Chapter Text
Revolutionary anthems echoed over the black-market channels. In Kaon and Helex, it was said, the Decepticon movement—whatever that was—was thundering through the halls of power—
Day and night, the foundries roared. Into the vast maws of the smelters vanished the debris of warfare: blasted-apart hunter-seeker skyships; rent panels from shot-down troop transports; twisted lumps of slag about which none dared speculate.
And whispers about the Rodion Irregular salted the Grid. Breakdown tuned into the public channels, running a hopeless search for Knock Out’s designation—
Ratbat and Halogen bet millions on the Irregular every stellar cycle. No, Ratbat owns the whole thing—no, no, every Shanix goes straight to Megatronus, and every bet you place funds a fanatic bomber in Tesarus—
Deadheat’s the favorite to win. Everyone says so.
No. The little Velocitronian’s going to take it this stellar cycle.
They were both the Velocitronian , then. Breakdown’s engine turned over at that; he pressed a hand to his breastplate, feeling the dull thrum of his Spark. A ghostly connection. An inheritance they couldn’t outrun.
Come back , Breakdown pinged Knock Out one still night. For me.
The reply came the next morning, too little and too late: After I win, big boy.
The first words they’d exchanged since the night of the Science Academy gala; for the better part of a quartex, Knock Out had not come home.
Smog-tinted sunlight trickled through the narrow window. Half-awake, Breakdown reached for Knock Out, who wasn’t there—
He would not, he told himself, pine for Knock Out.
In the graffiti-stained alleyways of Lower Iacon, where old oil and spilt Energon mingled with powdered glass, Breakdown smashed knee-joints. Dissidents and enforcers alike he beat into scrap.
His lobbing partner was dragged from her habsuite in the dead of night. For solar cycles Breakdown searched for her (or for her killer). All trails led, in the end, to nothing.
There was little time to waste on the dead; life was to be savored. Breakdown drank heartily: bootlegged Visco that tasted of brake-fluid; smuggled Tarnian sweet-crude; cheap moonshine that made his circuits fizz.
“My used oil tastes better than this,” he rumbled with a laugh. “You cooking this up in the back room, or what?”
And the barmech’s brows rose. He’d lost an optic in the Steel Riots the quartex before. With a cheaply-welded patch he looked pathetic. “Can’t get real stuff for love nor money—”
Love Breakdown had little of; money flowed freely enough. “I could hook you up. Just say the word.”
The barmech looked queasy in the glassy green light. “More than my life’s worth to be caught with it.”
For the Council was cracking down on thieves and thugs.
Breakdown had never cared much for laws. Nightly he stuffed his belly with diverted oil, with zinc-cubes stolen from some bourgeois table, with smuggled relief rations, until the weight of his tanks staggered him. Belching and gurgling, he slipped into drunken recharge.
“You know how I got this fat?” he rasped, pinning a Council enforcer to the stinking ground. Breakdown settled forward, letting his gut spill over the femme’s pigeon chest. “You feel it? Feels good, huh?”
The enforcer twitched beneath him; his mesh rippled, his belly bouncing softly. Her faceplate, wet with street-grime and lit by Breakdown’s yellow biolights, contorted in disgust. “Do you have any idea what’s going on down South?”
Breakdown laughed it off. Let himself sink down until both their rivets whined, until his mesh covered her like a heavy blanket. (She squirmed; with every squirm his paunch jiggled.) “Grew this thing eating whatever I wanted. Just about everything.”
He smacked his belly sharply, savoring the thud. “Maybe I’ll eat you too.”
In the end, laughing, he let her go. “You don’t,” he purred in her audial, “have a cell big enough for me.”
City’s going to the smelting pits . In the airless dark of his berth he pinged Knock Out. Having the time of my life. Miss me?
For long cycles Knock Out did not reply.
He’d left the door open; in an Iacon heat wave his weight was, he was discovering, stifling. The moonlight, tinted pink by smog, pooled on the worn floor. Breakdown watched the low flicker of the foundry smelters on the horizon, taking a drag on his cy-garette. (Another luxury. He’d broken an arm for a box.)
Send a picture, chubs . The reply came so late he wondered if it’d been an afterthought. I’ll sign it for you.
But though Knock Out had grown icy in the sweltering heat, there were others.
“Can I—” And the artisan-caste traced an awkward circle in midair.
In the artisan’s bronze armor, in the eager optics of his friends, Breakdown saw his lazy smile reflected. His cheeks were getting round, he noticed with a swell of pride. “Sure. Give it a good rub. For luck.”
