Work Text:
"Onslaught."
A deep, gravelly voice tugged at Onslaught. He frowned at the intrusion. He had not sought company after the high command meeting, so why was someone brazen enough to disturb him without his permission?
"My visiting hours have passed," Onslaught growled, "seek an appointment through Soundwave if you wish to speak to me."
There was no response from the other side of his office door. Not even the satisfying click of pedes walking away. No. The only response was another tap to his door and that same gravelly voice calling his name.
Their insistence was grating.
Standing slowly, the missile launcher marched to the door, input the code to open it, and glared down—
At Scrapper.
The front loader's stance softened the moment Onslaught saw Scrapper's gaze land on him. His visor sparked rose pink with delight and relief, before Scrapper stepped forward and brushed his digits against Onslaught's servo.
Onslaught flushed.
"Scrapper."
Keep it professional.
Others could see.
Ruffling his plating, Onslaught moved aside and gestured for Scrapper to enter. "Come inside."
"Thank you," Scrapper said. He inclined his helm and walked around Onslaught, where he settled himself on Onslaught's desk with ease.
The front loader looked entirely at home where he sat on Onslaught's desk, rifling through his paperwork with a small "hmm" or "I see" as the leader of the Combaticons returned to his desk. Onslaught could not tear his gaze away from Scrapper even as he pulled out his chair, sat down, and returned to his paperwork.
Or tried.
The feat of continuing his paperwork was nigh impossible with the way his servo brushed against Scrapper's thigh every time he went to grab a piece of paperwork from Scrapper. The way Scrapper's warmth, from that large engine of his, wafted to him, making the tension in the missile truck's shoulders slump. He was grateful for Scrapper's presence, even if the front loader was making it impossible for him to work.
After a few minutes, Onslaught finally sighed and looked up at Scrapper. He saw affection in the soft smile on Scrapper's scarred faceplate. Felt a shock of love pulse across the short distance between them as Scrapper hopped off his desk.
Slowly, though with powerful strides, Scrapper came around his desk and approached Onslaught from the side. There, Scrapper bent down on one knee plate and brushed his right servo over Onslaught's servo.
"Talk to me."
Scrapper's intent was not a command. Their relationship was never push and pull. It was, for no better descriptor in Onslaught's mind, softer. Less expecting. Not that Onslaught thought Scrapper capable of demanding anything from him. That modesty Onslaught found so captivating kept Scrapper's desires and dreams at bay. Part of Onslaught loathed the idea that his partner could want more of him but would never ask. Onslaught had long resigned himself to the fact that if Scrapper asked for all of Earth to kneel to him, Onslaught would be the one heading the takeover.
After all, how could he ever repay Scrapper for his friendship and care?
The front loader would be at his side at the slightest hint of Onslaught's temper slipping, ready to offer a listening audial receptor, or corrected battle plans, or even — only ever in private — intimately gentle touch to his plating. Scrapper would step in and curry Megatron's favor for him to soothe the warlord's typical rage around Onslaught. Scrapper would let Onslaught rant. Would spar with him when the thought of sparring with one of his own team left Onslaught feeling alienated and aloof.
Scrapper gave him everything.
What did Onslaught give him?
A gentle touch to his side pulled him out of his thoughts and back down to where Scrapper was still kneeled, right servo on Onslaught's arm, gaze imploring as he looked up at Onslaught.
"Talk to me. You are not usually this distant after a meeting." Scrapper gently poked at Onslaught's bicep plating, his thumb moving to rub calming circles into the missile truck's plating.
"Megatron's demands continue to increase. The workload he expects of me is almost impossible for me to fulfill with the demands of my team also included." Embarrassment clouded his vision and strained his vocalizer at the admission.
Never admit weakness. Show no vulnerabilities.
The philosophy had been beaten into Onslaught repeatedly at Fort Syck when he was younger. Could feel the crack of his shoulder as Stricture stomped down on his arm, their furious shouts reprimanding him for his failure, no matter how small it was. The culture of Fort Syck resided in the core of his spark. The Onslaught before Fort Syck was a memory even he lacked.
Only in his deepest recharge did he sometimes remember the faces of people he believed were his guardians. Could feel the ghost of their touch as they wished him good luck. Sometimes, Onslaught wondered what his guardians really were like. Or if they'd ever chosen a side in the war.
