Finding trouble on a planet that the entire galaxy considered ‘peaceful’ and ‘open to tourism’ was quite possibly Rodimus’ standard modus operandi.
Getaway tried not to hate him too much for it. Key word: tried.
However, when trouble inevitably found Rodimus and the small crew he’d allowed to accompany him on this trip, they’d found that fleeing was the better course of action. Apparently “massive metal-eating monster” was not enough to disqualify a planet from being considered peaceful.
Or maybe that was in spite of the monster. After all, no one really liked Cybertronians anymore. And who could blame them.
Getaway, in a stroke of genius, had decided whichever way Rodimus ran was not the direction he wanted to go. For surely Rodimus would only find the greater trouble, and Getaway’s plan was to avoid further potential death.
Rodimus and his merry band of idiots fled to the right, toward an open plain with nowhere to run or hide.
Getaway ducked into a nearby copse of forest, figuring he could hide among the towering trees and thick leaves until the metal-hungry beast got bored and wandered away. And/or, it would get stuck in the thick vegetation, leaving Getaway free to meander back to the Lost Light without so much as a scratch.
That was the plan anyway.
It worked to a certain extent. The metal-hungry beast and its rows upon rows of sharp teeth rumbled along after Rodimus and his half-dozen closest friends. Getaway was left to his own devices, crouched amid a swirling tangle of thick, leafy vines that seemed to run in all directions across the forest floor. They were a very pale, almost sickly green color, come to think of it.
Proud of himself, Getaway stood up, brushed off his armor, and prepared to make a slow, meandering path back toward the Lost Light. He could take his time, browse the sights even, without Rodimus around to invite trouble.
That was when something slithered around his right ankle strut. He paused, thinking he’d stepped into a coil of the vines, and looked down.
The something tightened like a noose and jerked him upright, completely off his feet and straight into the air. Getaway shouted and flailed as he was hoisted from the ground, dangling headfirst above the forest floor.
What the frag?
He twisted his frame to see that a rather thick vine had wrapped around his ankle strut. It was somehow strong enough to hold his weight alone. Getaway kicked at it.
“Let me go!” he seethed. The vine shuddered.
No. Not just the vine. Everything around him rustled. Leaves rained down in loud flutters. There was a scraping, rustling noise.
Getaway braced himself just as several more vines shot out of the morass, instantly encircling his other ankle, his wrists, his knees and his shoulders. They coiled around him, tight against his armor, and pulled his limbs out far and taut.
He tugged. He yanked. He thrashed and writhed, but the vines might as well have been made from titanium for all that they did not budge. They were the same shade of sickly green, and studded along the length with tiny, raised bumps, but they did not have leaves.
He should’ve grabbed his blaster when he had the chance. Prowl was going to give him a lecture for days. If he lived through this.
He tried to activate the hidden laser cutters in his wrists. No dice. The vines were wrapped around him far too tightly. The spring-loaded mechanisms couldn’t activate.
Getaway activated his comm. Nothing. Static. No one within range. So no immediate help. All he could do was activate his distress beacon and wait for the Lost Light to pick it up. Surely he could survive until then.
Something touched his abdomen.
Getaway’s gaze snapped upward. Another vine had emerged, this one lime green and bulbous at the tip. It pressed the squishy end of itself against a long drip of energon seeping out from beneath his substructure. Ah. He’d taken a pretty hard hit. Ruptured a few non-vital lines. He hadn’t been worried about it. Self-repair would get it really quick.
But the vine was interested in it. If Getaway had to guess, he’d almost say the vine was tasting it. Everywhere the bulbous tip touched, the energon disappeared, and the vine gave a shudder, leaves wrestling.
Another vine appeared, this one so dark green it was nearly black. It slithered over his frame, poking into every nook and cranny. It tried to squirm into armor seams, and poked into an exhaust pipe, as if exploring. As if looking for something.
Something it found.
The dark vine prodded at Getaway’s sealed interface array. Then it started to buzz. Loudly and quickly, sending vibrations over Getaway’s frame. The other vines around it rustled as if in excitement. There was a low groaning from somewhere deep in the shade.