He was punch-drunk still, and the dusty light streaming through the warehouse rafters made his optics throb. Breakdown rubbed a dent with his knuckle-stud, grunting at the ache. (Knock Out would’ve fixed it—but no, he would not think of Knock Out.)
The artisan’s hands hovered, as if afraid, over his belly. The laborer behind him stepped forward, a question in his stare.
“C’mon,” grunted Breakdown, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back. “There’s enough of me for everybody.”
He’d have dreaded this once. An odd, foreign thought. Their hands kneaded his armor-plates, the vast mound of mesh beneath quaking with every touch. Every rub seemed to find tension in the deepest cables, smoothing it away. Soothing bubbling tanks. Breakdown’s vocoder buzzed with satisfaction; he let his optics shutter. After a klik, he hiccuped.
“Can I buy you a drink?” blurted the artisan, a tingling quaver in his voice. “I’m a big fan—”
And for a moment Breakdown considered it.
“Sorry.” It sounded honest. Regretful. “I’m Conjugated."
He would, he supposed, survive without Knock Out. For millennia he’d been Knock Out’s shadow, always a step behind; yet here he was, and here Knock Out wasn’t, and the universe seemed not to care.
Come back when you’re ready, he muttered over their encrypted frequency. You know I’m your biggest fan.
The credit-chip glinted, its finish still scarred where it’d been jailbroken. Diabla turned it over in her palm, her lacquered lips pursed. “Just where’d you get ten thousand shanix, fat boy?”
He’d mugged a weight-loss surgeon. One of Knock Out’s preceptors, perhaps.
“I took it outta my food budget.”
Laughter ran like an electrical current round the dingy taproom. Diabla grimaced. She still, Breakdown noted with a tinge of pride, moved gingerly. A bookie now, not a hired killer.
“Put it all on Knock Out of Delta,” growled Breakdown, and the laughter died as if the circuit had been broken.
As he left the foundry that night, reeking of petcoke, the ping hit him: Bought us two tickets to Rodion. Traveling in style . Third-class. Don’t want to wear down my designer tires before the race.
And then, before he could respond: Still with me, Breakdown?
For a moment he hesitated. The foundry’s smelters belched white smoke, lighting the night a foul yellow; Breakdown leaned on the gate, feeling the rumble down to his struts.
Been meaning to see Rodion , he subvocalized at last. And I’m not driving. Alt’s too small.
In the bathhouse’s cracked mirrors, through a haze of steam, he admired his reflection. He was wider at the waist than the shoulder. (At last.) At his flanks his armor strained, his stress-marks rough and pale, around thick folds of tender mesh. He’d developed a swaggering waddle, his thighs squeaking past each other. His arms swung now to steady him. The whole world seemed to tremble with every step he took, as if in fear.
But his belly dwarfed all else. It jutted menacingly before him, its leaden tonnage steering him. In front of the mirror he slipped a hand beneath it, jiggling it, grunting at its heft. Yet for all its brute weight it was exquisitely soft.
Funny. He’d gone soft in the gut and hard in the Spark.
“Keep this up,” he muttered to himself with a broad grin, “Knock Out’s not gonna recognize you.”
For just a moment, unexpectedly, his Spark guttered in his breast.
In the looming shadow of the transport skyship, Knock Out looked diminished: his outline was almost lost in the gathering smog.
At the sound of Breakdown’s footsteps, he whirled. “Well, well, well. Shock of the millennium. Who ordered the arm candy?”
The skydocks reeked of oil and hot rubber, and the shouts of dockworkers echoed through the settling gloom. A handful of dingy travelers drifted in knots across the dock; the public channel prickled with strange accents. In his softly-gleaming armor, Knock Out might have been lost—
—but of course, he was as poor and hungry as the rest. A political exile . A refugee from a cold and glittering world, a city of abundance where even the rich starved—
He was lost, then. In a sense.
“Missed you too,” growled Breakdown, meaning it.
“Had to go. I bet ten thousand shanix on you, Knock Out.”
The cheapest berths abutted the engine room, and the cabin hummed and crackled with excess charge. A shallow bunk tucked into a wall; a porthole ashy and slick with filthy condensation; a sputtering cooling-fan set into the ceiling; and Knock Out.
“Could’ve paid for a faster ship,” said Knock Out, scrolling through his datapad. In its reflected glow he looked drawn; shadows gathered in the hollows of his cheeks. And then, optics widening hungrily: “Ten thousand shanix?”
