[IDW] All the Queen's Treasure 06
Feb. 10th, 2020 06:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: All the Queen’s Treasure
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
Part Six
The next few months were a blur of pleasure for Sunstreaker. The changes to his frame were subtle at first, and it took several weeks before he could identify any noticeable shifts to his appearance.
“Will I be able to fly?” he asked Hardshell during a moment of lucidity, himself wrapped in the Insecticon’s arms, soaking up Hardshell’s warmth and comfort.
“Queens do not fly,” Hardshell answered as he stroked Sunstreaker’s abdomen and sides, tracing his transformation seams. He seemed to delight in touching Sunstreaker, talons dipping into the lines of his frame, as if memorizing every minute change. “But you will be the most beautiful.”
Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise, his frame floating in a haze of comfort and satisfaction, dozing in the space between waking and pleasure.
"Would you have wanted to fly?"
"Sideswipe was the one who wanted wings," Sunstreaker murmured with a sharp ache of grief rattling through his spark. "He would've been disappointed."
"Sideswipe was your kin?"
"Brother."
Hardshell hummed, and his hands slid down Sunstreaker's sides, to his hips, to the angle of his aft and down to his thighs. He drew them apart, and Sunstreaker assisted with a soft sigh, his valve already tingling.
"You miss him." Hardshell stroked paths over Sunstreaker's legs, as he nudged between Sunstreaker's thighs, and want pulsed hot and thready through Sunstreaker's lines. "He's the part of you that can never be ours."
Moist heat ghosted over Sunstreaker's array. He shivered, nodes throbbing with anticipation, valve cycling hard, squeezing out lubricant.
Longing rose up in his intake, threatened to choke him. "I don't want to talk about Sideswipe," Sunstreaker said, awareness shoving him out of the hazy state of pleasure, dropping him back into his frame as Hardshell nuzzled his valve and painted his inner thigh with little licks.
"Then we won't," Hardshell’s visor flashed warm and tender before he licked Sunstreaker, glossa rasping over his anterior cluster.
Sunstreaker gasped, frame turning liquid, eager. The pleasure rose up in him like a tidal wave, poignant and consuming.
He had a chronometer. But somehow, it was too hard to mark the passing of time. He recharged. He woke. His periods of lucidity varied, but were usually brief. Hardshell fed him energon. Tended to him. Bathed him. Spoke with him.
They interfaced, Sunstreaker eagerly accepting Hardshell into his valve, accepting each new upload. It didn't feel like he was changing. A part of him wondered if it was not all some ruse. If the Insecticons wanted a pet surface mech to frag.
He recharged after overloading, often with Hardshell still knotted within him, his hands sweeping reverent and tender over Sunstreaker's frame.
Once he woke alone and in pain, his entire frame aching and burning as if he'd been stomped on by a combiner. Repeatedly. Someone had set his sensornet aflame and his spark strobed with panic. He thrashed on the berth, wanting to claw out his lines, claw out everything, if it would make the pain stop.
"Hardshell!"
A light in the darkness, dim but soothing. Familiar fingers stroked over his frame, and everywhere they touched, relief bloomed, like a balm.
"Shhh, I am here, my queen," Hardshell murmured, and the warmth of his embrace took the worst of the sting away. "The pain will pass. It is temporary. But I am here."
Sunstreaker would have been ashamed were it anyone else. He let himself be cuddled. He buried his face against Hardshell's chassis, in-venting the Insecticon's half-organic, half-metallic odor, starting to recognize it as safety and comfort. As loyalty.
The pain eased to a dull throb, an ache he could live with, though his limbs twitched and his sensornet crawled.
“What’s happening?” Sunstreaker croaked, his fingers curled into claws, refusing to straighten or be eased.
“It is the change,” Hardshell said, and his entire frame took on a purring vibration, soothing away the worst of the pain. “Shhh. It is almost done. Rest, my queen. Rest.”
Sunstreaker obeyed.
It was better than the alternative.
~
The next time he woke, his quarters had gained another Insecticon, one ragged line adorning his face, wings rustling behind him.
"The first stage has been completed," Kickback informed Sunstreaker as he lay in the safety of Hardshell's arms. Kickback’s tone was removed, his frame language wary and unfriendly. "Congratulations. You survived."
"Disappointed?" Sunstreaker asked.
Kickback's antennae twitched. His jaw tightened, visible behind the grill of his mask. "You are not the one I would have chosen," he said, words accentuated with a hiss. "Would that we had no need of a queen, I would--"
"Kickback." Hardshell's voice, full of warning, rose from behind Sunstreaker, though Sunstreaker hadn't heard him stir or online. "Speak with respect to your queen."
"No." Sunstreaker struggled to sit up, every inch of him feeling as if he'd been scraped raw, and he fumbled, like a newspark, his limbs responding but without coordination, like he wasn't used to them. "I haven't earned his trust or his respect. He doesn't owe me anything."
"You are Queen," Hardshell said, bristling with menace, with offense on Sunstreaker's behalf.
