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Description
Title: Glitter and Glam
Characters: Tracks-centric, Mirage, Soundwave; mentioned SentinelxTracks
Rating: M
Universe: Kittycon 'verse
Warnings: Mech/mech; questionable work and naughty, little flirts~

Business was just business, as they said.

Tracks checked his reflection quickly in his pocket mirror, smoothing out the last of the small wrinkles on his clothes, before closing the mirror and slipping it away in his coat pocket. He could feel optics focused on his back struts, and with a coy backwards glance, postured his hips enticingly; stretching excessively as he slipped on the sleeves of his Designer jacket. "I look forward to our next meeting," he said to the staring mech.

His partner -another autodog- merely sniffed derisively, crossing bulky forearms over a buff chassis. "Don't take this so seriously," the rottweiler sneered; the impudent attitude having returned after their blissful interface.

The slim autodog turned about, striding up to the other 'bot and pecking him on the cheekplates before a word could escape the mech's vocalizer. "I don't," he answered back, pulling away and out of servo range. "I just appreciate a mech whose good in the berth and out of it. Your.... oh, what was that chap's name again....," Tracks drawled as he sashayed for the door. He could feel the autodog getting tense behind him and didn't mind that his teasing was bound to send the other into a rage.

"Ah, yes," he exclaimed, having drawn up the name, "Optimus. He is lucky to have your affections. Just wait 'til he knows all the amazing things he can experience with a spike like yours."

"Shut up," came the expectant growl.

Tracks had already made it to the door though, and felt no threat from the dangerous sound. He turned one last time, flashing the other mech with a cheeky grin. "I thank you for all your business today. Please feel free to call our company again when you require my services, Mr. Sentinel Prime."

And then he was gone, with a shake of his beautiful pomeranian tail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was hard living the glam life.

Most 'bots wouldn't have bothered. The pedigrees, the reputations, the styles and the trends..... it was too much work for most others to waste their time and energy on. The economy shifted too often to fall into the business side of money, and fashion expired almost every cycle -something new, something better chasing just after its predecessors' heels. To stay on top of that ever-changing chaos shook the core of mechs and femmes alike, who opted to have inner stability than to grovel for illusions and smoke.

Tracks could not do the same though.

Born a pedigree, he was introduced to the life of high-class society through most of his sparkling years. Everything he wanted, and more, was given to him. He had every luxury, every item, every dream and all the aft-kissing affection he could hunger for. But like money had a tendency of doing, the money that built his family was soon lost, and they were once again demoted to a standard way of life. His creators, having been New Bloods to start with, were quick to make the transition back to their old common ways. For Tracks though, it wasn't as simple. Each memory of gleaming silverware, diamonds and gold silk stood out avidly in his processor; tempting and teasing him with things that were so far out of his reach now. A love for the aesthetics implemented itself into his young CPU; shaping his disdain for anything simple and robust, and building a sharp optic for reading and interpreting the trends.

The belief in his spark that only those chaotic things of high-class standards were worth his attention gained rapid foothold in the sparkling, and the world got an optic-full of the Tracks that would forever be.

Throughout his school years -elementary and highschool- the pomeranian pup maintained the best looks; keeping a top priority for hygiene and fashionable clothes, garnering many envious looks. He wasn't always able to get all the most trendy gadgets, having been put in a restrictive budget lifestyle, but he saved the credits he received from his creators as allowance and when a major shift happened in the market, Tracks was one of the first to have the newly appointed gizmo or accessory. But he didn't just stop there. Oh no, indeed not.

Though holding a high preference for beauty (as it was shaped by the rest of the world), Tracks was also aware that aesthetics weren't enough. Money wasn't susceptible just to the beautiful (they did gain some extra lead though); it was also a given for the intelligent, who made a habit of keeping and gaining more money after being pretty was no longer an option. Knowing this, the autodog put a fair amount of his time into his studies as well. Granted, he wasn't a genius.... but his marks were never a decimal below a ninety percent average, and he still looked handsome doing it all. He wasn't just limited to his school courses either.

Tracks threw himself into nearly everything -strategies, music, business and culture for example. He sought out knowledge where he thought it to best be and soaked it all up like a dry sponge. By the time he was entering into his youngling years, the little pomeranian was ever so refined and smart that nearly everyone he met hated him, for they saw him as nothing more than a snooty, spoiled rich mutt. Tracks didn't really care; at the end of the day, they still all wanted to be him anyhow. Staying true to the portrayal that he was one-up on the other autodogs, Tracks even learned everything he could about interfacing and biology. Granted, at such a young age the thought of that much open sexual expression and domineering prowess made the pomeranian curl his nose with slight disgust; being too reserved and untouched to find any sense in what he had learned.

That changed as well though, after having his spark-broken by a mech he truly cared for and shared his first interface with. Not allowing himself to slip into depression after that ordeal, Tracks returned to his archived memories of interfacing and began to put those lessons to use. The world had never seen a more harrowing sight than of that day when beautiful, refined, intelligent Tracks stepped outside the safety of his home, oozing such amazing confidence and sexual appeal. Even the most austere of 'bots had a hard time keeping their processors off of the seductive pomeranian afterwards. Empowered by this new trait, the autodog came to the epiphany of a life-time, ensuring him the best and straightest path to his life-long dream: a place up among the rest of high society, surrounded by glamor and money.

Tracks realized, a youngling just cresting the last of his highschool years, that with his looks and his smarts and his sexual dominance, he could easily be getting other 'bots to pay him for the time spent in his presence. After all, it was only reasonable.

It seemed almost like destiny that Tracks found himself on the pay-roll of the city's most elite Escort service only a decacycle after coming to this decision.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Good afternoon Tracks. Had a good lunch?"