Not that it mattered.
The likelihood of either of them surviving, or of ever recognizing Onslaught was infinitesimal. They were part of the past, and Onslaught refused to dwell on the past.
"Ons?"
The light brush of digits underneath his chin made Onslaught's spark skip just as quickly as it drew him out of his thoughts and to where Scrapper was looking into his visor, standing at his full height.
The front loader's visor flickered with warm fire before he let go of Onslaught's chin and sat down on his desk, directly in front of Onslaught.
There, Scrapper tilted his helm at Onslaught, then nudged him with a pede against Onslaught's leg. "What did he specifically demand from you?"
Onslaught vented. Scrapper would insist that he talk until he did. The front loader was remarkably bull headed when he felt like it. So, with a deep inhale of air through his vents, Onslaught shook his helm, scowled and bit out an answer.
"He has asked me to train with Motormaster, to sharpen his skills in combat and as a leader."
Onslaught expected sympathy, or an agreement that Megatron's new assignment for him was ridiculous and did not fit Onslaught's rank or experience, from Scrapper. Every Decepticon had negative opinions on the violent, irritable Motormaster, after all. The Constructicons often dealt with the bullying nature of Motormaster throwing his weight around against the much older gestalt, most often in the medical bay and with the snobby Hook.
Of course Scrapper would—
Scrapper's optics widened behind his visor comically, the surprise and shock in his gaze turning his red visor almost dark ochre red. Then Scrapper reached out and grabbed Onslaught's servo. It was that touch which made Onslaught's train of thought perish instantly. He could feel excitement burning beneath Scrapper's plating, heard it in the thunder of his engine as Scrapper looked down at him.
"You agreed, didn't you?" Scrapper's voice held a hint of pleading behind his heavy, gravelly snarl. It left frissons against Onslaught's plating as he looked away, crossed his arms and gave a low, deep growl to Scrapper.
"I would never work with that pathetic excuse of a commander!" Onslaught snapped. He could smell smoke, rich with burned energon and the stench of old oil, wafting around him and realized that the smoke was coming from him. His cannons were belching smoke. They only ever did so when he was furious enough to lose control of his emotions.
How utterly ridiculous.
How could Onslaught allow himself to be so bothered by Motormaster? The Stunticon commander was little more than an irritant to him. This was—
Onslaught ground his denta together as he took a deep inhale of air through his vents, stilled and then looked up at Scrapper. "He is loyal to Megatron. I am certain Megatron is hoping Motormaster will spy on me and report back to him about any hint of disloyalty I may have to him. He cannot learn of…"
The missile truck trailed off, becoming aware that he'd touched the side of his helm briefly as he spoke.
Scrapper's servo moved to cradle Onslaught's helm as the front loader kneeled down and sat down on Onslaught's lap, where Scrapper pressed a brief kiss to Onslaught's forehead, the static brush of his faceguard against the plating of Onslaught's helm making Onslaught's spark race. "You are afraid Megatron will discover that the loyalty coding is gone if you work with Motormaster."
Onslaught nodded, the urge to cross his arms over his chest stopped when Scrapper pressed another kiss to his helm, this time to the side near Onslaught's servo, then leaned back so they could meet the other's gaze.
"Refusing will alert Megatron to our transgressions much more than agreeing will," Scrapper said, his words slow and purposeful as he began to stroke Onslaught's faceguard gently. "Motormaster is young and impressionable. He will not notice anything but what he sees directly before him. If all he sees is the strict training you give him, he will want to better himself so he can best you. That goal will blind him to anything else around him. Motormaster is smart, but he does not know enough to deduce our secrets."
Disbelief and doubt huffed from Onslaught as he turned his helm away from Scrapper's touch. He felt his unoccupied servo move to stroke Scrapper's thigh as he mulled over Scrapper's words.
Motormaster was angry, quick to lash out and throw a tantrum when anything did not go his way. He was dangerous for his lack of experience. Motormaster did anything Megatron commanded of him, but listened to no one else.
Onslaught snorted at the thought. "Do you think he will be capable of listening long enough to eschew his ego?" He asked, engine cooling the more he felt Scrapper's servos glide over his frame and the more he mulled over Megatron's demand.