He managed to pull himself up, but it left him dizzy and exhausted. Sunstreaker rubbed his temple and tried to focus on Kickback, who wavered into two shapes before coalescing into one. Primus, he was tired.
"I spent too much of my life being told I had to respect someone because I was told to, not because they'd earned it." Sunstreaker slanted a look of chastisement at Hardshell before he turned his attention back to Kickback. "I won't do that here."
Kickback had dipped his head in deference, but he raised it a little now, daring to meet Sunstreaker's gaze. "It would be your right."
Sunstreaker snorted. "No, it's not. If I'm queen, then it won't be because I'm going to trample on the rights of my mechs. I want you to serve me because you want to, not because you have to. The last thing I wanna do is get killed in a coup because you hate me."
Hardshell bristled. "We would never!" His outrage was tangible in his vocals, but there was something in the flicker of Kickback's optics, in the way he flinched, that suggested either Hardshell was lying, or he didn't know such a thing had happened before.
Perhaps by Kickback's hands.
Perhaps there was a reason their previous queen didn't make it out of the collapsed tunnel.
Kickback was, after all, their chief medic. Sunstreaker knew Ratchet had over a dozen ways to kill a mech without anyone being wise about it. Medics knew the ins and outs of a person’s frame. If Kickback wanted to, he could have ensured their queen didn’t survive the attack.
There was a reason Sunstreaker wanted to earn their loyalty. He didn’t want to be a leader his subordinates plotted to unseat.
"Understood," Kickback said, and he bowed, shallow, barely a tip of his head, but it was progress. "I invite you to impress me, your majesty. My trust is here to be earned."
Kickback dismissed himself, leaving Sunstreaker and Hardshell in a tense silence.
Sunstreaker sagged back into the berth, energy spent. He wasn't as exhausted as he'd been since this whole thing began, but a few more hours of recharge would be welcome.
Hardshell rose from the berth to retrieve the decanter of energon, pouring Sunstreaker a small cube of it. "You're not angry."
"I'm not a tyrant," Sunstreaker said, and accepted the cube, nodding his head in thanks as he sipped at the sweet liquid, which always tasted as if it had been freshly purified.
"Do you still think you are not perfect for us?" Hardshell asked.
Sunstreaker didn't offer an answer to that, and Hardshell didn't push. He set the decanter aside. "How do you feel?"
"Sore."
"As Kickback said, the first stage is complete. The worst of it is done. The nanites have settled into your substructure."
Sunstreaker glanced down at his frame, amazed to find he was relatively clean, considering all he'd done for the past couple weeks was frag and recharge.
Wait. He wasn't just clean.
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. His paint had changed in hue, darkening from the brilliant and bright yellow, to a more vibrant gold. His armor felt thicker to the touch, sturdier, too. Had his fingers lengthened? Were they slimmer now?
"Am I different?" Sunstreaker asked.
"Beautifully so. Not fully changed, but the alterations have begun." Hardshell held out a hand. "Would you like to see?"
"Yeah." Sunstreaker took his hand. Hardshell helped him off the berth, and find his feet. He wobbled at first, but quickly gained strength. "Where's Bob?"
"With the other searchers. He's been making friends," Hardshell said as he threaded their fingers together and escorted Sunstreaker from the room, stepping out of the private suite and into the hallways, still as humid as before, but more tolerable. In fact, it was a little chilly.
Sunstreaker said as much.
Hardshell chuckled. "No, my queen. That is your frame adapting. It will be comfortable to you soon enough."
He recognized the route Hardshell was taking -- back toward the lower levels and the oil springs. Sunstreaker's spark spun with delight. But there was something else in the atmosphere, like a crowd of energy fields, except he knew Insecticons didn't have energy fields. There was something in the air: anticipation, excitement, relief. It thrummed along his frame; he swore he could taste it.
It was a song without words, without music. He couldn't hear it, but he could feel it, all the way down to his substructure. There was a steady rhythm, which the pulse of his spark matched, and the atmosphere crackled with a sense of living beings, rather than the slow, oppressive trod toward death Sunstreaker remembered.
He stopped in the middle of the walkway and cocked his head. He expanded his sensors, trying to determine a direction, but the sensation came from all around him. It throbbed through the ground, into his feet. It pressed along his armor, sliding like a tangible presence. It whispered in his audials without making a sound.
"What is it?" Hardshell asked.
"There's something..." Sunstreaker lifted his free hand, twisting his fingers through the air. "I don't know how to describe it."
Hardshell's engine purred, his kibble rubbing together in a sort of chirring noise Bob liked to make. "You've become aware of us."
Sunstreaker blinked. "What?"
Hardshell stepped behind him, placed his hands on Sunstreaker's shoulders. "You can't read our thoughts, but you can sense us. Your Hive is aware of you in return. Can't you feel our delight? Our relief? We are happy to have a Queen again.”
"I can feel something," Sunstreaker hedged.