The pomeranian stopped in his strut, turning to the speaker, a smile coming to his rouge-coloured faceplates once he saw who it was. "Ah, Mirage," Tracks greeted warmly. He quickened to the table that the other autodog sat at, sitting in one of the ruby, plush chairs. "Terrible bit of news my charming friend -there'll be a staggering drop of value in diamonds soon, so best to refuse those flashy little gems. You'll want to get your clients to buy you sapphires. Those'll be of top value in the market once the diamonds go."

"Oh?," the yorkshire terrier replied, fork playing with his small plate of servo salad distractedly. "How kind of you to share this with me, Tracks. You aren't always so charitable."

"Indeed not," Tracks hummed. He leaned in quickly to the fallen Noble and placed a chaste kiss on his lip components before drawing back and reclining easily in his seat once more. "But you are my favourite mech here, and I wanted you to know. Besides, you look best bedecked in sapphires."

Mirage pursed his lips sourly at the flirtatious comment, surplussed that his companion had kissed him without permission. Again. "You really need to stop doing that," he said, stabbing his salad viciously now before taking a monstrous bite. He did not care that his other coworkers in the lounge stared at his classless behaviour; it was none of their slagging business anyhow.

Tracks merely smirked at the yorkie's temper, ears perked in evident amusement. "Oh, yes, you asked me about my lunch, didn't you?," the pomeranian began, having remembered the initial conversation.

"Not sure that I really care to know anymore....," the blue mech grumbled, but he was dutifully ignored by the taller autodog who went on to answer the question.

"I had a terrific lunch today. Yes, indeed..... Regular client who needed himself a fix before the start of the afternoon shift. It's amazing how much stamina he has...... truly a wonder that we were even able to stop before his lunch hour was over," Tracks beamed, optics half-shuttered as he replayed the memory files of the past joor.

Mirage fully scowled now, ears flattened against his helm with apparent revulsion. "I don't understand how you can say such things like that, let alone sleep with a strange mutt. Sometimes I wonder if this job isn't just a glorified whore house....." The yorkshire terrier rose to his pedes, grabbing his plate of half-eaten servo salad; decidedly no longer hungry. The pomeranian copied his motion, walking by the other autodog's side as they crossed the room.

"Come, come now, Mirage," his partner said. "Don't be so cynical. Not all escorts sleep with the clientele -certainly I would never interface with a 'bot that I found displeasing."

"You wouldn't even take the client if you found them displeasing, no matter the job," Mirage pointed out snippily.

"Exactly!," Tracks rebutted. "That there is the difference between the work we do, and a pleasure 'bot, my friend. We have the ultimate choice in the end to accept or refuse our customers. Whores don't have that option. They don't have privacy either, where as us escorts are low-key and protected by the company, so that our self-respect is maintained. Plus, not all assignments require sleeping with our clients. Many of them just require us to look pretty and speak proper so that the customer has a beautiful, respectable date for an evening out."

"And so your lunch-time romp is....?"

"Just a middle-class mech," the autodog answered, waving his servo dismissively. "Nobody really important. He does some security work and has some top-notch credentials, but he's nothing like my other clients. Then again, it's not as if he's asking for a date..... he just needs someone for an interface here and there, but a 'bot that is clean and reputable so he won't be tarnished either should our interactions get out. I wouldn't comply to his requests if he wanted to show me around."

Mirage tossed the last of his meal into one of the garbage cans, putting his plate on the counter over top of the bin. "So basically, as long as he's not trying to take you out to the theatre or the club, you'll willingly have a quick interface with him in a storage closet," the yorkshire terrier noted.

"Yep!," Tracks replied. The pair walked out of the lounge together, heading to the elevator lifts. The company they worked for was set in a privately owned condominium complex, who was kind enough to let their employees rent out apartments in the building for a subsidized rate. Mirage and Tracks were literally neighbours, sharing the only two apartments on the seventh floor. As much as he enjoyed the other autodog's company, Tracks wished he had the penthouse suite. It was a better living arrangement for his glamourous life, as the pomeranian viewed it. But nobody was able to rent the penthouse -it was the home and head office of their manager. "It would be nice to move into something more spacious, with a 360 degree view," the multi-coloured mech sighed, pressing the button for the lift.

Mirage merely shook his helm, crossing his arms over his chassis loosely. "You'll never be satisfied with what you have, will you?" It was a rhetorical question, so Tracks did not bother to answer.

"Speaking of satisfied," the pomeranian piped up as the elevator doors dinged open before them. "I hear there is going to be an opening bash at that new club downtown. It's gossiped to be the ritziest thing since Botanica's greenhouse gallery was opened. Want to come with me tonight and test the waters? Only the beautiful and rich are getting in today."

Mirage mulled it over as he stepped into the elevator with Tracks, his finger pressing the button for their floor. "No, I think not," he eventually answered. "Clubbing really isn't my thing."

"Psh," Tracks denied. "You, my dear Mirage, need to get out some more. Blue Blood or not, if you don't get into the scene quickly, you'll be shut out for good and then how will you go about regaining your family's wealth?"

At that very moment, the pomeranian's cell began to ring; saving him from the other autodog's wrath and scandalized glare. "Yes?," he asked, flipping the cell open. It was quiet for a few astroseconds as Tracks listened to someone on the other line, humming back his own retinue of attentiveness. "Alright, I'll be up in a breem." He closed the phone, slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

"That was our dear house mother," the slim mech informed. "I'm wanted upstairs. Another client has asked for me tonight."