Scrapper shrugged, then moved a servo to tilt Onslaught's chin up so he was once again looking at Scrapper. "Once he gets an idea into his processor, he's reluctant to let it go. Even if it means encouraging his desire to be better than you, I believe it could work."
Onslaught sighed, then leaned his forehead against Scrapper's chest plate. "You are biased."
Silence met his response for a moment before he heard Scrapper laugh. "I have made my desire to adopt the Stunticons as my mentees abundantly clear. Of course I am biased, but I also believe this would be good for you."
"How?" Onslaught huffed.
Scrapper's field gave off the smile hidden behind his faceguard as he leaned in, stroked Onslaught's helm and whispered, softly, "You're brilliant, my dear, you will figure it out."
Onslaught rolled his optics behind his visor, but felt his cheekplates burn behind his faceguard as Scrapper continued to look down at him. Scrapper was so endearing when he got excited over the young Stunticons. The way his bucket twitched and the warmth of his voice made Onslaught want to see Scrapper this way always.
Happy.
Excited.
If training Motormaster would make Scrapper happy…
"…Perhaps … I was too quick to judge … I'll give it some more consideration," Onslaught finished, a low grumble ending his words as he felt a flash of joy from Scrapper's field.
Joy that resulted in the front loader nuzzling him with his faceguard and purring loudly, all while Onslaught could do nothing but gently touch Scrapper back.
His paperwork would have to wait. It was impossible to do anything when Scrapper wanted his focus. Not that Onslaught was complaining.
"I have to train with you, why?" Motormaster whined, fists clenched and the smoke stacks on his legs billowing large gouts of black smoke as he glowered up at Onslaught, his datapad forgotten upon Onslaught's approach.
He'd been fueling from human petrol stations again.
The idiot.
"Lord Megatron commands it," Onslaught replied, not for the first time.
He had retreated to his notes after his discussion with Scrapper a few days ago about his new assignment from Megatron, to best formulate how to approach the incorrigible semi truck without Motormaster blowing up, as he was so wont to do. He'd confirmed with Megatron his acceptance of Megatron's command to train the semi, but with the caveat that Onslaught train Motormaster unimpeded. Somehow, Megatron had agreed and almost giddily so.
Onslaught had never been more convinced of this command being a trap to root out any duplicity from Onslaught then at that moment. But even he, and his vast pride, knew that Scrapper was right. Obeying Megatron was the safest choice.
"No." There was Motormaster's petulance, his arms crossed over his chest as he scowled and glared at Onslaught. "I don't have a free schedule to waste listening to you prattle on like the old fool you are."
That grating voice and behavior had Onslaught pinch at his visor before he pointed to the datapad Motormaster was looking at. "Review the schedule again. Megatron has cleared your schedule from regular duties so you may train alongside me. The only task he requires of you is to learn from me."
Motormaster opened his mouth, curled up at the edges as it was in a sneer, another protest building in his vocalizer. One Onslaught would not allow again.
The semi's petulance needed to be stopped, before he got a full helm of steam under him.
"Do you deny your master's command?" Onslaught growled, the word master tasting like acid on his glossa.
He could almost feel Megatron's pede on his neck, pressing down upon him as the warlord hacked into his processor to bury the loyalty coding into him. It made him shudder to recall, now that his memories were no longer clouded by the loyalty coding.
Megatron would never be Onslaught's master again.
He would never allow himself to be controlled by anyone but himself, ever again.
A moody grumble escaped Motormaster, who was now glowering at his datapad, arms crossed over his chest while steam burst from his vents and exhaust billowed out of his smoke stacks. It was the scowling pout on his faceplate that made Onslaught know the semi had been cornered.
"If that is Megatron's command, then that is what I will do," Motormaster spat out, anger a blister in his words.
This was going to be utterly pointless.
"Finish fueling," Onslaught commanded, "then meet me at the west wing's training area."
Motormaster grumbled, a noncommittal sound that made Onslaught's processor ache.
Why had he allowed Scrapper to coerce him into this?
Motormaster hit the floor, hard, with a loud clang of metal striking metal.
Onslaught frowned behind his faceguard and shook his helm as he relaxed his stance and straightened his frame from flinging Motormaster away from him. "Disappointing. Try again."
