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Escape from Cybertron	By : mancer Category: S through Z > Transformers (Movie Only) > Transformers (Movie Only) Views: 1173 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, nor do I make any profit from this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Escape from Cybertron
- 2-Deception
- 1
- 2
Tenner hurriedly distributed whatever he could get functional with a millicycle's work.

“Will this work?” Buffer asked, as he secured first the pile of scrap on himself, then helped do quick spot welds on Jirou's own chassis.

“It's going to have to,” she admitted. She eyed the group; a small whisper of hope hummed in her spark.

“Cricket,” she called the little flyer. “I'm going to need your help.”

She quickly explained her idea, his excited chirps barely interrupting her. Gearshift lifted up his old sniper rifle, which the flyer quickly scanned and disguised himself as. With a bit of adjustment, Jirou had him settled over the rough patch on her shoulder.

“Do I look good?” he whispered. Buffer poked him here and there, edging his wing-plates until her missing arm looked... well, not whole, but perhaps replaced with some large experimental weapon. Not outside the realm of possibility.

“Good enough,” the spy said, with a nervous glance to the bit of visible sky. “Let's go.”

They marched as a unit, mismatched, patched, shabby, right up to the waiting drop ship.

A Decepticon heavy tank eyed her on the way up. Silhouette was an older T-model, mostly discontinued. Newer paint job, though. Experienced, but vain.

Jirou purposefully didn't look at him. Stared straight again. Felt the nervous silence behind her. Felt her own itch to reach for a weapon; even after endless cycles of conditioning. Cricket's minute shiver against her chassis.

“Oi, you.”

She slowed to a stop, her legs a moment after her shoulders, swinging slowly to give the flyer as much warning as possible. Thankfully the little Autobot seemed to get the idea, bending himself awkwardly to give her posture an indolent hand-on-hip-joint look. Smart boy, she thought, wishing they'd had the time, or the spare parts, to connect his radio for private communiqués.

“Yea, Sarge?” Jirou put in the long sneer, the droll dead voice she'd perfected while working with her Decepticon contacts. She ignored that he had the look of a much higher ranking bot. Or that his heavy tank body could crush her with a word. Hatchback, please don't do anything rash.

“What's a honey like you doing with scrap like them?”

A second one came over then, his optics on the mess behind her. This one a newer model, but with oversized armor. Even the tracks danging free at his shoulders were larger-than-spec. Flashy but... her optics focused enough for her to see the wear. Post-build additions that he actually used. Damn.

Jirou shifted, letting the housing over her hip go a bit loose, making her weapons visible. Decepticon flirting. Show you can blast a spark away, perhaps take a cheap shot if they're dense, but “respect” 'em enough to leave their casing intact.

“Don't have to look good to run well.” The servos of her remaining hand played on her pistol.

“Slag isn't getting on board,” the second stated calmly.

“Slag!?”

Jirou glared over her shoulder. The paired Decepticon laughter brought fumes to Tenner's gears, but he kept his processors to himself.

“Look, scout,” the first tanker spoke up again. “We've got our orders. Beta-upsilon-upsilon units called up only. Thems the orders.”

Jirou scoffed like any brow-beaten 'con.

“Yeah, and we got our orders too. On the ship, or we're true slag.”

The two idiots glanced at each other, confused.

“Beta-upsilon-upsilon for the heavy demolishing,” Jirou guessed expertly. “And we're... let's say clean up crew.”

“Clean-up?” the second asked.

“Clean-up. Cannon fodder. Comfort. Take your pick.”

Understanding seemed to finally flicker between them.

“Comfort?”

“Yeah, you think that high command would expect you to do what you're going to, without a bit of reward at the end, hmm?” Jirou stepped up to the second, more observant 'con. “Fun of destruction only takes you so far.”

“And they're supposed to... fulfill any comfort we need? Not much to look at,” he grumbled, his audio a few decibels lower now. Optics trained just on her, not on the Autobots behind her.

“We've all got our kinks,” Jirou said, her voice soft and mocking. She made her optics dance between them. “Personally, I've always wondered if I could take two big mechs at once. Quite a challenge.”