"Fair enough," Mirage replied, feeling all his anger leave him with the release of an intake. There was no point getting mad over every little thing that Tracks said, after all..... sometimes the mutt was as proud and ignorantly rude as the people that the blue mech had grown up with. "I suppose then that you won't be going to that club."

"We'll see," Tracks grinned, reaching over and pressing the button for the top floor.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He had been, in fact, able to go clubbing that night.

Tracks wound his arms about the femme's waist, pulling her flush against his body as they gyrated to the throbbing music; pulsing lights flashing over head, and hot frames pressed in around either side of them. Her pretty little labrador tail thumped lightly along his inner thigh, following the tempo of the music that they were dancing too. He was having fun, Tracks would have to admit, but he was getting tired of it all. A drink, he surmised, was in order. Perhaps afterwards he could muster the will for a couple more dances before guiding the other autodog out for a late night expresso, followed by a walk home. Swaying to the song still, the pomeranian began the anticipatory countdown -waiting for the right moment to pull back and state his desire for a drink as the music fell to a momentary pause before swelling again. As usual, he timed it just right, and was drifting through the mashed-up crowd of fellow dancers in only a few astroseconds. His 'date', as it were, followed after behind him.

The bar was a masterpiece of shattered glass fragments and gleaming metal, sculpted together in rare harmony, that drew in and reflected the lights all around it in a stunning display that was hard to avidly describe. Tracks could only stutter on the word beautiful; finding that such an adjective still fell short of the masterpiece before him. Tearing his optics away from the exquisite bar, the autodog focused on the mech just behind the counter. "Two high-grade cocktails; cold and bubbly," he ordered.

The surely autodog nodded his helm in acknowledgement at the order, turning around to start mixing the drinks. "I'm just heading to the powder room for a moment," his partner whispered to him, servos pressing on his forearm as she reached to speak into his ear.

"I'll be waiting, darling," Tracks replied, turning to face her, fingers lifting that gorgeous chin of hers. The labrador smiled at his flirtation, optics sparkling in mischief. She pulled herself free from his grasp, turning about and disappearing into the throng of 'bots. Content to sit and relax, having optics shooting him interested glances over drinks and shoulder platings alike, Tracks found his own optics roving over the party scene this night. This club really had style, and the pomeranian could see it retaining high-class business for the next couple stellar cycles, if not more. He would definitely have to come here again and possibly drag Mirage along as well.

The bartender placed their drinks on the counter, and thanking the mech graciously, Tracks grabbed hold of his own glass; returning to his viewing as he sipped at his cocktail. As if pulled by an invisible force, the autodog found his optics being drawn to the doorway. At that very moment a small entourage of 'bots were entering, a blue persian kittycon heading the pack. Tracks could feel an optic ridge rising with curiosity. That mech was dressed to the nines..... the most fashionable suit of the week, an expensive designer silk tie, gold cufflinks and silver wrist watch. This stranger was someone new, fresh and evidently prosperous. The pomeranian could almost feel his wealth and opportunity from across the room; the aura of skill and good fortune trailing after the kittycon. It was hard for the autodog to tear his attention aware from the 'bot, and it didn't help that the persian was unbelievably handsome as well.

Tracks kept his optics on the group of newcomers, watching as they headed for a staircase just beside the Dj's platform and upstairs into the private booth on the second floor. A large, blackened mirror kept the interior of the room hidden from prying optics, but no doubt it allowed the people inside a chance to view the dance floor below. The autodog felt a sudden urge to get back out there and shake his tail. The thought of having that mech's sharp, red-lit visor on his form made a shiver run down his back struts. But before he could do so, his date for the evening returned from her trip to the powder room; hips swaying as she strutted up to the pomeranian.

"Ready to get out of here?," she asked, looking around the room in a motion that clearly stated she was bored now.

Despite his reluctance, Tracks fixed on a handsome smirk, holding his servo out for the labrador. "Of course, my lady." The femme took his servo graciously, giggling softly at his chivalry. Holding her servo firmly, Tracks led himself and the other autodog out into the cool night; his thoughts still on the mysterious kittycon back inside the club.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Glasses tinkled lightly, soft laughter and muted voices permeating the air, just a notch louder then the music being performed by the live orchestra positioned at one end of the hall. The crowd gathered tonight was of true high-class society, decked out in the finest outfits of silk and other gorgeous fabrics; femmes dressed in beautiful designer gowns from the world's top fashion icons, and mechs suited up in tuxes both bought from a boutique and tailor-made. All manner of jewels glittered on each of the 'bots, their fur brushed, fluffed and dressed for a night of regaling and good humour.

Holding a flute of the finest energon -chilled and bubbly, just as he liked it- Tracks meandered about the party; fluffy tail giving just the slightest bounce of a wag as he walked. He was dressed simply this night, but equally as fine: crisp, white dress shirt under a black, double-breasted satin vest, buttoned up the front, with matching satin pants. A silver chain bracelet, set with sapphires, a gift from his date this evening, encircled his right wrist; the gems set in it so large that they reflected the lights from the crystal diamond chandelier above in spotted, deep blue hues on the objects nearest him. Despite the lack of excitement happening here, Tracks was having himself a good time. He was surrounded by all the finest things and most successful 'bots in the world, acknowledged and admired as if he was one of them.

Which he planned to be soon.

Making his way around the crowd once more, Tracks finally took notice of a particular kittycon mingling with a couple very important CEOs of trade industries and energon processing within and without the city. His blue optics zoomed into the beautiful blue persian ears and tail, his spark practically leaping in excitement as he recognized those distinctive features. There was the urge to go forth and speak to the strange mech, but the pomeranian maintained his position; recognizing that it wasn't his place to be so forward when he was being paid to spend the evening with his client, and when the unknown kittycon was no doubt discussing important business with the others. It made the autodog grin though, as if answering his unspoken thoughts, when that sharp visor lifted suddenly, resting upon Tracks.

