#tf downshift

Ricochet obeyed Barricade’s order. There was too much at stake if he did not. He walked along the rocky shore, away from Storm’s End and the busy docks. Ori and Jazz thought he was doing the same as them, trying to find a place to set up shop, but really, he was just wandering. How did he convince Ori that Damaxus was a wash? It seemed like a miracle that Straxus had not turned his optics to the island. The last thing he wanted was to be the bounty that brought the warlord to these shores. To Barricade’s doorstep. Somehow, and he really did not know how, he had brought Lockdown to their cove and unknowingly left them to the slaughter. That Barricade and the bitlet had survived his mistakes once was already a miracle. Would the God of Fools care to grant him another? It seemed like too much to expect.

“What are you looking for?” Barricade asked. Waves crashed around his ankles, but he effortlessly kept his peds.

“A cave,” Ricochet replied honestly. “We thought ‘bout a warehouse but then there’d be a lease.”

“You’d prefer there be no paperwork,” the mermech said.

“No idea where Straxus’s agents might be,” the sailor replied.

“They aren't welcome here,” Barricade replied. “So they aren’t here.”

“Like Lockdown’s goons,” Ricochet guessed.

“That’s right,” the innkeeper replied. “A few have come but they never leave. These seas are only friendly for the ships we favour.”

“Did ya know it was Lockdown’s perch?” The Polyhexian asked.

“Oh yes,” Barricade chuckled. “After we landed in Damaxus, we heard tales and investigated. Origin thought there was something poetic about claiming his hideout for ourselves.”

“He was right,” Ricochet replied.

“I can show you a cave,” the mermech said. “It’s well disguised by the rocks and tricky to sail a skip in and out of but you could do it.”

“I don’t want to bring Straxus here,” the sailor replied.

“He’s tried before and he’ll try again and the ships he sends will sink every time,” the mermech said. “The Rust Sea is ours, and everything that passes through it.”

“Show me,” Ricochet said. “I’ll think on it...”

“You said you didn’t tell anyone about the cove,” Barricade said.

“I didn’t,” the Polyhexian replied. “But he found ya anyways. After so long... I can’t trust it was a coincidence.”

“Follow me,” the innkeeper said. “It’s not far.”

They did not speak. The silence was heavy and full of grief. Still, Ricochet felt hopeful. If Barricade was willing to show him a place they could set up shop, it was fair to hope that meant he was willing to give Ricochet a chance to know Tripwire. As they walked, Barricade reached out his servo and took Ricochet’s in his own. Ricochet’s spark leapt out of his chassis, and he squeezed the mermech’s servo. The silence felt lighter. His spark was still racing when he walked into the sea with Barricade. It was freezing, really freezing, but he swam around the rocks and into the cave that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Though the opening was small, big enough for a skip and not much else, it was deep. Barricade all but dragged him onto land, as the cold sea had zapped much of Ricochet’s strength. A moment later, they were both nude. His spike pressurized into Barricade’s heat as his long-lost lover pulled him close.

“Primus,” Ricochet cursed. “Cade!”

In the dark of the cave, they could only feel. Ricochet leaned his helm against Barricade’s shoulder as he made love to him. The last time he had done this, he had been listening to Tripwire’s spark alongside Barricade’s. Once his newspark had dropped into Barricade’s forge, they had not been able to make love this way. Barricade stroked his helm and hugged Ricochet tightly to him. Pleasure was soft and quiet as they lingered on each other. Ricochet did not know he was crying until Barricade wiped the tears from his cheekplates, and they cried together. Grief did not just disappear in an instant. It did not even fade so much as it was overlaid with hope and a fragile joy. He had never imagined Barricade could have survived the slaughter. Neither had he imagined Barricade would have been blamed for it. After learning just what little he had about what happened, Ricochet could hardly believe that Barricade might forgive him.

“I want you to meet my procreators first,” Barricade said, as they dressed. It would have been nice to linger, but the cave was too cold for that luxury. “Really meet them. I believe you and they believe in me, at least they say so...”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Ricochet asked.

“Younglings died,” his lover said. “I was the one cavorting with a landmech. No one ever doubted I brought the pirates to the cove. My procreators just chose not to blame me for it.”

“I don’t know how he found it,” he replied. “I thought I was careful... maybe I wasn’t careful enough.”

Guilt did not fade; it shifted and changed, but it stayed. He had not examined the butchered tails when he had sabotaged the Death’s Head. Maybe if he had, Ricochet would have realized that the tails were all too small to have been Barricade’s. Even if he had, when he found the bones in the cove, he would have believed his lover dead. Barricade would not have fled the slaughter. How he had survived, Ricochet did not dare ask. The topic was painful, and Barricade’s forgiveness was too fresh. The sea felt even colder when Ricochet slipped back in. He did not swim because Barricade chose instead to drag him along. The mermech cut through the waves, even while dragging him along. Ricochet looked for Ori and Jazz, but neither was in sight. Barricade squeezed his wrist and urged him inside. Downshift was at the desk. The one who had sworn to rip out Ricochet’s spark and eat it.

“Go upstairs,” he ordered without heat. “I’ll get your origin.”

“What about the restaurant?” Ricochet asked when Downshift left the lobby.

“Honour system,” Barricade replied. “They’ll put out vats of soup and stew and bottles of engex. Mecha who what to fuel will pay. Mostly because the other guests will make sure of it.”

“Some mecha probably get away wit it anyways,” the sailor said.

“Sure,” the mermech replied. “But it’s never so much it hurts our business and we feed anyone who can’t afford fuel anyways.”

“Ori called ya saints,” Ricochet told him. “He might be onto somethin’.”

“I wouldn’t call us saints,” Barricade replied, leading Ricochet up the stairs. “Just pragmatic. Good will matters. As long as we take care of everyone, they take care of us.”

“No one here knows what you are,” the Polyhexian said.

“No one,” the innkeeper confirmed. “Tripwire learned before he could even speak to hide what he is. They all think we don’t swim... We blame the doorwings. At least a third of the community think we’re crazy but they think they are too so they just accept it.”

“As much as ya do for’em, y’re right not to trust it’d be ‘nough,” Ricochet said.

“You have good judgment at least,” Ricochet flinched when Camshaft spoke, surprising him.

“Ruby tea,” Downshift declared, holding a tray. “It’s early for engex.”

“Not if you ask our clientele,” his conjunx replied.

“Tea’s great,” the sailor said.

“I’ll pour,” Barricade said. He poured the tea into small glasses.

“Have you told your kin of Tripwire?” Camshaft asked.

“No,” Ricochet said. “Even before I knew he ‘n Cade were alive... I ne’er told anyone.”

“You thought them dead and grieved it alone?” Barricade’s originator asked. “Without even your twin?”

“Barricade made me swear on his spark I wouldn’t tell,” the Polyhexian explained. “My glyph to’m was the last thing I had to keep.”

“I don’t think it’s fair to you to tell you to keep Tripwire secret now,” Camshaft said, looking at his conjunx, who nodded as he took his glass from Barricade.

“Wouldn’t be fair to Tripwire either,” Downshift agreed. “Telling him he has a progenitor and kin and asking him to keep away isn’t fair to him.”

“With Tripwire, Barricade’s glyph is law between us,” the maternal mermech said. “But within the family as a whole, it is more complicated. We do not oppose Tripwire getting to know you and your kin. We do oppose you revealing what we are to them.”

“I swore once,” Ricochet said. “I can swear again.”

“Once is enough,” Downshift said. “Barricade told us your smugglers of a fashion.”

