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wyntir_knightDinner, Music, and Dancing: An Unusual Graduation Gift (4680 words) by Gaslight Dreamer
Chapters: 2/4
Fandom: Transformers Generation One
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ratchet/Smokescreen
Characters: Ratchet (Transformers), Smokescreen (Transformers)
Additional Tags: Pre-Earth Transformers, Prostitution
Summary:
Chapter 1
The Starlines Club was as exclusive and high end as all the reviews said. The walls and floor were made of polished, brushed blue steel and the space was decorated with carefully manicured Praxian crystals that glowed with a faint, pulsing light. Even the space smelled high end - a pleasant scent of sweet smelling welding fumes and a hint of ozone. It would have been perfect, if not for the host giving Smokescreen a look that spoke of nothing but barely hidden disdain.
“We acknowledge your reservations, sir, but I must say that this is highly irregular. We do not normally-”
“Is there a problem?” Ratchet asked as he stepped forward to loom over the other mech, effectively cutting him off.
“Not a problem, per se, sir,” the host said. He was clearly attempting a look that was both unfazed and aloof, but both Smokescreen and Ratchet noticed when the matte black plating pulled in tight against his protoform. “It’s just that your guest is-”
“My guest is just fine,” Ratchet replied sharply, his own plating beginning to flare out aggressively. “In fact I would think that seeing as this establishment is being paid an obscene amount for-”
Smokescreen effectively cut Ratchet off with a gentle hand on his arm.
“Ratchet, it’s all right,” he said, never looking at the host. “I’m sure that Redox didn’t mean anything. After all, the last thing he wants is a complaint lodged against him and his establishment. Complaints could result in bad reviews and negative word of mouth. And any resulting loss of revenue tied back to his words or actions …” He let the thought hang unfinished.
Redox’s gold optics darkened slightly - though Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was out of irritation or embarrassment - and he led them to a private room near the back of the restaurant.
The space was small but comfortable, with a table set for two in the middle of the space and a couch against one wall - both designed to automatically adjust to the user’s scale. The walls were covered in soft grey sound dampening tiles, and and a large painting hung opposite the door.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Redox said stiffly, and Ratchet noticed that he never looked at Smokescreen. “Your personal waiter will be in momentarily with your first course.”
As soon as the door shut, Ratchet turned to Smokescreen.
“Okay, what was that?” he asked, motioning to the door. “Do you know him? I mean, that kind of hostility is just-”
Smokescreen smiled, a wicked little twitch of his lips. “I’m not allowed to speak about the company relationship with any current or former clients. Vespertine Escorts takes client privacy very seriously.”
Ratchet cocked his head to the side slightly. “And yet you just confirmed that he’s a current or former client?”
“I did no such thing,” Smokescreen replied as he sat languidly on the couch. “I commented on company policy. I can hardly be held responsible for you choosing to interpret things differently. Also, I hate that particular brand of hypocrite.”
“I can appreciate that,” Ratchet said as he sat down next to Smokescreen. “But we’re not going to let all that ruin our night, right?”
“I’m certainly not planning on it,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “In fact I’m planning on blocking out everything outside of this room tonight.”
He reached out to take Ratchet’s hand, only to have the newly minted medic pull back carefully.
“Sorry,” Ratchet apologized. “It’s just a medic’s hands are-”
“It’s okay,” Smokescreen said gently. “I’ve spent enough time at the Academy; I should know better than to touch a medic’s hands without permission.”
“What brought you to the Academy?” Ratchet asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. He stood and moved to the table and pulled out a chair for Smokescreen.
“I’m a student there. In the psychology department,” Smokescreen replied as he sat in the proffered seat.
“You don’t hear of many Praxian psychologists,” Ratchet said as he sat across from the other mech. “It’s been my experience that psychology can be a bit more illogical than I would have thought you’d like.”
“For most Praxians, yeah. But I’m not typical.” Smokescreen folded his hands on the table and looked at Ratchet, and in that moment, he was no longer the seductive escort but was instead an enthusiastic student. “I love that the randomness of the Cybertronian processor isn’t actually random when you really get into it. And I love that you can adjust the odds and the probabilities of any event if you know how to manipulate a mech’s viewpoint and thought process.”