With a flirtatious twirl of his hips, Tracks turned in the opposite direction, losing himself in the crowd once again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He recognized that autodog.

Soundwave felt his visor dim in contemplative thought, searching his memory banks as he tried to recall where he had noted the pomeranian from. Lost in thought, the kittycon began to lose focus of the conversation he was currently having; all words and comments from Megatron escaping his notice. An archived memory file of throbbing lights and pulsing music flooded his sensory net; a twirling, beckoning frame that moved in time with the music. Ah, that's right..... the persian remembered now. He had seen the autodog at the Nemesis; the new club that he co-owned as a side project. The mech had come many nights in the past decacycle, with or without a date. His multi-coloured frame and beautiful fur had drawn the kittycon's attention -the fact that he saw the other mech now surprised him somewhat, but overall, pleased him. He would have to do some further investigations, but Soundwave was convinced that this autodog might be the one.....

"Apologies, gentlemen," Soundwave interrupted, in his usual monotone. "Attention is required elsewhere."

Megatron scowled at being cut off, but his companion tactically touched the larger kittycon's arm, instantly calming the CEO down. "We do not mind," the seeker at his side purred, shooting his mate pointed looks. "Business can be discussed further this week. Megatron will see to it." Grumbling further still, the tabby backed down, nodding his helm acquiescingly. Thankful for the pardon, Soundwave was quick to leave. He wished to catch the autodog before he lost sight of him completely.

It wasn't hard to locate the mech in such a thin crowd.

The pomeranian was standing near the doorway to the balconies, arching enticingly as he reached for an hors d'oeuvre off the tray of a passing mech. Taking this moment of distraction, the kittycon sidled up behind the unsuspecting autodog; red visor taking the moment to commit the 'bot's details to memory. The mech before him was only a couple inches shorter than himself, with metallic skin of red, blue and silver colours. The clothes he wore sculpted his lovely chassis and hugged his slim thighs, bringing attention to his evident good looks and gorgeous tail. For an astrosecond, Soundwave found himself almost hard-pressed not to reach out a servo and stroke that luscious fur. Hearing his quiet rumble of approval, the autodog turned about, stiffening slightly in surprise before a coy smile graced his rouge faceplates.

"Good evening," the slim 'bot greeted in a sexy, cultured tone. His vivid blue optics sparkled behind his glasses. "May I be of any assistance?"

'Yes,' the persian thought, erotic thoughts rising in the face of the pomeranian's flirtation. Soundwave was quick to fight them back. "The name is Soundwave," the kittycon replied, avoiding the question. He held a servo out for the autodog.

"Tracks," the mech said, that coy smile having yet to leave his lip components. He took hold of Soundwave's servo, giving it a sturdy shake. "Charmed to meet you, Soundwave."

The way that Tracks said his name made the kittycon's visor flash almost lustfully. This autodog was well aware of his sensual appeal and was not afraid to use it. Soundwave admired that. He was reluctant to release the pomeranian's servo, but he did so, not wanting to push the boundaries between them. It was not civilized behaviour to do the opposite, after all. Tracks, having gotten his servo back finally, placed it behind his back; bringing his flute of energon to his lips and sipping at it daintily. The persian watched intently, almost transfixed by the sight.

"I don't recall seeing you around before," the autodog started, having finished his sip.

Soundwave refrained from shaking his helm at the fuzziness infecting his processor. "New to town," he answered. "I have come to set up another company for my business."

"Oh?," Tracks asked. His ears perked in obvious interest. "And just what is your business? We have many trade and governing support systems here; it will be fierce competition to make your mark."

"No concern. Stocks and primary functions rest in communications. No company has yet been able to surpass my own." The kittycon wasn't trying to be arrogant, but it was the truth. His business, self-started no less, was already climbing up in the field. He was revamping the communication network, making them stronger, better and more self-sufficient. With amazing technology at his hands, his company was beginning to garner some attention for the level of perfection that his work entailed; other businesses in turn being influenced and strengthened with his company's involvement. There was no doubt in Soundwave's mind that within the next megacycle he would have carved himself a nice niche at the top of the world, ensuring constant stability for himself and his business. His goal was to unite the entire whole of Cybertron under his communication network, making his work invaluable.

As a new entrepreneur, it was not so surprising that his name was still unknown among the higher circle of business.

At the persian's boast, the autodog raised an optic ridge; his smile growing just a little wider. He went to say something, when his attention was suddenly drawn off to the side. Soundwave was almost tempted to see what had distracted the pomeranian, but did not wish to tear his own optics off the handsome mech. "I'd love to stay and chat some more," Tracks sighed almost apologetically, his focus returning to the kittycon. "But unfortunately, I am not here on my own free time tonight. I must get back to work now."

Soundwave nearly didn't react as the autodog walked past him, that gorgeous tail brushing his knuckles teasingly as the slim mech walked by. Finally, the persian realized that Tracks was really walking away from him and turned to speak to the pomeranian. "And if I wish to speak with you more?," the 'bot asked, not even touching on the question of what work the autodog could surely need to do at an event like this.

Tracks stopped in his stride, peering over his shoulder plating with lustful, half-shuttered optics. "Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to find me without a problem. Put your great communication network to practical use," he smirked, teasing good-naturedly. The mech started walking once again. "Goodnight, Soundwave."

Soundwave did not offer a farewell in return, watching as Tracks made his way across the room, looping his arm about another mech's and standing all pretty like for the crowd of revellers. Annoyed, and confused, the kittycon turned away; disappearing from the rest of the party.

