Confidence Game

Ch. 1: Low Bid

By: MoonCrossed

This is purely a fan-made entertainment. I don't own Transformers, Apple computers, Mario Andretti, or Mitsubishi, and am not making money off of them. I do, however, own Cassidy and her wacky family, who are loosely based off of my family and friends. Please ask permission before borrowing them.

Dedicated to: my Dad, who got me out of every writers block I ran into; my family, who screamed at me to go digital before they all went crazy; and God, without whom I wouldn't have any talent at all.

Warnings: Occasional violence, but no worse than you'd find in your average Saturday morning cartoon.

Genre: Comedy/ Adventure

Rating: T

Pairings: Nope, not going there.

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The tow truck beeped rhythmically as it slowly raised the SUV, tilting it on its rear tires. It's flat rear tires. Swindle silently groaned at the pain. Ooh, ouch! They feel like spikes in my peds. Slagging Earth technology! But of coarse, no one could hear him thanks to a certain timepiece.

His audios tuned in abruptly when the organic police captain said the words that enraged and chilled his spark at the same time. "…Stripped for parts." The man finished it off with a derisive laugh. The Autobots seemed to look a little uncomfortable, but did nothing as the ponderous machine he was hooked to trundled away. Swindle's reaction was a lot more colorful, if silent. WHAT!?!? He internally screamed. What did I ever do to deserve that? Sure, he'd stolen and done a sale or two to the highest bidder, but nothing that would deserve the smelting racks. I haven't even killed any of the organics, he fumed. And any Decepticon captured alive in battle was given the right to a fair trial. Did they think he was dead? Judging from the looks that the other mechs had given one another, he had a fair clue.

A chain linked impound lot came into view, full to bursting with cars of every make and model.Slowly the gate slid open and he tensed, before deliberately relaxing. He could barely move. What little power he had left needed to be used carefully. The tow truck jostled briefly and a man came into view, yawning. He started to work on the chains before a voice called from the inside of the building nearby. "Hey, Roy! What are you doing out here so late? I thought you went off shift an hour ago!"

The man working on him groaned before he tossed over his shoulder, "I did, Vinny. The chief called me out anyway." Something in the latch slipped and the human cursed hopping around and waving his injured hand. "Ow!" Swindle internally smirked. They certainly had an interesting way of behaving. The other man ran out looking worried. "Roy, what happened?" He set his coffee cup on the flat bed. "Yeesh, I think you need to get that looked at. It's bleeding."

"Yeah, no kidding," the injured driver deadpanned with hissing breath. He'd stopped waving his hand around like a demented bird, and was now clutching his wrist. It was obvious he wanted to say a lot worse to the other organic, but was holding back. Likely, so he'd be a more ready source of help. Together, they staggered off to the police building in the distance. Seizing his chance, Swindle scanned frantically for another alt-mode. Minutes ticked by and he grumbled in silent irritation. That blasted watch had slowed down his gears to a snail's crawl. Belatedly, his sensors picked up an organic approaching.

C'mon, c'mon, he silently urged. Finally, in the back corner of the lot, he found a good candidate. It was old, and covered in enough dust and mud that he couldn't even recognize the paint job, but it would do. He just went with an estimation of the color, and made up the letters and numbers for the license.

Using up his last energy reserves, he cast out a copy program. His audios picked up the steady slap of shoes on tarmac and he concentrated harder. Come on, speed up, he internally chanted. Each square foot of the distant car emerged on his sight map with all the speed of an Apple computer from the seventies. At last, the final tail end was recorded and Swindle could have cheered his Decepticon head off. With a slow shimmer, the tall beige sub-utility vehicle shifted until, in its place was a dull green Mitsubishi Gallant with out of state plates. At that exact moment a female officer trudged around the corner, eyed the extra workload in the form of one car partially removed from immobilization, and set to work undoing the restraints. Swindle was too tired to care. With a relieved sigh, he fell into recharge, thankful he'd avoided the pit one more time.

Five days later…at the Detroit Police Department car auction.

"Come on, Cassidy. It's not like the cars are going to rear up and bite you," a young man, possibly in his early twenties, called. He had the kind of chiseled good looks that made girls swoon, and unfortunately, he knew it. He brushed wavy red hair off his forehead and offered a suspicious cop a toothpaste commercial smile. After a dark look, the officer moved on. Then Kit marched back the way he'd come, and grabbed a slightly shorter girl who'd been balking warily at the entrance.