"You can feel us," Hardshell said, and he nuzzled the back of Sunstreaker’s head, his ex-vents warm and humid. "This is good news. You are assimilating even faster than we could have hoped." He rubbed his hands down Sunstreaker's arms. "Come. Allow me to show you the changes."
"I'm going to want a mirror in my room. This is ridiculous," Sunstreaker grumbled.
"It will be done."
Down, down, down, they went. Further into the depths of the Hive, deeper into Cybertron. The weight of the planet lurked above Sunstreaker’s head. It felt comforting. It felt right. Had he adapted to this as well?
They passed other Insecticons, of all shapes and sizes, many of whom stopped to stare at Sunstreaker as he passed, their optics large and luminous, their frame language reverent and servile. Very few of them spoke.
Very few of them could, according to Hardshell.
“Of those in your Hive, only the warriors have the ability to utilize mechspeak,” Hardshell explained. “The soldiers and the medics, the scouts and the searchers, they are like your Bob, understanding of mechspeak but unable to use it. All of the others will be able to understand you as Queen, but they do not communicate in a way you’d understand as a surface-dweller.”
Sunstreaker glanced above him, at the tiny Insecticons scurrying around. They had multiple limbs, but were lightly armored, and two pairs of optics, one set larger and one set smaller.
“Those are the builders.” Hardshell gestured above him. “They maintain the Hive. They fall under Sharpshot’s management.”
“Can they talk?” Sunstraker asked.
“No. They respond to the Queen, to commands of those considered higher-rank, but they are akin to drones.” Hardshell paused and held out a hand, reaching above him to one of the builders.
It squeaked and scuttled out onto his fingers, about the same size of Hardshell’s fist, and clung to the back of his hand with all of its limbs. It chittered at him, antennae waving, and Hardshell chuckled quietly as he lowered the builder in Sunstreaker’s direction.
“They do not live very long, but they are of utmost importance to the Hive,” Hardshell said as he offered the builder to Sunstreaker.
It best resembled an Earth spider, in Sunstreaker’s opinion. Long, spindly legs. Stout frame. Small. It chittered in Sunstreaker’s direction, raising two forearms upright, and a pulse of what felt like affection and delight radiated from the builder.
“It recognizes me,” Sunstreaker murmured as he gently stroked the builder’s head with two fingers, grinning as it bumped up to his touch much like Bob seeking affection.
“Of course.”
The builder squeaked and leapt from Hardshell's hand, landing on Sunstreaker's wrist instead. It clutched him with spindly limbs, and Sunstreaker stilled as said limbs wrapped around his wrist like a hug. The builder chittered again, and a sense of warmth and affection flowed out from it.
Okay. It was kind of cute. In the way Bob was cute when Sunstreaker stopped seeing him as an Insecticon, and started seeing him as a valued companion.
"You won't be able to talk to it, but you will be able to communicate." Hardshell smiled, and there was an odd softness in his gaze when he did so. "Perhaps not now, but soon."
Sunstreaker’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “I remember when I first found Bob. I didn’t know any better, but I did know I couldn’t kill him, and I couldn’t let him die.” He cycled a ventilation. “We’re not to blame for what we are.”
“Astute,” Hardshell said. “No wonder he thought you’d be good for us.”
“I’ve never been good at talking to others,” Sunstreaker mused aloud, because it was true. But for some reason, he found reading the frame language of the Insecticons a far easier task. “I’m kind of looking forward to talking to these guys, though.”
“Any one of your Hive will be thrilled to speak with their queen,” Hardshell said, and he reached for the builder on Sunstreaker’s hand. “But you wanted a mirror, and one I shall provide.” He nudged the builder with his talontip. “Come now. Back to work.”
It hunkered down, spitting a noise at him, and Sunstreaker chuckled despite himself. "It sounds like he doesn't want to go."
"That is not its choice," Hardshell said with a stern tone and an edge of a growl. He tapped the builder at the apex of its frame, what could generously be called a head.
It hissed at him.
Sunstreaker laughed. "Does he have a name?"
"No, it does not." Hardshell's engine revved, and he glared at the little builder, which clung all the tighter to Sunstreaker's wrist.
"He can stay. It's fine," Sunstreaker said, and lifted his wrist toward his shoulder, thinking very hard about the builder moving from his wrist to it. "You can be Scuttle, hm? Would you like that?"
A cheerful chitter was Scuttle's response as he scampered from Sunstreaker's wrist to take up residence on his shoulder, tucking in against his clavicular strut. If it was possible for a builder to be smug, surely that was the look Scuttle gave Hardshell.
"You are too indulgent, my queen," Hardshell said, but affection flowed from him in waves. Appreciation, too.
Sunstreaker stroked the top of Scuttle's head with a finger. "I want to be a queen who is adored, not one they serve because they're supposed to."
Hardshell tilted his head. "You want to be chosen."
Sunstreaker didn't answer. Not right away. Hardshell was too close to the truth, and it stung. Yes, Sunstreaker wanted to be chosen. He'd spent too much of his lifetime being the ignored, the looked over, the left behind.
It was partially his own fault, he knew, but that didn't make it easier to bear.