Description
Title: Glitter and Glam
Characters: Tracks-centric, Mirage, Soundwave; mentioned SentinelxTracks
Rating: M
Universe: Kittycon 'verse
Warnings: Mech/mech; questionable work and naughty, little flirts~

Business was just business, as they said.

Tracks checked his reflection quickly in his pocket mirror, smoothing out the last of the small wrinkles on his clothes, before closing the mirror and slipping it away in his coat pocket. He could feel optics focused on his back struts, and with a coy backwards glance, postured his hips enticingly; stretching excessively as he slipped on the sleeves of his Designer jacket. "I look forward to our next meeting," he said to the staring mech.

His partner -another autodog- merely sniffed derisively, crossing bulky forearms over a buff chassis. "Don't take this so seriously," the rottweiler sneered; the impudent attitude having returned after their blissful interface.

The slim autodog turned about, striding up to the other 'bot and pecking him on the cheekplates before a word could escape the mech's vocalizer. "I don't," he answered back, pulling away and out of servo range. "I just appreciate a mech whose good in the berth and out of it. Your.... oh, what was that chap's name again....," Tracks drawled as he sashayed for the door. He could feel the autodog getting tense behind him and didn't mind that his teasing was bound to send the other into a rage.

"Ah, yes," he exclaimed, having drawn up the name, "Optimus. He is lucky to have your affections. Just wait 'til he knows all the amazing things he can experience with a spike like yours."

"Shut up," came the expectant growl.

Tracks had already made it to the door though, and felt no threat from the dangerous sound. He turned one last time, flashing the other mech with a cheeky grin. "I thank you for all your business today. Please feel free to call our company again when you require my services, Mr. Sentinel Prime."

And then he was gone, with a shake of his beautiful pomeranian tail.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was hard living the glam life.

Most 'bots wouldn't have bothered. The pedigrees, the reputations, the styles and the trends..... it was too much work for most others to waste their time and energy on. The economy shifted too often to fall into the business side of money, and fashion expired almost every cycle -something new, something better chasing just after its predecessors' heels. To stay on top of that ever-changing chaos shook the core of mechs and femmes alike, who opted to have inner stability than to grovel for illusions and smoke.

Tracks could not do the same though.

Born a pedigree, he was introduced to the life of high-class society through most of his sparkling years. Everything he wanted, and more, was given to him. He had every luxury, every item, every dream and all the aft-kissing affection he could hunger for. But like money had a tendency of doing, the money that built his family was soon lost, and they were once again demoted to a standard way of life. His creators, having been New Bloods to start with, were quick to make the transition back to their old common ways. For Tracks though, it wasn't as simple. Each memory of gleaming silverware, diamonds and gold silk stood out avidly in his processor; tempting and teasing him with things that were so far out of his reach now. A love for the aesthetics implemented itself into his young CPU; shaping his disdain for anything simple and robust, and building a sharp optic for reading and interpreting the trends.

The belief in his spark that only those chaotic things of high-class standards were worth his attention gained rapid foothold in the sparkling, and the world got an optic-full of the Tracks that would forever be.

Throughout his school years -elementary and highschool- the pomeranian pup maintained the best looks; keeping a top priority for hygiene and fashionable clothes, garnering many envious looks. He wasn't always able to get all the most trendy gadgets, having been put in a restrictive budget lifestyle, but he saved the credits he received from his creators as allowance and when a major shift happened in the market, Tracks was one of the first to have the newly appointed gizmo or accessory. But he didn't just stop there. Oh no, indeed not.

Though holding a high preference for beauty (as it was shaped by the rest of the world), Tracks was also aware that aesthetics weren't enough. Money wasn't susceptible just to the beautiful (they did gain some extra lead though); it was also a given for the intelligent, who made a habit of keeping and gaining more money after being pretty was no longer an option. Knowing this, the autodog put a fair amount of his time into his studies as well. Granted, he wasn't a genius.... but his marks were never a decimal below a ninety percent average, and he still looked handsome doing it all. He wasn't just limited to his school courses either.

Tracks threw himself into nearly everything -strategies, music, business and culture for example. He sought out knowledge where he thought it to best be and soaked it all up like a dry sponge. By the time he was entering into his youngling years, the little pomeranian was ever so refined and smart that nearly everyone he met hated him, for they saw him as nothing more than a snooty, spoiled rich mutt. Tracks didn't really care; at the end of the day, they still all wanted to be him anyhow. Staying true to the portrayal that he was one-up on the other autodogs, Tracks even learned everything he could about interfacing and biology. Granted, at such a young age the thought of that much open sexual expression and domineering prowess made the pomeranian curl his nose with slight disgust; being too reserved and untouched to find any sense in what he had learned.

That changed as well though, after having his spark-broken by a mech he truly cared for and shared his first interface with. Not allowing himself to slip into depression after that ordeal, Tracks returned to his archived memories of interfacing and began to put those lessons to use. The world had never seen a more harrowing sight than of that day when beautiful, refined, intelligent Tracks stepped outside the safety of his home, oozing such amazing confidence and sexual appeal. Even the most austere of 'bots had a hard time keeping their processors off of the seductive pomeranian afterwards. Empowered by this new trait, the autodog came to the epiphany of a life-time, ensuring him the best and straightest path to his life-long dream: a place up among the rest of high society, surrounded by glamor and money.

Tracks realized, a youngling just cresting the last of his highschool years, that with his looks and his smarts and his sexual dominance, he could easily be getting other 'bots to pay him for the time spent in his presence. After all, it was only reasonable.

It seemed almost like destiny that Tracks found himself on the pay-roll of the city's most elite Escort service only a decacycle after coming to this decision.

