"Full Service": A Kiss-Play fanfic starring Skids

Discussion in 'Transformers Fan Fiction' started by Autobus Prime, Sep 2, 2006.

  1. Autobus Prime

    Autobus Prime Transit Former

    Jun 7, 2005
    Trophy Points:
    I might as well post this here...

    :hookday  :hookday  :hookday 

    "Full Service". A Kiss-Play fanfic starring Skids.
    An Autobus Prime joint.


    In a certain part of Kansas, at a certain time of year, a landscape of
    alien beauty appears: vast fields of blooming, yellow sunflowers. It
    was on a day like this that one soldier in an incomprehensible war
    found himself traveling through it, on a road as straight as a rifle
    shot, and was moved to sentimental thoughts.

    He thought of his Charlene -- small, graceful, and pretty. He thought
    of her playful voice and adventurous ways, and of her soft, caressing
    hands, and...


    The soldier named Skids quickly returned to the road with a small
    squeal, leaving
    a black patch of tire tread on the opposing lane. An angry trucker
    blasted his horn in anger before his log-laden Kenworld swept by the
    errant car, still swaying from the sudden swerve. His CB crackled as
    he picked it up to complain to his convoy-mate behind him.

    "DAMN IT! Did you see that, Pig Pen? -- No? DAMN woman was sleeping at
    the wheel! I saw her with my own bloodshot baby blues. -- One of them
    little Japanese cars that looks like a toaster."

    In the little toaster-like car, the woman, now suddenly and thoroughly
    awake, fumbled with shaky hands for her cigarettes.

    "Can't you keep your mind on the road, Skids?" she asked the car of
    which she was the lone occupant.

    "Sorry!" came a voice from the radio, cutting into an old Brick
    Springhorn song. "I don't know what came over me."

    "I do. You were thinking about HER again, about Charlene."

    "Well -- I was. Yes, Vicky, I was."

    Vicky took both hands off the wheel and let Skids steer again while she
    lit her cancer stick. Stupid Commies didn't put cigarette lighters in
    cars any more. After a while she laid her hand on the windowsill and
    let the smoke trail out the window. She couldn't really blame Skids
    for his daydreams, though she'd never admit as much to the Autobot.
    Vicky had dreams of her own. She had a dream that one day her temper
    would rise up, overcome her good sense, and allow her to kick the
    ever-lovin' silicone out of that little surfer-tramp, Melissa

    There was scarcely a cell in Victoria Boulger's body that didn't bear
    some grudge against that little hussy, ever since the day her jealous
    eyes caught Bill Boulger in mid-ogle. She had made him one sorry
    husband for a few days. Though that was all smoothed over now, Vicky
    still hated Melissa. Bill was only the first reason of many.

    The little bitch! She looked young for her age, Melissa did. In fact,
    one of her (many) boyfriends had been arrested, jailed, and run into
    some unpleasantness with his cellmate before it transpired that his
    seeming statutory victim was actually of consenting age, and consenting
    inclinations. All too many consenting inclinations,
    the little bitch. That was an embarrassing day for the justice system,

    Of course, the worst part of it all was that Ms Fairborne was Vicky's
    superior officer...

    A sudden WHUMP startled the woman from her angry musings. She dropped
    her cigarette, and it got sucked out the window, tumbling down the road
    like a tiny meteor.

    "Jinchokon", spoke the radio, between verses of "Dancing in the Night"

    "Groundhog," corrected Vicky.

    "What?" asked Skids, puzzled.

    "Not Jinchokon, whatever that means."

    "Exactly!" said Skids. Now Vicky was puzzled.

    "I heard about it yesterday from Wheeljack, who said he heard it from
    Prime. It's supposedly how this kiss-and-play business works. He
    thinks it's a crock of slag.
    Those were his exact words, actually, 'a crock of slag'."

    "Kiss-Play is a crock of slag? I couldn't agree more. "

    "No, Jinchokon is. I do not think it necessary to posit a new form of
    energy to explain every phenomenon, no matter how unusual..."

    Skids was getting pedantic again, Vicky noted.

    Hours later, on an equally straight road, but without the sunflowers,
    Brick Springhorn was still not back. Vicky had one cigarette left and
    she intended to keep it in reserve. She knew just what she had to do.

    "This is all very well, Skids," she said, interrupting yet another
    theory as pleasantly as she could manage. "but it worked last time, so
    maybe we shouldn't worry so much about the how and why of it."

    "Well, that may be so. Ah...and speaking of last time..."


    "Of course."