Breakdown settled into the bunk. It creaked beneath him. “You gonna earn it back?”
Implicit in it: You look sick.
The fan hissed and spat. They were passing over Translucentica Heights, its glow tinting the porthole-glass pink.
“Naturally,” said Knock Out. And then: “Next solar cycle, Breakdown, I’ll be an aero resident in Vos. One of the jet set.” At his own joke he snickered. (A trace of the old Knock Out.) “We’ll ride in style. ”
We. As if all that had come between them was some forgettable squall. As if Knock Out had forgiven him—or the reverse.
For a moment Breakdown allowed himself a hot pang of annoyance. “Don’t get cocky.” He hauled himself closer with a grunt. The close air prickled and buzzed, and Breakdown’s veneer tingled; he blinked away the glow of the datapad. A flicker of apprehension—and then his heavy arm was around Knock Out’s waist—
Knock Out leaned into him, hydraulics sighing. “Mmm. Built for comfort.” His voice was deceptively rich. In his breast Breakdown could almost hear the thrum of a frantic Spark.
Roughly Breakdown reached for the datapad, jabbing a finger at the cramped text. “You working hard?”
“Hardly working,” said Knock Out, and he nuzzled close. “It’s practically insulting. P-nuts. Have it down cold.”
But his voice told the truth. Breakdown’s motor revved; he gritted his teeth—
Outside the porthole, the world rolled by: towering aqueducts, lit sickeningly green from within; crevasses through which the wind wailed. The berth rumbled, the ship’s vast engine lulling them.
“I’m working the paint off my struts,” said Knock Out, in a different voice, a raw and weary voice. In the poisonous light of the aqueducts, his faceplate was almost translucent. Ghostly. “But what can I say? The track loves me. Breaking up is so hard to do.”
It hung in the air for too long.
Breakdown tugged the datapad from Knock Out’s unresisting hand. “ Talk to me. ” He’d meant to snarl; yet there was a plea in it. The datapad hummed, tiny in his palm. Diagrams flashed up: a dissected chest, so clean and neat in an ink drawing; a body shot through with lines showing (and Breakdown knew by instinct) where to cut —
“How would you cut me up?” he asked, quiet in his anger. “You wanna be an aero surgeon? Let’s talk anatomy.”
He’d not expected Knock Out to flinch.
Knock Out didn’t, and Breakdown felt a pang at that, all the same. “Mm—a couple snips under the breastplate, one on either hip—” His optics narrowed. From his subspace he produced a stylus. “You really have filled out.”
He uncapped the stylus. It squeaked on Breakdown’s belly-plating.
“We’ve got a saying in medicine, Breakdown.” For the first time that night his smile seemed genuine, lit by some nasty pleasure. (Breakdown shivered. He’d missed that smile.) “Those who indulge, bulge—”
His stylus swooped down, cold and precise, over the huge arc of Breakdown’s belly. Vanished beneath his underbelly. “A nanocycle on the lips, forever on the hips—”
And his stylus ghosted over Breakdown’s hips. Circled the stress-marks where the metal strained, the raw metal where the plates were slipping out of alignment. Knock Out jabbed sharply at a soft roll of mesh at Breakdown’s side; it jiggled. Breakdown let out a low whistle.
(A vicious game, he thought. Winner take all.)
The ship’s engine rumbled like distant thunder; the berth rocked. But Knock Out’s hands were steady—
Surgically so. As if Breakdown were just a body, a cadaver on the slab. As if Breakdown could not feel the tension between them, the crackle building in the air.
“—some of this overhang —” muttered Knock Out. “Look at that tummy. Don’t see one that big and flabby every day.” He slapped it, and a shockwave ran through the mesh; first the sharp sting, and Breakdown’s motor hitched at that, and then the earthquake—
A crackling orange haze crept into Breakdown’s HUD.
Breakdown smirked as the ripples died away. In Knock Out’s breastplate he saw himself reflected, his optics bright and his smile defensive. “You talk to all your patients like that?”
“Only when they’re out cold.” And Knock Out stroked the lower swell of his gut; the plating squeaked. “You know how you got such a fat tummy, don’t you, Breakdown?”
He was slipping into some dark sweltering place, tasting charged copper and ozone—
“Yeah.” He could not keep the smugness from his voice. The defiance came close behind. “I earned it the honest way. Bite by bite.”