Primus. Getaway had heard stories about things like this. Mostly from deeply hidden porn-vids or terrible smut datapads. He didn’t think stuff like this was real.
But given the way the vine was poking, poking, poking at his array, obviously it was. Frag it all to the Pit.
He had a choice now. He could wait and see if the vine could possibly bash through his panel, thereby denting it and requiring replacement. Or he could cut his losses and open his panel now.
The bulbous vine ground against his panel, pressing with more and more pressure. Not enough to cause warnings to crop up on his HUD, but enough that he was aware of it.
Another vine appeared in front of his head. He cycled his optics as he stared at it. This one was narrower than the rest, though the same pale yellow. It didn’t have any leaves on it either. The tip of it twitched in front of him and then moved closer.
Getaway leaned back. The vine followed him. It brushed over his cheeks, his forehead, his audials, and his facemask. It paused at his mouthguard and explored the seams, the edges, the tiny needle-like tip of it wriggling beneath the seam. There was intent in the exploration. Determination, too.
All of those old porno-vids and datapads came flooding back. Hah. Joke’s on the vine. Getaway’s mouthguard didn’t retract. It was built into his face.
Which, apparently, was not an insurmountable problem. Panic strobed into his spark as the vine wriggled and writhed its way under the lip of the mouthplate and into his seam, until it found the connector bolts. It circled the bolts, giving them a tap, and then twitched.
Three more vines appeared, slipping up and into Getaway’s mouthguard, finding the other three connector bolts. Oh, Primus. This was going to hurt.
He braced himself as they coiled around the bolts. They coiled tighter and tighter until, with a screech of metal and a pop, his mouthguard was torn from his face. Pain lanced through his lines and Getaway twitched in the grasp of the vines, gasping for a steady ventilation.
Well, they weren’t to be deterred. And stronger than they looked.
Still reeling, Getaway sent the command to retract his array panel. He didn’t want to lose it, too. He didn’t even know where his mouthguard had gone. It was drawn down toward the nest of vines beneath him, where it vanished somewhere in the dark.
Air wisped across his intake port. His now bare components felt cold and exposed. Vulnerable. This was not a position Getaway often found himself in. He didn’t like it.
He cast his gaze back up the length of his body, intakes hitching as the vine exploring his array found his valve and immediately rubbed against it. Slick, but firm, it ground over his rim and his exterior nodes, sending little jolts of pleasure through his array. Heat started to pulse there, and Getaway shivered.
This, at least, was expected. At least he’d get some pleasure out of the indignity. He only hoped pain wouldn’t follow.
That was when another vine, much thicker than the one before it and a pale blue-green, slithered in front of his face. It was easily the same width as the one exploring his valve, and it wriggled straight toward his intake. It seemed to glisten as though it was covered in slime or something, and the tip of it looked almost like a nozzle.
The vine did not hesitate. It pushed the tip into his intake port and slithered further down. His pressure sensors registered the weight of it, the heat of it, and the sour-sweet taste of whatever fluid coated it. Some kind of lubrication, which enabled it to slide into his mouth and down his intake.
Getaway’s purging reflexes tried to engage, but he shut them down. He doubted it would do any good with the vine shoved in his mouth.
That was when it started to pump. In and out, very slowly, and something squirted from the tip. It trickled down his intake, thick and viscous, seeping toward his tank. Internal scanners pinged back a positive identification.
The vine was feeding him energon. How the frag could it be feeding him energon? And such pure energon at that! It slithered into his tank and peppered him with energy, even as more of the lubricating slime coated his mouth, his glossa, and trickled down his intake. This was identified as organic, but no other information was available.
Was it starting to get hot in here?
Getaway checked his internal temperature readout. Thirty percent higher than standard. Double frag.
He grunted as the vine exploring his valve abruptly slithered into him, coated in the same gooey substance as the one in his intake. It pushed forward steadily, wriggling past his calipers, and every node it touched sent a fiery blaze of pleasure through his valve. His lines tingled.
The vines beneath him rustled.
Getaway looked down. Tension rippled through his frame, combating mildly with the pleasure the vines stirred within him.