Ratchet nodded. He understood the joy getting lost in these specialized fields and sharing that hard earned knowledge with anyone who would listen.
“It's a fascinating field,” he agreed. “I took a couple of credits, but I was always better suited to surgeries. And I had a lot of trouble reconciling some of the Froidian philosophies with the realities of the world.”
“I can understand that. I tend to prefer behaviourism myself. Yeah, Froid and his theories are fine if you want to force changes in a mech, but I figure there has to be a subtler way to enact behavioural changes. Something other than outright mnemosurgery.”
“You don't agree with Trepan then?” Ratchet asked, and Smokescreen suddenly stilled, as if he realized he was saying something he shouldn't.
“No, it's not that. After all, both Froid’s and Trepan’s work have been proven many times. I'm just not convinced that mnemosurgery should be the first recourse. But then again, I'm just a student, and no matter how much I admire the work of other, less well published psychologists, I have to learn the accepted methods first.”
“Well I'm sure you'll get to the point where you're publishing your own theories and students will be arguing the merits,” Ratchet said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood back down, but Smokescreen was well ahead of him.
“So,” he asked, and he was back to the seductive escort persona, “what got you into surgery, Ratchet? Choice or build? I imagine that with those lovely hands, you're perfect for the field.”
Ratchet looked down at his hands momentarily then back at Smokescreen. “I was forged, so I suppose I could have chosen anything, any field I liked, but medicine always called to me.”
“They say the best medics are forged,” Smokescreen replied. He was about to say more but the door slid open and a server entered with a large tray balanced precariously on one hand.
“Gentlemechs, these are your first five courses.” He began to place small plates in front of the diners, explaining each as he did. “The chief chemist advises that you consume the purified lowgrade first, followed by the jellied oil emulsion, the rarified midgrade with processed rust flakes, and end with the engex bathed in Vosian hydrox.”
“And this is only the first five courses?” Ratchet asked, incredulous. If these were just the start, he was having trouble imagining how the meal could get any better.
“Yes, sir,” the server replied with a slight nod. “And we understand that you have tickets for the Symphonia later. We will ensure that your courses are served with appropriate speed without rushing you in any way.”
With that the server departed, leaving them to their meal.
“This looks wonderful,” Smokescreen said. “As lovely as everything I've heard about this place.”
Ratchet nodded, making a mental note to have a talk with Springheel about her over generosity. Yes this was wonderful, but it really was too much.
---
By the time they were almost done with their meal, Ratchet had relaxed and and he and Smokescreen were talking like old friends - relaxed and casual with just a little mutual flirting. The conversation had covered much of their lives, although Ratchet couldn’t help but notice that Smokescreen was getting far more information than he was giving. While Smokescreen answered every question he was asked (and there were many), it seemed that he managed to turn every question back onto Ratchet and eventually the medic had told Smokescreen almost everything.
“Okay, so why the 38?” Ratchet asked.
“Why not? It’s a good number,” Smokescreen replied with a smile. When it became clear that Ratchet wanted more, he elaborated. “It’s the 11th distinct semiprime. It’s nontotient. It’s the sum of the square of the first three primes. It’s the largest even number which can’t be written as the sum of two odd composite numbers. And it’s the atomic number of strontium. Plus, I like the way it feels.”
Ratchet laughed. “You have clearly spent far too long pondering that question.”
“I get asked it a lot. What can I say, it’s a good conversation starter. Plus, I am a Praxian. Maths are practically encoded into our CNA.”
Smokescreen looked down at the cube in his hand, suddenly radiating something that might have been nervousness. It was the first time Ratchet had seen anything but relaxed flirtation from him since they had arrived at the restaurant.
“Would you mind if I asked you something personal?” he asked. “You can decline, of course, I’m just curious about something.”
“Ask away,” Ratchet replied. “I’ve been nothing but intrusive all night and you’ve been more than accommodating.”
Smokescreen looked up at Ratchet and pursed his lips. It was clear that he was considering his words carefully.
“Okay, feel free to refuse to answer. Earlier tonight at your apartment you were about as skittish as a new youngling so I need to ask, were you nervous because this your first time with an escort? Or is there something more going on? Are you one of the Purists? Or, uhm, or are you untouched? Is that what you’re worried about?”