Roughly, Knock Out worked slim fingers underneath his gut. Drummed a sharp tattoo on his underbelly. (Breakdown tensed, his pistons clacking.) “Somebody’s awful pleased with himself.” An accusation.
Breakdown’s vocoder reset. A low ugly hunger burned in his chest; he growled, shifting his weight, and his voice was hot as forge-fresh iron. “Believe me. I am.”
The engine roared. They were picking up speed. Outside the porthole, strange waterways sprawled across a blasted landscape. Steam was condensing, rolling off their bodies, blurring the glass. Bending the world in on itself like molten scrap metal, until there was nothing at all but Breakdown and the furnace in his breast and Knock Out’s icy stare—
In the gloom he dazzled, and a data packet flashed bright and vivid in Breakdown’s memory: how painful his first sight of Knock Out had been. How dim the rest of the world had seemed next to such perfection.
And the moment passed, and he was staring at Knock Out, thin and strained as garrotte wire. Knock Out, whose faceplate seemed a death-mask. Knock Out, whom he’d followed from Velocitron to Iacon, from Iacon now to Rodion—Knock Out, whose every word he’d clung to—
“Gaining the weight’s a whole lot more fun than losing it,” said Breakdown with a snort in his voice, more brutal than any curse. “I’m fat and happy, Knock Out. How’s racing working out for you?”
The ship banked, wheeling. They were passing over an industrial platform now, its spires blinking as if in some unreadable code.
Knock Out reeled back, looking ashen and lost.
Breakdown had gone too far. He tasted bitter satisfaction at that.
“You’re changing, Breakdown. Not just the weight.” Knock Out’s laugh was a harsh bark, and his smile dead and forced. “ Mostly the weight. Call it personal growth.” Again the frigid laugh. “What d’you need me for?”
The second time he’d asked. Breakdown wondered if the words had been seared into some surface memory bank, if they’d haunted him.
And this time Breakdown had an answer; it came without thought. “I don’t.” And then: “I could have any cute little spoiler in Iacon, easy—”
“You have ,” said Knock Out, his smile guttering, “turned half the city into chubby chasers. Must be all that confidence.” Some darkness ghosted across his faceplate, something less substantial than the shadows. “Or that dump-truck aft. Might be a hotter number than me .”
There was real pain in it. The ship rolled on the night wind; the berth tilted with a gentle creak, the fan whispering.
“I want you, Knock Out,” said Breakdown, and even in his own audials it sounded tired. “I want you happy.”
“Mm.” The murky lights through the porthole tinted Knock Out’s faceplate a sickly green. His mouth twisted. “Maybe I’ll quit the track. Cultivate some gourmet tastes. Get nice and thick . We’ll be the fattest pair at the surgeons’ gala—”
For a klik Breakdown amused himself, imagining it. His fingers twitched, longing to squeeze lush and pampered metal. “Sounds pretty good to me.”
Knock Out looked stricken. As he tilted his head, the shadows spilled like ink into the deepening hollows of his cheeks. His mini-motors squeaked, as if deprivation had dried up their oil. Even the scent of his fumes was thin and watery.
“Promise me,” said Breakdown. “After the race. You’ll put on a few kilos for me.”
Knock Out took too long to respond; when he spoke, his lips were taut and cold-looking in the glassy light. “Well, naturally. Can’t stay at race weight forever—it’s the Pit itself on the engine.” And then: “The surgeons in Vos know a few techniques, though—imagine, this body metacycle-round—”
Breakdown imagined, and his tanks turned; he tasted something steely and sour. He bit back a curse on all aero surgeons.
“You’re not gonna get to that residency in Vos, the way you’re going,” he said instead, with a gruff laugh. “Yeah, you’re fast. So what?”
Their gazes met. Grimy steam was fogging the window, trickles of condensation drawing patterns that gleamed for an instant and faded.
Knock Out licked his lips, gaze dropping to his talons. “Can’t say I understand the question. What else is there?”
“After the race,” said Breakdown. It was almost a plea. “After you win.”
The words seemed an override code, straight to Knock Out’s kernel: he stiffened, sitting a touch straighter, and a gleaming smirk crept over his drawn features. “After I knock ‘em out of the competition.”
The low wail of the ship’s horn stirred them both from recharge. Through the porthole, Rodion’s towers glowed stark and golden against the encroaching dawn; somewhere far below them thundered a vast waterfall.
They clung to each other for a moment, in the privacy of the cabin.
