend them into little pieces with Jazz at his side.. He knew his and his twin’s presence was a large deterrence but even as the war chiefs longed for the trophy Punch, not just Touched but creation to Amalgamous, would be, they were rightly terrified of him. To be unmeched by a Touched was the greatest humiliation to mecha like them and they knew it was a risk, given Punch had done it before. They had not left Ori unguarded by leaving Darkmount, because he did not really need a guard but both his and Jazz’s sparks slowed when they stepped into the Prince’s little garden and saw their originator.

Ricochet was sure Jazz’s optics reset at the same time as his own did. Ori was taking tea with the Praxians as he had many time before, that was not what had shocked their systems. He was wearing silks. It had been so long since Jazz had seen his originator without armour, he almost did not recognize him. The burden of the Touch was visible on his shoulders. The thin fabric did not hide the welts the armour had left on them. Punch had not trusted anyone enough, save for his twin creations, to go unarmour in all of Ricochet’s memory but he trusted these two Praxians. Ricochet stared, the similar thoughts all but certainly circling in his helm. He looked away and found Downshift on his usual perch, reading a datapad without a visible care in the world. Having known Downshift just about all his life, Ricochet and Jazz both knew the ennui was a front. Though Downshift did not speak with his doorwings they way proper Praxians did, he saw with them just fine.He had caught them out on plenty of sparkling mischief.

“When?” Jazz asked. Ricochet watched their originator and the Praxian laugh warmly together as his twin got them caught up.

“Couple o’ mega-cycles,” Downshift replied. “Punch decided to show that firebrand what takin’ the Touch means. Barricade doctored’m wit a salve Prowl makes with the crystals he grows. His Ori’s recipe, apparently. Whate’er it is, it’s workin’. He ain’t been near as miserable since he started using it.”

“He trusts ‘em,” Jazz said. Ricochet made a face

“He does,” Downshift agreed. “Did ya think he’d bond ya off to’em if he didn’t?”

“I suppose I figured he knows we can handle ourselves,” Jazz said. Downshift made a sound and both jazz and Ricochet followed his optics. The Prince, Prowl poured tea as his brother Barricade ran a cloth over something in his servos. On the table was a platter of fruit, a knife sat next to Predacon fruit, glistening with the fruit’s juices. Ricochet’s spark flared.

“Touch don’t stop a mech from holdin’ a knife or brewin’ a poison,” Downshift replied. “Yer Ori knows it only makes ya helpless if ya let it.”

“Ya trust’em too,” Jazz guessed.

“I do,” Downshift replied.

“Chiefs try any slag while we were gone?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Downshift replied. “Don’t mean one or two o’ them won’t in time. The Lesser ‘n the Least are already celebratin’ the return o’ Amalgamous’ line to the throne. Sure, he had bolts for processors but he had a good council, yer Ori among’em, that kept the worst o’ his excesses from public knowledge. They got no idea he all but sold Polyhex to Praxus wit the debts he piled up as Prime.”

“Praxus ain’t done wit us,” Jazz said. “Did we win the war or just the battle?”

“Too early to say, but if that Prince tells ya not to send troops through Amalgamous’ Pass, listen to ‘m,” Downshift replied.

“I’ll keep that in processor,” Jazz said.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Ori’s voice drew Ricochet away from Jazz and he made his way to the table, his twin following quickly at his heels.

“I don’t suppose ya got another pot o’ that salve,” Punch said as he looked his creations over. “Ratchet’’ll give’em Pit if he see’em.”

“We’re fine, Ori,” Jazz assured his originator. He gently cupped Punch’s shoulders and leaned over to kiss his cheekplate. “What’s so sweet?”

“Cade made a rattle for Bluestreak,” Punch explained and he showed it to his creations.

“It is sweet,” Jazz agreed. Ricochet nodded. Carved from a smooth piece of moonstone, the rattle’s handle was inlaid with garnet cut in the shapes of mechanimals. It was not the grand carving Ricochet himself did when he had the chance but it the detail was fine and perfectly done. Ricochet looked at the Praxian style table and chairs the three were taking tea at and wondered if they were not the hot-helm’s work.. “Bluestreak?”

“Prowl finally settled on a designation for the bitlet,” Punch said. “Only right he designate’m since the bitlet imprinted on’m.”

“It’s a good designation,” Jazz declared. Prowl gave him the barest of nodes, a hint of a blush on his cheekplates. The cheery bitlet he bounced in his arms cooed. It all seemed genuine and somehow that annoyed Ricochet.

“Well sweetlin’ let’s see how ya like yer present,” Punch declared. He gave the rattle back to Barricade who gave it to the bitlet. The little one took the rattle and upon hearing the noise it made, shook it quickly. He grinned a denta-less smile as the adults around him winced at the noise.

“I think that’s a hit,” Jazz declared.

“Unfortunately,” Ricochet lamented.

#maccadams #valveplug #tf prowl #tf jazz #anon-e-miss writes #tf barricade #tf ricochet #mechpreg #tf punch #the desert blooms #non consensual body modification

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