"I don't want to be a tyrant," Sunstreaker said, at length.
He thought of Megatron, who led with an iron fist, but had gained an army because of his sweet words and his empty promises.
He thought of Starscream, who lied and manipulated and schemed, who sought power but had no idea what he'd do when he got it.
He thought of Optimus, willing to win a war at any cost, a Prime they could believe in, but whose own faults kept the war at a stalemate.
He thought of Prowl, pragmatic and efficient, willing to sacrifice whoever he needed in order to obtain victory, but forgetting the depths of the cost.
Sunstreaker didn't want to be like any of them.
"I want them to love me," Sunstreaker said, and his face heated with embarrassment. If it had been anyone else, he'd have never admitted it, but Hardshell already knew how pathetic Sunstreaker was, and they wanted him for a queen anyway.
Hardshell's expression softened. He stroked the back of his knuckles over Sunstreaker's cheek, and only then did Sunstreaker realize he was closer in height to Hardshell. Where he'd only been as tall as Hardshell's mid-chassis, he now reached Hardshell's chin.
"You will be loved," Hardshell murmured, and Sunstreaker's spark ached and danced in his chassis. "Come. Let me show you how you've changed."
And change he had.
Sunstreaker stood in front of a large mirror, seeing himself in full, and he almost didn't recognize the mech staring back at him. His paint was a luminous gold. He'd gained mass in all the right places, broadening his shoulders, his chassis, highlighting the slim angles down toward his pelvic span. His headfins had elongated and extended, more elaborate in construction, and he'd also grown in height, with a sleekness to match.
No longer was he boxy angles built entirely to smash. There was an elegance to his design now. He would be more maneuverable, flexible.
His hips had broadened, which Sunstreaker supposed made sense, if he was to... errr... birth eggs in some manner. But it looked good.
He examined his fingertips, where nubs suggested he might earn talons, like Hardshell's. Other nubs on his armor ends hinted at future spikes and protrusions, like Bob's or Sharpshot's.
Most startling, however, were his optics. They were not the same shade of blue anymore. He no longer had Sunstreaker's optics, the ones he could see in Sideswipe's face as well. He no longer had his twin staring back at him.
"You are beautiful, and you will be more beautiful still," Hardshell said, heedless to the mild panic flickering through Sunstreaker's spark, a well of grief so powerful, it made his knees wobble.
He turned away from the mirror, hands pulling into fists.
"You disagree?" Hardshell asked.
Sunstreaker shook his head. "My optics are different."
"Yes. Your vision will improve."
"Their color
"Is that an issue?"
Scuttle chittered, pressing into his intake, as though sensing Sunstreaker's distress and seeking to offer comfort.
"I wasn't expecting it."
It wasn't an issue. It's not an issue. He shouldn't be upset. Why was he upset? Sideswipe was gone. His optic color didn't make a difference.
Sideswipe was gone, and every bit of him Sunstreaker could see in the mirror, it was going away, too.
"Where's Bob?" Sunstreaker asked, suddenly desperate for his companion, desperate for something familiar.
"I can summon him, if you wish." Hardshell stepped closer, and Sunstreaker jerked back, raising a hand before Hardshell could make contact.
He didn't want Hardshell's comfort. Hardshell was unfamiliar, alien. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't understand. His comfort came with a price, the role he wanted for Sunstreaker. He didn't offer comfort for Sunstreaker's sake.
"I want Bob, and I want my room," Sunstreaker said, spinning away from the mirrors and the call of the oilsprings, heading toward the door. He couldn't remember the entire route back, but he knew enough.
Hardshell hastened to follow. "I have summoned the searcher. He will come to your quarters. Are you alright, my queen? Shall I summon Kickback?"
"I don't need a medic," Sunstreaker said. "I need to be alone."
"As you wish."
Hardshell said nothing further, as though he knew words would be pointless. He silently guided Sunstreaker back to the suite which was for his personal use, keeping a polite distance between them, but the worry and agitation he radiated only made Sunstreaker's own emotions spike into unease.
He could feel it now, the worry of the whole Hive, as though they could sense Sunstreaker's distress and reflected it back, an endless echo chamber of anxiety. It nauseated him.
Sharpshot waited outside Sunstreaker's door. "I am here. Here to assist. Assist, I may?"
"No. I want to be left alone," Sunstreaker said as he swept past, only to pause in the doorway, in case either of them intended to follow.
They didn't. They stood there, watching him, and first stage or not, Sunstreaker could feel their worry and their fear. It gnawed on him. He itched to fix it.
He needed to fix himself first.
"If you need us--"
"I know where to find you," Sunstreaker said, and he pushed the door shut, leaving them on one side, and him on the other.
Alone.