“Could lie there forever,” said Knock Out with a rakish grin. He’d powered down on Breakdown’s belly, curled into himself. “You’re getting comfortable. All that padding.”
Now he stretched, aglow in the reflected lights of Rodion, and sat up, fumbling around for his datapad. A swell of affection rose in Breakdown’s chest. It might have been a morning like any other: they were online too early, and Knock Out had misplaced something.
“Have to paint my face,” Knock Out added, and the moment died like a quenched flame. “Wouldn’t want to show up at the Irregular looking sick .”
An old racers’ tradition: painting over the damage. From the spectators’ seats, beneath the glare of the stadium lights, all racers glowed with life.
The sun was rising in earnest as they stumbled into the skyport’s tatty canteen. “Uranium shooter for me—” Knock Out scarcely glanced at the menu board. “—and whatever greasy, fuel-line-clogging junk you serve here for him. The works. Money no object.”
Breakdown settled, puffing, into the booth closest to the window. He filled it easily, his belly-plating squeaking against the edge of the table; the booth whined underneath him. “You’re feeling feisty.”
The moment they’d stepped from the skyship, Knock Out had turned as dazzling and cold as his fresh veneer, all vulnerability gone.
Breakdown leaned against the window, rubbing his optics. The skyport was rickety and cramped, and the air thick with damp and dust. Propaganda holovids blinked on every wall. The very sunlight had a faded look, as if exhausted. “So. Ten thousand Shanix. Could pay rent on a real nice habsuite for a quartex or two.”
Knock Out slipped into the booth, patting his knee. “With a double-wide oil bath.”
“Double-wide everything.” He squirmed, spreading his thighs to give his belly room; yet his thighs were so thick it made scant difference. “I’m gonna need it.”
(A stellar cycle ago it’d have been a taboo thought, unimaginably kinky; now it was plain fact, as solid as the weight of his belly.)
Their number flashed on the menu board. Knock Out rose; an instant later he was back, loaded down with steaming plates. Breakdown’s chemoreceptors blazed brightly, tingling with rich and oily scents. “Bon appetit.”
“Knock Out.” He laughed uneasily. “This must’ve cost—”
“A few vital organs. Who cares?” Knock Out smirked, with that cocky indifference Breakdown had always loved. “Ten thousand Shanix, Breakdown. We can afford a few treats.”
“Not gonna ask where I got the money?”
Knock Out’s audial fin flicked as he set the dishes down. “Depends. Do I want to know?”
Breakdown considered it, blinking away steam. His belly gurgled eagerly; it’d been too long since he’d refueled. “Nah.”
They’d fallen quickly into their usual rhythms. As if they’d never been apart at all.
At the far end of the canteen, a pack of hungover medical-castes was slumped over storage cubes and briefcases. Low, pained murmurs drifted over. Breakdown winced. “You, uh, okay doing this in public?”
(Though some sensible subroutine fired: at his weight, it was no secret that he ate—)
“Not really,” said Knock Out with a manic smile. “Call it pre-race nerves. A little touch of madness.” He downed his uranium shooter in one, smacking his lips. “Go on. Chow down for me.”
Tinny announcements crackled on the public comms channel, almost drowning out the radio on the counter: Halogen had ordered an airstrike on Tesarus. A soupy mist was settling on the skyport, fogging the window.
Breakdown cracked open a geode with his sledgehammer. Onto the amethyst lining he slathered a creamy petroleum jelly. “Call it what it is, Knock Out. Feeding your big fat conjunx revs your engine.”
He’d expected Knock Out to yelp and deny it; yet Knock Out’s gaze was composed, and he settled into the booth, picking at the chipped enamel. “Maybe a touch of vicarious joy.”
Breakdown snorted, scraping out the amethyst crystals. They dissolved on his lips into a rush of sweetness; he washed it down with a glug of cool Energon. At the first swallow his belly gurgled, fuel lines engaging and valves opening. “Easy there.” He patted the crest of his gut. Enjoyed the jiggle.
Knock Out peeled a chip of enamel from the booth, watching Breakdown as avidly as a spectator at the Ibex Cup.
“Who else is racing tonight?” said Breakdown through a mouthful of amethyst.
“Every lowlife in the North, and a couple of reprobates from the South. The, ah, political situation down there being what it is.” Knock Out spoke like a mech who’d barely followed the news; Breakdown couldn’t fault him for that. “A pack of skivs and mod-jobs and junk-heaps. Easy pickings.”