More pale yellow vines shot out of the tangled morass. More than he could count. They surged toward his frame, wrapping around him, slithering over his armor. He made a muffled sound as they poked and prodded into every nook and cranny. As one nudged at his spike and wrapped around it. As another discovered his secondary port and invited itself inside, with pushing and wriggling and more of that slick goop.
Getaway groaned around the vine in his mouth. He tried to force it out with his glossa, but the damn thing was as firm as titanium, for all that it seemed organic in nature.
More heat peppered his frame, surging through his lines. Static crawled out from beneath his armor. The vine in his valve thrust further, the bulbous head of it grinding against his ceiling node and the port to his gestational tank.
It felt… well, it felt good, if he were being perfectly honest.
Getaway tried to relax, if only to try and prevent damage. Right now, his escape plan was a single word: survive. And his best chance of that was to not struggle and make the plant-creature-monster thing angry.
He had the feeling it could rip him into pieces with the barest amount of effort. Not good.
He moaned as another vine shoved into his valve, stretching him wide. His calipers clicked, spasming as they were forced open. His nodes spat charge that the vines couldn’t return, and all it did was cycle back. Like he were self-servicing with a false spike.
Tingles raced up his backstrut. His hips rocked, his frame shivering. Pleasure built and built inside of him, his nodes blazing with heat. His array was an inferno.
And he was full. So full. His tank read at ninety percent capacity now, and still the vine steadily pumped a slow trickle of energon into it. It rested in his mouth, seeping that odd fluid, until Getaway started to feel dizzy. His ventilations increased, cooling fans kicking on with a telling whirr.
The two vines in his valve pressed against the walls. They stopped thrusting and started shoving, pushing his calipers open and open, leaving space in the middle. But for what?
Getaway’s optics flickered. He worked his intake.
The nest of vines beneath him shuddered. They slithered aside, leaving room for a very thick, ridged vine to emerge. The end was bulbous, nearly twice the size of its circumference, and the tip of it had a star pattern as though it split open.
Getaway’s legs were pulled further open, to the limit of his flexibility. The vines in his valve quivered, seeping more and more of that goo. His ventilations stuttered, the heat in his frame quickly becoming an inferno, one that blazed higher as a smaller vine encircled his anterior node cluster and started rhythmically palpating it.
He moaned around the vine in his mouth as the large vine headed directly for his valve and started to force its way inside. His calipers screeched a protest, his valve screamed capacity warnings at him, and his nodes flickered with a mix of pain-pleasure.
Getaway could track every inch as the thick vine shoved into him, as it raked over every node, every caliper, sending a ripple of pleasure through his array. It should have hurt, and it did, but more than that, it was a blinding ecstasy.
Getaway trembled. He thrashed in what little wriggle room he had, and when the massive bulb nudged against the apex of his valve, he overloaded. Charge erupted over his frame, ecstasy striking him from all directions, as the thick vine ground against ceiling node and gestational port alike.
It was enough, somehow. Getaway gasped as his frame throbbed with need. He clenched his fingers into fists as his gestational port spiraled open, allowing the massive bulb inside.
He didn’t cycle down from the overload. Instead, his calipers fluttered hungrily. They grasped at the vines as best they could. His nodes spat charge. His hips wriggled in the confines of the vine, desperate for more sensation. His spark fluttered.
Another vine joined the one stuffed into his secondary port. They thrust in and out in alternating rhythms, raking over the sensitive nodes buried deep in his aft.
Another overload quickly rose in the wake of the first, leaving him gasping. Heat flowed over and into his frame, thick and syrupy. The vines rustled around him. The thick one in his valve wriggled into his gestational tank where it spat out some kind of viscous liquid. It was thick, heavy, warm.
Damn it felt good.
Getaway moaned again, his thoughts spinning.
His tank was at one-hundred percent energon capacity. The vine in his mouth stopped pumping energon into him, but it didn’t withdraw. Instead it lingered, thrusting so slowly in and out of his mouth that he barely registered the motion. His mouth interior tingled where the lubricating goo touched him.
And the massive vine started to writhe. The two smaller ones next to it started to undulate against it, as if palpating it.