Ratchet sat back in his chair and cycled his optics as he parsed Smokescreen’s words.
As the silence extended Smokescreen shook his head and raised his hand.
“Sorry, it was an inappropriate question. I retract it,” he said.
“No, no,” Ratchet replied and he reached out to take Smokescreen’s hand in his own. “It’s not inappropriate. I mean, this night is wonderful but it is strange. And you’re within your rights to ask what my deal is.” He vented softly before continuing. “I’m not a Purist and I’m not untouched, I’m just … Look, I had certain expectations. Certain cultural beliefs and I was thrown off when you said that my friends had bought me-”
“Had bought you a piece of shareware,” Smokescreen continued. There was no recrimination in his tone. Just acceptance. Clearly he’d been on the receiving end of this reaction before. Probably on far too many occasions.
“No, not shareware. Never shareware. Back at the apartment, that was a mistake. A slip that I wish I could take back,” Ratchet replied. He never noticed that he was still holding Smokescreen’s hand, that red digits were intertwining with blue. “I don’t like the idea that they bought me a person. I don’t like that you’ve been paid to be here and that you have no choice in the matter. I don’t like that idea that you’re only doing this because you have to.”
“Who says I have no choice in the matter?” Smokescreen asked. “I could get up and leave at any time I like. This is a job, just like any other. It has its good parts and bad. Usually the good outweighs the bad, and unlike some jobs, I actually get to choose what I do. And who I do it with. I can turn down any client, so long as I have cause, and I have my nope list clearly defined in my contract. And I can change it if someone suggests something new that I’m not comfortable with.” His doors fluttered against his back slightly. “So you don’t need to worry that I’m being coerced or something.”
“Okay,” Ratchet said, tone thoughtful. “What if you did quit. You gave your notice and left. What then? I mean, I thought you said that the Agency was paying for your education. If you left their employ, what then?”
Again those doors fluttered and Ratchet was now sure it was the equivalent of a shrug.
“I’m indentured to Vespertine Escorts until I pay back the Academy costs, plus a slight interest. If I were to leave, I’d have to complete the payment,” Smokescreen said, in a matter-of-fact way. “I’d need to come up with the remains of my contract or find someone else willing to take on the debt.”
“So, if you left tomorrow?” Ratchet prompted.
Smokescreen’s looked down at their entwined hand and smiled slightly before growing serious again.
“I was cold built to be a tactician. If push came to shove I’d go back to Praxus. They’d take me back and pay off the remaining debt, no questions asked. Of course, it would come with its own price. I’d need to drop out of the Academy and join the Tactical Planning Unit as an intern, unpaid until I had worked off the new debt to the Praxian Government. There’d be no interest attached to the cost and I’d have a place to live and rations to live off of. In all honesty, I think the Praxian Ruling Council would be thrilled to have me back for that exact reason. They’re still very much into Functionism, and my failure would prove them right. I’d be made a pariah and the perfect lesson to all the younglings thinking of defying the One True Order.”
Smokescreen sat up ramrod straight, suddenly severe and serious. “Thou shalt not defy either Form or Function. It is neither our way nor the way of the Founders themselves,” he said in a deep voice, imitating the teachings drummed into every Praxian’s processor at first activation. As soon as he was done, his posture flowed back back to something far more casual and relaxed and his voice returned to its normal flirty tones. “Yeah, it’s not much of a choice, but it is one. Actually one of seven possible choices, though the others are all pretty much too awful to contemplate on such a lovely night and in such wonderful company.”
Ratchet looked down at their entwined hands for a long moment before speaking again.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me. And I’m not sure that it makes me any more comfortable with all of this.”
Smokescreen cleared his vents in a soft, barely audible sigh. He let go of Ratchet’s hand, stood, and with a fluid grace, he moved to the other side of the table, easily slipping into the medic’s lap.
“I am choosing to be here, Ratchet,” Smokescreen said, gently. “I was offered this contract and after looking into it and you, I chose to be here. You seem like a nice mech and this seemed like a very nice evening. Yes, the contact specifically requested a Praxian or other winged model, but we have several flyers on staff who could have taken it if I didn’t like the deal. And just like earlier tonight, you can dismiss me at any time you want. If you’re really that uncomfortable with me being on the clock, so to speak.”
