The Morning After: Vortex and Swindle
Feb. 28th, 2011 09:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ayngelcatTitle: The Morning After
Universe: G1
Rating: M
Characters: Vortex, Swindle
Warnings: Non explicit mention of non sticky sexual acts and violence, course language, drinking, hangovers
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the characters or scenarios from the series within this story.
Prompt: "Let me guess.I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Notes: Set a little while after B.O.T. (The first time I ever wrote a fic with Vortex in a lead role so please don’t be too hard on me!)
THE MORNING AFTER
Very often, for Vortex, a certain thrill accompanied awakening from recharge. It was satisfying to feel each system online in its own unique way as they shifted to a smooth running, perfect and powerful operational status. Today, however, was not one of those times.
In fact, it could not have been less so. Sprawled on his front, every time something else whirred into life the copter groaned. It was as though every synapse graunched with the strain of transmission, and even though his damage report status indicator – itself paining in the effort to divulge information – reported ‘no serious damage’ he felt battered, as though he’d been in a colossal fight and not come out of it the best.
Yet with it all was a curious – satisfaction. A satiation throughout. As though whatever came with or after the damage which was – well – pretty all right. Vortex strained to kickstart his memory circuits, just as his head began to pound as though Rumble had just driven his piledivers through it. Unnggghhhh …... Then, as his tanks gave an uncomfortable lurch as though purging of the contents was imminent, a kind of reassuring familiarity settled.
It looked much like: Last night: Drinking. Fighting. More drinking. Fucking. More drinking – maybe. Systems crash. Followed by hangover. Big one. But hey - that was all good. Wasn’t it? Nothing new with that! Routine, in fact – and it sure as hell didn’t matter who, how, where or what!
Vortex re-offlined his optics, letting out air in a long, slow rasp. Sleep it off. Yeah. Just sleep it off. Like as per usual, for the love of Kaon! As long as you don’t move the pain’ll stop and you won’t purge and there won’t be a problem.
But there was a problem. A message. Beeping steadfastly above all else. “Error …” it flashed. Error .... error ... Followed by : “Override ….” And mixed in with the flashing was a memory trace of something else. Some act of violence he had been meant to do but had refrained from, somehow. Which was weird. Because surely that should have given rise to anything but this strange, other satiation; this completeness which so conflicted with the rest.
The message went on flashing, competing once again with his general aching systems and his pounding head. Damn! If only he could remember what had cause it and switch it off! It was probably some annoying malfunction thing, the result of ‘severely overdoing it.’ And then – just as Vortex began to contemplate something far more drastic to get rid of the annoying pestilence, he became aware of a body behind him on the berth. And – as he onlined an optic and squinted into the light – a scratch of paint on his arm. Yellow paint.
At once, a load of things came back. Party. There’d been a party. Just about everyone was there. Scrapper …. There’d been some kinda 'dust up' with the Constructicons. Obviously where his ‘batteredness’ came from. And the Stunticons - yeah, that’s right, they were there too.
And that reprobate Dragstrip was all over him. And so yeah – well - it was obvious! He’d stumbled back to the ‘Con base and into the Stunticon gaffe and that was the little punk behind him now.
That feeling of satiation pervaded Vortex strongly again; as though he’d had not one overload but several. And as though he’d achieved a level of connection not usually achieved, and it had fired and at the same time strained every system in his body. He could not help but be surprised. Hell – he’d never have thought the little yellow shit had it in him. But eh, well – you never could tell. Vortex supposed he should be grateful for finding such an apparently titillating new source of entertainment.
The body shifted behind him, and there was a satisfied sounding sigh. But at that moment, Vortex’s head pounded again with renewed vigour and he inwardly hunkered down. Damn it, there was no question of a round two - or three or hour or twenty or whatever it was right now! No – and reputation may he have, he didn’t have to do anything! Least of all look at the fragger.
Vortex lay unmoving, willing recharge to settle on him again. But with this new awareness, offlinedness seemed to float away; and Vortex found himself staring at the room, still pestered by the ‘error’ message. He peered out more closely. And frowned, the effort making his head ache more.
This room, it looked – and felt – uncannily like a room at their base. And there were crates stacked on the floor, which looked very much like weapons containers. Now Vortex looked carefully he could see labels on them. “Grenades - Saudi Arabia;” “Missiles – the USSR;” “Torpedos – Pacific islands;” and on the top, an ornate box with gold trimmings was carefully tagged: “Sheikh Abdul Aliwallah - Special delivery” – High Explosives.
Vortex cast his optics further. There were shelves behind the boxes, stacked with documents, datapads and what looked like receipts. And then, the Combaticon’s circuits froze. For on the topmost shelf was a hook and chain assembly of the type used to load goods on to a tray. A jeep type tray. And beside it, a canon. A large canon. A very distinctive looking large canon. One which Vortex knew well - because he fought alongside it nearly every day, and it belonged to ….