Another big rumble from Cybertron brought their eyes up.

“Ship's nearly full,” the first one offered. “This'd be enough for quota. Get off before the big one.”

“Yeah.” The second tanker looked back over her group. “Get inside and locked down. You,” his huge hand circled her torso, almost tenderly. “Head to the front hanger once we've taken off.”

“Aye, aye, Sarge.”

“Come on, let's find our berths.”

Jirou jogged up the ramp into the ship; partly to get her crew away from the guards as quickly as she could without raising suspicions, partly for the distraction of the rhythmic jiggling of the back of her chassis.

“Jirou,” Buffer whispered urgently.

“Not now.”

“But-”

“No.”

The other Decepticons eyed her crew as she led them to the couple remaining slots. War tanks, the lot of them. Twenty fragging tanks. A new retrofit. She'd seen designs for them, but hadn't realized that sparks had already been placed in the chassis. Not prototypes anymore. A smaller, nimble design. At least compared to the two out there doing their final checks and closing the ship up before coming in to....

Six sets of optics glued onto her as she locked each 'bot into the Decepticon docks. Tenner helped her secure the others, but his hands shook. She locked him in last.

The big bay door closed up, the two guard tanks lifted up as the ramp closed the final seal. The first one, his optics barely pealing away from her, went through final checks of the secures for the actual Decepticons. The second, his exhaust fans already at a quiet, incessant hum, smacked her on the rear vents on his way to the bow of the ship.

“Prepare for take off, honey-con. See you in space.”

Jirou stood defiantly on the middle gangway, holding one of the ship's many support beams, as they disappeared. She felt the hot stares of the other 'cons at her back and ignored them.

Not yet. Not safe until-

Her joints groaned as the ship began to lift away; she bent a bit under the increased g-force and listened to the creaks and moans of the bigger mechs as they shifted in their docks.

There.

She smiled, just a little, to the 'bots. Heh, hardly Autobots now.

Who would have thought that Gearshift had been saving up scraps from the Decepticons? Spark damned 'bot kept every slagging 'con symbol; a trophy for every mech he slagged. More than enough to cover every Autobot symbol on her little band. Knowing him, he probably had a whole cache more of the blasted things.

Looking over the small group, she felt she finally understood the odd looks they had all given her over the cycles. Familiar faces under angular Decepticon helmets. Asymmetrical chunks of armor strapped down to cover breast plate, hip, shoulder, whatever needed covering. Even their small, efficient weapons traded for ones just as old and ill-kept, but now dark, over-sized, and bristling with blades. Not that any of them would know how to use a bayonet. Well, perhaps Hatchback.

None of the Autobots would meet her gaze. Not even the ruthless little cutthroat.

Fine.

Jirou let out a huff of exhaust and let her optics drift to the front of the ship.

“Jirou you can't-”

She glared at Buffer again.

So much she needed to tell him... all of them. But they'd been sheltered from a great deal of the war.

Shooting at the enemy, destroying their spark, works great on an open field, when there's an army at your back.

When a 'bot is all alone? None to back her up, gun stuck behind an industrial vent, and a big randy Decepticon willing to barter for temporary freedom....

She patted at the exposed weapons at her side, now all 'con-made and as well maintained as she could manage with bare supplies. A quick command activated the mag-grips in her legs before the ship's thrusters quit.

“Stay locked in 'til we land, hear?”

Most of the Autobots nodded at her command. She glared down Buffer until he too nodded.

Her thumb rubbed along the edge of her pistol as she made her slow way to the front. Increased gravity, coordinating activation and deactivation of the mags, and refusal to use any supports down the gangway made the going slow.

Decepticon tanks watched her. Quiet whispers of foul suggestions followed her up. Thank the Allspark their locks are externally controlled.

Jirou hit the panel for the small bridge just as the last of Cybertron's gravity released them. Panic took her for half a micron before she got both mags firmly settled on metal. A small metallic protest squealed as Cricket nearly detached.

Frag! Jirou grabbed him with her remaining arm, holding his small form against her side.

“Honey-con suddenly shy?” Asked the first tank.