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"Good afternoon Tracks. Had a good lunch?"

The pomeranian stopped in his strut, turning to the speaker, a smile coming to his rouge-coloured faceplates once he saw who it was. "Ah, Mirage," Tracks greeted warmly. He quickened to the table that the other autodog sat at, sitting in one of the ruby, plush chairs. "Terrible bit of news my charming friend -there'll be a staggering drop of value in diamonds soon, so best to refuse those flashy little gems. You'll want to get your clients to buy you sapphires. Those'll be of top value in the market once the diamonds go."

"Oh?," the yorkshire terrier replied, fork playing with his small plate of servo salad distractedly. "How kind of you to share this with me, Tracks. You aren't always so charitable."

"Indeed not," Tracks hummed. He leaned in quickly to the fallen Noble and placed a chaste kiss on his lip components before drawing back and reclining easily in his seat once more. "But you are my favourite mech here, and I wanted you to know. Besides, you look best bedecked in sapphires."

Mirage pursed his lips sourly at the flirtatious comment, surplussed that his companion had kissed him without permission. Again. "You really need to stop doing that," he said, stabbing his salad viciously now before taking a monstrous bite. He did not care that his other coworkers in the lounge stared at his classless behaviour; it was none of their slagging business anyhow.

Tracks merely smirked at the yorkie's temper, ears perked in evident amusement. "Oh, yes, you asked me about my lunch, didn't you?," the pomeranian began, having remembered the initial conversation.

"Not sure that I really care to know anymore....," the blue mech grumbled, but he was dutifully ignored by the taller autodog who went on to answer the question.

"I had a terrific lunch today. Yes, indeed..... Regular client who needed himself a fix before the start of the afternoon shift. It's amazing how much stamina he has...... truly a wonder that we were even able to stop before his lunch hour was over," Tracks beamed, optics half-shuttered as he replayed the memory files of the past joor.

Mirage fully scowled now, ears flattened against his helm with apparent revulsion. "I don't understand how you can say such things like that, let alone sleep with a strange mutt. Sometimes I wonder if this job isn't just a glorified whore house....." The yorkshire terrier rose to his pedes, grabbing his plate of half-eaten servo salad; decidedly no longer hungry. The pomeranian copied his motion, walking by the other autodog's side as they crossed the room.

"Come, come now, Mirage," his partner said. "Don't be so cynical. Not all escorts sleep with the clientele -certainly I would never interface with a 'bot that I found displeasing."

"You wouldn't even take the client if you found them displeasing, no matter the job," Mirage pointed out snippily.

"Exactly!," Tracks rebutted. "That there is the difference between the work we do, and a pleasure 'bot, my friend. We have the ultimate choice in the end to accept or refuse our customers. Whores don't have that option. They don't have privacy either, where as us escorts are low-key and protected by the company, so that our self-respect is maintained. Plus, not all assignments require sleeping with our clients. Many of them just require us to look pretty and speak proper so that the customer has a beautiful, respectable date for an evening out."

"And so your lunch-time romp is....?"

"Just a middle-class mech," the autodog answered, waving his servo dismissively. "Nobody really important. He does some security work and has some top-notch credentials, but he's nothing like my other clients. Then again, it's not as if he's asking for a date..... he just needs someone for an interface here and there, but a 'bot that is clean and reputable so he won't be tarnished either should our interactions get out. I wouldn't comply to his requests if he wanted to show me around."

Mirage tossed the last of his meal into one of the garbage cans, putting his plate on the counter over top of the bin. "So basically, as long as he's not trying to take you out to the theatre or the club, you'll willingly have a quick interface with him in a storage closet," the yorkshire terrier noted.

"Yep!," Tracks replied. The pair walked out of the lounge together, heading to the elevator lifts. The company they worked for was set in a privately owned condominium complex, who was kind enough to let their employees rent out apartments in the building for a subsidized rate. Mirage and Tracks were literally neighbours, sharing the only two apartments on the seventh floor. As much as he enjoyed the other autodog's company, Tracks wished he had the penthouse suite. It was a better living arrangement for his glamourous life, as the pomeranian viewed it. But nobody was able to rent the penthouse -it was the home and head office of their manager. "It would be nice to move into something more spacious, with a 360 degree view," the multi-coloured mech sighed, pressing the button for the lift.

Mirage merely shook his helm, crossing his arms over his chassis loosely. "You'll never be satisfied with what you have, will you?" It was a rhetorical question, so Tracks did not bother to answer.

"Speaking of satisfied," the pomeranian piped up as the elevator doors dinged open before them. "I hear there is going to be an opening bash at that new club downtown. It's gossiped to be the ritziest thing since Botanica's greenhouse gallery was opened. Want to come with me tonight and test the waters? Only the beautiful and rich are getting in today."

Mirage mulled it over as he stepped into the elevator with Tracks, his finger pressing the button for their floor. "No, I think not," he eventually answered. "Clubbing really isn't my thing."

"Psh," Tracks denied. "You, my dear Mirage, need to get out some more. Blue Blood or not, if you don't get into the scene quickly, you'll be shut out for good and then how will you go about regaining your family's wealth?"

At that very moment, the pomeranian's cell began to ring; saving him from the other autodog's wrath and scandalized glare. "Yes?," he asked, flipping the cell open. It was quiet for a few astroseconds as Tracks listened to someone on the other line, humming back his own retinue of attentiveness. "Alright, I'll be up in a breem." He closed the phone, slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

"That was our dear house mother," the slim mech informed. "I'm wanted upstairs. Another client has asked for me tonight."