Cassidy flicked a glare at her older brother, Kit, before staring glumly out over the sea of automotive hulks. The siblings looked nothing alike. Where Kit was the physique and features of Anthony the Great, Cassidy was the bastardized Irish cousin. A foot shorter, with deeply tanned skin and an upturned nose, people often thought they weren't related. "I still don't see why we have to get one of these speeding death traps. I do fine without one already," the brunet teen tried.

"Oh, no you don't," her brother warned. "I'm not leaving for Japan until I'm sure you're mobile. You've got a license, now. Something like that is meant to be used."

Cassidy grimaced at this reminder. Personally, she thought the license had been given to her out of pity rather than any kind of skill. And yeah, the actual passing of the test had been a victory cheer in and of itself… until she'd realized she had to drive now. Every day since then had been a study in avoidance. If she walked to school, she didn't need a car. If she rode her bike to work, a car was unnecessary. It worked until her brother had shanghaied her. She glanced up at Kit and noticed the adoring shine in his green eyes. Cassidy could guess at the reason. "You're only here to lust over all the cars," she commented casually. "My car-less state is just a good excuse to shop."

Kit, a goofy smile plastered across his aristocratic, features merely nodded. It was only his sister's snickering that alerted him to what she'd said. He blinked and backtracked in the conversation before glancing sharply down at her. She merely offered an impish grin. He rolled his eyes and focused back on the auction. Another hapless vehicle had made it to the auction block. It was a shimmering red convertible, complete with duel side airbags, yada, yada, yada. Cassidy tuned out of the auctioneer's spiel, uninterested. She glanced at her older brother and noted the happy car expression on his face again. Now was her chance. If she snuck away now, and made it to the bus stop on the corner, she could be halfway to Denver before he even realized she was gone. A healthy fear of driving had made her adept at memorizing the bus schedules all across the southwest. A strong cold hand grasping her wrist abruptly blew that out of the water. She glared at the owner of those icicle fingers, who was still gazing longingly at the cars only this time with the addition of a slight smirk. Sometimes it sucked having a brother that knew her so well. This was one of those times.

"SOLD! For five hundred dollars," the auctioneer declared, clacking his gavel right next to the microphone. Cassidy jumped at the abrupt noise and stared incredulously at the platform. A little old lady with blue hair and a Chihuahua in a bag hobbled up to claim her red convertible. They were selling for that cheap, she wondered. The dog yapped and tried to bite the auctioneer's fingers as he handed over the keys. The old biddy smiled, hobbled carefully into the car, then let out a whoop and drove off with a squeal of tires.

Cassidy groaned again. At prices this low, there was no way her brother would balk at a purchase. There went another safeguard to her no car lifestyle. Kit seemed to anticipate this, too. "Hey, Cass! Quit moaning like you're heading to your own execution," he declared, glaring at her.

"It is my own execution. Do you realize how many people die on the road in those things," the teen protested gesturing at the stage. Since no one was bidding on the latest car, and who could blame them, the auctioneer took their gesture down for fifty dollars. The dull green Mitsubishi Gallant gleamed innocently in the sun. They had had some trouble starting it, but once the engine turned over, it ran like a dream. Now it sat, a literal slumbering giant.

"You're a wonderful driver. More skilled than Mario Andretti," Kit claimed, half jokingly gesturing. The auctioneer noted his bid for one hundred dollars.

"It's everybody else's skills I'm worried about," she complained, flinging her arms out demonstratively. "The whole world drives like lunatics. You could be the best driver in the world and still get t-boned by a guy driving a hundred and fifty, with enough alcohol in his system to supply a brewery." The auctioneer noted this bid as well. By now, everyone was looking at them.

"Oh, come on. Why is it you trust another person's driving over your own, then? Those drunks are aiming for the big bull's eye on the side of the car just as much," Kit declared sarcastically right back.

"The other person won't have a panic attack at the first sound of sirens, either," Cassidy stated, glaring daggers at her older brother. This raised a number of officer's eyebrows.

"SOLD! To the sweet married couple in the middle row," the auctioneer declared jovially. It took the open staring of every eye in the crowd to bring Kit and Cassidy out of their glaring contest.