“My family are Empties,” the sailor explained. “Enemies o’ Straxus... not that we started it. We’re just tryin’ to keep ourselves ‘n our friends alive. My genitors are in the Dead End. Tryin’ to keep everyone safe. We’re tryin’ to open a supply line so we can bring in medicine, spare parts, fuel.”

“Not weapons?” The paternal mermech asked.

“Nah, we got those,” Ricochet replied. “My genitor’s an engineer... he’s good and fixin’ up scrap ‘n keepin’ us armed.”

“What is the end game?” Camshaft asked. “Escape? War?”

“A lot o’ the Dead End... it’s not just the credits, they been tortured, experimented on, they can’t function anywhere but where they know,” the Polyhexian explained. “Removin’ Straxus’s helm from his shoulders is on our wishlist. But mech don’t make it easy.”

“Since he has dined on mer flesh we take no issue with that,” Barricade originator declared. “But keep that business to your own lands. If you bring the fleet of Polyhex to our seas, I will be annoyed.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Ricochet said. “I don’t know how to tell Ori we should try ‘nother port. I don’t want anythin’ happenin’ to Cade or Tripwire, ‘cause o’ me.”

“There is no safer port than Damaxus,” Camshaft declared. “Barricade would feel the need to make the sea you sail safe for you, whether it is the Mithril or the Rust Sea. Thus it is safer if you do your business from Damaxus.”

“I don’t think ‘m ‘sposed to argue wit ya,” the sailor said.

“You aren’t,” Downshift replied. “Don’t bother. He won’t listen. Not when he’s right.”

“Tripwire will be home from school soon,” Barricade said. “I, we’ll talk to him, and then maybe we can all have dinner?”

“Good plan,” Camshaft said. “In the meantime, rest here. Downshift and I have business covered downstairs.”

When they were gone, Barricade led Ricochet to his berthroom and to his berth. Ricochet lay under him, tracing the faint stretch marks left on his sentio-metallico from Tripwire’s carrying. He had recovered well from carrying; Barricade looked so much the same. Still, to Ricochet, he was in some ways unrecognizable. The Barricade of his memory had been swollen with newspark and passed the point of coming onto land. He had missed the vorns between then and now and regretted it more than anything. Barricade cupped his own wells as he slowly rode Ricochet spike. He said they were larger, but the Polyhexian could not say either way. As Barricade lost his self-consciousness, he dropped his servos and dimmed his optics. Ricochet watched his lover forget himself in pleasure. His heavy wells jiggled as his belly flexed. Barricade looked down at him with hazy red optics, and Ricochet stared back up at him, feeling nothing but awe and adoration.

They cleaned up together. It was a myth that mermecha transformed automatically if they got wet. Barricade kept his peds when they showered. He kept his peds when he stood in the rain. It was when he stepped into the sea that the transformation happened without a thought or a question. Not one of the sailors and fishermecha would imagine for a moment the innkeepers were mermechs. The idea that they could live on land, linger on land like they did, would boggle their processors. Even to Ricochet, it seemed unreal. Barricade had lived his whole life in a shoal, in the sea. They were called to the sea, that was how Barricade had once described it. Somehow, they had a lot of control when they answered. Everyone seemed healthy. Everyone seemed strong. It did not seem that any of them were hurting for living on land, and with the way they controlled the Rust Sea, it seemed it had not diminished their powers.

“Origin?” The youngling sounded hesitant. "Grandori told me to come upstairs. Hello... Sir?”

“Tripwire, Sweetspark,” Barricade opened his arms to his youngling. Confused, the mechling walked into his originator’s arms. He turned his helm and looked confused at Ricochet. “You met Ricochet on the docks, right?”

“Yes,” Tripwire replied. “What’s wrong, Origin?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Sweetspark,” the mermech said. “Ricochet is your progenitor.”

“Sorry... what?” The youngling took a step back as he spoke. “But... I thought... I thought he was bad?”

“He wasn’t,” Barricade explained. “He isn’t.”

“A pirate sabotaged my skip,” Ricochet replied. “I thought he’d killed yer ori ‘n yer kin.”

“Oh...” Tripwire said. “You seemed sad... like an old, old sad that hasn’t healed.”

“I was,” the sailor replied. “I missed yer ori a lot. I missed ya... missed never havin’ the chance to know ya.”

Heermnghh… (Original post: PINNED)

Guys. Imma be really honest rn. I struggled so bad with this guy. I really tried I did but I really had no clue how to draw him and putting him onto this cat was so weird :,). But it is what the people voted for, quantity over quality.

Ricochet did not mind playing messenger. Barricade had given him the address for his lodgings and the Polyhexian prince had recognized it on sight. He knew there were lodgings above the bakery but as far as he understood it, they were used by Mirror's kin. The elderly femme of Praxian origin had quite a few descendents.  It was possible the Praxian brothers’ uncle did have some tie to them. Stranger things happened on the regular. He has been hoping for some time to meet the Omni's captain to give them a proper thanks. That merchant vessel had saved his and his sailers’ afts when they had been surprised by the Dead's Head. Merchants should not have been so well armed but knowing now the standing conflict they had with Praxus, it came as less of a surprise. 

“Oh hello, Ricochet!” Mirror greeted him when he stepped through the door. “Back already.”

“‘M hopin’ ‘m in the right place,” Ricochet replied. Barricade o’ Petrex gave me this address.”

“What business do you have with Barricade?” The mech sitting at the nearby table turned. His faceplates were gold and his optics a pale blue.

“The Crown gave'm lodgings in the palace so he can stay close to his brother,” the prince explained. The question had not been asked in any sort of threatening tone but Ricochet had seen enough to sense the threat. “Crown also wants to issue an invitation to his uncle ‘n kin to a feast next-cycle in thanks for their service.”

“I don’t recall ever serving Polyhex,” the Praxian said. “Do you, Downshift?”

“Can't say I do,” another Praxian answered but this one spoke with a Polyhexian accent.

“Ya sank the Death's Head,” Ricochet declared. It was not a well known fact. It was one his ori did not know.”

“Since it sailed under Straxus's banner that would technically been more of a disservice to Polyhex,” the gold-faced Praxian replied. “And it was entirely for my own pleasure.”

“Yer Camshaft,” the Polyhexian guessed.

“I am,” the privateer confirmed. 

“The King ‘n Crown Prince o’ Polyhex are grateful for the assistance ya gave to Barricade ‘n seein'm here. Even if it was for your own pleasure… spitin’ Crosscut? It’s mean a lot to the Crown Consort”

“Downshift?” Camshaft asked.

“Don’t look at me for an excuse to bow out,” Downshift replied. “Don’t got warrants in Polyhex. Wouldn’t do that to Grandori.”

“Scamp,” Mirror declared. 

“Don’t know what I can say to reassure ya it ain’t some trap,” Ricochet said.

“It was reported the king was displeased with his Crown Prince’s consort,” the Praxian said. “I didn’t need to read the news to know my brother and his consort didn’t attend the bonding since I was happily disrupting his shipment at the time of the ceremony. What’s changed?”

“Prowl’s good,” the prince shrugged. “It’s not like Ori wants to like’m...”

“Don’t worry, I knew what you were when you walked in,” Camshaft said. “Just as I knew what you were when I stopped Lockdown from sinking your ship.”

“So why not play that hand?” Ricochet asked. “Ya coulda gotten a fleet or ships as a reward.”