With that Smokescreen placed a chaste kiss to Ratchet’s lips.
“If I were to dismiss you right now, what would you do?” Ratchet asked, his voice barely above a whisper and his optics dim.
“You have to dismiss me to find out for sure,” Smokescreen said, then the smile faded and he shook his head. “Look, no more games, okay? Yes, I’ve been paid to be here, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not enjoying myself. I like you, Ratchet. You seem like a really nice mech, and yes, I think that we could become good friends in the right circumstances. Would I have gone on this date if my contract hadn’t been bought? Probably not, but only because the chances of us meeting is pretty slim under any other circumstances. I mean, how often do surgical residents hang out with psychology students? I think that there’d be a less than two percent chance that we’d ever meet, and even less chance that we’d speak long enough to actually get to the first date stage. But circumstances are what they are. I am greatly enjoying your company, and if you were to chose to dismiss me right now, I’d still choose to stay here with you and continue this really nice, really expensive date we’re having. At least until my next call comes in. Then I’d have to leave.”
“Is that how it works? I dismiss you and you go back onto the roster?” Ratchet asked.
“Pretty much,” Smokescreen said. “As I said back at the apartment, if you’d declined all of this, everyone would have been paid twice.”
“Even you? Or would your agency get paid twice? How does that work exactly?”
Smokescreen rested his arms on Ratchet’s shoulders. “Is that really what you want to discuss right now? I mean, here I am, on your lap, in a soundproof room, more than ready to kiss you again, and you want to know how much I get paid?”
Ratchet’s optics cycled for a moment before he smiled, a cute, embarrassed little smile.
“You’re right. Silly of me.” Without wasting another moment, Ratchet kissed Smokescreen. Though chaste at first, it didn’t remain that way for long.
Chapter 3
Chapters: 2/4
Fandom: Transformers Generation One
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Ratchet/Smokescreen
Characters: Ratchet (Transformers), Smokescreen (Transformers)
Additional Tags: Pre-Earth Transformers, Prostitution
Summary:
Ratchet has finally graduated from the Institute as a fully credited medic. He had been expecting his friends to throw him a party. Instead he finds an unusual gift standing on his doorstep.
Chapter 1
The Starlines Club was as exclusive and high end as all the reviews said. The walls and floor were made of polished, brushed blue steel and the space was decorated with carefully manicured Praxian crystals that glowed with a faint, pulsing light. Even the space smelled high end - a pleasant scent of sweet smelling welding fumes and a hint of ozone. It would have been perfect, if not for the host giving Smokescreen a look that spoke of nothing but barely hidden disdain.
“We acknowledge your reservations, sir, but I must say that this is highly irregular. We do not normally-”
“Is there a problem?” Ratchet asked as he stepped forward to loom over the other mech, effectively cutting him off.
“Not a problem, per se, sir,” the host said. He was clearly attempting a look that was both unfazed and aloof, but both Smokescreen and Ratchet noticed when the matte black plating pulled in tight against his protoform. “It’s just that your guest is-”
“My guest is just fine,” Ratchet replied sharply, his own plating beginning to flare out aggressively. “In fact I would think that seeing as this establishment is being paid an obscene amount for-”
Smokescreen effectively cut Ratchet off with a gentle hand on his arm.
“Ratchet, it’s all right,” he said, never looking at the host. “I’m sure that Redox didn’t mean anything. After all, the last thing he wants is a complaint lodged against him and his establishment. Complaints could result in bad reviews and negative word of mouth. And any resulting loss of revenue tied back to his words or actions …” He let the thought hang unfinished.
Redox’s gold optics darkened slightly - though Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was out of irritation or embarrassment - and he led them to a private room near the back of the restaurant.
The space was small but comfortable, with a table set for two in the middle of the space and a couch against one wall - both designed to automatically adjust to the user’s scale. The walls were covered in soft grey sound dampening tiles, and and a large painting hung opposite the door.
