Author's Note: I do not own the Transformers or anything relating to them. However, Rallygate is my own fancharacter. This fic contains no spoilers for Cybertron or Galaxy Force and I would appreciate it if no one put any spoilers in the reviews. It's just not courteous.

Things That Are Broken

Ransack could taste dust and cheap motor oil on Rallygate's neck. His thin glossa found small pockets of congealed grease, thinned by the heat of what was a sizzling day even by Velocitron standards, that came off with a single lick as Ransack worked his way up to his girlfriend's jawline and discreetly spit the black glop over her shoulder. Rallygate moaned softly, her small orange fingers wandering over Ransack's breastplate. The dim light from the one window let in just enough light to illuminate the dirt and clutter of their love nest of the moment, a storage room with graffiti on the walls and a pair of mechs on the grimy floor in the most compromising of positions. Ransack gasped as the scooter femme started working on his front axel, pulling her down and kissing her as she giggled.

Rallygate was smooth, not as clean or polished as some of the fancier femmes, but she took care of herself. Her paint job was light green and bright orange, although it had been light purple less than a month ago before pastels went out of fashion. Not that Ransack cared about fashion, but it was always good to have a femme who cared about her appearance as long as she didn't care that Ransack himself rarely got a full cleaning more than twice a year.

And on top of being reasonably good-looking, Rallygate was a short, curvy femme who was currently lying on top of him and running her fingers over his back with her lips against his chest and you couldn't really ask for more, could you?

Crumplezone peered through the crack in the wall, watching as the pair stroked and moaned, their arms and legs twining together in an odd combination of clashing colors.

He wasn't quite sure what was going on the other side of his peephole, or why he felt that odd twinge at seeing them together like that. It was like the twinge he got when Rallygate tweaked Ransack's wheel or kissed him, but more so. Crumplezone had never felt the twinge before they'd parked themselves in the small city of Rust Valley for a few months and Ransack had started dating Rallygate. After that, he'd had it almost every time Ransack looked at her. And he didn't like it.

Rallygate was a nice enough scooter, as city-bots went. She worked the counter at the general store and while she was a little on the ditzy side, she lacked the typical arrogant attitude of the mechs who lived in the more populated areas. In general Rallygate was pretty good to Crumplezone, giving him tools and such to play with when he and Ransack came in to visit. If she ever made fun of his lack of intelligence (and lots of people did that to him when they thought he couldn't tell they were laughing at him, not with him), she had the courtesy to do it when he couldn't hear it. Most of the time, Crumplezone liked her. And Ransack thought she was great, so she couldn't be that bad.

So why did he sometimes feel like breaking Rallygate in half with his bare hands and throwing her off a high bridge, not necessarily in that order? Crumplezone didn't quite know, nor did he know why the urge was the strongest when they went in the back room and started stroking each other, not knowing about the hole in the wall next to the shelves of paint cans. He didn't like the feeling, because he liked Rallygate all the other times when she wasn't in the back room or touching Ransack. Crumplezone was usually a pretty peaceful mech when he didn't have reason to slam someone into the wall at speeds matched only by large trains. And besides his lack of violent tendencies, it might make Ransack upset, and Crumplezone hated it when his friend yelled at him.

Ransack and Rallygate were being louder now and talking about Primus, which meant they were almost done. Crumplezone quickly went out into the main part of the shop, where he sat down and started stacking the oil cans into interesting patterns. They'd be out soon enough, and Crumplezone didn't want to be caught watching them. He had a feeling that the stroking wasn't something that you were supposed to look at when it wasn't you doing the stroking.

In the storage room, Ransack panted to cool his systems off as Rallygate collapsed on top of him, the faint light giving her heated body a dim, dingy glow. This was the good thing about short, curvy femmes. They wouldn't crush you when they were on top. And they were also more interested in a mech or femme that wouldn't crush them should they choose to change positions, which made Ransack more appealing to them then he would be to taller transformers. For some reason, a motorcycle just wasn't as attractive to most people as a larger mech with an extra pair of wheels. The world was cruel that way.

"Ransack?" asked Rallygate as she stroked the brim of his helmet, smiling shyly in that way she always did that drove Ransack absolutely nuts. Maybe she wasn't skinny or tall like the people you normally saw in compromising positions on the datapads found on the top shelf of the periodical rack with titles like "Hot Wheels", but she was a great gal and she knew how to use her hands in more ways than one. Ransack was pretty damn lucky to have someone like her around to be with on hot days and cold nights.

"Yeah, Rally?" the cycle replied torpidly, grinning back at her and putting his hands behind his head. His happy afterglow haze was brutally shattered a moment later by the five words no mech or femme needs to hear right after swapping kisses and paint with their girlfriend.

"Baby, we need to talk."