“Even rewards come with strings,” the privateer explained. “Invisible strings. I am no one’s marionette. As I told you, we sank Lockdown’s ship for our own pleasure. He was a particularly odious progenitor to our creation-in-law. It suited me, it suited us to prevent him from ever posing a threat to our grandcreation. That is why we sail under our own banner. So we may do as suits us.”

“Ori ain’t gonna try to conscript ya,” the Polyhexian tried to reassure him.

“Oh I don’t know ‘bout that,” Downshift interjected. “Maybe not conscript... but cajole...”

“Ya know’m,” Ricochet was startled by the revelation.

“He ran to Mirror’s like ya do,” the Praxian said. “Different location. We were in the Dead End back then.”

“Ya don’t look surprised,” Ricochet said to Camshaft.

“Why do you think I asked his opinion?”

“Come,” Ricochet said. “Please. Prowl’d appreciate it. Ori’d appreciate it.”

“We’ll come, I’m not that stubborn,” Camshaft agreed. Downshift scoffed. “Quiet.”

The uncle reminded Ricochet more of Barricade than Prowl. It went beyond the physical appearance, though Camshaft and Barricade had the same gold faceplates. All three had similar builds, though a life had sea have the elder Praxian a more powerful one. He had not planned to return, but Barricade had insisted on coming to escort his uncles to the celebration. Perhaps he just wanted to reassure them that everything was safe, or maybe he wanted a short escape. This feast was no ball,l but both Prowl and Barricade had grown up attending such festivities. Ricochet realized Camshaft would have been more than a little familiar with affairs, too. They found the privateers in the bakery, cooing over a bitlet. Another Praxian spoke some nonsense on the bitlet’s behalf, and an Altihexian stood at his side, smiling at the scene. Barricade stopped in the doorway.

“What?” Ricochet asked softly.

“I haven’t, we haven’t met our cousin,” Barricade explained.

“That time already?” Camshaft asked.

“Yer creation ‘n kin?” The prince asked. He nudged Barricade forward.

“Smokescreen,” the privateer said. “Your cousin, Barricade. Prince Ricochet, though I think he turns up at Mirror’s so often, everyone has forgotten his title.

“Good to meet you,” Smokescreen and Barricade dipped their doorwings and shook servos. They did not brush helms as Prowl and Barricade had. Was that more of an intimate greeting?

“Y’all outta come,” Ricochet suggested. Everyone stared at him. “Prowl’d probably like to see meet his cousin ‘n Ori’ll be annoyed he missed a chance to fawn o’er a bitlet.”

“What do you think?” Camshaft asked. He looked between his creation and creation-in-law and Ricochet appreciated he did not just care what Smokescreen thought.

“This must be the thing Ratchet was complaining about attending,” Smokescreen said.

“Ya work wit Ratchet?” The Polyhexian asked.

“That’s right,” Barricade’s cousin replied. “I’m a psychologist. I’m working with the Empties. Trying to work through their trauma and help them live full lives again.”

“Hadn’t heard o’ that program,” Ricochet said.

“We haven’t made it public,” Smokescreen explained. “We’re just starting out... We don’t want to raise false hope and we also don’t want to deal with anyone complaining about where clinic funding is going. We don’t want to give Devcon too much work.”

“I’m effectively security,” Devcon, the Altihexian, explained. “Although Ratchet could manage that side on his own. He’s got mean aim with that wrench.”

“What?” Camshaft asked. Energon dripped from his claws. The Alpha he had unmeched writhed on the floor, choking on his own spike as he bled profusely from the horrific wound.

“What do ya mean?” Downshift asked, admiring the scene. He did not recoil at the least from this Omega’s, his mate’s viciousness, feeling smug instead of fear.

“You look like a pneumalion, a far too satisfied one,” the Omega replied.

“Just admiring yer work, darlin’,” the Alpha said.

“Of all the things that could turn you on,” Camshaft said. He rolled his optics as he wiped his servos.

“I know I wouldn’t give ya cause to turn yer claws one me,” Downshift replied, a cocky grin on his faceplates. His optics glinted.

Sideways, the Alpha creations of Crosscut, had been taken captive and cautioned to reveal the location of Camshaft’s creations. He had made a lecherous comment about Barricade, and that was all that had been needed to grant him this inglorious end. Downshift did not scold Camshaft for his temper. Their scouts had already identified which holding Crosscut was in residence at. At best, Sideways’s glyphs would have been confirmation. They were never going to let him live. His treatment of Omegas was infamous, and they and their band had their principles. They did not leave until Sideways had greyed. Neither did they grant him mercy and speed up his reunion with Unicron. It was Camshaft, a pragmatic mech, who had this rule in place. Downshift thought it came from the early mega-cycles of his escape from the Alpha who had forcibly claimed him and sired his grown creations. When the mech had not been so dead as the Omega had thought, and he had come close to being recaptured. Not Prowl or Barricade, no, Camshaft had used himself and his heat to lure the Alpha away from them, and he finished what he had started. Never again, Camshaft had told him, when he had eventually revealed his story, from now on, he would stay with his kill until the mechanism was cold and grey.

He watched Camshaft’s back as the Omega leapt, poison-tipped blades swinging, at the Alphas in his path. Downshift did not break his stride as he swung his broadsword and bisected the coward who charged at Camshaft’s back. Camshaft’s doorwings gave a little flutter of thanks as he engaged his next foe. Downshift was comfortable following his mate’s fury. Fighting side by side was a romantic notion, but when your love dipped his blades in poison, it was best to stay well out of range. Someone tried to slip passed him, perhaps to warn Crosscut. Downshift raised his sword and smiled as the other Alpha’s shocked expression as he sliced him vertically in half.

“Well this is awkward,” said a Polyhexian Omega. Downshift laughed with bewilderment and delight. Camshaft gave him a look, demanding an explanation without saying a glyph.

“Punch,” Downshift said. “What the frag? What are ya doin’ in Praxus of all places?”

“Straxus crossed the Rust Sea to look for favours,” Punch explained. “Figured I’d take advantage.”

“Well, that ya did,” Downshift replied. Straxus and Crosscut both lay dead. Punch’s twins, Alphas Downshift had last seen when they were scrawny sparklings, were grown and standing nearby, near Camshaft’s creations. Perhaps, given Camshaft’s tension, too close. It was Barricade who broke first.

“Origin,” he exclaimed, running to his originator. Camshaft dropped his sword and embraced him in a tight hug. Prowl stepped toward them, inching at first, before closing the gap with a few quick strides. They embraced, safe at last. Punch looked between Camshaft and back and him and cocked his browridge.

“Hey, ain’t dumb ‘nough to try ‘n tell’m what to do,” he replied.

“Ya didn’t think it was dangerous?” The Polyhexian Omega asked.

“To him?” Downshift asked. He shook his helm. “To everyone in his way? Frag yes. Wit that code runnin’, Dwellers’ do well to steer clear.”

Punch was intrigued by the army they had built. Like most Omegas, Punch trusted your average Beta better than the best Alpha, save for his own creations. It was one of the reasons their bands had never worked too closely. Downshift was an Alpha, even before Camshaft and his creations had joined them, many of his band had been. That band was bigger than it had ever been, and they obeyed Camshaft’s orders without hesitation. Petrex was seized. Another thing that surprised Punch, Downshift’s band did not retreat into the desert, leaving the dukedom in ruins. No, it had been Camshaft’s place of emergence, and he had no inclination of letting another Alpha claim it. Downshift oversaw it all, keeping a close watch but knowing his place. He watched Jazz and Ricochet court Prowl and Barricade and he watch Camshaft silently warn them to tread carefully. His black claws glinted like obsidian under the chandeliers as everyone feasted. The Alpha watched his mate step away from the celebration, and he followed Camshaft onto the balcony.