SWINDLE?
Oh no, NO! No way!! Vortex’s memory circuits jarred agonizingly. And all at once, he remembered - more. An angry hatred - fury - egged on by high grade. Yelling at some point to whoever wanted to listen. Swindle. Piece o’shit … scum …. traitor. Wants to be a part of our outfit? Well I’m gonna take him apart! And if he was not entirely mistaken, had not a captive audience jeered and cheered?
And then …. Well it was kinda blank after that. Except for the Constructicons. And the Dragstrip thing.
Error …! Override ….! Gestalt Team ….! Very slowly, Vortex raised his head and turned it so he was facing his – team mate.
Because ooh errr - the copter winced - the yellow form reclined there facing him was definitely not Dragstrip. It stirred and murmured and then very purple optics suddenly opened, and they were looking straight into his. A happy smile illuminated the dark face. “Hey – good morning!” Swindle said.
Vortex stared at Swindle. His gestalt mate had a look of radiance about him. Not at all the look of one who'd been in danger of having done to him what Vortex knew he'd had every intention of doing. “Uuggghhh” said Vortex, shuttering his optics as his head exploded in a whole new dimension of confusion and the error message beeped anew. “Nuurrggghhh – ‘t ain’t good.”
Swindle rolled on to his back. “Now look – I know the scenario is this, Vortex,” he said, a touch of matter of factness creeping into his voice. “You were gonna take me apart but then things kinda – changed direction."
“Nngggrrrghhh … they did?” said Vortex.
“Well, yeah - then we got drunk, I fucked you, and now you probably wanna kill me,” Swindle went on. “But uh - I just wanna say that it was – uh – pretty good, Vortex! it’s – uh - certainly changed my mind about ever leaving the Combaticons so – uh – maybe it might persuade you to go a bit easy on me over the other matter - seeing as how you uh - heh! You seemed to like it too!”
Vortex’s processor lurched, then. But the message seemed to have lost its cogency a little. That satisfaction crept over him again with renewed potency, and somehow or other his aches and pains were all very much easier - even his head. The copter was, suddenly, just overwhelmingly tired and just not able to think about this complicated state of affairs. Not now, anyway.
“Nnnggg …. wagghhh …." he muttered, turning his face back towards the Sheik’s special delivery and reshuttering his optics with a deep sigh and shuddering quiver to his rotors.
"Maybe, Swin. Yuuurgghh - maybe ….”
Universe: G1
Rating: M
Characters: Vortex, Swindle
Warnings: Non explicit mention of non sticky sexual acts and violence, course language, drinking, hangovers
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, or any of the characters or scenarios from the series within this story.
Prompt: "Let me guess.I got drunk, you were drunk, I fucked you, and now you want to kill me, right?"
Notes: Set a little while after B.O.T. (The first time I ever wrote a fic with Vortex in a lead role so please don’t be too hard on me!)
THE MORNING AFTER
Very often, for Vortex, a certain thrill accompanied awakening from recharge. It was satisfying to feel each system online in its own unique way as they shifted to a smooth running, perfect and powerful operational status. Today, however, was not one of those times.
In fact, it could not have been less so. Sprawled on his front, every time something else whirred into life the copter groaned. It was as though every synapse graunched with the strain of transmission, and even though his damage report status indicator – itself paining in the effort to divulge information – reported ‘no serious damage’ he felt battered, as though he’d been in a colossal fight and not come out of it the best.
Yet with it all was a curious – satisfaction. A satiation throughout. As though whatever came with or after the damage which was – well – pretty all right. Vortex strained to kickstart his memory circuits, just as his head began to pound as though Rumble had just driven his piledivers through it. Unnggghhhh …... Then, as his tanks gave an uncomfortable lurch as though purging of the contents was imminent, a kind of reassuring familiarity settled.
It looked much like: Last night: Drinking. Fighting. More drinking. Fucking. More drinking – maybe. Systems crash. Followed by hangover. Big one. But hey - that was all good. Wasn’t it? Nothing new with that! Routine, in fact – and it sure as hell didn’t matter who, how, where or what!
Vortex re-offlined his optics, letting out air in a long, slow rasp. Sleep it off. Yeah. Just sleep it off. Like as per usual, for the love of Kaon! As long as you don’t move the pain’ll stop and you won’t purge and there won’t be a problem.
But there was a problem. A message. Beeping steadfastly above all else. “Error …” it flashed. Error .... error ... Followed by : “Override ….” And mixed in with the flashing was a memory trace of something else. Some act of violence he had been meant to do but had refrained from, somehow. Which was weird. Because surely that should have given rise to anything but this strange, other satiation; this completeness which so conflicted with the rest.