***
Continuity: IDW, Alternate Canon
Characters: Sunstreaker, Ironhide, Bob the Insecticon, Hardshell, Sharpshot, Kickback, Original Insecticon Character(s)
Pairings: Hardshell/Sunstreaker, Insecticon(s)/Sunstreaker, Hardshell/Sunstreaker/Sharpshot
Rating: M
Enticements: Consensual Body Modification, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Non-Graphic Oviposition, Off-screen Egg Laying, Knotting
Description: After Sideswipe, Sunstreaker returns to Cybertron, lost and alone, until Bob leads him on a wild chase into the wildlands, to a nest beneath the surface of the planet, and a place Sunstreaker might call home.
The next few months were a blur of pleasure for Sunstreaker. The changes to his frame were subtle at first, and it took several weeks before he could identify any noticeable shifts to his appearance.
“Will I be able to fly?” he asked Hardshell during a moment of lucidity, himself wrapped in the Insecticon’s arms, soaking up Hardshell’s warmth and comfort.
“Queens do not fly,” Hardshell answered as he stroked Sunstreaker’s abdomen and sides, tracing his transformation seams. He seemed to delight in touching Sunstreaker, talons dipping into the lines of his frame, as if memorizing every minute change. “But you will be the most beautiful.”
Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise, his frame floating in a haze of comfort and satisfaction, dozing in the space between waking and pleasure.
"Would you have wanted to fly?"
"Sideswipe was the one who wanted wings," Sunstreaker murmured with a sharp ache of grief rattling through his spark. "He would've been disappointed."
"Sideswipe was your kin?"
"Brother."
Hardshell hummed, and his hands slid down Sunstreaker's sides, to his hips, to the angle of his aft and down to his thighs. He drew them apart, and Sunstreaker assisted with a soft sigh, his valve already tingling.
"You miss him." Hardshell stroked paths over Sunstreaker's legs, as he nudged between Sunstreaker's thighs, and want pulsed hot and thready through Sunstreaker's lines. "He's the part of you that can never be ours."
Moist heat ghosted over Sunstreaker's array. He shivered, nodes throbbing with anticipation, valve cycling hard, squeezing out lubricant.
Longing rose up in his intake, threatened to choke him. "I don't want to talk about Sideswipe," Sunstreaker said, awareness shoving him out of the hazy state of pleasure, dropping him back into his frame as Hardshell nuzzled his valve and painted his inner thigh with little licks.
"Then we won't," Hardshell’s visor flashed warm and tender before he licked Sunstreaker, glossa rasping over his anterior cluster.
Sunstreaker gasped, frame turning liquid, eager. The pleasure rose up in him like a tidal wave, poignant and consuming.
He had a chronometer. But somehow, it was too hard to mark the passing of time. He recharged. He woke. His periods of lucidity varied, but were usually brief. Hardshell fed him energon. Tended to him. Bathed him. Spoke with him.
They interfaced, Sunstreaker eagerly accepting Hardshell into his valve, accepting each new upload. It didn't feel like he was changing. A part of him wondered if it was not all some ruse. If the Insecticons wanted a pet surface mech to frag.
He recharged after overloading, often with Hardshell still knotted within him, his hands sweeping reverent and tender over Sunstreaker's frame.
Once he woke alone and in pain, his entire frame aching and burning as if he'd been stomped on by a combiner. Repeatedly. Someone had set his sensornet aflame and his spark strobed with panic. He thrashed on the berth, wanting to claw out his lines, claw out everything, if it would make the pain stop.
"Hardshell!"
A light in the darkness, dim but soothing. Familiar fingers stroked over his frame, and everywhere they touched, relief bloomed, like a balm.
"Shhh, I am here, my queen," Hardshell murmured, and the warmth of his embrace took the worst of the sting away. "The pain will pass. It is temporary. But I am here."
Sunstreaker would have been ashamed were it anyone else. He let himself be cuddled. He buried his face against Hardshell's chassis, in-venting the Insecticon's half-organic, half-metallic odor, starting to recognize it as safety and comfort. As loyalty.
The pain eased to a dull throb, an ache he could live with, though his limbs twitched and his sensornet crawled.
“What’s happening?” Sunstreaker croaked, his fingers curled into claws, refusing to straighten or be eased.
“It is the change,” Hardshell said, and his entire frame took on a purring vibration, soothing away the worst of the pain. “Shhh. It is almost done. Rest, my queen. Rest.”
Sunstreaker obeyed.
It was better than the alternative.
The next time he woke, his quarters had gained another Insecticon, one ragged line adorning his face, wings rustling behind him.
"The first stage has been completed," Kickback informed Sunstreaker as he lay in the safety of Hardshell's arms. Kickback’s tone was removed, his frame language wary and unfriendly. "Congratulations. You survived."
"Disappointed?" Sunstreaker asked.
Kickback's antennae twitched. His jaw tightened, visible behind the grill of his mask. "You are not the one I would have chosen," he said, words accentuated with a hiss. "Would that we had no need of a queen, I would--"
"Kickback." Hardshell's voice, full of warning, rose from behind Sunstreaker, though Sunstreaker hadn't heard him stir or online. "Speak with respect to your queen."
"No." Sunstreaker struggled to sit up, every inch of him feeling as if he'd been scraped raw, and he fumbled, like a newspark, his limbs responding but without coordination, like he wasn't used to them. "I haven't earned his trust or his respect. He doesn't owe me anything."