“‘M surprised ya ain’t gelded ‘m on principle,” Downshift said.

“Why?” Camshaft asked. “Please give me a reason.”

“Darlin’, they’re good mechs,” the Alpha reassured him. “Punch woulda gelded ‘m if they’d grown to be anythin’ else.”

“I see they’re good,” the Omega said. He pouted and then sneered. “It only makes me want to geld them more. They’re grown. Long grown. It was inevitable that they would find someone.”

“But yer a lil extra bloodthirsty right now,” Downshift replied.

“And what does that mean?” Camshaft asked.

“Yer a fierce ori,” the Alpha said. “Carryin’s just makin’ ya fiercer.”

“Smug aft,” the Omega said.

“Didn’t think I’d smell it on ya?” Downshift asked.

“It’s early,” Camshaft said. “Too early to be sure anything will really come from it.”

The Alpha was sure, and he would see it be surer. Camshaft arched his back, plating flush and covered with condensation. Downshift held the Omega’s legs over his shoulder as he ground his knot against his mate’s gamma cluster. It was too early in the carrying for it to show on Camshaft’s frame, but his belly was round with Downshift’s contributions. He would make it rounded. His love dug his claws into the pillow under his helm, and the Alpha smirked with satisfaction at the orderly mech’s debaucherous state. He looked like he was in the throes of heat. But no. Downshift pinned him to the berth and bit his mating node as their sparks merged, cementing claim on both his mate and their creation.

“Down,” Camshaft moaned.

His valve gaped, evidence of the dozen or so knots he had taken. Lubricants and transfluids soaked the sheets under his round aft. It was a delicious sight. Downshift lay on his back and pulled Camshaft on top of him. Seeing the glint in his optics, the Omega chortled and sat up straight. He rode Downshift, servos braced on the Alpha’s stomach. His full wells bounced as Downshift crossed his arms behind his helm and watched his Omega take his pleasure. He was glowing with more than just sweat, and Downshift was a little in awe to watch him. Camshaft rolled his optics, and Downshift took his hips in his servos and drove his spike up into him. A gasp was punched from his intakes as Downshift dragged him down hard. Every time Downshift thrust up, he pulled Camshaft down, making his squeak and shake. Eventually, he let Camshaft collapse, to recharge draped over him, the Alpha’s knot still locked inside him.

“Frag, Down,” Camshaft cursed as he woke, bracing on his elbows on Downshift’s chassis. They both felt Downshift’s knot expand anew.

“I got ya,” Downshift assured him. He flipped them so Camshaft was on his back and began to frag his love with his knot. The Omega’s optics rolled back into his helm. He cooed as Downshift spilled his seed in his belly, again. He moaned when Downshift kept them locked together.

(I've been playing sims again now that my mods are behaving. Decided on a fresh mer play and this is what you get)

“Are ya sure this is the right place, Ori?” Jazz asked as they stepped offer the small ferry.

“Only one Damaxus,” Punch replied. “This ain’t what I expected.”

Lilleth sang their songs from the trees as oilgulls squawked overhead. Fishing boats lined the docks, the crews call out to each other. Mechanisms boat the fresh cyberfish right off the boats, despite the drizzle. There was a roar of laughter and then another. The mood was happy and light. It was nothing like the docks in Polyhex. Even when the sea was willing give up a net of cyberfish, no one but the desperate would dare eat anything dragged up from the murky, sewage filled waters. The sea around Damaxus was anything but murky and there was no stink of waste. As far as the optics could see, the ocean surrounding Damaxus was clear turquoise, and apparently brimming with life. It was nothing like the stories Punch had told, a smugglers haven, a wretched slum. Damaxus, to Jazz’s optics, looked like paradise.

“When were ya last here?” Ricochet asked. “Twenty vorns?”

“Even in twenty vorns,” Punch said. “A turn around like this... I’d call it a miracle if I believed in such things.”

“Auntie Dipole’s ‘round here somewhere?” Jazz asked.

“Mhm,” Punch replied. “Maybe she can explain all this. Port was so rough, Lockdown even gave up on it for Primus’ sake.”

They walked past Dipole twice before the spotted the wirey femme among the crowds of mechanisms going from boat to boat, selling their bounty. She hopped down from the bridge of a pretty yacht, surprising all three Polyhexians. Punch let out a happy whoop and hugged his old friend. Dipole looked like a strong breeze could blow her over but she always had. At the same time, she did not look worn but determined but bright and alive. She yacht she was serving as cook on was docked in Damaxus for repairs, having run into trouble with pirates. Jazz blanched at the thought of her near death but his auntie seemed unfazed. She had ordered the captain to sail for Damaxus, even though he had wanted to sail for Polyhex, to sail under the safety of her canons. The yacht’s owner had sided with Dipole and as they had raced into the seas near the island, a great squall had come up and all but blown them into port where the pirates had crashed into the rocks and been scuttled.

“When I saw the red sky with dawn, I knew we’d be safe,” Dipole declared. “Red sky against this light-cycle, that’s why all the boats have come. A storm is coming.”

“Storms always comes to Damaxus,” Punch replied.

“It’s different now,” Dipole replied. “No hurricane has reached land in a decavorn, at least. Not a boat that’s minded the skies had been lost.”

“Seems too good to be true,” Punch declared, frowning.

“Sure, but I’m not going to turn up my olfactory ridge to a gift from the gods,” Dipole replied.

“Ya know a place where we can stay for a few ‘cycles while we get our bearings?” Jazz asked.

“Oh sure, there’s the inn,” Dipole said.

“Damaxus has an inn?” Punch asked, sounding dubious.

“Lovely Praxian family runs it,” Dipole explained. “They’ve got a little pub too. There’s no ordering anything, you eat whatever they have mind to serve that cycle. It’s always good.”

“Where’s the inn?” Jazz asked.

“Lockdown’s old perch,” Dipole replied. “At some point they bought the land and built their place right up from the beach. Its a pretty little place.”

“Surprised he ain’t come to take it back,” Jazz said.

“Lockdown hasn’t had much luck with Damaxus since the sea changed her spark,” Dipole replied. “If any of his ilk had given them trouble, I haven’t heard. I did hear Swerve got caught snooping in their wine cellar. Had him running scared, whatever they did.”

“H’uh,” Jazz murmured.

“H’uh indeed,” Punch replied.

“Oh, I see Tripwire, that’s their grandbitty, he’ll know if they have rooms,” Dipole exclaimed and she waved to a first tier youngling who was walking down the dock with a basket full of fish. “Tripwire! Overhear, Dearspark.”

“Hello Ms Dipole,” Tripwire greeted the femme with a dip of his doorwings. Though he had the telltale doorwings of a Praxian, his other features were distinctly Polyhexian, namely his audial horns and the shape of his mouth. He dipped his doorwings to Jazz and his kin. “Hello, Sirs.”

“Tripwire, do you by chance know if there are rooms in the inn available?” Dipole asked. “My friends have come from away.”

“Oh yes,” Tripwire said. “Two or three. It’s good you’ve come before the storm.”

“We got the last ferry o’ the orn,” Jazz declared. “Now we know why it’s the last.”

“You’ll be save on the island,” Tripwire assured them. “The rain’s going to pick up any klik, follow me to the inn.”

“I can carry that basket for ya,” Ricochet offered, miraculously coming out of his ennui for a moment.

“Thank you, Sir,” Tripwire said. “Grandgeni sent me to get more cyberfish. Lots of sailors in from the wet looking for a hot meal, even if they aren’t staying at the inn.”

