Et in Cybertron Ego

The Decepticon Crypt was dimly lit and full of markers, each one etched with the owner's name and deactivation date and perhaps an epitaph if the marker-maker was sufficiently bribed. Thrust had no idea why Dirge had wanted to come down here; their first shore leave since they re-awoke on Earth, and his wingmate wanted to waste even one precious femtosecond of it in the Crypt?

But Ramjet had already vanished to Primus knew where when Dirge demanded his company, and Thrust couldn't raise the white jet over their comms. No rescue for him.

Thrust had balked at going deeper into the crypt than Trannis's marker. A sulky backhand from his wingmate wasn't enough to make him go any deeper into this creepy place. Every whisper of wind that disturbed the dust unnerved him; the ventilators he remembered sushing softly five million years ago could no longer be heard.

He hoped someone had just made quieter ventilators since the last time Dirge dragged him here.

A barely filled cube of energon sat between the legs of Trannis's statue, an offering to the spirit. Thrust hadn't seen that kind of thing for millenia even before he got assigned to the Nemesis. They couldn't be bringing back that much energon from Earth-? Best not to let it go to waste. He scanned the crypt warily as he reached for the cube.

A gust of wind sent chips of metal skittering across the floor. Thrust dropped into a crouch, one arm-gun pointed towards the noise and the other pointed at the nearest door. Nothing moved for a long moment.

Down one of the other corridors behind him, there came the faint scuff of Dirge's feet over the floor. The familiar sound almost calmed Thrust; he stood up slowly, trusting his armor to keep him alive through the first shot. If there was going to be a first shot.

Nothing. Slowly, patiently, he lowered one arm-gun. Still nothing. Very, very slowly, he lowered the other.

"Are you done yet?"

Thrust startled, turning it into a half-turn to look at Dirge without his intakes getting in the way. Wasn't very graceful and probably would only fool a dead Earthling, but he had to keep up appearances. Casually, he responded, "Yeah. Are you?"

Dirge smirked, sauntering into the crypt-chamber. "Not quite yet."

Thrust's wings and tailfins started to prickle, and he glanced around nervously. Were the shadows a little darker than before? The glow of the energon a little dimmer-? "Dirge! Cut it out. I'm your wingmate."

The mounting fear cut off. "Just makes it more fun."

"Yeah, real fun." Thrust eyed his approaching wingmate, then turned in a circle to scan the crypt. Nothing out of place, no radar ghosts, no radio ghosts, just him and- "Ack!"

Dirge could move fast and quiet when he wanted to. Now the dark jet was decimeters away from him, their cockpits almost brushing. His smile turned downright self-satisfied as he laid a finger over Thrust's mouth. "Hush. Voices carry."

"Hey-"

The dark jet grabbed him by the chin and yanked him over for a kiss. Dirge's left leg snuck between his red thighs as he tried not to fall, golden-yellow canard and wing hooking around his leg. //If you could see what your fear looked like...//

He slung an arm around Dirge's waist, faintly grateful that he didn't have to contend with backwings while he rebalanced himself. //-In a crypt? You know, we got berths back at the hangar.//

//Your turbines are turning.//

//... Freak.// Almost subdued flight instincts had sent pulses of electricity through his wings, making them as sensitive as if he was in flight and setting his turbines to turn ever so lazily. But, frag, he hadn't gotten any in four million years. If Dirge wanted to do it standing in a crypt, who was he to complain?

End