“Please make yourselves comfortable,” Redox said stiffly, and Ratchet noticed that he never looked at Smokescreen. “Your personal waiter will be in momentarily with your first course.”
As soon as the door shut, Ratchet turned to Smokescreen.
“Okay, what was that?” he asked, motioning to the door. “Do you know him? I mean, that kind of hostility is just-”
Smokescreen smiled, a wicked little twitch of his lips. “I’m not allowed to speak about the company relationship with any current or former clients. Vespertine Escorts takes client privacy very seriously.”
Ratchet cocked his head to the side slightly. “And yet you just confirmed that he’s a current or former client?”
“I did no such thing,” Smokescreen replied as he sat languidly on the couch. “I commented on company policy. I can hardly be held responsible for you choosing to interpret things differently. Also, I hate that particular brand of hypocrite.”
“I can appreciate that,” Ratchet said as he sat down next to Smokescreen. “But we’re not going to let all that ruin our night, right?”
“I’m certainly not planning on it,” Smokescreen said with a smile. “In fact I’m planning on blocking out everything outside of this room tonight.”
He reached out to take Ratchet’s hand, only to have the newly minted medic pull back carefully.
“Sorry,” Ratchet apologized. “It’s just a medic’s hands are-”
“It’s okay,” Smokescreen said gently. “I’ve spent enough time at the Academy; I should know better than to touch a medic’s hands without permission.”
“What brought you to the Academy?” Ratchet asked, genuine curiosity in his tone. He stood and moved to the table and pulled out a chair for Smokescreen.
“I’m a student there. In the psychology department,” Smokescreen replied as he sat in the proffered seat.
“You don’t hear of many Praxian psychologists,” Ratchet said as he sat across from the other mech. “It’s been my experience that psychology can be a bit more illogical than I would have thought you’d like.”
“For most Praxians, yeah. But I’m not typical.” Smokescreen folded his hands on the table and looked at Ratchet, and in that moment, he was no longer the seductive escort but was instead an enthusiastic student. “I love that the randomness of the Cybertronian processor isn’t actually random when you really get into it. And I love that you can adjust the odds and the probabilities of any event if you know how to manipulate a mech’s viewpoint and thought process.”
Ratchet nodded. He understood the joy getting lost in these specialized fields and sharing that hard earned knowledge with anyone who would listen.
“It's a fascinating field,” he agreed. “I took a couple of credits, but I was always better suited to surgeries. And I had a lot of trouble reconciling some of the Froidian philosophies with the realities of the world.”
“I can understand that. I tend to prefer behaviourism myself. Yeah, Froid and his theories are fine if you want to force changes in a mech, but I figure there has to be a subtler way to enact behavioural changes. Something other than outright mnemosurgery.”
“You don't agree with Trepan then?” Ratchet asked, and Smokescreen suddenly stilled, as if he realized he was saying something he shouldn't.
“No, it's not that. After all, both Froid’s and Trepan’s work have been proven many times. I'm just not convinced that mnemosurgery should be the first recourse. But then again, I'm just a student, and no matter how much I admire the work of other, less well published psychologists, I have to learn the accepted methods first.”
“Well I'm sure you'll get to the point where you're publishing your own theories and students will be arguing the merits,” Ratchet said with a smile, trying to lighten the mood back down, but Smokescreen was well ahead of him.
“So,” he asked, and he was back to the seductive escort persona, “what got you into surgery, Ratchet? Choice or build? I imagine that with those lovely hands, you're perfect for the field.”
Ratchet looked down at his hands momentarily then back at Smokescreen. “I was forged, so I suppose I could have chosen anything, any field I liked, but medicine always called to me.”
“They say the best medics are forged,” Smokescreen replied. He was about to say more but the door slid open and a server entered with a large tray balanced precariously on one hand.
“Gentlemechs, these are your first five courses.” He began to place small plates in front of the diners, explaining each as he did. “The chief chemist advises that you consume the purified lowgrade first, followed by the jellied oil emulsion, the rarified midgrade with processed rust flakes, and end with the engex bathed in Vosian hydrox.”
“And this is only the first five courses?” Ratchet asked, incredulous. If these were just the start, he was having trouble imagining how the meal could get any better.