“We ain’t sailors but I think he’s gonna have three more plates to fill,” Jazz declared.

“That’s okay,” Tripwire said. “We always have enough.”

“Fraggin’ skiff...” a sailor cursed. The mechling turned to look and the grizzled seafarer looked aghast.

“Language,” Tripwire scolded. The mech’s shipmates roared with laughter.

They walked on. Tripwire’s manners were formal. Sure, Damaxus was not turning out to be the dilapidated slums Ori remembered, it was still a fishing port and the mechling’s manners seemed a little out of place. Yet, the mechanisms working the boats seemed to enjoy him. His accent sounded Praxian to Jazz’s audio horns though he had encountered few of his frametype. Apart from the small clues in his appearance, there was no suggestion of Polyhexian heritage in his accent or formal manners. Perhaps his family had made their lives as sailors before settling on Damaxus, as much as Praxians were noted to keep to their own, Polyhexian spread far and wide in search of work and shelter. The already tough living condition of the Wastes had only been worsened by vorns’ long droughts and Straxus’ greed and corruption. Ori had not been expecting paradise in Damaxus, and clearly it was tripping him up but they could work with this. There were lots of boats going to and fro, what would one more be to the islanders?

“Grandori, do we still have rooms?” Tripwire dipped his doorwings as he greeted the mech cover the desk. “Ms Dipole’s friends came to visit.”

“We have two,” the elder Praxian replied. “One small private room and one with two berths.”

“We’ll take’em,” Jazz replied, offering the innkeeper shanix to pay for the rooms. “Ori’ll have the private one, Rico ‘n me’ll share the double.”

“Please enter your designations on the register,” the innkeeper said. “Tripwire, take the fish to your grandgenitor and then you are free to do as you will.”

“Okay, Grandori,” Tripwire replied. “Thank you, Sir for carrying the basket for me. Have a good stay, Sirs.”

“Great mechling,” Jazz said.

“He is,” the innkeeper replied. “Jazz, Ricochet and Punch. I am Camshaft, my conjunx managing the bar at the moment. Please allow me to show you to your rooms and then I will show you to the pub. I imagine you are hungry.”

“That’d be much appreciated,” Jazz replied. Thunder so loud it almost shook the inn roared over helm, the innkeeper did not flinch, his guests did.

“The inn has generators,” Camshaft assured them. “Our power has never gone out. Though Downshift prefers to serve a fresh catch, we have fuel stores enough to keep everyone well fuelled for a stellar-cycle.”

“Wow,” Ricochet said. “Ori could appreciate that sorta preparation.”

“I can,” Punch agreed.

“This way,” Camshaft guided them out into the rain. Their rooms were in an outbuilding, Ori’s on the bottom and Jazz and Ricochet’s on the top. A sitting room with a piano occupied part of the bottom floor. “If you need anything, at any joor, please ring the bell and one of us will be of assistance.”

“We won’t be any trouble,” Jazz assured him. Punch nodded.

The innkeeper left them to settle in. There was a set of washracks to share between the three of them, which was better than most of the inns they had found themselves in over the vorns, certainly better than the caves. They had little to unpack, all three of them kept their arms close at servo in their subspaces. They might have been planning to blend into the detritus to get their work done but Jazz could not complain. Their rooms were clean, comfortable and warm. It was a far better way to spend a dark-cycle or two as they made a new plan. Thunder boomed again and Jazz appreciated the room over his helm that much more. No one would hear them scheme, in any case, not with their rooms being in their outbuilding and the storm crashing outside.

“It could be worse,” Jazz insisted. “It’s a whole aft island. We can find a spot to to make our base ‘n go from there.”

“Mecha might snoop,” Punch countered.

“The scum that used to be here woulda too,” Jazz countered. “If only to see if our take was worth stealin’.”

“Mm,” Punch hummed with discontent.

“Rico?” Jazz asked his brother. Two helms were better than one against Punch.

“What?” Ricochet asked.

“Do ya got... any thoughts... bout anythin’?” Jazz asked, frustrated with his twin’s disinterest.

“No,” Ricochet replied, looking out into the storm. Jazz and Punch both stared at him a moment... No?

“Shoulda left ya wit yer genitors,” Punch crumbled. “Get yer helm in the game, Ricochet.”

“I guess we should eat,” Ricochet declared.

It might have been a mistake to bring Ricochet along. He had not been the same since he had tangled with Lockdown off the coast of Simfur. Though he had come out alive and maybe even the victor of the match, it had seemed to Jazz like the winds had been sucked from Ricochet and he had been living and working mostly on autopilot. He had not wanted to go back out to sea and maybe this was their punishment for strong arming him into coming. It had been Geni’s idea. Rumbler insisting that what Ricochet needed to find was out here, somewhere, where he had lost it. What that was, Geni had shrugged when Jazz had asked. His spark, his will, his drive, all Rumbler had been certain of was that Lockdown was to blame for Ricochet’s current state. If Jazz only knew what Lockdown had done, Jazz might have switched things up and gone after the bounty hunter to even the score. Although, it was Ricochet who had Lockdown’s servo in a jar in his berthroom, and not Lockdown.

“What’ll it be?” Downshift asked. The innkeeper’s conjunx looked like he could play bouncer if their business ever needed one. He had small ridges on his helm that could have be audio horns. His facial features were not quite classically Praxian, like his conjunx. Perhaps Tripwire had picked up some recessive code.”

“Three soups of the ‘cycle,” Jazz said. The pub was packed. Sailors and fishermecha say sea shanties off key. “Uh... things ever get outta servo?”

“They know better,” Downshift replied. “Which means their friends do and they keep themselves in line. No one wants me, or Primus forbid, Cam, breaking up a fight. They’d never live it down. I’d see it.”

What did that mean? Jazz wondered. He would have to talk to Swerve and see what exactly went on when he had that run in with the innkeepers. Before they set up roots here, they needed to know all the players. If the innkeepers had replaced Lockdown as unoffical warlords of Damaxus, they need to choose a different place to serve as their base. Ratchet needed supplies. His patients needed supplies. The Deadend needed fuel, really they needed everything. From Darkmount, Straxus’ clamp down was spreading. If this kept up, the uprising would be suffocated. Whatever Straxus claimed, he would not lift military law or end the special prosecutions when the last traces of “dissent” died off. The uprising as an organized whole had emerged from them.

Though the storm outside was still going strong, the thunder had moved on. With Ricochet and Ori both recharging, Jazz slipped out. He needed to calm his processor before he could hope to recharge. Jazz only wanted a walk, that was what he told himself, if he spotted anything that might be useful to their business in Damaxus, that would just be a welcome bonus. It was frigus in Damaxus but the storm brought rain and not snow. Like Polyhex, snow was a rarity if not a complete unknown to the island. It was cold enough but Jazz’s insulated armour could hold him through worse than this. He walked past a pretty pond set up in the courtyard of the inn. There was a light glowing from the shallow depths. A shrine to the spirits and a bath for the lilleth were on the edge. It was rather wild, something to Jazz added to its charms. He could smell the sea and the storm and he walked towards it. If Lockdown had made his base here, there might be smuggling coves nearby. Even if they were too close to the inn to be of use to them, there might be abandoned stores that could be.

“Oh, excuse me,” a voice that sounded like the sea itself spoke. Jazz looked up and saw a Praxian coming out of the trees, a nude Praxian.

“Oh no, excuse me,” Jazz said quickly. “I swear I wasn’t gawking or nothin’. I’m just out to clear my helm... I hope’m not trespassing.”