Breakdown grunted, unconvinced, and reached for a slab of stewed marble. His belly scraped the table, his armor snagging. (Knock Out’s optics went wide.)
“Funny thing,” said Knock Out. “The fastest racers have the shortest careers—”
Breakdown gave the mercury sauce a vigorous shake; his arm-mesh wobbled, armor squeaking, and Knock Out cooed and reached over to pinch it. (Breakdown’s cheeks warmed.)
“Vos is down South,” said Breakdown slowly. With Knock Out touching him, his processor seemed thick as molten lead.
Tenderly Knock Out stroked the armor-seam, rolling a fold of mesh between his claws. “You’re getting grounder-wings,” he murmured into Breakdown’s audial. “Little aero slang for you there.”
Marble was fattening, Breakdown remembered with a processor-numbing burst of pleasure. He slurped down the stew, noisily. “Vos. It’s near the Tarn Valley, right?”
“Overlooks it.” Knock Out pulled back, blinking. (Breakdown rubbed his arm, absently, where Knock Out’s hand had been.) “Breakdown, the Air Command’s based there. Probably the safest city on the planet right now—if you can stand Seekers—”
They shared a laugh.
“You should come with me,” said Knock Out. In the foggy morning light he glowed; the light seemed to fracture into a hazy glow around him. “To Vos.”
“You don’t know you’re gonna match in Vos.” Breakdown shook himself. Swallowed another mouthful of stew. Wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “See those doctors over there? Could end up at—” He squinted at their decals. “Deltaran.”
“Say that again and I’ll stick that mercury sauce up your tailpipe,” said Knock Out.
Breakdown shoved the empty stew-bowl away, reaching for the petroleum-balls. (A delight to see the empty plates pile up, to feel the growing warmth in his belly. It was rounding out farther beneath his tanks’ weight, the mesh pleasantly stretched.) “But imagine you don’t.”
He’d been rattled, he supposed, by how small—how mortal —Knock Out had looked, alone at the skyport.
“Then I’ll rot away in this Brutalist pit.” Knock Out glanced out the window at the half-deserted skyport, mouth twisting. “You’re dancing around the question.”
Breakdown heaved a sigh. “I don’t know, Knock Out.”
The radio spat snatches of Vosian shock-pop. One of the medical-castes slid, mumbling, to the floor. Somewhere in the canteen, a fryer was crackling, and the smell of old grease hung over everything. Outside the window, the shadow of a descending skyship swamped the docks—
“I’ve got a pretty good life in Iacon,” said Breakdown, and the next petroleum-ball tasted sour on his chemoreceptors. He chewed it slowly, thoughtfully, the oil running down his intake. “And you don’t need some fat loudmouth truck hanging around you in Vos—what kind of weight-loss surgeon—”
Abruptly he remembered the surgeons’ gala: the stares; the whispers; Knock Out’s rage—
Knock Out closed his optics as if in pain. “You’re my other half .” And then: “Breakdown. If I were the kind of mech to make a scene—”
And Breakdown’s Spark fluttered, suddenly so small and so afraid.
“I’m not leaving you,” Breakdown found himself saying, reaching to squeeze Knock Out’s slim and shaking hands. (Not yet, added something yawning inside him.) “We just—we, uh, maybe need a break—figure out what we both want—”
“D’you know,” said Knock Out, with a cold clear smile, “I think you get prettier every solar cycle?” His optics flickered on. “You ass-gasket. You lovely, awful thing.”
For a cycle they did not speak. Gleaming mechs and femmes were flooding from the skyship, their low chatter fading into a rumbling babble.
Breakdown pulled away at last. Drained his Energon. (His tanks let out a lingering gurgle.)
“There’s a good boy,” said Knock Out briskly, as if relieved for the distraction. “Eat up.”
And they said no more about it. As they rose to leave, Breakdown stumbled, his gut pinning him down; Knock Out slid an arm around him and, with a little grunt, pulled him free of the booth.
By midday Knock Out was shaking.
“Anticipation.” His smile was forced. “Just a touch of the jitters—nothing serious—”
They’d roamed the city all morning, arm in arm. Now they sat beneath the waterworks, watching the blinding play of the noonday sun on the waterfall and smelling damp iron, and Knock Out leaned weakly into Breakdown’s side.
Breakdown squeezed his wheel-mount, cautiously. “You don’t have to race tonight.”
“Couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. And miss out on that ten thousand?”
Breakdown grunted, unconvinced. Knock Out felt startlingly light, as insubstantial as the sun on the water.
