Chapter 3 - Domesticon

''Stop blaming yourself.'' Raid said calmly, casting a sidewards glance over at Deadmetal, who was leaning against the roughly carved stone wall.
The transformed Apache and tank were stood in the remains of the intel room on what was left of their ship. Metallic green fingers skittered across the control panel almost mindlessly, typing in codes and directions, things that went beyond Deadmetal's knowledge.
''We will locate Carjack and that micro chip, so stop worrying before you frazzle your circuits.'' Raid added, glancing at an image that appeared on the main screen, then cast it aside, burying it beneath a whole lot more data images. ''Go see Flashpoint and have your shoulder seen to.''
''My shoulder doesn't need anymore work doing to it. It's perfectly fine.''
''No it isn't. The quick fix you performed is comming undone. Quite literally. So go see Flashpoint.''
Deadmetal made a face and Raid gave a slight glare.
''That's an order.'' He stated flatly.

Deadmetal turned and made his way out of the room, trying his hardest not to stalk away. This week had been a bad one. An important, lethal piece of technology had been stolen by the enemy, the Space Bridge had been destroyed and just the other day, the governments of the world had announced a fuel dry-up. There was no fuel left, and what little was left, was given to the armed forces, in a hope that it would provide one last ditch attempt at ending a centuries long war. So far, even with monitoring the military channels, nothing seemed to be changing. No new plans were being made, no new strategies being unveiled. Though these things weren't discussed over the airwaves in any shape or form, it wasn't just the Decepticons who had tiny spies all over the place. The Autobots did too, a handfull of tiny Insectibots having infiltrated many army bases world wide to keep a constant tabs on the goings on in the Human's own war, searching for a possible Decepticon tendril. A silvery door slid to one side with a squeeking groan and bright light flooded the corridoor. Flashpoint, the team's medic sat at a far countertop, tinkering with a small mechanical device. A small, electronic squeek swiftly followed by a flurry of small wings. He'd been working on that Insectibot all day, and having getting the tiny spy back online again after it's run in with a fly zapper, was a small victory, as even for the mechanical organisms, supplies were running low.

Flashpoint looked over his shoulder then spun around on his stool, a grin forming on his mechanical features as he rose, the tiny tools he'd used to repair the Insectibot still gently gripped in his bulky but nimble fingers.
''I've been wondering when you'd stop by to see me, Dee.'' He said.
''I'm just here on boss' orders. Think you could patch us up?'' Deadmetal said.
''On the table.'' Flashpoint replied.
Deadmetal looked at the flat surface and tried counting the times he'd landed on there. Or been dropped on there by his comrades... One too many times he'd decided. Either way, he obeyed, not wanting to ruin his friend's mood with his own. Flashpoint put down the small tools and picked up another, long hook-like tool. The gently curved hook end was lowered into the mechanical wound, pushing loose wires to one side so that Flashpoint could get a better look and see how deep the cut reached. Deadmetal stared at the opposite wall, ignoring the probing, something he'd learned to do many, many years ago. A slight tut and Flashpoint withdrew, putting the hook down on the table beside Deadmetal.
''How bad is it, doc-bot?'' He asked, trying to make his mood more upbeat.
Flashpoint shrugged helplessly.
''Flash....?'' Deadmetal prompted slowly.
''Admittedly, it's deeper than I first expected, but it's nothing compared to having to weld your arms and rotar blades back on.'' A small smile and Deadmetal gave a low, growling murmer. ''And you call me that again, and I'll have to amputate and use that arm of yours for spare parts...''


The washing machine sat, squat, plain and inconspicuouse beneath the sideboard of the Ferman's kitchen. At the crowded kitchen table, George Ferman sat, a bottle of whisky in one paw, a glass in the other. His knuckles were almost raw, having worn the fine brown fur down, by either taking his stress out on his wife or children, or just by simply smashing the balled up paw into the nearest available object, sometimes it being the washing machine, as evident by the dents and scuff marks on it's ordinary, harmless white surface. Washing machines had feelings too. Admittedly, it was only this particular washing machine that had feelings, and even those were limited. It could see, sense it's surroundings, hear and even register when it was being hit by something. A brightly coloured children's ball, a plastic arrow with a red sucker pad on it's tip, a chair leg, even a foot. And being restricted to only having a few hours alone, made it all the more difficult to hammer out those dents, and cover up those scrapes. The only one who was kind enough to the machine was the woman. Although it may have been because it was the only washing machine they could afford, and one that had survived six years of abuse by being used everyday, she still made sure it was still in good condition. Healthy, one might say...

Right now, George was slowly losing out to fatigue and alcohol, his head dipping forward every now and then, eye lids drooping and the occasional yawn being stifled. Although it was not in the nature of any Decepticon to grow attatched to a fleshling, let alone to even deem one worthy of protection, the machine that sat beneath the relative shelter of the side board couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret deep within his circuitry towards the children, especially the woman, a fleshling seemingly hellbent on keeping the machine in good condition, scoffing at any mentions of sending it to the scrap yard. George looked around fuzzily, his groggy gaze finally settling upon the washing machine. He squinted hard at it, trying to keep it from sprouting legs and rearranging it's panels and door and water pipes...

