Jealous Dead End

Warning: implied slash. This is a follow-on from Rebecca Hb.'s "Jealous Breakdown", which is a follow-on from my story, "Get Well Soon"...

---

Breakdown's angry, jealous words burned with the cold dark acid of despair. Pursue? What was the point? Breakdown would still hate him for his impromptu dalliance with the dead, and even if he did not, even if Dead End found the right words to say, it would all fall apart the next time they formed Menasor. The gestalt bond shared too much.

Dead End could not conceal the dark truth that he still desired the Air Commander, still longed to feel that ghostly touch along his power conduits. More than that, he longed to turn the tables and bend Starscream to his will. Dead End wanted to pin the quicksilver jet down and make him writhe and scream in passion.

Not that there was any way he could possibly make that happen, given Starscream's distinct lack of a physical body, but Dead End still desired it--and Menasor would betray his treacherous desire to Breakdown. Not that it really mattered; when Galvatron found out about Dead End's involvement with Starscream, Breakdown's feelings would quickly cease to concern Dead End. At least being finished off with a fusion cannon didn't hurt nearly as much as surviving it.

His engine raced irregularly, revving up and then half-stalling with a sudden lurch as despair and anger chased each other in a bitter circle. Dead End leaned against a wall, suddenly weary of the stupidity of it all. Screw it, screw them, screw the universe. He desired whom he desired, and if it killed him, so what else was new? There was no getting out of life alive. Did it really matter whether the end came from Galvatron's cannon, Autobot guns or rust?

The maroon Porsche drew back his fist and slammed it into the wall. Who in the Pit did Breakdown think he was, sitting in judgment of his desires? Pursue him? Yes, he'd pursue him--drive his tires flat, if need be, and then--

Dead End's engine settled down, thrumming steadily. Now, where would the paranoid Lamborghini be? Dead End checked the cream and blue Stunticon's quarters first--no one home. Nor was he in the break room, or the maintenance garage. Dead End double-checked the duty roster--as he thought, Breakdown was off duty. So--elsewhere on base? Dead End drummed his fingers against the roster. Not that likely; Breakdown hated being looked at by Cons he didn't know well. He didn't much like being stared at by Cons he did know well, but he tolerated it enough to function.

A black mark drew his attention--someone had crossed himself off the duty roster, and recently--there had been a name there last time Dead End checked. Optics brightened as he focused on the half-obliterated name: Motormaster.

His rebellious feet dragged him down the long, dark corridor that led past storerooms and tool rooms to the garage Motormaster had claimed as his quarters. Dead End leaned against the wall and stared at the closed door.

Engines suddenly revved in a cacophonous snarl; the discordant, gear-shattering vibrations of Breakdown's motor weaving in and out of the thunderous roar of Motormaster's engines. Hammer-blows of metal against metal; Breakdown's cries of pain, Motormaster's impassioned growls. The door vibrated, hinges beginning to work loose from Breakdown's destructive engine howl. Dead End fled.

In the break room, Dead End found a bored Wildrider unbolting all the tables from the floor preparatory to doing who knew what. The maroon Porsche grabbed the hyperactive Stunticon and shoved him up against the wall.

Wildrider's optics brightened in surprise. "Wha--?"

"You're off duty tonight, so am I. You're bored, I'm angry and I want some pointless, violent sex. Your room or mine?" Dead End dug his fingers into the black and red mech's door joint, brutally squeezing the hinge.

"Who needs a room?" said Wildrider, laughing.

-- FIN --