With a snarl, Motormaster jerked to his pedes and charged Onslaught.
The missile truck turned to the side as Motormaster lunged at him, grabbed the semi's outstretched arm and then, once again, turned his frame, dislodged Motormaster from the floor and flung him away from himself.
Motormaster hit the ground, but didn't get up this time, not as he had the fourteen other times Onslaught had disengaged him from his charge and thrown him. This time, Motormaster sat up and glared at Onslaught angrily. "What are you trying to teach me, that you're strong? I know that — everyone knows that! This is pointless!"
Then, with a snarl, Motormaster leapt to his pedes and stormed out of the training room.
Onslaught watched him go, his expression hidden by his faceguard but for the wisp of steam from his cannons indicative of his anger.
It was pointless.
Motormaster would never learn.
"Again!" Onslaught snarled as Motormaster hit the ground. "You are not even trying, Motormaster. Get up, and try again."
Motormaster's purple optics flared. He stood up, dusted himself off, then lunged for Onslaught.
It was the same song and dance every time.
Motormaster lunged at Onslaught without thought or strategy. He only knew brute force in combat and with his team. The K100's aggression was seething, boiling beneath his plating as if his energon coolant system was broken. Every time he failed, Motormaster lashed out. Every time Onslaught reprimanded him, Motormaster lashed out with his fists or his voice.
With poise and calm, Onslaught dispatched of Motormaster using his momentum and force, throwing him away from himself with a tired sigh. "You need to stop charging without thought," Onslaught reprimanded as he watched Motormaster scramble to his pedes once again, "think before you attack. You leave yourself open when you rely on your brute strength over wits."
The semi growled, rage surging in his gaze—
And he charged Onslaught again.
This time, Onslaught struck Motormaster in the face, his fist striking the semi's purple faceplate with such suddenness that the K100's helm jerked sideways, pedes slipping before he crashed to the ground with a loud thud.
"You are not worthy of the title of commander," Onslaught snarled down at the semi. "You are not worthy of a team, or of your brothers."
It was disappointing seeing their training sessions end at the same point every day. Onslaught had hoped that he would see some improvement from Motormaster, but every day ended with Motormaster storming out of the training room in a huff. They started the next day from the same point, as if Motormaster could glean nothing from his constant losses to the experienced missile truck.
"I don't have to listen to you," Motormaster spat as he slowly, weakly, gathered himself to his knee, wiping at the energon seeping from his mouth and nose as he glared at Onslaught, "Starscream made you from rotting carcasses. You are decrepit, old man."
Onslaught blinked down at Motormaster, unamused, then gestured for him to stand. "Megatron has ordered you to listen to me. Take your complaints to him if this is too much for you."
Something flickered in Motormaster's optics at that. An emotion Onslaught himself could not register, nor was it one he had seen in the K100 before during their weeks of lessons. The semi hesitated, optics darting as he studied Onslaught's stance, then slowly loosened his frame, jerked his helm towards Onslaught and muttered, "Show me."
A knock on Onslaught's office door pulled his helm up from his paperwork. He pushed the datapad away and said a quiet admittance to the other. A moment later, Scrapper appeared at his side, his faceguard nuzzling his helm softly as he stroked a servo down his back.
His touch scorched down Onslaught's backstrut but the burn was pleasant. Distracting and yet calming.
A moan escaped Onslaught as he leaned into Scrapper's servo, vents billowing pent up steam even as he heard Scrapper pick up his datapad and hum a curious tune.
"He's finally started listening?"
"Surprisingly," Onslaught muttered. "Though it took suggesting he complain to Megatron about his failures to convince him to listen."
Scrapper let out a sound that Onslaught thought was disappointment before he returned the datapad to Onslaught's desk then nuzzled against Onslaught's helm. Onslaught reset his vocalizer, turned his helm into Scrapper's and then reached up with a servo to hold onto the front loader's helm.
Onslaught slammed Motormaster to the ground, servos locked around Motormaster's neck plating with crushing force. Motormaster squirmed, kicking at Onslaught's legs to no avail. His servos ground at the floor, struggling to find purchase against the missile truck's arms.
Only when the semi stopped struggling and his vents let out loud, strained noises did Onslaught release him. Motormaster flinched as Onslaught retracted his servos from his throat plating, a flash of fear darkening his optics.