“Ever had a Rodionese shaved copper, Breakdown?”
A breem later, as Breakdown sucked the last of the Energon syrup from the copper shavings. Knock Out took his arm. “Rolled-lead stand at two-o-clock.”
And as Breakdown finished the last lead-roll, the sweet filling melting in his mouth: “Sweltering day, big boy. Howsabout an oil cream?”
In the stifling heat the oil-cream sagged, its whipped white peaks going slack. Breakdown swiped a finger through the cream, holding it to Knock Out’s lips. “You first.”
And like a starved mech, Knock Out sucked his finger clean.
Night was falling; the fabric of the city seemed to shift in the darkness, unweaving and remaking itself. Shadows watched avidly from the alleys. Rich, dizzying scents drifted on the languid breeze.
Knock Out sucked down a tangle of copper noodles. Covered his hiccup with the back of his hand. “Never fails, does it? First good meal in the racing season, and the dimsparks over-sauce it.”
They sat by the open window of a noodle-house, listening to the rumble of the street and the churn of distant water. Breakdown’s armor prickled with anticipation. (Odd, how anticipation felt so very much like fear.)
The door slid open behind them with a rush of moist, warm air. Breakdown picked up a cube of mercury stew, drinking it down in great swallows. In the cramped booth he shifted his weight; his belly squeaked against the table, packed to bursting. Bulging out farther than he’d ever imagined.
“Later,” he said between gulps, “I’ll make you all the noodles you want. After you win—”
Knock Out leaned over the laden table, squeezing his pauldron. “After I smoke the competition.”
A familiar curt snicker. (A tingling rush of anger rolled over Breakdown. He turned, as best he could.) Deadheat was leaning against the doorframe, a slim and gilded mech on his arm. “It’s not the done thing to announce the winner before the race, Knock Out—”
“Thought I totaled you already,” grunted Breakdown, slamming down the empty cube. It cracked.
“—but if you ask me , the only thing smoking is your engine.” Deadheat raised his brow-ridges. (His date chuckled.) “Good grief, is it Breakdown? Not the Blue Thunder? What has he done to you?”
Breakdown supposed it was an insult. Perhaps in thinner days he’d have taken it as one. Instead he laughed, low and rolling, his belly quaking, and his hands curled into fists. “Packed on a couple tons of upgrades. I’m Velocitronian, pipsqueak. I like body-mods.”
Across the table Knock Out went stiff, his optics wide. The neon lamplight pooled on his faceplate, lending him stunned dignity. “Well, you heard the mech.”
“Hey. Hey .” The cook leaned over the counter, his faceplate bespattered with grease. “No racer-squabbles in here.”
“I’m no racer,” said Breakdown, shrugging. His armor squeaked against the table. He was too full for this, and his Spark too raw. Still it felt good to lose his temper. “You got two options. One, we see how fast you slagheads can get outta here—”
“Sweet Solus Prime.” Deadheat shook his head. “They told me you were a fueler, Knock Out, but I said to myself, never believe gossip —”
Knock Out’s engine revved; he was handsome in his anger. “Just keeping up with the latest—and greatest—trends in Iacon—”
He’d not denied it.
“ Two ,” snarled Breakdown, though he was grinning, “I crush you two into the shiniest scrap on the heap—”
Deadheat’s date pushed back smoked goggles with a calculated rakishness; beneath, his optics were a steely blue. “Shouldn’t be hard to outrun you, tubby. A light stroll’d do it. Up a slight incline.”
They were attracting whispers; clumps of Rodionese drifted up to the window, their gawking faceplates bright in the sour lamplight, and heads were turning at the tables around them. Even the cook had propped himself up on his elbows, listening.
“Yeah?” Breakdown let them all stare. “And I’ve got enough aft to crush you both at once.”
Knock Out snickered. Stopped himself.
“Go ahead,” said Deadheat’s date. “You and me.” He detached himself from Deadheat, an elegant sway in his walk, and stepped back into the street. The crowd fell back with a crackle of static. “Up and at ‘em, fatso.”
Breakdown moved to rise, his hammer-hand twitching. Beneath the vast unwieldy weight of him, his hydraulics squealed and his pistons engaged—
His armor snagged, with an ugly rasp, against the edge of the table. His belly would compress no farther; with every tiny jerk it wobbled cheerfully, and a roll of mesh and armor-plating oozed over the table’s lip. Breakdown leaned back, puffing and shoving. (When had his bumper gotten so huge ? He felt it as if for the first time, spreading behind him, round as two lobbing balls.)