He pulled himself upright, bracing himself against the table as his knees suddenly turned into jelly, his matted tail twitching behind him as he watched the much abused washing machine scrabble out seemingly elegantly from beneath the side board. George's eyes went wide, again, trying hard to focus as the machine brought itself upright out of it's Dinosaur hunched-like stance. Now standing at six foot, the Decepticon looked about. It'd been a while since he'd seen the backyard, or even the kitchen from this high up. Then his attention turned back to George, red eyes narrowing menacingly as he took a step toward the Fox.
''Wha...? Th' fook're yoo?'' He slurred angrily.
''Poor little fleshling...'' The washing machine hissed as it circled around the table towards him. ''Such meager natural defences you have... It'll be easy shredding the flesh from your bones!''
George let out a sharp gasp and fell over backwards onto a clothes horse, sending it, along with it's burden of damp materials down to the thinly carpeted floor, in turn knocking the vacuum cleaner over sideways causing it to slam into a small, one legged table that bore a small burden of it's own; a vase of flowers, which shattered upon impact on the living floor. So much racket in the dead of night, accompanied by George's strangled yelp as he tried scooting backwards into the living room, his progress of escape being hindered by the mess he'd made of the clothes horse and the table with it's vase.
''Not feeling so tough now, are you bone bag?!'' The Decepticon snarled and lept effortlessly over the felled kitchen chair that the Fox once occupied and leaned over him, piercing red lenses staring down into George's soul.

Or at least that's what it felt like the machine was doing. A spindly, lightly armoured arm shot up, hovering infront of George's muzzle. The Fox watched, tail firmly planted between his legs as a series of long, thin spikes flicked outwards.
''Oh my God!'' George excalimed and jerked his head to one side as the spikes came down at him. ''Help! The washing machine's gonna kill me!'' He wailed and wriggled free of the tangled mess, suddenly feeling extremely sober, and unbelievably terrified.
He darted across the living room and swung up the stairs, colliding with his wife and kids, felling them on the stair case.
''What the hell is going on down here? It's three am!'' She growled angrily.
The children backed up a few steps, but George's wife held firm, knowing that not even her abusive husband could deterre her from a hard earned sleep.
''You better have a damned good explanation for this!'' She snapped, towering over the cowering and shocked Fox.
For the moment, the memory of the washing machine transforming before his eyes vanished in the midst of the sudden role reversal that stood fuming before him.
''The... The washing machine....'' He mumbled, eyes wide as he looked up at the plump, sleep deprived Vixen.
''What have you done to my washing machine?!''
A moment of silence, the role reversal still in play.
''It tried to kill me! I swear on my mother's grave!'' He wailed, a finger pointing down at the bottom of the stairs.
''Your mother ain't dead yet, so don't try that one on me again!'' She snapped and pushed past him, making her way down the stairs in all her sleep bedraggled fury.

A quick electronic sounding snigger and the washing machine Decepticon spun on it's alien alloyed heel and skittered silently back across the white linoleum surface and slid back into place beneath the sideboard, the final panels sliding back into place just as she strode into the room. Four sets of green eyes scanned the room. If they were alien robot issue eyes, then they'd have picked up on the washing machine that the children called Vox; an entirely fitting name due to it's origin, although not the Decepticon's true designation. She strode over to the machine, glared at it, then glared back at the near empty bottle of whisky sat on the table top then at her husband and back at the washing machine again. She gave it a nudge with a slipper clad foot and said, rather aptly;
''Are you alive, Mr. Washing Machine?''
No answer. Another nudge with a slipper clad foot and still no reaction from the machine. She spun on her heel, making both her children and her drunken husband flinch back.
''Help, help, the washing machine is trying to kill me!'' She mused angrily in her sleep deprived state. ''Now hear this, George. The next time you raise a paw to my kids, I will spread that one like wild fire.'' She growled.
The twins gave small grins, a small prayer going out to their god of choice that the threat would be enough to stave off any fresh bruises for a while. He was a proud business man, and his remaining clients would quite happily sit back and listen to stories about how their boss and advisor had discovered his newly found fear of washing machines. George swallowed hard, weighing the effects in his head and mumbled;
''I'll sleep on the couch tonight...''
She knew she'd feel for it when the new day got off to a proper start, but she couldn't help it...
''Good. There's an old walking stick in the cupboard beneath the stairs should the need arise to defend yourself against any rogue household appliances.'' She sniffed and shepperded her children back to bed, leaving George in the wake of a horrible hallucination.


Carjack wound around the bends of a country road that lay hidden on the outskirts of a town. So far, he was disappointed to hear no sounds of any ongoing wars.
Pity... He thought to himself and turned back onto a main road, his cloned engine growling softly at a traffic light that had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He slowly approached it, having very little concept of it's meaning. Sure, he'd come across traffic lights before. Earth seemed to be riddled with the damnable things, stopping the flow of traffic when you least wanted, hindering your progress, especially if you'd been ordered onto an incognito job, that recquired the use of four wheels only and no smashing up anything that got your way. Which meant obeying the law. To a certain extent, of course. He boosted his scanners and sensors to their limits, scanning the surrounding streets and air above. No sign of any road-bound vehicle, the only air-bound vehicle being a passenger plane. And so, with the lights on red ahead of him, he didn't give his wheels a chance to stop rolling, instead speeding up and racing through the lights. Admittedly, he had no idea where he was going, or what his destination was. Then the saner part of his mind kicked in. Find a place to rest. Re-charge and have a good think about his next move. It was either that or the car pound.

The various coloured traffic lights became a blur as the heavy 4x4 slid effortlessly around corners, a feat that shouldn't be able to be accomplished in such a machine. Carjack continued his search for a decent place to stay overnight, finding only one or two spaces free, and it being sod's-law that they were too narrow for him to fit in. With a grumble he set off for the outskirts, navigating the many roads that snaked between housing estates. On his way past one particular house though, a familiar insignia flashed up on his sensors. A Decepticon insignia. He slowed down and pried further. No contact was made, all communications to this 'bot had been cut off on purpose. Carjack continued on by, promising to come back later and investigate further.

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