“Probably worried you won't be mech enough for her,” joked the second. Jirou set her processors in overdrive. How to get Cricket out?

“Let's see that face of yours, hmm? Only way a mess like you'd get called in for this would be-”

The first tank'd abandoned his post, letting the second one continue controlling the ship, in favor of looming over her and forcefully pushing the shutter down from the lower half of her face. Jirou held perfectly still. She always kept the visor up over the lower half of her face. Always... until some 'con needed that reveal. How many times'd she used that distraction to shove her blade up through the vulnerable coolant pipes, into the tender spark? She contemplated it, for an instant, then shoved it aside. Without her second arm, she lacked the strength and leverage to push it up far enough on a big model anything. And it'd only worked on one.

And she had no idea how to run this blasted ship.

And the twenty tanks to her pathetic six in the gunnery.

No. Best to follow them as long as she could, find out what their plans were. Keep her band safe until she could secret them away.

She blinked her optic shutters, the first tank's low whistle bringing her out of her lightening quick processes.

“Damn the Allspark, this one is a looker under all this slag.”

Who knew what her chassis had originally been designed for. Didn't matter now. It served her purposes.

She pulled her lips back in a confident smile. The smile that tugged at one side a tad more than the other. The one that spoke of experience, but still looked just shy enough to be intriguing. Perhaps a bit more uncertain now, with Cricket malfunctioning against her and unable to maintain connection.

“Not the last time you'll question high command, I'm sure.”

They both laughed.

She remained still, alarms silently going off, as the old tanker traced what he could of her breastplate. Her remaining arm holding both it, and Cricket, down.

“Maybe she needs something a bit bigger to warm her up,” the second 'con said as he plotted in the last of the data he needed, apparently. The last commands he gave the ship locked the door behind her, loudly, and opened up the viewing vents before them.

“Don't have long, little fuck, so stop being shy.”

Jirou couldn't take her eyes away.

Cybertron.

She'd never seen the vids before the feeds died. Hadn't existed before the war. Never seen Cybertron from above. Not burned to slag by weapons fire.

Even so, seeing it growing smaller and smaller under them left her feeling smaller than she ever had. Any details, any distinguishing features, disappeared with the distance, her optics still not focusing at optimal.

She gasped as strong hands pulled at her “arms,” separating her from her death-grip on Cricket. He let out a distressed mechanical squeal as the old tank completely separated him from her body.

Cruel laughter echoed in the room.

“No wonder you're suddenly so shy. Arm's barely holding in, eh?”

He tossed it aside, unaware of the little Autobot “free floating” to a small corner of the bridge. Hiding under a control panel. Don't be stupid, Cricket. We're nearly safe.

The second, bigger mech lifted her up. Her mags stuck, but she released them before the connections in her joints gave; the possibility of her feet staying connected to the floor while they made do with the rest of her a suddenly all-to-real possibility.

His huge hands, each large enough to cradle her from her shoulder plating to the base of her hip joints, radiated heat as he crushed her to his crater-pitted metal. Jirou shuddered as his lubricated glossa explored the temporary patches Buffer'd installed. Hot oil dripped in through the seams.

“Poor little fuck,” the older tanker cooed, his wandering hands curving over tires embedded in the back of her thighs, barely skimming between them, before going up her back and down the remaining arm. “You know we've got some replacement parts,” he murmured conversationally.

“Mmm,” the glossa pulled back a moment. “Think we should give the honey-con a reward?”

“Only if she earns it,” the first 'con's hand suddenly delved into her weapons compartment. Jirou gasped at the intrusion. With him behind her, she couldn't see his facial display, but she felt his hot exhaust across the cords in her neck, felt his face nuzzle and press against her. Press her harder into the rough pitting of his compatriot.

“Not so rough,” she complained good-naturedly. “Don't have any spare wax to buff out the damage.”

They laughed again, this time deeper, darker.

The one behind her bit into her shoulder plate, hard enough to dent, to trigger pain receptors. Yellow alerts flashed behind her optics.

“We'll fuck you 'til there's no buff to that carriage, you little Autobot.”