"Fair enough," Mirage replied, feeling all his anger leave him with the release of an intake. There was no point getting mad over every little thing that Tracks said, after all..... sometimes the mutt was as proud and ignorantly rude as the people that the blue mech had grown up with. "I suppose then that you won't be going to that club."

"We'll see," Tracks grinned, reaching over and pressing the button for the top floor.

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He had been, in fact, able to go clubbing that night.

Tracks wound his arms about the femme's waist, pulling her flush against his body as they gyrated to the throbbing music; pulsing lights flashing over head, and hot frames pressed in around either side of them. Her pretty little labrador tail thumped lightly along his inner thigh, following the tempo of the music that they were dancing too. He was having fun, Tracks would have to admit, but he was getting tired of it all. A drink, he surmised, was in order. Perhaps afterwards he could muster the will for a couple more dances before guiding the other autodog out for a late night expresso, followed by a walk home. Swaying to the song still, the pomeranian began the anticipatory countdown -waiting for the right moment to pull back and state his desire for a drink as the music fell to a momentary pause before swelling again. As usual, he timed it just right, and was drifting through the mashed-up crowd of fellow dancers in only a few astroseconds. His 'date', as it were, followed after behind him.

The bar was a masterpiece of shattered glass fragments and gleaming metal, sculpted together in rare harmony, that drew in and reflected the lights all around it in a stunning display that was hard to avidly describe. Tracks could only stutter on the word beautiful; finding that such an adjective still fell short of the masterpiece before him. Tearing his optics away from the exquisite bar, the autodog focused on the mech just behind the counter. "Two high-grade cocktails; cold and bubbly," he ordered.

The surely autodog nodded his helm in acknowledgement at the order, turning around to start mixing the drinks. "I'm just heading to the powder room for a moment," his partner whispered to him, servos pressing on his forearm as she reached to speak into his ear.

"I'll be waiting, darling," Tracks replied, turning to face her, fingers lifting that gorgeous chin of hers. The labrador smiled at his flirtation, optics sparkling in mischief. She pulled herself free from his grasp, turning about and disappearing into the throng of 'bots. Content to sit and relax, having optics shooting him interested glances over drinks and shoulder platings alike, Tracks found his own optics roving over the party scene this night. This club really had style, and the pomeranian could see it retaining high-class business for the next couple stellar cycles, if not more. He would definitely have to come here again and possibly drag Mirage along as well.

The bartender placed their drinks on the counter, and thanking the mech graciously, Tracks grabbed hold of his own glass; returning to his viewing as he sipped at his cocktail. As if pulled by an invisible force, the autodog found his optics being drawn to the doorway. At that very moment a small entourage of 'bots were entering, a blue persian kittycon heading the pack. Tracks could feel an optic ridge rising with curiosity. That mech was dressed to the nines..... the most fashionable suit of the week, an expensive designer silk tie, gold cufflinks and silver wrist watch. This stranger was someone new, fresh and evidently prosperous. The pomeranian could almost feel his wealth and opportunity from across the room; the aura of skill and good fortune trailing after the kittycon. It was hard for the autodog to tear his attention aware from the 'bot, and it didn't help that the persian was unbelievably handsome as well.

Tracks kept his optics on the group of newcomers, watching as they headed for a staircase just beside the Dj's platform and upstairs into the private booth on the second floor. A large, blackened mirror kept the interior of the room hidden from prying optics, but no doubt it allowed the people inside a chance to view the dance floor below. The autodog felt a sudden urge to get back out there and shake his tail. The thought of having that mech's sharp, red-lit visor on his form made a shiver run down his back struts. But before he could do so, his date for the evening returned from her trip to the powder room; hips swaying as she strutted up to the pomeranian.

"Ready to get out of here?," she asked, looking around the room in a motion that clearly stated she was bored now.

Despite his reluctance, Tracks fixed on a handsome smirk, holding his servo out for the labrador. "Of course, my lady." The femme took his servo graciously, giggling softly at his chivalry. Holding her servo firmly, Tracks led himself and the other autodog out into the cool night; his thoughts still on the mysterious kittycon back inside the club.

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Glasses tinkled lightly, soft laughter and muted voices permeating the air, just a notch louder then the music being performed by the live orchestra positioned at one end of the hall. The crowd gathered tonight was of true high-class society, decked out in the finest outfits of silk and other gorgeous fabrics; femmes dressed in beautiful designer gowns from the world's top fashion icons, and mechs suited up in tuxes both bought from a boutique and tailor-made. All manner of jewels glittered on each of the 'bots, their fur brushed, fluffed and dressed for a night of regaling and good humour.

Holding a flute of the finest energon -chilled and bubbly, just as he liked it- Tracks meandered about the party; fluffy tail giving just the slightest bounce of a wag as he walked. He was dressed simply this night, but equally as fine: crisp, white dress shirt under a black, double-breasted satin vest, buttoned up the front, with matching satin pants. A silver chain bracelet, set with sapphires, a gift from his date this evening, encircled his right wrist; the gems set in it so large that they reflected the lights from the crystal diamond chandelier above in spotted, deep blue hues on the objects nearest him. Despite the lack of excitement happening here, Tracks was having himself a good time. He was surrounded by all the finest things and most successful 'bots in the world, acknowledged and admired as if he was one of them.

Which he planned to be soon.

Making his way around the crowd once more, Tracks finally took notice of a particular kittycon mingling with a couple very important CEOs of trade industries and energon processing within and without the city. His blue optics zoomed into the beautiful blue persian ears and tail, his spark practically leaping in excitement as he recognized those distinctive features. There was the urge to go forth and speak to the strange mech, but the pomeranian maintained his position; recognizing that it wasn't his place to be so forward when he was being paid to spend the evening with his client, and when the unknown kittycon was no doubt discussing important business with the others. It made the autodog grin though, as if answering his unspoken thoughts, when that sharp visor lifted suddenly, resting upon Tracks.