"You are Queen," Hardshell said, bristling with menace, with offense on Sunstreaker's behalf.
He managed to pull himself up, but it left him dizzy and exhausted. Sunstreaker rubbed his temple and tried to focus on Kickback, who wavered into two shapes before coalescing into one. Primus, he was tired.
"I spent too much of my life being told I had to respect someone because I was told to, not because they'd earned it." Sunstreaker slanted a look of chastisement at Hardshell before he turned his attention back to Kickback. "I won't do that here."
Kickback had dipped his head in deference, but he raised it a little now, daring to meet Sunstreaker's gaze. "It would be your right."
Sunstreaker snorted. "No, it's not. If I'm queen, then it won't be because I'm going to trample on the rights of my mechs. I want you to serve me because you want to, not because you have to. The last thing I wanna do is get killed in a coup because you hate me."
Hardshell bristled. "We would never!" His outrage was tangible in his vocals, but there was something in the flicker of Kickback's optics, in the way he flinched, that suggested either Hardshell was lying, or he didn't know such a thing had happened before.
Perhaps by Kickback's hands.
Perhaps there was a reason their previous queen didn't make it out of the collapsed tunnel.
Kickback was, after all, their chief medic. Sunstreaker knew Ratchet had over a dozen ways to kill a mech without anyone being wise about it. Medics knew the ins and outs of a person’s frame. If Kickback wanted to, he could have ensured their queen didn’t survive the attack.
There was a reason Sunstreaker wanted to earn their loyalty. He didn’t want to be a leader his subordinates plotted to unseat.
"Understood," Kickback said, and he bowed, shallow, barely a tip of his head, but it was progress. "I invite you to impress me, your majesty. My trust is here to be earned."
Kickback dismissed himself, leaving Sunstreaker and Hardshell in a tense silence.
Sunstreaker sagged back into the berth, energy spent. He wasn't as exhausted as he'd been since this whole thing began, but a few more hours of recharge would be welcome.
Hardshell rose from the berth to retrieve the decanter of energon, pouring Sunstreaker a small cube of it. "You're not angry."
"I'm not a tyrant," Sunstreaker said, and accepted the cube, nodding his head in thanks as he sipped at the sweet liquid, which always tasted as if it had been freshly purified.
"Do you still think you are not perfect for us?" Hardshell asked.
Sunstreaker didn't offer an answer to that, and Hardshell didn't push. He set the decanter aside. "How do you feel?"
"Sore."
"As Kickback said, the first stage is complete. The worst of it is done. The nanites have settled into your substructure."
Sunstreaker glanced down at his frame, amazed to find he was relatively clean, considering all he'd done for the past couple weeks was frag and recharge.
Wait. He wasn't just clean.
Sunstreaker cycled his optics. His paint had changed in hue, darkening from the brilliant and bright yellow, to a more vibrant gold. His armor felt thicker to the touch, sturdier, too. Had his fingers lengthened? Were they slimmer now?
"Am I different?" Sunstreaker asked.
"Beautifully so. Not fully changed, but the alterations have begun." Hardshell held out a hand. "Would you like to see?"
"Yeah." Sunstreaker took his hand. Hardshell helped him off the berth, and find his feet. He wobbled at first, but quickly gained strength. "Where's Bob?"
"With the other searchers. He's been making friends," Hardshell said as he threaded their fingers together and escorted Sunstreaker from the room, stepping out of the private suite and into the hallways, still as humid as before, but more tolerable. In fact, it was a little chilly.
Sunstreaker said as much.
Hardshell chuckled. "No, my queen. That is your frame adapting. It will be comfortable to you soon enough."
He recognized the route Hardshell was taking -- back toward the lower levels and the oil springs. Sunstreaker's spark spun with delight. But there was something else in the atmosphere, like a crowd of energy fields, except he knew Insecticons didn't have energy fields. There was something in the air: anticipation, excitement, relief. It thrummed along his frame; he swore he could taste it.
It was a song without words, without music. He couldn't hear it, but he could feel it, all the way down to his substructure. There was a steady rhythm, which the pulse of his spark matched, and the atmosphere crackled with a sense of living beings, rather than the slow, oppressive trod toward death Sunstreaker remembered.
He stopped in the middle of the walkway and cocked his head. He expanded his sensors, trying to determine a direction, but the sensation came from all around him. It throbbed through the ground, into his feet. It pressed along his armor, sliding like a tangible presence. It whispered in his audials without making a sound.
"What is it?" Hardshell asked.
"There's something..." Sunstreaker lifted his free hand, twisting his fingers through the air. "I don't know how to describe it."
Hardshell's engine purred, his kibble rubbing together in a sort of chirring noise Bob liked to make. "You've become aware of us."
Sunstreaker blinked. "What?"
Hardshell stepped behind him, placed his hands on Sunstreaker's shoulders. "You can't read our thoughts, but you can sense us. Your Hive is aware of you in return. Can't you feel our delight? Our relief? We are happy to have a Queen again.”