Ransack came stomping out the door ten minutes later, slamming it behind him as he stalked into the front of the shop. "Fine! There's plenty of scooters out there for me!" Crumplezone's elegant palace of polish tins, complete with a racetrack made of a fanbelt and a hot tub symbolized by a blue shammy cloth, collapsed as Ransack tugged on his arm with the insistence of a bulldog and the effectiveness of a chihuahua.

Crumplezone mourned the loss of his castle for all of one second before looking up with confusion in his large blue optics. "Ransack, what's going on?" This didn't make sense; Ransack was usually very happy after the stroking. Maybe something had gone wrong this time.

Ransack tugged harder and Crumplezone obligingly got to his feet, "C'mon, CZ. We're leaving this dump."

Crumplezone allowed himself to be towed out the door by the angry cycle, assuming Ransack would explain it all later. Rallygate poked her head out the door as they left, a look of worry on her face. Crumplezone felt a mild flare of anger at the femme; why, he wasn't sure. Somehow this was all her fault.

"Ransack, baby," she pleaded, reaching out to him. "Don't go-"

Ransack spun and pointed an accusing finger at her, his emerald optics flaring with a rage Crumplezone hadn't seen since…well, actually Crumplezone had never seen him look like that. It was scary.

"Don't 'baby' me, you piece of slag!" he shouted, transforming and speeding off with Crumplezone close behind and still very confused.

Ransack went fast, very fast, the way he did when he was upset. Crumplezone easily kept up with him, but said nothing, letting Ransack deal with whatever it was in his own fashion. The rust-orange mountains that gave the city its name rushed past in a craggy blur as Ransack pushed himself as hard as he could, trying to burn the anger and pain out of his systems. He dodged the rocks on the road without even noticing them, his body acting mostly by reflex now.

Crumplezone made sure to stay a couple yards behind his friend, effortlessly crushing most of the rocks under his heavy wheels and rolling over the largest ones with quick jolts. They were leaving the city limits now and heading out of the valley, and judging by Ransack's current mood they wouldn't be back for a while.

Ransack stopped under an underpass, transforming and sitting down heavily. Crumplezone stopped a few feet ahead, skidded, and then backed up to meet the motorcycle. He also transformed and sat quietly beside him.

Ransack put his head in his hands, the burning rage rushing out of him like oil from a burst pipeline. "Where'd I screw up, CZ?" he groaned. "We were getting on so well."

Crumplezone sat beside him and patted his back. He didn't like to see Ransack sad, which was why he'd never hurt Rallygate no matter how much he felt like catching her alone sometime and blasting her off the face of the planet.

"What happened?" Crumplezone asked, more trying to comfort his partner than actually figure out what was going on. Odds were that it was probably above him, like a lot of things Ransack did.

Ransack raised his head to look at Crumplezone, a mournful expression on his face. "Piece of…she broke up with me, CZ. Probably for some hot rod or other, femmes always go for the cars." He contemplated the ground again, muttering various curses directed at Rallygate and scooters in general.

"Oh," said Crumplezone, unsure of what that meant. Ransack didn't look broken, unless you counted the anguish in his face and voice that made it seem as if some part of his internal wiring had snapped, giving him an injury that he couldn't get at without the help of a medic. But Crumplezone could tell that it wasn't that. Ransack always whined when something like that happened until Crumplezone fixed him.

"Maybe you should stay away from femmes if they're gonna break you for hot rods." He patted Ransack's back more, not quite noticing how with every pat his hand stayed there longer and longer.

"Can't help it, CZ. I'm a sucker for curvy types." Ransack prodded a small rock with his foot, then kicked it away. "Stupid scooter."

"Stupid scooter," Crumplezone echoed, with feeling. So Rallygate had broken Ransack's happiness, that was it. Now that sort of damage, Crumplezone was familiar with. He got that every time he screwed something up so badly that Ransack ranted for a full five minutes about how stupid he was, or when people called him a dimwit halfclocked clunker. It was internal damage, true, but you couldn't really fix it with an arc welder. It had to fix itself.

Crumplezone gave up patting and left his hand to sit lightly on Ransack's back. Ransack shrugged and moved a little closer to the large secure green thing that wouldn't ever go breaking up with him for a hot rod. CZ, he could rely on to cover his back. CZ, he could trust.

Funny, how now that Ransack was really mad at Rallygate, Crumplezone didn't feel like hurting her. What replaced that urge was an odd desire to pull Ransack into his lap and just hold him in his big arms until the motorcycle felt better and his happiness was fixed by his self-repair systems. He couldn't, of course; Ransack had a strict "no hugging" rule that apparently Rallygate was no longer exempt from. He settled for curling his arm around Ransack as the smaller mech continued to rant about life in general,

Mine, thought Crumplezone. And he wasn't quite sure why.