“Yes, sir,” the server replied with a slight nod. “And we understand that you have tickets for the Symphonia later. We will ensure that your courses are served with appropriate speed without rushing you in any way.”
With that the server departed, leaving them to their meal.
“This looks wonderful,” Smokescreen said. “As lovely as everything I've heard about this place.”
Ratchet nodded, making a mental note to have a talk with Springheel about her over generosity. Yes this was wonderful, but it really was too much.
---
By the time they were almost done with their meal, Ratchet had relaxed and and he and Smokescreen were talking like old friends - relaxed and casual with just a little mutual flirting. The conversation had covered much of their lives, although Ratchet couldn’t help but notice that Smokescreen was getting far more information than he was giving. While Smokescreen answered every question he was asked (and there were many), it seemed that he managed to turn every question back onto Ratchet and eventually the medic had told Smokescreen almost everything.
“Okay, so why the 38?” Ratchet asked.
“Why not? It’s a good number,” Smokescreen replied with a smile. When it became clear that Ratchet wanted more, he elaborated. “It’s the 11th distinct semiprime. It’s nontotient. It’s the sum of the square of the first three primes. It’s the largest even number which can’t be written as the sum of two odd composite numbers. And it’s the atomic number of strontium. Plus, I like the way it feels.”
Ratchet laughed. “You have clearly spent far too long pondering that question.”
“I get asked it a lot. What can I say, it’s a good conversation starter. Plus, I am a Praxian. Maths are practically encoded into our CNA.”
Smokescreen looked down at the cube in his hand, suddenly radiating something that might have been nervousness. It was the first time Ratchet had seen anything but relaxed flirtation from him since they had arrived at the restaurant.
“Would you mind if I asked you something personal?” he asked. “You can decline, of course, I’m just curious about something.”
“Ask away,” Ratchet replied. “I’ve been nothing but intrusive all night and you’ve been more than accommodating.”
Smokescreen looked up at Ratchet and pursed his lips. It was clear that he was considering his words carefully.
“Okay, feel free to refuse to answer. Earlier tonight at your apartment you were about as skittish as a new youngling so I need to ask, were you nervous because this your first time with an escort? Or is there something more going on? Are you one of the Purists? Or, uhm, or are you untouched? Is that what you’re worried about?”
Ratchet sat back in his chair and cycled his optics as he parsed Smokescreen’s words.
As the silence extended Smokescreen shook his head and raised his hand.
“Sorry, it was an inappropriate question. I retract it,” he said.
“No, no,” Ratchet replied and he reached out to take Smokescreen’s hand in his own. “It’s not inappropriate. I mean, this night is wonderful but it is strange. And you’re within your rights to ask what my deal is.” He vented softly before continuing. “I’m not a Purist and I’m not untouched, I’m just … Look, I had certain expectations. Certain cultural beliefs and I was thrown off when you said that my friends had bought me-”
“Had bought you a piece of shareware,” Smokescreen continued. There was no recrimination in his tone. Just acceptance. Clearly he’d been on the receiving end of this reaction before. Probably on far too many occasions.
“No, not shareware. Never shareware. Back at the apartment, that was a mistake. A slip that I wish I could take back,” Ratchet replied. He never noticed that he was still holding Smokescreen’s hand, that red digits were intertwining with blue. “I don’t like the idea that they bought me a person. I don’t like that you’ve been paid to be here and that you have no choice in the matter. I don’t like that idea that you’re only doing this because you have to.”
“Who says I have no choice in the matter?” Smokescreen asked. “I could get up and leave at any time I like. This is a job, just like any other. It has its good parts and bad. Usually the good outweighs the bad, and unlike some jobs, I actually get to choose what I do. And who I do it with. I can turn down any client, so long as I have cause, and I have my nope list clearly defined in my contract. And I can change it if someone suggests something new that I’m not comfortable with.” His doors fluttered against his back slightly. “So you don’t need to worry that I’m being coerced or something.”
“Okay,” Ratchet said, tone thoughtful. “What if you did quit. You gave your notice and left. What then? I mean, I thought you said that the Agency was paying for your education. If you left their employ, what then?”
Again those doors fluttered and Ratchet was now sure it was the equivalent of a shrug.