"I can feel something," Sunstreaker hedged.
"You can feel us," Hardshell said, and he nuzzled the back of Sunstreaker’s head, his ex-vents warm and humid. "This is good news. You are assimilating even faster than we could have hoped." He rubbed his hands down Sunstreaker's arms. "Come. Allow me to show you the changes."
"I'm going to want a mirror in my room. This is ridiculous," Sunstreaker grumbled.
"It will be done."
Down, down, down, they went. Further into the depths of the Hive, deeper into Cybertron. The weight of the planet lurked above Sunstreaker’s head. It felt comforting. It felt right. Had he adapted to this as well?
They passed other Insecticons, of all shapes and sizes, many of whom stopped to stare at Sunstreaker as he passed, their optics large and luminous, their frame language reverent and servile. Very few of them spoke.
Very few of them could, according to Hardshell.
“Of those in your Hive, only the warriors have the ability to utilize mechspeak,” Hardshell explained. “The soldiers and the medics, the scouts and the searchers, they are like your Bob, understanding of mechspeak but unable to use it. All of the others will be able to understand you as Queen, but they do not communicate in a way you’d understand as a surface-dweller.”
Sunstreaker glanced above him, at the tiny Insecticons scurrying around. They had multiple limbs, but were lightly armored, and two pairs of optics, one set larger and one set smaller.
“Those are the builders.” Hardshell gestured above him. “They maintain the Hive. They fall under Sharpshot’s management.”
“Can they talk?” Sunstraker asked.
“No. They respond to the Queen, to commands of those considered higher-rank, but they are akin to drones.” Hardshell paused and held out a hand, reaching above him to one of the builders.
It squeaked and scuttled out onto his fingers, about the same size of Hardshell’s fist, and clung to the back of his hand with all of its limbs. It chittered at him, antennae waving, and Hardshell chuckled quietly as he lowered the builder in Sunstreaker’s direction.
“They do not live very long, but they are of utmost importance to the Hive,” Hardshell said as he offered the builder to Sunstreaker.
It best resembled an Earth spider, in Sunstreaker’s opinion. Long, spindly legs. Stout frame. Small. It chittered in Sunstreaker’s direction, raising two forearms upright, and a pulse of what felt like affection and delight radiated from the builder.
“It recognizes me,” Sunstreaker murmured as he gently stroked the builder’s head with two fingers, grinning as it bumped up to his touch much like Bob seeking affection.
“Of course.”
The builder squeaked and leapt from Hardshell's hand, landing on Sunstreaker's wrist instead. It clutched him with spindly limbs, and Sunstreaker stilled as said limbs wrapped around his wrist like a hug. The builder chittered again, and a sense of warmth and affection flowed out from it.
Okay. It was kind of cute. In the way Bob was cute when Sunstreaker stopped seeing him as an Insecticon, and started seeing him as a valued companion.
"You won't be able to talk to it, but you will be able to communicate." Hardshell smiled, and there was an odd softness in his gaze when he did so. "Perhaps not now, but soon."
Sunstreaker’s lips curved into a gentle smile. “I remember when I first found Bob. I didn’t know any better, but I did know I couldn’t kill him, and I couldn’t let him die.” He cycled a ventilation. “We’re not to blame for what we are.”
“Astute,” Hardshell said. “No wonder he thought you’d be good for us.”
“I’ve never been good at talking to others,” Sunstreaker mused aloud, because it was true. But for some reason, he found reading the frame language of the Insecticons a far easier task. “I’m kind of looking forward to talking to these guys, though.”
“Any one of your Hive will be thrilled to speak with their queen,” Hardshell said, and he reached for the builder on Sunstreaker’s hand. “But you wanted a mirror, and one I shall provide.” He nudged the builder with his talontip. “Come now. Back to work.”
It hunkered down, spitting a noise at him, and Sunstreaker chuckled despite himself. "It sounds like he doesn't want to go."
"That is not its choice," Hardshell said with a stern tone and an edge of a growl. He tapped the builder at the apex of its frame, what could generously be called a head.
It hissed at him.
Sunstreaker laughed. "Does he have a name?"
"No, it does not." Hardshell's engine revved, and he glared at the little builder, which clung all the tighter to Sunstreaker's wrist.
"He can stay. It's fine," Sunstreaker said, and lifted his wrist toward his shoulder, thinking very hard about the builder moving from his wrist to it. "You can be Scuttle, hm? Would you like that?"
A cheerful chitter was Scuttle's response as he scampered from Sunstreaker's wrist to take up residence on his shoulder, tucking in against his clavicular strut. If it was possible for a builder to be smug, surely that was the look Scuttle gave Hardshell.
"You are too indulgent, my queen," Hardshell said, but affection flowed from him in waves. Appreciation, too.
Sunstreaker stroked the top of Scuttle's head with a finger. "I want to be a queen who is adored, not one they serve because they're supposed to."
Hardshell tilted his head. "You want to be chosen."
