A/N: This is the back story of Cybertron's first respectable brothel. It is set in the Transformers Animated universe, post Season 3 and building on the events of my completed TFA fanfic, A Time for Trust, which can be found in the favs list. You don't need to read ATFT to follow this, but it does help fill in some gaps.

This project a collaboration between antepathy, Optimus Bob, and myself (ToyzInTheAttic). Warning: we have no shame. Prepare for crack pairings, fluff, angst, adventure and all around good fun.

A Tale of Two Femmes by ToyzInTheAttic

The stint of peace across Cybertron was accepted with contentment among the Decepticon forces, or so it seemed. Even though the Autobots still maintained control over the crystal mines and therefore still had the final say over the planet's energon allotment, most of the 'cons were too burnt out on war to care for the time being. Directly following the Quintesson incident, the Decepticons took full advantage of the truce and flocked to Kaon in hopes of rebuilding some semblance of an existence.

The entire city of Kaon was centered on Megatron's Gladiatorial Arena, and was quickly becoming Cybertron's entertainment capital for both factions alike. The city was predominantly populated by Decepticons, but Autobots were generally allowed in for their willingness to dump hard-earned credits into Decepticon-run businesses. It was not uncommon that fights broke out over factional differences, but their numbers were few in comparison to how often Decepticons fought amongst themselves. None of it ever escalated to anything serious, and in all reality, the fights outside the arena were all part of the fun-filled package the city had to offer.

Megatron oversaw all of the arena's operations, mainly by delegating the tasks involved to his obedient subordinates. He never participated in the fights anymore and instead encouraged his faithful Lugnut, The Kaon Krusher, to maintain the title of champion, just as the Decepticon leader did in his day. There were very few hired fighters and those select few served as the highest and most expensive level of entertainment, scheduled specifically on weekend nights. All the other fighters were brought in on a voluntary basis and consisted of the city's working population and numerous visitors who traveled to Kaon specifically to fight.

General Strika had been relieved when word came from Megatron about the Decepticon settlement in Kaon and she had gladly accepted his invitation for her and her team to join the arena staff. Charr had become a breeding ground for nihilism and Strika's team desperately needed a change of pace. They quickly adapted into the easy lifestyle offered by Kaon and each found their place in the city, either working for the arena or for one of the surrounding businesses that catered to the arena's tourists.

The arena had a reputation to uphold in terms of its quality of fighters, so not just any bot off the street could sign up for the spotlight. There was a screening process; a series of tests to prove ones strength, technique and charisma. This was Strika's specialty; weeding out the worthy fighters from the sorry hopefuls. Her standards were high, much higher than the average audience member, so if she deemed a bot fit for an entertaining match, the spectators of said match were not disappointed.

This role earned Strika a level of respect in the arena scene. She was once esteemed for her role as General, but since there weren't any battles to remind her peers of such military prowess, her past achievements were easily forgotten. This did not surprise her. Most Decepticons lived for the moment, too involved in their own reputation to stop and appreciate that of anothers. They respected her for no other reason besides the possibility that she would deny them the ring if they dared slander her. Strika wasn't oblivious to this fact by any means, but it still bothered her how easily everything she worked for in the past could be disregarded.

In her younger cycles, before the war, she had welcomed the challenge of proving herself beyond capable in a mech-dominated scene. She eagerly accepted that, regardless of her size and power, she was required to work twice as hard with twice the outcome to be revered as an equal by her peers. She climbed the military ladder to General's rank in record time then proceeded to lead Team Charr to countless victories during the Great War.

But none of that mattered now and Strika was forced to accept that her time of greatness had come and gone. This was the reality of many Decepticons, but they masked their acknowledgement of it with the highs that came from fighting in the arena. Strika envied the fix they got from such mindless combat. She knew the ultimate high offered by the arena was the promise of defeating Lugnut and gaining a planet-wide title for oneself, but this achievement didn't interest her in the least; perhaps because, in her own way, she had already defeated Lugnut, multiple times. Her victories, if she could call them that, happened behind the scenes, where time after time, she effortlessly reduced him to a pathetic shuddering heap at her feet.

She had a gift, at least that's what Lugnut said, but she hardly saw the usefulness of it, especially since Lugnut was the only partner she's had in eons. Their interfacing was fun but it never gave her any pleasure beyond the power trip. Even that wasn't much to speak of since Lugnut always assumed a submissive role, and rarely met her needs. He was sweet, funny, sickeningly loyal, but ultimately, he was dull. After listening to story after story of Barricade's adventures with interfacing, she was well aware of the possible highs and victories attainable in the interfacing arena. Whether they could compete with battle victories was doubtful, but considering her apparent gift she couldn't help but wonder.

This particular weeknight brought Strika outside her routine and outside the city limits. Blaster & Vibes Nightclub had been taunting her curiosity for a while now. It was located outside of Kaon, which meant it wasn't safeguarded by the truce; however, it was rare that a fight would break out as the majority of the arena crowds stuck to the seedy joints inside the city. The B&V's patron makeup usually consisted of liberal Autobots, worker-class Decepticons, and undecideds, all seeking a medium of escapism. Strika fit the profile beautifully. She wasn't exactly sure what form of escape she sought but knew the need was there.