Something about the way Motormaster looked at him set Onslaught's tanks to roil.
He looked away from Motormaster as the semi slowly got to his pedes, and let out a low, exhausted, "We're done for the day. Go."
The semi hesitated, but then left, his field abuzz with confusion.
Onslaught waited until the Stunticon was long out of sight before he looked down at his servos, running the flash of fear in Motormaster's optics over and over again in his mind. Defiance. Anger. Hatred. All of those emotions were normal for Motormaster, but fear?
Megatron's servos ripped into his chest plate, tearing him open as Onslaught watched. He could do nothing but watch as Megatron reached for his spark, a wide grin beaming down at Onslaught. "Your arrogance will be your team's downfall, Onslaught."
Then he felt an indescribable, unimaginable pain blister up through core, from his spark as Megatron ripped—
Onslaught staggered backwards as his mind threw him out of those memories, his right servo clutching desperately at his chest.
He couldn't allow his team, or himself, to go through that again.
He'd train Motormaster and then he had to find a way to keep Megatron unaware. To keep his team safe.
Onslaught blocked Motormaster's punch, his engine revving hard as the Stunticon launched another punch from his left servo, only for Onslaught to block that one as well. But Motormaster did not freeze up, quit or snarl at him, he simply leapt back and readjusted.
The two trucks prowled around each other, Motormaster's loud engine rumbling a challenge to Onslaught. He was still hot tempered and rash, but he did not rush Onslaught immediately as he had earlier on. Sometimes the semi even seemed to think before charging Onslaught in a mindless rush.
With a growl, Motormaster charged Onslaught. It was his optics that gave his plan away. As the semi suddenly jerked to the side and swung for Onslaught, the missile truck grabbed him by his throat, yanked Motormaster off his pedes and slammed him to the ground.
Motormaster thrashed as Onslaught bore all his weight onto him, one servo wrapped around Motormaster's throat plating while he slammed Motormaster's right servo down with his other. The semi struggled, thrashing and clawing, before he suddenly let out a roar and slammed his helm into Onslaught's.
A burst of air escaped Onslaught as he reeled back with a starburst of static covering his vision momentarily. The sound of pistons moving and Motormaster's engine revving up had him throw up a blind block, just in time to protect his faceplate from the semi's punch. A flurry of strikes followed, some of which were able to hit Onslaught as he blocked and dodged and ducked from Motormaster's attacks.
He saw Motormaster reel back for another punch, exposing himself for a fraction too long.
With ease and swiftness, Onslaught swiped a leg down, sweeping Motormaster off his pedes. "Better," Onslaught said as he offered Motormaster a servo up.
The semi took his servo and stood, but he stared at Onslaught with a strange, bewildered look that had Motormaster entirely frozen. He seemed on the verge of saying something before the semi shook his helm and resumed their sparring.
Warmth rumbled from Scrapper at his side, pressed close to Onslaught on his berth. The front loader had followed him home to the Combaticons' quarters after Megatron had dismissed high command from yet another pointless meeting. Onslaught adjusted onto his side on his berth, where he gently ran his palm along Scrapper's side, gaze traveling slowly along his partner's frame as he did.
The rugged, armored plating was scratched and scarred, worn down by age and work. He looked peaceful in a way that had Onslaught's spark aching.
How could Scrapper be so calm in the Victory?
With Megatron snapping at his heels, ready for Onslaught to screw up. Ready for Onslaught to slip up and to have Motormaster report his disloyalty to the Decepticon warlord. That flinch and fear he'd seen in Motormaster had kept his thoughts occupied far more than he cared to admit, even to himself, for Onslaught had seen that very fear in his own team. He'd experienced it himself whenever Megatron twitched his fusion cannon in Onslaught's direction.
"Ons?" A bleary, tired whisper of his name alerted him to Scrapper looking up at him, visor flickering with static. The front loader turned enough to touch Onslaught's shoulder, then his faceguard as he met his gaze worriedly.
Onslaught looked away from Scrapper, a low, vented breath escaping him before he leaned close, nuzzled Scrapper with his faceguard and said, in a low whisper, "Nothing for you to worry about. Recharge. You need it."
Scrapper looked at him doubtfully but he did not argue. He nuzzled Onslaught in return, then returned to recharge.