The message went on flashing, competing once again with his general aching systems and his pounding head. Damn! If only he could remember what had cause it and switch it off! It was probably some annoying malfunction thing, the result of ‘severely overdoing it.’ And then – just as Vortex began to contemplate something far more drastic to get rid of the annoying pestilence, he became aware of a body behind him on the berth. And – as he onlined an optic and squinted into the light – a scratch of paint on his arm. Yellow paint.
At once, a load of things came back. Party. There’d been a party. Just about everyone was there. Scrapper …. There’d been some kinda 'dust up' with the Constructicons. Obviously where his ‘batteredness’ came from. And the Stunticons - yeah, that’s right, they were there too.
And that reprobate Dragstrip was all over him. And so yeah – well - it was obvious! He’d stumbled back to the ‘Con base and into the Stunticon gaffe and that was the little punk behind him now.
That feeling of satiation pervaded Vortex strongly again; as though he’d had not one overload but several. And as though he’d achieved a level of connection not usually achieved, and it had fired and at the same time strained every system in his body. He could not help but be surprised. Hell – he’d never have thought the little yellow shit had it in him. But eh, well – you never could tell. Vortex supposed he should be grateful for finding such an apparently titillating new source of entertainment.
The body shifted behind him, and there was a satisfied sounding sigh. But at that moment, Vortex’s head pounded again with renewed vigour and he inwardly hunkered down. Damn it, there was no question of a round two - or three or hour or twenty or whatever it was right now! No – and reputation may he have, he didn’t have to do anything! Least of all look at the fragger.
Vortex lay unmoving, willing recharge to settle on him again. But with this new awareness, offlinedness seemed to float away; and Vortex found himself staring at the room, still pestered by the ‘error’ message. He peered out more closely. And frowned, the effort making his head ache more.
This room, it looked – and felt – uncannily like a room at their base. And there were crates stacked on the floor, which looked very much like weapons containers. Now Vortex looked carefully he could see labels on them. “Grenades - Saudi Arabia;” “Missiles – the USSR;” “Torpedos – Pacific islands;” and on the top, an ornate box with gold trimmings was carefully tagged: “Sheikh Abdul Aliwallah - Special delivery” – High Explosives.
Vortex cast his optics further. There were shelves behind the boxes, stacked with documents, datapads and what looked like receipts. And then, the Combaticon’s circuits froze. For on the topmost shelf was a hook and chain assembly of the type used to load goods on to a tray. A jeep type tray. And beside it, a canon. A large canon. A very distinctive looking large canon. One which Vortex knew well - because he fought alongside it nearly every day, and it belonged to ….
SWINDLE?
Oh no, NO! No way!! Vortex’s memory circuits jarred agonizingly. And all at once, he remembered - more. An angry hatred - fury - egged on by high grade. Yelling at some point to whoever wanted to listen. Swindle. Piece o’shit … scum …. traitor. Wants to be a part of our outfit? Well I’m gonna take him apart! And if he was not entirely mistaken, had not a captive audience jeered and cheered?
And then …. Well it was kinda blank after that. Except for the Constructicons. And the Dragstrip thing.
Error …! Override ….! Gestalt Team ….! Very slowly, Vortex raised his head and turned it so he was facing his – team mate.
Because ooh errr - the copter winced - the yellow form reclined there facing him was definitely not Dragstrip. It stirred and murmured and then very purple optics suddenly opened, and they were looking straight into his. A happy smile illuminated the dark face. “Hey – good morning!” Swindle said.
Vortex stared at Swindle. His gestalt mate had a look of radiance about him. Not at all the look of one who'd been in danger of having done to him what Vortex knew he'd had every intention of doing. “Uuggghhh” said Vortex, shuttering his optics as his head exploded in a whole new dimension of confusion and the error message beeped anew. “Nuurrggghhh – ‘t ain’t good.”
Swindle rolled on to his back. “Now look – I know the scenario is this, Vortex,” he said, a touch of matter of factness creeping into his voice. “You were gonna take me apart but then things kinda – changed direction."
“Nngggrrrghhh … they did?” said Vortex.
“Well, yeah - then we got drunk, I fucked you, and now you probably wanna kill me,” Swindle went on. “But uh - I just wanna say that it was – uh – pretty good, Vortex! it’s – uh - certainly changed my mind about ever leaving the Combaticons so – uh – maybe it might persuade you to go a bit easy on me over the other matter - seeing as how you uh - heh! You seemed to like it too!”
Vortex’s processor lurched, then. But the message seemed to have lost its cogency a little. That satisfaction crept over him again with renewed potency, and somehow or other his aches and pains were all very much easier - even his head. The copter was, suddenly, just overwhelmingly tired and just not able to think about this complicated state of affairs. Not now, anyway.
“Nnnggg …. wagghhh …." he muttered, turning his face back towards the Sheik’s special delivery and reshuttering his optics with a deep sigh and shuddering quiver to his rotors.
"Maybe, Swin. Yuuurgghh - maybe ….”