“The grounds are free for guests to visit,” the Praxian said. “I am Prowl.”

“Prowl, ‘m Jazz.”

“My procreators mentioned last klik guests from Polyhex,” Prowl declared. “You were fortunate to miss the storm. What brings you out in it now?”

“Just... restless,” Jazz replied. “I guess I interrupted... somethin’.”

“Oh, yes,” Prowl said. “It is tradition in Damaxus to shower in the rains. They are a blessing, after all. Would you like to join me?”

“Join you?”

They showered in the rain, but only for a moment. Prowl stepped close and invited Jazz to touch and he was not mech enough to deny the beauty. Almost ethereal, the curvy Praxian was something out of a fantasy. His exact frame shape was something Jazz had not seen. He had broad hips, thick thighs and a large, round aft. Under the cover of trees and greenery, Jazz crouched between them as he gave Prowl as taste. The Praxian moaned sweetly as Jazz lapped at his golden folds, cupping his heavy wells, teasing his stiff golden nozzles with his own servos. His waist was snatched, giving him a perfect hourglass all without armour. He could have made statues of Prima jealous. Jazz cupped the beauty’s wells as he filled him from behind, taking his time to ensure Prowl felt nothing but pleasure. Prowl’s moans were beautiful. Jazz twisted the Praxian’s nozzle as he rocked his hips against his delicious aft. He overloaded Prowl with his digits, glossa and spike before flooding the beauty’s belly with his spend.

“Ack,” Jazz rubbed his shoulder where he had bumped it against the post.

Maybe fragging the innkeepers’ creation had not been the smartest impulses he had ever followed, Jazz had no regrets and he hoped he had left the sensual Prowl with none either. If the opportunity arose, Jazz had no doubts that he would think with the same processor and jump into bush or berth with the provocative beauty. He bumped into the door frame as he slipped, or tried to slip quietly back into the room he was sharing with his twin. Just thinking about Prowl had him losing his composure. Ricochet lifted his helm, his ennui broken enough to allow a frown. Jazz shut the door, quietly behind him. It was likely Ori had heard him go out and come back. Punch would wait for light-cycle to pry. Rico through off his blanket, frown morphing into a sneer. Even angered, his shoulders were slumped. Where the frag was his pride? What had Lockdown done to him?

“Ori will scrap ya if ya went ‘n got drunk at the pub,” Ricochet warned him. “‘N I won’t save ya from’m.”

“Ain’t drunk,” Jazz defended himself. “Just went for a look ‘round. Cold got to me more than I thought it would.”

“Cold?” Ricochet sounded dubious, and that was fair. It was not a great lie.

“Cold as Mortilus’ teat when the rain’s comin’ sideways,” Jazz said. Ricochet shrugged.

“Shower then,” he said. “If you come down with the sniffles Ori’ll give ya Pit. “He’s in a snit ‘bout this place as is.”

“Ori’s ‘bout the only spark I can think o’ that’d get in knots seein’ a turn ‘round like this,” Jazz declared.

“Ya know how Ori feels ‘bout surprises,” Ricochet replied.

Jazz showered, though the rain had washed all evidence of his nocturnal activities from his frame. To a degree it was to warm himself, because the rains were cold, but it was more to maintain his meagre cover. It should not have been enough to satisfy Rico but Jazz thought the root of all of it was that Rico just did not care what Jazz had been up to. They should have left him home and Jazz would tell Geni as much when they made their first delivery. Rico was a liability, not just to himself but to all three of them. What would happen if Lockdown or some goon like him turned up? What would happen if one of Straxus’ enforcers came, warrant for Ori in servo? Would he have the fight in him or would he just sit back? If they came at him, would he even fight back? Jazz had asked his twin over and over what was wrong, what had happened but all Rico had ever said was nothing and so there was nothing Jazz could do to help him. Feeling helpless made him angry and of course, that was of no help.

Rico may well have been feigning recharge when Jazz returned from his shower. It did not matter since Jazz did not have the glyphs, did not have the slightly idea how to reach him. He had been trying for vorns, so, so many vorns. That was at least in part the reason for his restlessness. Mostly, Rico kept aloof from them these cycles and Jazz did not often have to live shoulder to shoulder with the shadow of his twin. The respite with Prowl had been a blessing. Jazz was physically spent and it was enough to let him crawl into his rented berth and to dial down into recharge. In the light-cycle, they would look at getting some answers about the goings on of Damaxus. There would be no answers for the goings on of Ricochet’s processor.

“It’s a fierce storm,” Punch observed as they stood under the overhang. The clouds were so dark, it was hard to even tell it was light-cycle. “Any boat out in this is in for a fight.”

“Seen a few like this growin’ up?” Jazz asked.

“More than a few,” Punch said, “on both sides of the sea. Lots o’ funerals wit no frame to mourn.”

“I never noticed the sky so red in Polyhex,” Jazz noted, “as it was yester-cycle. Didn’t hear talk ‘bout stayin’ in port ‘cept for the ferry.”

“Maybe a volcano?” Punch thought out loud. “Some sort o’ magnetic energy that changes the sky in these parts. There’s a reason for it. There always is.”

“Maybe we outta see what’s cookin’,” Jazz suggested. He looked to his twin, who was staring out into the storm, brooding in silence. Ori’s jaw tensed and then, whatever it was he was thinking, he shook off and he wrapped his arm around Rico’s shoulder.

“Come on,” he said.

Despite the weather, the pub was full, or perhaps the weather was even to blame. A group of sailors surrounded a piano and they played a jaunty tune. As he had been during the dark-cycle, Downshift was manning the pub. It was so full, over full even, that Prowl appeared to be helping him with the loud. Jazz realized he had to act like they had ever met. Certainly he could not ogle the mech while his progenitor watched on, that seemed like a good way to die. Even if Jazz thought he stood a fair chance against the mech, since fair was not how he fought, the saboteur figured there was not a mechanism in this room that would not back the innkeeper up and those were not odds he wanted to test. As group of diners waved them over as they were vacating their table. Even as they sat, Prowl appeared with mugs of steaming energon.

“We have tisane as well,” he declared. “I am Prowl. Progenitor has energon pockets with cinnabar sauce and opal soup with steamed talc on the menu this light-cycle.”

“Thank ya,” Punch said as Jazz was momentarily glossa-tied. “I would appreciate ruby tea if ya have it.”

“We do,” Prowl replied. “I will bring it right out.”

“I wonder if that’s the mechling’s originator,” Punch wondered out loud. “He’s certainly a proper young mech.”

“Mm,” Ricochet replied.

“Maybe,” Jazz replied. The mechling in question dipped into the pub just long enough to wave to his grandgeni before he ran off, to school most likely. He did not know why but Jazz could not quite believe Prowl was the originator to the mechling. Why though, he could not say.

“Thank ya,” Punch thanked Prowl for the tea as the Praxian set a mug down. “Have ya been here long?”

“We have had the inn here for twenty vorns last saltus,” he replied.

“It’s a lovely place,” Punch declared. His mood had certainly improved with recharge, and probably a great bit of plotting. “We didn’t catch the designation when we checked in.”

“Storm’s End,” Prowl replied. “A storm washed us in and my originator has an interesting sense of humour.”