"What," Kit croaked inelegantly. If Cassidy hadn't been so alarmed, she would have laughed. The look of confusion on her brother's face was hilarious. In a dazed state he looked at the car on the stage and grimaced at the nasty color, before an idea hit him. It was a car, and it looked safe enough for Cassidy. With renewed energy, he bounded to the stage, dragging a reluctant little sister with him.

"That will be three hundred and fifty bucks," he informed them. "Now take your domestic fight back home before we arrest you."

"But, we aren't married," Kit protested, even as he wrote the check out.

"Coulda fooled me," the off duty cop drawled.

"But, she's my sister," the redhead continued to protest.

The cop made a face. "That's disgusting." He slapped the keys into Kit's palm and shoved him toward their new vehicle of choice.

Cassidy was eying it about the same way one would consider an un-caged tiger, interesting, but too dangerous to appreciate up close. Kit climbed into the driver's seat and jerked the door closed with a bone-rattling thud. Knowing his sister's moves, he reached across and dragged her in through the open window on the other side before she could disappear. "You will be paying me back when we get home," he warned in a no-nonsense tone. He started the car and zoomed out of the lot.

Cassidy snorted. "I don't see why I should, since I didn't even want a car to begin with." At a sharp right, she hurriedly donned her seat belt.

Kit was not adverse to blackmail. "Remember the incident involving the Stalinski's mobile home?"

She looked at him sharply.

"I do," he continued, "and the way those soap bubbles poured out of their open door was beautiful. Just three-hundred and fifty dollars insures that they don't find out who I saw climbing out of the back window," Kit grinned at his grimacing sister.

"It wasn't my fault," she protested. "How was I supposed to know that was too much soap for the washing machine?" She rolled her eyes. "Ok, fine. I'll pay for the car."

Kit let out an abrupt snicker. "That reminds me," he pulled out of traffic and slammed on the brakes. "You should be driving. It's your car," he invited magnanimously.

Cassidy stared warily back. "Technically, not," she wheedled. "You paid the money, so it's your car until we reach the house."

"And you agreed to pay me back, so it is your car. You're driving. So get behind the wheel or I'm tying yah to it."

Cassidy stiffened when she felt her belt tighten slightly on it's own, but then shrugged it off. She had more important things to worry about, like avoiding the driver's side at all costs.

"How difficult yah are," Kit continued, "depends on how difficult I am."

She opened her mouth to protest.

"Only a little protest, and it's the steering wheel. A little more, and you'll get roped to the spare tire. If you're really annoying you'll wind up closely acquainted with the left rear tire," he finished. A solid glare commenced, brother versus sister. The gauntlet had been thrown. "Steering wheel," Kit declared warningly. Neither blinked. The girl didn't give in. "Spare tire in the trunk," the redhead continued.

"I could always pop the trunk and walk home with the spare tire," Cassidy at last replied in a bored tone. "It would look a little weird, but then again, people should be used to it by now in this family."

Kit continued right over her rebuttal. "Left front tire," he suggested with matching casualness.

"Under such circumstances, my body would get dragged under and you'd go to prison for slaughtering a sibling," Cassidy declared archly. "Top that, jailbird." The only sign of her discomfort at the mere mention of the idea was a slight paling of her dusky skin.

Not blinking, Kit replied, "Left rear wheel."

Cassidy raised one cool eyebrow, the only expression she would allow herself in these con-artist games.

"A lovely case of road rash," Kit described, smiling like a striking snake.

"Won't Mom love yah then," Cassidy drawled condescendingly. "I'm sure she'll enjoy repaying the favor, after she gouges you for hospital bills, of course." Her tone of voice deliberately changed from cold-hearted haggler to valley girl ignorance. "Like, how much does a skin graft cost again?"

"Who says it's the streets? There are lots of farm fields just outside of the city." He smirked, as she faltered. "I'll even go easy on you and never go faster than twenty miles an hour." His smile widened as Cassidy slumped in her seat, then undid her seat belt with all the speed of a hibernating sloth. Her brother watched her avidly. Finally, she climbed out of the passenger seat and stood up. In the blink of an eye, Kit hopped over the console and took her old spot. She jumped and gave her brother the evil eye. He smiled smugly back, fastening his seatbelt. Then, he gestured graciously toward the car's drivers seat. Muttering some not nice things, she marched around the car's nose and climbed in the open door. Her heart hammering, a cold sweat making her palms damp, she put it in gear and drove.