“I’m indentured to Vespertine Escorts until I pay back the Academy costs, plus a slight interest. If I were to leave, I’d have to complete the payment,” Smokescreen said, in a matter-of-fact way. “I’d need to come up with the remains of my contract or find someone else willing to take on the debt.”
“So, if you left tomorrow?” Ratchet prompted.
Smokescreen’s looked down at their entwined hand and smiled slightly before growing serious again.
“I was cold built to be a tactician. If push came to shove I’d go back to Praxus. They’d take me back and pay off the remaining debt, no questions asked. Of course, it would come with its own price. I’d need to drop out of the Academy and join the Tactical Planning Unit as an intern, unpaid until I had worked off the new debt to the Praxian Government. There’d be no interest attached to the cost and I’d have a place to live and rations to live off of. In all honesty, I think the Praxian Ruling Council would be thrilled to have me back for that exact reason. They’re still very much into Functionism, and my failure would prove them right. I’d be made a pariah and the perfect lesson to all the younglings thinking of defying the One True Order.”
Smokescreen sat up ramrod straight, suddenly severe and serious. “Thou shalt not defy either Form or Function. It is neither our way nor the way of the Founders themselves,” he said in a deep voice, imitating the teachings drummed into every Praxian’s processor at first activation. As soon as he was done, his posture flowed back back to something far more casual and relaxed and his voice returned to its normal flirty tones. “Yeah, it’s not much of a choice, but it is one. Actually one of seven possible choices, though the others are all pretty much too awful to contemplate on such a lovely night and in such wonderful company.”
Ratchet looked down at their entwined hands for a long moment before speaking again.
“That doesn’t sound like much of a choice to me. And I’m not sure that it makes me any more comfortable with all of this.”
Smokescreen cleared his vents in a soft, barely audible sigh. He let go of Ratchet’s hand, stood, and with a fluid grace, he moved to the other side of the table, easily slipping into the medic’s lap.
“I am choosing to be here, Ratchet,” Smokescreen said, gently. “I was offered this contract and after looking into it and you, I chose to be here. You seem like a nice mech and this seemed like a very nice evening. Yes, the contact specifically requested a Praxian or other winged model, but we have several flyers on staff who could have taken it if I didn’t like the deal. And just like earlier tonight, you can dismiss me at any time you want. If you’re really that uncomfortable with me being on the clock, so to speak.”
With that Smokescreen placed a chaste kiss to Ratchet’s lips.
“If I were to dismiss you right now, what would you do?” Ratchet asked, his voice barely above a whisper and his optics dim.
“You have to dismiss me to find out for sure,” Smokescreen said, then the smile faded and he shook his head. “Look, no more games, okay? Yes, I’ve been paid to be here, but that doesn’t mean that I’m not enjoying myself. I like you, Ratchet. You seem like a really nice mech, and yes, I think that we could become good friends in the right circumstances. Would I have gone on this date if my contract hadn’t been bought? Probably not, but only because the chances of us meeting is pretty slim under any other circumstances. I mean, how often do surgical residents hang out with psychology students? I think that there’d be a less than two percent chance that we’d ever meet, and even less chance that we’d speak long enough to actually get to the first date stage. But circumstances are what they are. I am greatly enjoying your company, and if you were to chose to dismiss me right now, I’d still choose to stay here with you and continue this really nice, really expensive date we’re having. At least until my next call comes in. Then I’d have to leave.”
“Is that how it works? I dismiss you and you go back onto the roster?” Ratchet asked.
“Pretty much,” Smokescreen said. “As I said back at the apartment, if you’d declined all of this, everyone would have been paid twice.”
“Even you? Or would your agency get paid twice? How does that work exactly?”
Smokescreen rested his arms on Ratchet’s shoulders. “Is that really what you want to discuss right now? I mean, here I am, on your lap, in a soundproof room, more than ready to kiss you again, and you want to know how much I get paid?”
Ratchet’s optics cycled for a moment before he smiled, a cute, embarrassed little smile.
“You’re right. Silly of me.” Without wasting another moment, Ratchet kissed Smokescreen. Though chaste at first, it didn’t remain that way for long.
Chapter 3