    Instantly silenced, Skids allowed Brick Springhorn to resume his New
    York City ballads. Of Skids' several obsessions, this was by far the
    easiest for Vicky to tolerate. She settled comfortably into the seat,
    but got very little rest before she was distracted by a small, blue
    sign which flashed quickly by.

    "Gas," she said, repeating the sign's silent proclamation. "We'd
    better stop and fill up, Skids. There aren't many stations around


    The station was small and strangely isolated, with a bright, bold sign
    advertising "Super Gasoline Z-1".

    "This off-brand crud makes my fuel convertors ache," grumbled Skids.
    "We're not supposed to break cover, Vicky, so you'll have to start the
    pump. Oh, and could you --"

    "I am not washing your windows."

    "--No! Of course not." Skids' silly flame decals suddenly seemed redder
    than usual. "I was going to ask you to go in and pay. The Autobots
    only have an account at Blackrock stations. I'll see that Swerve cuts
    you a check."

    "Very well."

    The pump began its all-too-rapid ticking, and Vicky gazed around at the
    wide grazing lands around them. They were in the loneliest parts of
    Kansas now, those vast spaces which were almost reminiscent of the Old
    West. She turned to view the accumulating wallet devastation, and the
    prominent 'NO SMOKING' sign reminded her of a certain urge. Jamming
    Skids' gas cap under the pump handle, she walked towards the tiny
    building that held the filling station's store and repair garage.

    A bell jangled as she walked in. "Whoaaaaaa, customer. Awwwriiight!"
    said a voice. It seemed to come from an assembly of tie-dyed fabric
    and facial hair behind the counter.
    It wore a rather unkempt uniform cap and name tag, and one had to
    assume it was human, from the rather bloodshot eyes that gleamed in its
    probable face behind a set of blue sunglasses. They gazed at the
    newcomer in what may have been rapt attention or complete unawareness.

    "Uh...hi," said Vicky, walking to the counter. The clerk's stare was
    disconcerting. Vicky was in her late 20s, and built like a brick house
    -- triple brick, American bond, with steel beams and tie rods
    throughout. Her daddy had had five daughters and a herd of Holsteins
    to manage, and it had all gone very well. Vicky herself could fill up
    two 5-gallon buckets of water and hold them out at arm's length -- but
    she was no hulking mass of muscle. She was well-proportioned and quite
    good-looking in a locomotive way,
    and sometimes the attention this brought was almost welcome, but it was
    always irritating. She shrugged off the annoyance. There was business
    to be done.
    "I'd like two packs of Lucky Shot non-filters, please."

    Outside, Skids was listening to a few birds chirping, when he became
    aware of a strange sensation. He felt oddly violated, and as he
    considered the source of his feeling he realized it was coming from his
    fuel tank. Try as he might, he could find no reasonable explanation
    for it, but he had an odd suspicion. He listened carefully and heard
    no traffic. The clerk was a problem, but the brass would have to deal
    with it.

    With a whir of gears and clanking of joints, Skids' Japanese-built body
    shifted rapidly to robot mode. Seizing the gas filler, he yanked it
    out, and watched grimly as a small siphon tube and some
    micro-manipulators withdrew into the nozzle. The Autobot reached up,
    doffed a peculiar hat, and unfolded it into a small pistol. "Vicky!"
    he called to his partner, who was already running across the parking

    "WHAT the hell do you think you're doing?" she began, but could get no
    more out before Skids swept her up in his left arm, quickly retreating
    to the road, keeping his pistol pointed toward the gas station. No
    answer was offered, nor needed, as the station apparently began to
    collapse. Through the picture window, Vicky saw the holographic clerk
    blur and vanish, and soon there was no gas station, but a tower flanked
    by armored pillboxes, bristling with guns. A gray pickup truck with
    oversized mud tires that had been parked in the back drove around and
    transformed into a visor-eyed robot with a Decepticon symbol and enough
    garish yellow and purple to make Tracks blind. The Decepticon was
    about half Skids' height, and had a particularly unpleasing smile.

    Skids knew this small scoundrel, though Vicky didn't. "Greasepit," he
    said, by way of explanation.

    Skids didn't like Micromasters terribly well. He only knew a few like
    Fixit who didn't have very unpleasant personalities and no respect for
    authority. This he attributed to what the humans termed a 'Napoleon

    "Well, well. I'll be cross-threaded if I ain't caught you in the very
    act, Skids. I thought you'd given up the squishies." Greasepit leered
    at Vicky.

    "Save the pleasantries for your prison buddies, Greasepit. You're
    under arrest."

    "Arrest? Ha. Pardon me while I start up the base." Greasepit made a
    dash for his armored control pod, while a round from Skids' handgun
    skipped over the pavement behind him. He made it, and the transformed
    gas station began to vibrate ominously. Perched on Skids' left arm,
    Vicky silently swore. Skids was a lousy shot even on the target range.