Something bulged in the thick vine.
Getaway watched it travel the length of the vine. He tracked it as it it emerged from the nest beneath him, moved up the length of the thickest vine, and continued unerringly toward his valve. More came in its wake, several bulges perfectly spaced out.
Eggs, he figured distantly. Or something.
Ovipositor, he decided. That was what the big vine was.
It was pumping eggs into his gestational tank. Great. Just great.
The first of them met his valve rim and no resistance at all, thanks to the pull of the two assisting vines. He felt them as they slid up his valve channel, as they moved past each one of his caliper rings, as they notched up against his gestational port and struggled to fit through the narrower space.
It didn’t hurt. Pain didn’t exist anymore. It was just pleasure, waves after waves of it. Unnatural, was what it was. It shouldn’t feel this good. He should be more… outraged. Disgusted.
All he felt was pleasure. He started to crave more of it. He wanted to beg for it.
What in Primus’ name was in that goo?
Getaway’s head spun dizzily. Hanging upside down was not helping. Fluids dribbled out of the corners of his mouth where the vine still lingered in his intake. The egg pushed harder at his gestational port. The ovipositor wriggled, seeped out more of the weird fluid, until the egg popped inside.
He couldn’t feel it being deposited, but his sensors reported that there was now an unknown mass in his tank. Spherical, too.
A second egg arrived, slipping easier past his gestational port rim. As did the third. They came faster now, about the size of an energon goodie, one after another.
Mass registered in gestational tank, Getaway’s HUD helpfully informed him. Initializing gestational subroutine.
Oh. Oh, no. Frag, no.
Getaway groaned as another overload stripped him of rational thought. He sagged in the vines, feeling lubricant seeping out of his valve. It dripped down his chassis, staining his armor and his aft. Transfluid joined the mess as his spike was repeatedly massaged by the fine. It never seemed to depressurize.
This wasn’t normal.
But the juttering of his chestplates was the worst. As the subroutines started to send commands to the rest of his frame, his chassis responded. The protective armor over his chest started to twitch and slide, moving aside to reveal the supplementary prototanks usually hidden beneath. Right now, they were deflated and tucked safely into his chassis.
That didn’t last long.
Getaway panted as they started to swell, as energon diverted into them, filling the rubbery sacs with processed energon and activating the sensory nubs at the elongated tips. The vine in his mouth suddenly started pumping more energon down his intake again, as though it could sense his tanks were emptying toward the protosacs.
Which, by the way, responded to gravity like everything else and hung downward, his sensor-nubs pointing toward the vines like little arrows. Little arrows the vines were suddenly very interested in examining.
Thin, narrow vines encircled the energon-filled sacs. They wound about them again and again, a loose hold, until the pointed tips prodded at the sensory nubs. The points located the feeding channel and started poking at it.
Getaway shivered. Little bursts of pleasure radiated outward from every exploratory poke. His optics flickered as the ecstasy started to build within him again, not that it ever cycled down.
More eggs filled his gestational tank. They pumped into him steadily, jostling for space, bumping against the walls of the tank, and stirring the nodes in his valve as they passed through.
The vines in his aft squeezed and rippled, and he couldn’t see it, but he felt a third one start to nudge into his secondary port. It was thicker than the others, with a bulbous tip. Another ovipositor? He didn’t know. Couldn’t see. Couldn’t tell. Even his sensors were confused and on the fritz.
More charge crawled over his armor. His engine revved. The vines squeezed his supplementary tanks, and Getaway’s backstrut arched. He garbled a gasp around the vine in his mouth, pleasure like electric fire through his lines.
Another overload sent his thoughts into a spiral. There was too much sensation. Too much movement. He couldn’t track it all. Not the vines wriggling in his valve and depositing eggs, one after another. Not the vines in his secondary port, their multiple, tiny nubs rasping against the sensitive rim. Or the one in his mouth, trickling energon steadily into a tank that was diverting half of it to his supplement sacs. Or the one around his spike, milking him for transfluid, and the one pressing against his anterior node cluster, sending lances of fiery pleasure through his array.