Rico actually ordered an energon pocket for himself without any prodding. Jazz and Punch both ordered the soup. They ate mostly in silence, as close to companionable as they had for some time. All around them, their fellow diners chatted. Listening was the fuelled was the easiest way to gather some intel. Jazz listened as some sailors spoke up pirates in the area, ahead of the storm, and the hopes that they will have cleared out before the skies did. Though Damaxus had once with a pirate harbour, times had changed. It seemed, after their port had been destroyed by the last big hurricane, they had not bothered to rebuild and even though the locals had, they had not tried to comeback and reclaim their own turf. Why? The islanders, a mixture of the descendants of Prima’s tribe from before the Age of the Thirteen Primes and Polyhexian and Urayan sailors and fishermecha, did not look like they would be able to put up much of a fight. No one whispered of any fear from pirates or poachers in this harbour. Why? Had Lockdown and Cannonball lost their touch that badly?

“I think I’d like to see just what spooked Swerve,” Punch declared, after they left the pub.

“I was thinkin’ the same,” Jazz said.

Swerve’s place was on the other side of Damaxus. They drove past an orchard as they drove east, with crystal trees and vines. Though the crops were dormant now, they looked to be in healthy, as far as Jazz could tell. It was from this side of the island Damaxus shipping trade largely operated. The Polyhexian bartender’s patrons were a mix of sailors and labourers. It was around lunch time and most of them were on a break from work. The east side of the island seemed to be prospering as much as the west and though there were warehouses and trade offices, it had not be taken over by big business. Most of the businesses around the bar were island owned. That in and of itself was a miracle to Jazz. What businesses even survived in Damaxus would owned by Straxus’ cronies. What little prosperity existed was for them alone.

“Hello Swerve,” Punch greeted the bartender.

“Punch!” Swerve exclaimed, visibly startled though he was trying to hide it. He looked around with little jerking movements of his helm and saw Jazz and Rico with him. “My mechs... It’s been... a while.”

“We were just in the area,” Punch said. “Stayin’ at the inn... heard ya had some trouble wit the innkeepers?”

“No... no trouble,” Swerve replied, shaking his helm.

“Really?” Punch asked. “Because I heard they caught you sniffin’ round their cellar,” Punch replied. “I heard ya ran scared. Just what did a couple of prim Praxians do that had a mech from the Dead End so shook up?”

“Nothin’!” Swerve replied. “Nothin’!”

“Swerve...” Punch lowered his tone and Swerve flinched. “I know the inn was build on Lockdown’s ole lair... were ya lookin’ to score on the scraps he left behind?”

“I just got turned around,” Swerve said, a lie but a largely harmless one. “They turned the old smugglin’ tunnel into an engex cellar... It’s were they make their engex ‘n kremzeek.”

“Ya own a bar,” Punch said. “Ya got yer own brews, what would ya care ‘bout theirs?”

“Some of their distillations are... just fraggin’ awesome, Mech,” Swerve replied. “They’d make a killin’ if they’d pair up wit one o’ the big brewers on the mainland but they don’t give a frag. I wanted to see what they’re doin’ so different. We both get out stuff from the orchard... I just don’t know what they do wit it that makes it... I found a recipe book. Eh... Camshaft caught me, didn’t hear’m come down the stairs. Didn’t hear’m ‘til he wanted me to. Told me to get on my way. Had me cornered. Before I could even take a step, Downshift was behind me ‘n he told me I’d stay on my side o’ the island if I knew what was good for me.”

“I hope ya weren’t plannin’ to rough up Camshaft in order to get away with their recipes,” Punch said.

“‘M insulted,” Swerve replied.

“They didn’t lay a digit on ya,” Jazz said. “But they got ya runnin’ scared. Didn’t even threaten to break yer legs, like Dipole would if ya got hold o’ her cookbook.”

“It’s not what they said, it’s how they said it,” Swerve replied.

“How’d they say it,” Jazz asked.

“Calm like the eye o’ the hurricane,” Swerve said. “‘N ya know what comes after the eye.”

“What about Lockdown?” Punch asked. “He come ‘round anymore?”

“I’ve heard he’s tried,” Swerve replied. “I heard one o’ his goons came in on the ferry ‘n tried to suggest the demon Praxians owed him a cut.”

“And?” Punch asked.

“Downshift told him to get lost without lookin’ up from his stew pot,” Swerve said. “I hear the aft made some threats ‘gainst his pretty creations ‘n conjunx while some o’ his customers saw’m out.”

“And?” Punch asked.

“Fell off the ferry on the way back to Staniz,” Swerve said. “Sharkticon got’m before anyone could help.”

“‘N ya think the innkeepers had somethin’ to do wit it?” Punch rolled his optics.

“Seems like everyone on Damaxus comes here to fuel,” Jazz told Prowl.

They had split up, each taxed with scouting a different corner of the island for a spot that might serve as a base of operations. Jazz had looked around the coastline near the inn. He had found the smuggler’s cave Lockdown had once sailed his ship, the Death’s Head into, destroyed. No one had mentioned an earthquake or maybe Lockdown had done it himself. It would have been poetic to take over one of his roosts but that was fine. Ori and Rico were not back yet and so when Jazz had spotted the innkeepers’ pretty creation carrying a crate, he could not resisting walking over. Prowl was just as pretty in his neat and conservative armour as he had been nude. The Praxian was perfectly elegant, walking with a delicious swap of his ample hips.

“Did ya need any help?” He offered. The crate was full of empty bottles. The Damaxians were a hard drinking crowd when they wanted to be.

“If you wanted to grab one of the crates over there,” Prowl replied. “We sterilize the bottles and then reuse them. It saves on needless waste.”

“It’d be my pleasure,” Jazz replied.

Prowl let him through a storage room and down a flight of stairs into the cellar. Swerve had been spot on, this would have once been part of Lockdown’s lair. Where weapons and trophies would once have been held were barrels of engex and the tools of the distiller’s trade. The beauty unloaded the bottles into a sterilization system and then turned to face Jazz. There was an audible ping, at least to Jazz’s own audial horns when Prowl dimmed his optics. Jazz leaned back against the counter at his back as the Praxian leaned in. He smelled like salt air and flowers. His plating tingled as Prowl tinkled his digits down his arm.

“Perhaps I can thank you for your assistance?” The beauty asked. Jazz swallowed.

“Don’t know that I did anything that big,” he replied. “But if ya wanted to...”

“Oh I do,” Prowl assured him as he traced Jazz’s codpiece with a long, clawtipped digit.

“Oh frag,” Jazz cursed as his spike pressurized the nanoklik he authorized his panel to retract. Prowl was a soft sound, maybe a giggle as he took Jazz’s spike in his servo and stroked it twice before leaning in and wrapping his mouth around it. “Oh frag!”

Jazz did not dare risk harming Prowl in anyway.... what if his progenitor walked in? That very thought should have nullified the saboteur’s charge but he had always enjoyed a risk a little bit too much. He leaned back against the counter and watched the beautiful Praxian swallow his spike as he unclasped his armour. Prowl’s heavy wells bounced when they were freed from his armour. It took everything in Jazz’s power not to overload right then and there. No one had ever looked so perfect sucking his spike. Prowl hummed as he sucked and Jazz clenched his denta to keep from overloading too soon. The way the beauty rippled his throat around his spike, there was no way Jazz was going to last that long. He saw Prowl reach between his own legs and touch himself and he knew he was about to lose it.

“‘M gonna cum!” He warned Prowl who just leaned in and sucked a little harder. There was no helping himself, Jazz overloaded with a quiet groan, rolling his helm back as Prowl audible slurped and swallowed every last drop. “Damn, y’re somethin’ else.”

“Mmm,” Prowl hummed, licking his lipplates. “I will take that as a compliment.”

“Let me return the favour,” Jazz offered.