She flinched at the derogatory term, hoped they thought it was from pain.

Rough, uncaring hands plucked at the remainder of her work armor, not caring about the maglocks on helm, pauldron, greave... she pushed at them, weak in comparison and unable to safely remove any of her armor. They tore off sections she didn't deactivate quickly enough, finger servos and glossa exploring every tear, scrape, and open leak they created.

“What you think, will she do with only one arm?”

“Oh, I think the slut has other means.”

Big servos pried off the last of her protective panels. The T-model 'con pulled her back against his body, her back to his still armored stomach plating, using his hands to spread her so that his mouthy friend got the full view.

“Ah, you know exactly how I like 'em, Teebar.” The big tanker didn't immediately go for her open vent. “Stretched out,” he bit at the softness they'd exposed when they'd torn off her breastplate, “exposed,” sevros pinching and pulling, “helpless,” until her receptors flared and she screamed out. “Aah, such a lovely sound.”

“Please,” Jirou begged. Teebar's arms gripped tighter, somehow spreading her farther, pushing her into the cruel mouth.

This one's hands cupped her knee joints, touch falsely gentle.

“Please?” The path he traced as hard as a dust mote up her thigh, barely noticeable, compared to the pain his teeth gave.

“Please,” she repeated, her hips bucking against his touch. Wanting more. Dreading more.

“Ha!” Just a quick exhaust of gas before his finger shoved deep into her unprepared valve.

Jirous screamed in pain. So huge. Just one finger.

He pumped into her until her hips started rocking involuntarily against him, seeking any pleasure he might give her.

He denied her even that, pushing in another and spreading his fingers as wide as her tight entrance would allow.

“By the Allspark I haven't seen such a prime-midsize in a hundred cycles,” he murmured into her throat. Jirou didn't even see his unit before he shoved it deep into her. She screamed again, from pain, from overload, from the incompatible union as he slammed into her over and over.

“Ah frag,” he groaned, tensing between her legs. Teebar held her still again as the other Decepticon unloaded into her. Energon rolled through her body, warming her innercoils.

Jirou had only a moment to be thankful that their connection wasn't compatible, the energon transfer unablto complete and burn out her circuits, before he was thrusting slowly into her again.

“Not done yet,” he groaned, his hands holding her torso tight as his tempo gradually increased.

“Mm, you're taking all the fun. Know how much I like screwing an upgraded port.”

“Dirty old fuck,” he groused, not even slowing. “Not like there's not another one for you.”

Jirou whimpered. The older mech stroked her stomach from behind a couple times, coaxing her to curl back against him. He pulled her shoulders back and down, while the newer model kept fucking her without pause.

“Gonna put those port-sucking lips to use,” he said with a cruel grin. He pressed his lips to her, hard, his glossa pushing against the seam, smearing her face with lubricant until he could force her to open up to him. She gagged on the near-toxic oil he shoved into her mouth, forcibly keeping it from seeping into her own lubrication supply; bastard hadn't gotten it changed since before she'd been assembled.

A large blade, longer than her torso, was drawn up into her vision.

“I'll happily remove your head, if you think one damn thing other than sucking off every last drop of energon. Understand?”

She nodded, just a little. He grinned.

The bastard pushed down more oil before pulling her farther down his body.

“Slow down a bit, Mac, will ya? Shaking her too much.”

Mac, the newer model. He slowed, just a little, as Teebar forced her body into a taunt back-bend. He fiddled with his catches in frustration, before caressing her unprotected sparkcase and throat and ordered her to do the job herself.

It hurt, working the rust of his hinges at such an awkward angle. It hurt her body and her pride to work on his old member, get him excited enough with her one arm to get his malfunctioning member turgid enough that he could finally shove himself into her mouth.

Allspark!

If she thought the oil from his mouth was fetid, then the perpetual leak from-

Mac shoved himself back in before she could cycle the thought. She grunted against Teebar's unit; he had her so full she couldn't scream anymore. The scrape of the blade quieted even that protest. The new position stretched more than just her throat tight; Mac's hard pounding took on a desperate tempo. So big... too damn... aaah....
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Escape from Cybertron