    "Now lessee," announced Greasepit, "Do you wanna be fried by my ionic
    cannons, smashed by sound waves, burnt up by incendiary missiles, or
    should I just scramble yer circuits?"

    Skids' human partner began to get nervous, and wondered if she should
    try to find some cover, and if such cover could be obtained anywhere in
    the Kansas plains. She looked at the Autobot, and noticed to her shock
    that he was smiling a little. Then he began to chuckle softly, and to

    "Ionic cannons, Greasepit?" he gasped, his optic actuators leaking a
    little hydraulic fluid. "Sonic blasters? Don't you tell everybody
    that an engine is no better than the fuel that runs it? Well, what are
    you going to tell Ratbat when you burn up a month's worth of stolen
    energy with one cannon shot?"

    Greasepit looked uncomfortable, then angry. "Missiles are cheap to

    "Incendiary missiles, at this close range, with perhaps 10000 gallons
    of highly flammable stolen hydrocarbons near at hand? I'll see you in
    the Pit!"

    Greasepit only scowled, and Skids laughed all the harder. Suddenly
    Skids' arm darted to his face. There was a bright flash and a loud,
    cracking report. The Autobot's head was saved, but his pistol fell
    uselessly from his mangled and burned right hand.

    "Yer reflexes are good for a desk jockey," growled Greasepit, smoke and
    heat-waves rising from a standard-issue laser pistol in the
    Micromaster's hand. "They won't save you from the next one. I think
    I'll sell yer carcass to the Junkions. Don't know what I'll do with
    the fleshling, though. Maybe she can run the store. "

    Skids made no answer. He groaned in anguish, hydraulic oil and coolant
    dripping from his mutilated arm. The theoretician had never had a good
    tolerance for pain. Vicky, however, had not been idle, and had
    suddenly come up with a plan. "WAIT!" she yelled,
    as Greasepit aimed his gun squarely at Skids' chest.

    "What the Pit --?"

    "Please! Let me kiss my boyfriend --" Ugh. But she had to keep going
    "-- before you kill him. Just one kiss!"

    Now it was the Micromaster's turn to laugh, and he laughed hard. "Your
    what?" He couldn't say it. It was too much. "So you're into this
    whole twisted techno-organic thing that Skids has going on! Oh, you
    kiss him all right. You kiss him good. Heck, maybe you can even kiss
    me when he's not around for ya!" He reached down and fumbled through
    the miscellany of trash on his base's control panel. "I got a camera
    around here somewhere. The Constructicons have got to see this."

    Balancing on Skids' arm, Vicky stood on tiptoe and reached out, placing
    her hands on her partners neck-plating. Skids looked up with dull,
    pain-filled optics, but managed a smile. Then they kissed.

    First there was a flash from Greasepit's disposable camera.

    Then there was a flash from a twin electron blaster that had suddenly
    erupted from the left arm of an Autobot's auto-maker-fabricated body.

    Greasepit hit the ground like a sack of malfunctioning toasters, smoke
    eddying from his overloaded circuits, every safety trip tripped and
    every fuse blown, a good week's work for Decepticon maintenance.


    The sun was setting as a little toaster-like car with an
    industrial-grade woman at the wheel rolled across the Colorado line.
    In its back seat were cases of cigarettes, motor oil, and light
    refreshments. Skids' gas tank was brimming with super-premium
    Brick Springhorn was on the radio. The Autobot was handling the
    driving, while Vicky had her dinner: a plastic-wrapped ham salad
    sandwich and a somewhat warm diet cola.

    "You know, Skids, Greasepit keeps a pretty good store, even if he is a
    "small-minded swindler", as Prowl said."

    "He may, but I can't say as much for his gasoline," replied the
    Autobot. "I'm going to need a few cans of injector cleaner after this
    blend of slop and water."

    "How's your arm?"

    "The pain-control programs helped, and thank you for patching it up so
    well. I'm sure Wheeljack will be able to repair it perfectly when we

    Finishing her sandwich, Vicky retrieved a strip of beef jerky from the
    back seat, bit off a chunk, and chewed thoughtfully for a while.

    "Well, we won," she said. "But that kiss -- Bill's got no need to be
    jealous, that's for sure."

    "Nor does Charlene," said Skids.

    They didn't speak to each other until Colorado Springs.

    THE END.

    :hookday  :hookday  :hookday 
  2. KA


    Jul 23, 2003
    News Credits:
    Trophy Points:
    hey cool! i love all the little references to the g1 comics.



    no really, i seriously like it.


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