Swindle blinked his dashboard lights in confusion. This was a weird experience. He'd come on line to find himself parked by the side of a busy intersection, with two strange organics inside him. Naturally, he'd tried to do what any other self-respecting mech would do, which is: throw them out and take off. It was even worse when he discovered he couldn't move. In a panic, he'd shifted and strained, but the most he could accomplish was a twitchy seat belt. He couldn't even talk!

In a panic, he'd run a diagnostic, then slumped at the results. His systems were running slower than ever before. That was just enough to jog his memory. Oh, yeah, the time piece, he remembered. He had fired it off, intent on shutting down those Autobots who were trying to stop him from making a sale. He mentally grimaced. But then that little yellow one had jumped in the way of the beam with his forcefield on, the blast got reflected back, so instead… His diagnostic report came back with the news he expected. Energy levels? High. Damage to systems? Negligible. Processing speed? Slower than my earliest ancestors, he sarcastically paraphrased.

His attention was grabbed when the man in his driver's seat had suggested tying the girl in his passenger seat to his wheel. Were they serious? He watched, incredulous, as the two had begun a blackmail game with enough coldhearted enthusiasm to be declared Decepticons themselves. A little further into the game of dare and he came to a startling realization, they were brother and sister. And I thought my family was bad, Swindle reflected with rueful amusement. These fleshies could give them pointers.

He tried clearing his vocals out of habit when he heard a good opening, then mentally sighed when only silence emerged. He hated being so helpless. To distract himself from his problems, he instead decided to look up the femme's question about skin grafts, whatever they were. Hmm… Oh, that's disgusting, he mentally exclaimed as pictures and text danced before his processor. Then price comparisons came up and he choked on his energon. The price, when translated into Cybertronian currency, was astronomical. With a threat like that, the girl had easily won, but Kit still had one hole card.

He listened in growing admiration as the redhead skillfully twisted the threat into something useful. It was true that loose dirt, while unpleasant, wouldn't require hospital visits. The girl knew it, too, because she admitted defeat seconds later. Although, she might need a little prodding, Swindle reflected as he watched the reluctant teenager exit his passenger side at a snails pace. After watching for another two minutes, Swindle felt like throwing a fit. This kid moved slower than his systems, and that was saying something. He didn't honestly care about what they did; he just didn't really have a choice in participation. Finally she was out, and faster than a turbo flea, the male took her place. Smart man, Swindle reflected. Block any and every exit for the spoiled brat.

He watched the girl march around his hood in a fit of anger, mumbling insults, which he could easily hear. He rolled his optics mentally when she wished an extremely unpleasant death on her brother involving the Pacific Ocean and a seagull. He doubted that was even physically possible, once he'd researched the oceangoing bird out of habit. He laughed out loud, if silently, when she referred to him as, "The Torture Car." Ha! You have no idea, kid, he mentally mocked. At last, she slid into his driver's seat and stared at his steering wheel in growing dread. What is her big problem, he groused to himself, impatient to get moving. It's just driving…OH, YUCK, he silently yelped as a sweat slick hand grabbed his shift knob. An equally wet hand pulled his turn signal.

Why is this organic leaking fluids all over me? I thought they only did that when they were overheating! He shuddered slightly as her hands slicked over his steering wheel. It was a slightly acidic mixture of salt water, and oil, but it would eat into his systems if it stayed there for any length of time. He aimed a glare out of his front console. Oblivious to his annoyance, she made a hurried turn signal off of the main city streets and cringed when a taxi almost ripped his bumper off as it sped past. He would have done the same thing; she was driving five miles an hour slower than the speed limit. At last, they turned onto a residential street. In seconds, she had him in park, his engine turned off, his seatbelt retracted and his door open. In silence, Swindle stared at the closed front door of the simple two story human abode that the teenager had disappeared into. She's a good sprinter, he reflected.

Kit sighed, and slowly undid his seatbelt. He'd only had enough time to get out the words, "Good job, Ca-," before she'd bolted for the safety of her bedroom. He had no idea why she was so neurotic, but he was determined to help her. And the best way to do that was by making her face her fears. Climbing out calmly, he closed the door, and only paused long enough to close and lock Swindle's driver's side, before following her into the house. With that, the Decepticon was alone.