With a flirtatious twirl of his hips, Tracks turned in the opposite direction, losing himself in the crowd once again.

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He recognized that autodog.

Soundwave felt his visor dim in contemplative thought, searching his memory banks as he tried to recall where he had noted the pomeranian from. Lost in thought, the kittycon began to lose focus of the conversation he was currently having; all words and comments from Megatron escaping his notice. An archived memory file of throbbing lights and pulsing music flooded his sensory net; a twirling, beckoning frame that moved in time with the music. Ah, that's right..... the persian remembered now. He had seen the autodog at the Nemesis; the new club that he co-owned as a side project. The mech had come many nights in the past decacycle, with or without a date. His multi-coloured frame and beautiful fur had drawn the kittycon's attention -the fact that he saw the other mech now surprised him somewhat, but overall, pleased him. He would have to do some further investigations, but Soundwave was convinced that this autodog might be the one.....

"Apologies, gentlemen," Soundwave interrupted, in his usual monotone. "Attention is required elsewhere."

Megatron scowled at being cut off, but his companion tactically touched the larger kittycon's arm, instantly calming the CEO down. "We do not mind," the seeker at his side purred, shooting his mate pointed looks. "Business can be discussed further this week. Megatron will see to it." Grumbling further still, the tabby backed down, nodding his helm acquiescingly. Thankful for the pardon, Soundwave was quick to leave. He wished to catch the autodog before he lost sight of him completely.

It wasn't hard to locate the mech in such a thin crowd.

The pomeranian was standing near the doorway to the balconies, arching enticingly as he reached for an hors d'oeuvre off the tray of a passing mech. Taking this moment of distraction, the kittycon sidled up behind the unsuspecting autodog; red visor taking the moment to commit the 'bot's details to memory. The mech before him was only a couple inches shorter than himself, with metallic skin of red, blue and silver colours. The clothes he wore sculpted his lovely chassis and hugged his slim thighs, bringing attention to his evident good looks and gorgeous tail. For an astrosecond, Soundwave found himself almost hard-pressed not to reach out a servo and stroke that luscious fur. Hearing his quiet rumble of approval, the autodog turned about, stiffening slightly in surprise before a coy smile graced his rouge faceplates.

"Good evening," the slim 'bot greeted in a sexy, cultured tone. His vivid blue optics sparkled behind his glasses. "May I be of any assistance?"

'Yes,' the persian thought, erotic thoughts rising in the face of the pomeranian's flirtation. Soundwave was quick to fight them back. "The name is Soundwave," the kittycon replied, avoiding the question. He held a servo out for the autodog.

"Tracks," the mech said, that coy smile having yet to leave his lip components. He took hold of Soundwave's servo, giving it a sturdy shake. "Charmed to meet you, Soundwave."

The way that Tracks said his name made the kittycon's visor flash almost lustfully. This autodog was well aware of his sensual appeal and was not afraid to use it. Soundwave admired that. He was reluctant to release the pomeranian's servo, but he did so, not wanting to push the boundaries between them. It was not civilized behaviour to do the opposite, after all. Tracks, having gotten his servo back finally, placed it behind his back; bringing his flute of energon to his lips and sipping at it daintily. The persian watched intently, almost transfixed by the sight.

"I don't recall seeing you around before," the autodog started, having finished his sip.

Soundwave refrained from shaking his helm at the fuzziness infecting his processor. "New to town," he answered. "I have come to set up another company for my business."

"Oh?," Tracks asked. His ears perked in obvious interest. "And just what is your business? We have many trade and governing support systems here; it will be fierce competition to make your mark."

"No concern. Stocks and primary functions rest in communications. No company has yet been able to surpass my own." The kittycon wasn't trying to be arrogant, but it was the truth. His business, self-started no less, was already climbing up in the field. He was revamping the communication network, making them stronger, better and more self-sufficient. With amazing technology at his hands, his company was beginning to garner some attention for the level of perfection that his work entailed; other businesses in turn being influenced and strengthened with his company's involvement. There was no doubt in Soundwave's mind that within the next megacycle he would have carved himself a nice niche at the top of the world, ensuring constant stability for himself and his business. His goal was to unite the entire whole of Cybertron under his communication network, making his work invaluable.

As a new entrepreneur, it was not so surprising that his name was still unknown among the higher circle of business.

At the persian's boast, the autodog raised an optic ridge; his smile growing just a little wider. He went to say something, when his attention was suddenly drawn off to the side. Soundwave was almost tempted to see what had distracted the pomeranian, but did not wish to tear his own optics off the handsome mech. "I'd love to stay and chat some more," Tracks sighed almost apologetically, his focus returning to the kittycon. "But unfortunately, I am not here on my own free time tonight. I must get back to work now."

Soundwave nearly didn't react as the autodog walked past him, that gorgeous tail brushing his knuckles teasingly as the slim mech walked by. Finally, the persian realized that Tracks was really walking away from him and turned to speak to the pomeranian. "And if I wish to speak with you more?," the 'bot asked, not even touching on the question of what work the autodog could surely need to do at an event like this.

Tracks stopped in his stride, peering over his shoulder plating with lustful, half-shuttered optics. "Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to find me without a problem. Put your great communication network to practical use," he smirked, teasing good-naturedly. The mech started walking once again. "Goodnight, Soundwave."

Soundwave did not offer a farewell in return, watching as Tracks made his way across the room, looping his arm about another mech's and standing all pretty like for the crowd of revellers. Annoyed, and confused, the kittycon turned away; disappearing from the rest of the party.