Which allowed Onslaught's thoughts to circle over and over again.
About Motormaster.
About the Detention Center.
Of Megatron striking Onslaught as the missile truck could do nothing but allow it, frozen under the command of the loyalty coding.
He couldn't keep following Megatron.
But leaving the Victory would mean leaving Scrapper…
Conflicted, Onslaught buried his faceplate into Scrapper's side and held onto him, not wishing to let him go.
"Soundwave tells me that Motormaster's marksmanship has improved," Megatron droned on as he continued to pace in front of Onslaught in the warlord's throne room, "which I see your reports corroborate."
"Yes, sir," Onslaught said, gaze tracking the warlord warily.
Megatron nodded, then slowed and stopped in front of Onslaught, where he laid a servo on Onslaught's shoulder and smiled at him. "What are you going to work on with him next?"
"Swordsmanship," Onslaught answered, tone curbed even as he looked straight forward, trying his best to ignore Megatron's servo on him. "He is clumsy and undisciplined with his ionizer sword."
Megatron hummed, then released his hold on Onslaught as he nodded to him. "Perhaps you could ask Hook to help him train, I know our medic is quite skilled with fencing… See that you do. I wish for him to return to his active duties soon."
Onslaught dipped his helm to Megatron respectfully, bit his glossa and said, calmly, "I will see to it."
"Good. You are dismissed," Megatron said with a wave, "continue with your prompt reports on his progress."
Onslaught bowed his helm a second time, turned and left Megatron's throne room, a deep, unsettled buzz churning through him. Did Megatron have an inkling of a suspicion about Onslaught's deeply troubled state of mind? He had Soundwave spying on him (not that Onslaught had not suspected as such) and was always keen on updates about Motormaster. If Megatron learned what Hook had done, Megatron wouldn't simply stop at punishing Onslaught or the crane… he'd hurt everyone connected to Onslaught and Hook alike.
He'd hurt Scrapper, and Onslaught could not stomach the thought of his partner and friend being hurt because of him.
"Onslaught?"
Motormaster's voice broke through the missile truck's thoughts sharply. He blinked and looked at the semi, who was standing, braced with his ionizer sword held in both servos, a quizzical confused look on his purple faceplate. He lowered his sword, moving it to one servo, then Motormaster gestured to his own helm and shrugged."You just stopped talking. I did the stance you asked, but…" Motormaster frowned, another unreadable look flashing across his faceplate before he steeled himself and drew himself taut. Just like how Onslaught always did.
It wasn't Megatron's body language Motormaster was beginning to mimic, but his.
It scared him.
Motormaster was a mission assigned to him by Megatron.
He was meant to train the semi, not to make him emulate Onslaught.
But Motormaster was. He'd seen the way Motormaster was quieter with the other Stunticons, more slow to react and even seemed to defend them more clearly from the insults and taunts of other Decepticons. He was exhibiting discipline and, for no better word Onslaught could find, tact.
Motormaster had stopped interrupting during meetings, or throwing fits when his ideas were ignored. Yes, he still simmered and boiled openly over being ignored, but Motormaster curbed his glossa and did not speak out of turn.
To impress Megatron, Onslaught reasoned.
Only to impress Megatron, for he had seen the way Motormaster's faceplate lit up whenever Megatron would turn to him in meetings to ask the semi for his thoughts on their next plan of attack. But Onslaught also saw the way Motormaster would look at him first before answering, a brief, unsure look that felt so foreign to the scowl so often plastered onto Motormaster's faceplate.
When had the semi started to see Onslaught not as his opponent, his enemy, the one who judged him constantly, but as someone to emulate and look to for advice? And what would Megatron do to Motormaster if Motormaster decided to emulate Onslaught's defiance?
Onslaught shook himself, scattering his thoughts. "Show me the stance."
"Yes, Onslaught," Motormaster said, tone low and unsure as he took his ionizer sword in both servos, braced his legs and readied himself, the point of his ionizer sword aimed at Onslaught's chestplate.
Onslaught took a deep breath, steadied his focus and ordered Motormaster to attack.
He would need to talk to Scrapper about everything bothering him. The front loader was always good at helping Onslaught work through his thoughts and feelings. Of which he had many…