No, he told himself, a slow blazing humiliation rising in his breast. No—
Again his pistons slammed home, his cables pulling taut and ready. His armor flattened, pinching his belly-mesh; he sucked in with a grunt. Yet his gut jutted out still, full and proud and massive. Immovable.
“I’m sorry,” said Deadheat, exultant cruelty dawning on his faceplate, “are you stuck ?”
Slow and stunned, a growl rose in Breakdown’s throat.
“Look at him, Knock Out,” said Deadheat. “Really look at what you’ve done. Crime against speed, if you ask me.”
Knock Out’s optics blazed with a furious light. For an instant he seemed overcome; his lips moved silently. His vocoder reset with a click. “May not be much of a racer, but he makes a real nice trophy.”
The words rolled through Breakdown like an earthquake. He could not squirm; he could not turn away. He sat, wedged, his faceplate burning, and took it in.
“Chubby-chaser,” muttered Deadheat’s date. “Disgraceful.”
Deadheat chuckled. “See you at the track.”
The Irregular: the downfall of a hundred good racers (and a thousand bad ones). The Irregular: so brazenly illegal it’d become an institution. (It was said that the bribes paid by Rodion’s criminal element kept Rodion’s police in fresh paint.) The Irregular: the one race in which any mech, credentialed racer or not, could compete—
A bitter breeze rolled off the underground canals. Still the heat of a thousand engines, gathered around jerry-rigged stands, was breathtaking. From every direction racers were peeling up, in clouds of acrid and shining fumes. Beneath scorchingly white spotlights they glowed like molten metal.
“Told you,” said Knock Out with sleazy pride. “Only the best seats for my friends.”
“Front row, huh? Who’d you bribe?” Breakdown’s Spark was thrumming to some alien rhythm. The crowd seemed to pulsate as one; all around them, engines were revving. (He would not, he told himself, get drunk on speed.)
He dropped into his seats with an oof . They were built for racers’ narrow hips; Knock Out had gotten him three. A thoughtful gesture. He’d not expected that, and gratefully he leaned back, letting his belly settle with a solid clink onto his thighs. In the spotlights even his stress-marks glittered.
Knock Out’s optics shone. The shadows haunting him had melted away as they stepped into the tunnels. He glowed from within, his LEDs pulsating, all barely-contained energy. The air around him shimmered with warmth. “Low blow, Breakdown. I don’t bribe —”
“—don’t have the money?” He took Knock Out’s hand. Kissed it. “I wanna see you burn some rubber.”
“You’ll see me,” said Knock Out, “but only for about three nanocycles.”
Lit with some mad impulse, Breakdown grinned. Fetched his belly a hearty thump. “Give me a rub? For luck?”
The seats around them were filling in, a jewel-box of brightly gleaming racer-frames. Knock Out hesitated for a nanocycle—
—then patted, tenderly, the crest of Breakdown’s belly, where the swell of his gut met the base of his breastplate. The mesh there was deep and velvety-soft; with even the slightest touch it rippled and dimpled beneath the armor. (His plating was buzzing with the rhythm of the throng, or perhaps that was Knock Out’s excitement, reflected in him.)
He hated racing, he reminded himself. Surely he hated what it’d done to Knock Out.
Yet to the bright feverish joy in Knock Out’s optics, all he could say was, “Knock ‘em dead.”
And then the gun cracked, and they were off, so many streaks of formless color. He kept his gaze on Knock Out, until as one the pack whipped round the curve and were gone—
So it was in the holovid projection over the stands that he saw Knock Out falter. As if for the briefest of instants, his engine had stuttered.
A slick red-and-blue racer—it might have been Deadheat—pulled into the space he’d left. And Knock Out rallied, jerking forward—
—and Breakdown tasted molten slag and cold ash, and he remembered how light Knock Out had felt, how he’d trembled—
“ The Velocitronian —” said someone on the public channels, and Breakdown’s processor went blank and cold and quiet as Knock Out spun out. He might have yelled as Knock Out slammed, in a blaze of smoke and light, into the iron-paneled wall. As Knock Out transformed, the sound of his T-cog lost in the jeers of the crowd, and stumbled forward, unseeing. Energon gushed from a rent in his armor, spattering the wall with a bright turquoise glow—
“ No ,” bellowed Breakdown. “No—”
And Knock Out slumped to the ground.