“Oh please do.”

They switched places. Prowl covered his mouth as Jazz knelt between his thighs and leaned. He stroked the Praxian’s node as he spread his wet folds and flicked his glossa between them. It was not long before Jazz felt his spike returning to pressure. He held Prowl’s thick thighs open as he pleasured the beauty with his mouth and digits. Though Prowl muffled his cries of pleasure, Jazz knew when he overloaded from the torrent that covered his face. Jazz rose to his peds, stroking his spike as he looked at the flushed mech below him. Prowl reached between his own thighs and held his wet, swollen folds open, inviting Jazz in. It was an invitation Jazz felt no call to ignore. He stared between the Praxian’s legs and watched himself insert his spike into the beauty’s molten centre.

“Oh frag, ya feel good,” Jazz groaned as he leaned over Prowl. He held the supine mech’s legs behind he knees as he rolled his hips, spiking the mech slowly, giving him the whole length of his thick spike before he pulled out and sank home again.

“Uhn,” Prowl moaned, tossing his helm. “That’s good. Oh... oh... You are so big.”

“Am I hurtin’ ya?” Jazz asked.

“No,” Prowl moaned. “No... harder... frag me harder.”

The gel plug of the Praxian’s gestational duct had started to reform since their last encounter but it was hardly a barrier. Jazz buried his spike in the beauty’s gestational tank and basked a moment in the tight grip of the Praxian’s rippling tunnel. Prowl squealed with delight, calling out praise for Jazz’s spike as he fragged him. Wet squelches and clangs echoed off the cellar’s stone walls. If the innkeepers found him like this... Jazz leaned his helm down and nipped the tip of the Praxian’s chevron as he spiked him with quick thrusts of his hips. Prowl crossed his legs around Jazz’s hips calling out with a throaty cry as he overloaded around Jazz’s turgid spike. His tunnel rippled around Jazz’s spike. There was no escape, not that he wanted to escape.

“Frag, y’re so fraggin’ tight,” Jazz groaned. “Gonna cum...”

“Do it,” Prowl moaned. “Oh frag, cum in me!”

“Oh frag!” Jazz obeyed, flooding the Praxian’s tank with litres of transluids before he collapsed against him. He had a bit more clarity this round than the last. “I think ya might be trouble.”

“Not to worry,” Prowl assured him. “I have an implant.”

“I shoulda asked,” Jazz apologized.

“Neither of us were quite in our right processors,” Prowl replied. They climbed up the stairs after the made themselves presentable. Cleansing wipes removed the telltale signs. It did not bother Jazz knowing that Prowl had them. He was not exactly in a position to question the other mech’s promiscuty when he was no different. In any case, Jazz saw no shame in it. As the stepped from the storage room, Prowl gasped with surprise as he looked out the window. “The sky is red!”

Jazz followed as Prowl ran from the in. He was not the only islander that ran for the docks. A crowd was gathering with those who had been waiting out the storm on their boats had climbed the masts and were pointing to the horizon. It took a few kliks before the battered ship appeared. As it limped into dock, Ori and Rico jogged up and joined Jazz in watching the spectacle. Downshift threw a roped to the beleaguered vessel so they could secure themselves to the dock. It was listing, Jazz realized. The masts were gone, blown away not by rogue waves but canon balls. The signs of a violent battle covered the sloop. Its hull must have been built from ununtrium to have survived such an attack. Prowl joined his progenitor in helping the crew off the vessel.

“We can’t have fuel leak into the bay,” Downshift said. “Might you give permission for one of our shipwrights to make emergency repairs.”

“By all means,” the mech was a curious frametype. He had features of a Urayan but not the stature. There was kibble on his back but it was no door wing. “Whatever the bill is, I can pay it.”

“No charge,” Downshift replied. “Damaxus aids any who sail into her harbour.”

“Damaxus?” The mech looked around, He held a audio player tightly in his arms. “All the stories do you a grave disservice.”

“We don’t complain,” Downshift replied. “Our inn is full but we’ll find berths for your crew.”

“Thank you. I’m Tracks, and this is Blaster,” the Urayan halfbreed replied. As he did, he threw the audio player up and it transformed into a tall mech. “We’ll only need one room. We are the crew... more or less.”

“Downshift. My creation Prowl.”

“I can bunk wit my creations,” Punch offered. “That’d leave a room free.”

“Thank you, Mech!” Blaster replied, shaking Punch’s servo. “And you, Sir. Though I was hallucinating your island.”

“Come to Storm’s End and we’ll get some fuel into you,” Downshift declared.

“What happened?” One of the fishermecha asked.

“Pirates,” Blaster said. “We sailed in the fog ‘n storm. Thought we were clear from those slagtard but then we heard the canons. Next thing, we see them firing at the waves ‘n some beast pulled ‘em down.”

“A beast?” Punch asked.

“Kraken,” Blaster replied. “Saw its shadow, a giant beast.”

“Kraken?” Someone asked. “But those are just stories.”

“Warwhale aren’t that big,” Blaster said. “‘N they don’t got that many arms.”

The pub was full of mechanisms wanting to hear their miraculous story over and over. The crew was more than just the two mech. Blaster was a cassette-carrier and his Casseticons serves as the rest of the crew. They were out of their docks, enjoying a meal as Blaster regaled the crowd again. Tracks nodded along. It seemed like Blaster did most of the talking in their relationship. Even after the beast had ripped the pirate vessel in two and dragged it into the deep, they had realized they were doom. They had already been taking on water and without sails and their engine hardly doing more than sputtering. Blaster said he heard something, like a bird call and as he bullied the shop starboard the horizon turned red and he made the decision to point their ship in that directions. The waves as much as their engine power had washed them into board. It all sounded like a sparkling fantasy but Jazz imagined he might imagine worse in the same situation.

“Ya find anythin’?” Punch asked now that they had retreated to their one room.

“No...” Jazz said. There was a knock at the door. It was Prowl with an armload of bedding. “Thank ya.

“We can drag up a cot,” Prowl offered. “Though it is not terribly comfortable. We have them in case we need to turn the pub into an emergency shelter.”

“We’re fine,” Jazz assured him. “Rico ‘n me’ve bunked together before.”

“Thank ya,” Punch said. “I don’t think I want either o’ them sulkin’ bout sore backs. ‘N it would certainly be one o’ them ‘n not me.”

“I should hope so,” Prowl agreed. There was a rumble above their helms. “It would appears the eye is passing.”

“Those mecha couldn’t o’ gotten more lucky,” Punch declared.

“I could not agree more,” Prowl said.

“Do ya normally repair broken vessels for free?” Jazz asked.

“Damaxus relies on a healthy sea,” Prowl replied. “Some ship owners pinch their shanix and will let their ships sail with cracked hauls and worse. As a community, we all agreed it was better if we see the work done ourselves for the sake of our island.”

“Shipwrights gotta fuel,” Ricochet spoke up. “Someone must pay’em.”

“We have a fund,” Prowl explained. “Everyone who can pays into it. Few on Damaxus dream of reaches. We only want to live our lives in safety and comfort. When we work together, we stand the best hope o’ it.”

“Straxus would sooner cut out in his optics,” Punch said after Prowl took his leave.

“Wonder how long it’ll last once more mecha realize that Damaxus is a paradise?” Jazz wondered out loud.

“Ya’d think they’d be tryin’ to carve out their stake already,” Punch said. “Damaxus is so close to Polyhex, I don’t know why Straxus ain’t heard o’ the boon already.”

“Maybe his scouts got eaten by sharkticon,” Jazz offered.