Getaway moaned, his frame limp and pliant, for all that it was tense with the need to overload, the yearning for more pleasure. He couldn’t stop shaking, his frame twisting in all directions, toward every different source of pleasure.
He whined. He couldn’t help it. It hurt, and it felt good, and another overload sent his vents roaring and his cooling fans spinning so fast that they ached.
He lost track then. It all blended together. Overloads and vines and the sweet pressure in his valve and port and around his sacs. Tiny vines tugged on his feeding nubs, sending jagged lines of need through his frame.
Everything at once hurt and felt good. He was hot and swollen, aching and needy. His fans spun, and his vents sputtered, and he could feel his plating expanding, plates drawing apart, protoform stretched to its max capacity. Eggs jostled for space in his gestational tank, forcing it to enlarge and shifting internal components aside.
Getaway whimpered, but it was lost to the slick sounds of countless vines in and around his frame. To the creaking of his armor and the rustling of the leaves and the weird sounds the forest seemed to make around him.
He lost count of the overloads. Updates streamed through his HUD faster than he could track them. Overcapacity warnings and gestational engagements and overheating and a blinking light in the corner – stress beacon still active. He clung to that hope.
Someone would pick it up soon.
Another overload left him wrung dry. Getaway’s vents panted as he sagged, hanging limp in the grip of the vines. His thoughts spun. His optics flickered. It took several, aching moments to realize that everything had stilled. The vines no longer pumped into him, his array wasn’t ablaze with motion, and even his over-full aft port quivered as the vines paused.
He stirred, trying to find coherency.
He looked up the length of his frame, could barely see past the mound of his swollen, enlarged sacs. But between them, he could see the swell his abdomen had become. Plating had shifted aside to make room for his very full gestational tank.
The vines were gone from his valve. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize that there was no longer anything stuffing his valve. His calipers twitched weakly, but wouldn’t draw shut. His rim was stretched wide, and every gust of air made it twitch and his anterior cluster blink. His aft port, too, had been abandoned. The rim contracted weakly, feeling hot and swollen, and yes, his sensors did register that a few eggs had been deposited in there.
When had that happened?
His gestational tank rippled. Contracted. A jolt of charge lurched over his frame.
Gestational evacuation imminent.
Well. That wasn’t good.
The vines around Getaway’s limbs abruptly tightened, to the point they stressed the metal. And then his world turned upside down, startling all of his sensors and sending his gyros into a tailspin.
He was turned upright, causing his very full supplementary tanks to flop down, bouncing over the top of his rounded abdomen. He made a muffled sound of surprise, one that got louder as the vine in his mouth abruptly slithered free.
Getaway groaned, his mouth aching, his intake fluttering. He coughed, bits of fluid and energon flecking out of his intake port.
His gestational tank rippled again. He could actually count the number of vines around his frame now. Four very large, thick ones encircled his limbs. A fifth held him about the waist, nestled just under the curve of his distended abdomen. Two more encircled his engorged sacs, tugging at the feeding nubs. An eighth one provided a steady, circular pressure to his anterior node cluster, making his hips twitch and jerk with a growing wave of pleasure.
Primus, he was sore. Everything about him was sore. Hot. Swollen. Achy. He just wanted to recharge. To lie in a berth somewhere and recharge for days.
He’d survived thus far, however, so he supposed that was a plus.
His comm chimed. “Distress signal acknowledged,” Ultra Magnus transmitted, a recorded message apparently. Reception here must be spotty. “Rodimus and his team have your position and will arrive as soon as possible.”
Getaway checked the origin timestamp.
Twenty minutes ago. Less than five minutes after he sent the original distress call. Which meant they would be here any minute.
Which was… good. And bad.
He looked down at himself. At his exposed valve and aft, his engorged supplementary tanks and his swollen abdomen. He was a hot, disgusting mess which left nothing to the imagination.
Great, just great.
His gestational tank spasmed. Getaway groaned as a lance of pain battled mightily against the heat of pleasure centered around his anterior node cluster. He felt the eggs in his tank shift, wriggling about. They pooled toward the caudal end of his tank, gravity doing its work.