Sunstreaker didn't answer. Not right away. Hardshell was too close to the truth, and it stung. Yes, Sunstreaker wanted to be chosen. He'd spent too much of his lifetime being the ignored, the looked over, the left behind.
It was partially his own fault, he knew, but that didn't make it easier to bear.
"I don't want to be a tyrant," Sunstreaker said, at length.
He thought of Megatron, who led with an iron fist, but had gained an army because of his sweet words and his empty promises.
He thought of Starscream, who lied and manipulated and schemed, who sought power but had no idea what he'd do when he got it.
He thought of Optimus, willing to win a war at any cost, a Prime they could believe in, but whose own faults kept the war at a stalemate.
He thought of Prowl, pragmatic and efficient, willing to sacrifice whoever he needed in order to obtain victory, but forgetting the depths of the cost.
Sunstreaker didn't want to be like any of them.
"I want them to love me," Sunstreaker said, and his face heated with embarrassment. If it had been anyone else, he'd have never admitted it, but Hardshell already knew how pathetic Sunstreaker was, and they wanted him for a queen anyway.
Hardshell's expression softened. He stroked the back of his knuckles over Sunstreaker's cheek, and only then did Sunstreaker realize he was closer in height to Hardshell. Where he'd only been as tall as Hardshell's mid-chassis, he now reached Hardshell's chin.
"You will be loved," Hardshell murmured, and Sunstreaker's spark ached and danced in his chassis. "Come. Let me show you how you've changed."
And change he had.
Sunstreaker stood in front of a large mirror, seeing himself in full, and he almost didn't recognize the mech staring back at him. His paint was a luminous gold. He'd gained mass in all the right places, broadening his shoulders, his chassis, highlighting the slim angles down toward his pelvic span. His headfins had elongated and extended, more elaborate in construction, and he'd also grown in height, with a sleekness to match.
No longer was he boxy angles built entirely to smash. There was an elegance to his design now. He would be more maneuverable, flexible.
His hips had broadened, which Sunstreaker supposed made sense, if he was to... errr... birth eggs in some manner. But it looked good.
He examined his fingertips, where nubs suggested he might earn talons, like Hardshell's. Other nubs on his armor ends hinted at future spikes and protrusions, like Bob's or Sharpshot's.
Most startling, however, were his optics. They were not the same shade of blue anymore. He no longer had Sunstreaker's optics, the ones he could see in Sideswipe's face as well. He no longer had his twin staring back at him.
"You are beautiful, and you will be more beautiful still," Hardshell said, heedless to the mild panic flickering through Sunstreaker's spark, a well of grief so powerful, it made his knees wobble.
He turned away from the mirror, hands pulling into fists.
"You disagree?" Hardshell asked.
Sunstreaker shook his head. "My optics are different."
"Yes. Your vision will improve."
"Their color
"Is that an issue?"
Scuttle chittered, pressing into his intake, as though sensing Sunstreaker's distress and seeking to offer comfort.
"I wasn't expecting it."
It wasn't an issue. It's not an issue. He shouldn't be upset. Why was he upset? Sideswipe was gone. His optic color didn't make a difference.
Sideswipe was gone, and every bit of him Sunstreaker could see in the mirror, it was going away, too.
"Where's Bob?" Sunstreaker asked, suddenly desperate for his companion, desperate for something familiar.
"I can summon him, if you wish." Hardshell stepped closer, and Sunstreaker jerked back, raising a hand before Hardshell could make contact.
He didn't want Hardshell's comfort. Hardshell was unfamiliar, alien. He wouldn't understand. He couldn't understand. His comfort came with a price, the role he wanted for Sunstreaker. He didn't offer comfort for Sunstreaker's sake.
"I want Bob, and I want my room," Sunstreaker said, spinning away from the mirrors and the call of the oilsprings, heading toward the door. He couldn't remember the entire route back, but he knew enough.
Hardshell hastened to follow. "I have summoned the searcher. He will come to your quarters. Are you alright, my queen? Shall I summon Kickback?"
"I don't need a medic," Sunstreaker said. "I need to be alone."
"As you wish."
Hardshell said nothing further, as though he knew words would be pointless. He silently guided Sunstreaker back to the suite which was for his personal use, keeping a polite distance between them, but the worry and agitation he radiated only made Sunstreaker's own emotions spike into unease.
He could feel it now, the worry of the whole Hive, as though they could sense Sunstreaker's distress and reflected it back, an endless echo chamber of anxiety. It nauseated him.
Sharpshot waited outside Sunstreaker's door. "I am here. Here to assist. Assist, I may?"
"No. I want to be left alone," Sunstreaker said as he swept past, only to pause in the doorway, in case either of them intended to follow.
They didn't. They stood there, watching him, and first stage or not, Sunstreaker could feel their worry and their fear. It gnawed on him. He itched to fix it.
He needed to fix himself first.
"If you need us--"
"I know where to find you," Sunstreaker said, and he pushed the door shut, leaving them on one side, and him on the other.
Alone.