More lubricant and fluids seeped out of his valve, dripping into the writhing mass of vines beneath him. The vine nudged harder at his node cluster. The thinner ones tugged on his feeding nubs. Getaway moaned an exhausted sound.
Overload hovered in the periphery, not quite ready to tip him over the edge, but reminding him of the possibility.
“Getaway! Getaway, can you hear us?”
And there was Rodimus’ voice. Of course it was Rodimus’ voice. He was loud and obnoxious and despite everyone else in his squad, Getaway could only hear him over the others tromping through the underbrush.
The vines beneath Getaway rustled, quivering. They seemed to be shrinking back, as though the noise and bustle disturbed them. They tightened their grip on his limbs and increased the pace of stroking at his nodes.
His tank rippled again. Something shifted about within him. Something else prodded at the rim of his gestational port.
Oh, Primus. Were they hatching?
Getaway groaned as something squirmed past his gestational port. It both tickled and itched as it seemed to slide and pull itself free. Gravity and slick aided the way, but teensy feelers grasped onto his calipers and climbed downward as though they were a ladder.
“His signal is coming from this direction.” Brainstorm’s voice now, sounding oddly excited. Of course he would be. He’d probably been nicking samples of the vegetation the whole way.
Getaway rebooted his optics. He tensed as something scribble-scratched through his valve. He looked down, but could see nothing past the mound of his supplementary sacs and his swollen abdomen.
Something clawed free of his valve, spiny fingers leaving scratches in his swollen rim. It fluttered to the ground, landing in the swirl of twisted vines with a tinny clatter, only to immediately vanish in the twisted coils.
They were hatching.
His gestational tank and valve started to contract in sync. He registered more tickling and scratching as handfuls of the little critters started to unfurl from their eggs and scrabble over each other to make their escape.
Getaway moaned, hanging limply in his bonds, unable to do anything as the sound of his crewmates grew closer and closer until he could make out their bright colors through the dark foliage. Little saplings or whatever the tiny monsters could be called, dripped out of his valve in little spiny bursts, but there were more than he could count still squirming about in his tank.
And then Rodimus came into view, Skids and Brainstorm just behind him. Rodimus skidded to a halt, his jaw visibly dropping, his optics wide, his spoiler jutting.
Brainstorm immediately swung some kind of scanner Getaway’s direction, which beeped and chirped a cheerful tone. His winglets wiggled with an unholy glee.
Skids’ mouth opened, jaw moving, but no sounds emerged.
“It’s… about… time,” Getaway gasped out, his vocalizer ripe with static. Frankly, he was surprised it worked at all.
His tank gurgled. Energon and whatever fluid slicked the vines intermingling within it. Before, his frame hadn’t seemed to mind. Now, his poison control protocols seemed to realize that maybe, they weren’t so acceptable after all.
“Get me down from here!” Getaway added in a narrow-band comm to every person he had a number for.
Rodimus audibly gulped. He grimaced. He raised a hand ever so slowly to his comm.
“Uh, Ratchet,” he said, both aloud and over the comm apparently. “We found Getaway. Prepare the medbay for uhhh… organic contaminants.”
Getaway twitched as another baby tree squirmed out of his valve. Pleasure rose and crested within him, the vines tugging harder at his feeding nubs and anterior cluster. He trembled as he faced another surge of charge.
A handful of vine bitlets skittered free of his valve, dripping into the nest of vines below.
No. Only one dropped. The other one started climbing up his frame, little limbs easily finding handholds in his armor and seams.
Getaway had the nauseating feeling he knew exactly where it was going, and he was right when it skittered over the mound of his supplementary sac and started pinching and prodding at the feeding nub.
“You okay there, buddy?” Skids asked.
Getaway groaned and hung his helm. No way he could answer that politely. Just… no way. He was exhausted. He hurt. He was embarrassed. He felt wrung out and stripped bare and vulnerable.
It was a nightmare that not even repeated overloads could ease.
He just wanted to go home.
“Just get me down,” he grated out, only to grunt as another couple vine-lets clawed free of his valve. They plopped to the ground, in front of the whole rescue party.
Primus be damned.
Getaway shuttered his optics. And furiously wished they’d all hurry the frag up.