The stares she received upon entering were few and mainly do to her size being atypical of the standard femme model. This did not bother her. She was grateful for her build because of the brute advantages it gave her on the battlefield. To Strika, being petite meant offlining of boredom behind the scenes as an intelbot or medic. A fine example of this dull existence was draped pitifully on the bar directly in front of her.

The General clearly recognized the pink and white heap. She knew this Autobot was Megatron's key to near victory on planet Earth, supplying him with the necessary code to activate Omega Supreme. She also knew that this bot underwent another previous hostage situation during the war that led to a massive memory wipe from an overloading EMP blast. Given these circumstances, Strika wouldn't be surprised if this little femme harbored some bitterness to the purple insignia and became adverse to the close proximity of a Decepticon. She didn't want a confrontation, but considering the differences in their size and sobriety, she certainly wasn't intimidated by the prospect. She casually claimed the seat next to Arcee, unable to deny her intrigue at the Autobot.

Vibes perked to her newest customer. She glided over ever aloof and leaned a single elbow onto the bar. "What be your fancy, gorgeous?"

Gorgeous: not a title commonly used for the General, but welcome all the same. "Medium-grade," Strika replied with a the slightest break of her seemingly permanent frown. "Enhanced vis coolant."

The sound of Strika's voice snapped Arcee back into the land of the aware and she slowly lifted her heavy off the bar. She strained her optics to focus on the clearest of three forms of Vibes who stood before her. "Cou'I get 'nother shpritzer please?" she slurred.

Vibes shook her head with pitied amusement. "I tell you, sugar, you be done for de night. De only ting I be servin' you is straight, unrefined oil."

Arcee groaned with juvenile disappointment. "Fine, whatever."

Vibes leaned into the bar and planted a hand on her hip in a parental stance. "How you be gettin' home? Der is no way you can drive, let alone transform."

Arcee shrugged indifferently. Vibes shook her head again then swayed off to fetch the two beverages. Strika was fully engrossed in curiosity now and dared a side glance at the proper mess beside her. Arcee could feel the large femme's optics on her but could only lift her glance high enough to address a bulky maroon arm. "You're a 'con," said the pink femme, matter-of-factually.

"You are observant," replied Strika, flatly. Her first instinct was to be defensive, but the night was too young for hostility. She chose the path of compliance instead. "Does my faction bozzer you?"

Arcee fluttered her optics in surprise at the General's unexpected concern. She was gearing up for some playful hostility but instead found herself robbed of any coherent thought. "Um…ah…no."

Strika released a little tension now that the ice was broken. She had no interest in factional stand-offs tonight and questioned why she chose the seat directly next to this potential hostile. Perhaps a part of her desired to know what drove a normally respectable Autobot to such a pathetic state. There had to be a good story in there somewhere; a story that would distract the General from her day to day and potentially make for a good retelling to Lugnut tomorrow. "Vhy did you come out here? I zought Iacon had multiple establishments such as zis."

Vibes returned with the drinks, overhearing Strika's last statement and reacting with a guffaw as she served the drinks. "Ain' no club in Iacon like dis, sista. Dos uptight joints be military schmoozing ground, packed to da brim egomaniacs and dere patetic pick-up lines."

Arcee smiled at Vibes and cupped her hands over the mug filled with sludge-black liquid. "My thoughts exactly." She leaned down to sip from the mug as lifting it up would take too much effort. Her face contorted into a repulsed cringe as the flavor finally registers in her sensors. "Bleh!" She turned back to Strika and eyeballed her drink. "You wanna trade?"

The General chuckled as she lifted her drink to her prominent lips then watched the cool Autobot veteran slide off to wait on other customers. Strika was surprised to find herself already at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. Only a couple cycles and one sip into her evening, and she found welcoming company from two Autobot femmes. She knew this club to be generally free of factional skiffs, but she at least expected underlying tension, especially toward a high-ranking officer such as herself. She had met Vibes before on the battlefield and distinctly remembered laughing victoriously into her bitter expression of defeat. She was relieved that Vibes has either wiped this experience from her memory or holds the value of customers over the sting of past grudges. This was the first meeting she'd had with the pink enigma seated next to her, however, and was itching more and more with each sip of her drink to learn the series of events that put such a fragile creature in this state. 'Slag it' she thought 'just ask'. She tipped the rest of her drink down her throat and readied the question, only to have it stunted with the creature's voice.

"Buncha hypocrites they are," Arcee grumbled. "Always goin' on 'bout doin' what's best me for without even bothering to ask what I think. They seem t'think amnesia's like post-traumatic stress...syndrome. But it's not." She managed to lift her mug and take a sloppy sip, sloshing a bit down the side of her mouth. "I've more trauma from school teaching than I do from a war I don't r'member." She arched a confident brow to Strika. "You ever have t'deal with sparklins on a regular basis? S'no picnic."

Strika found herself smiling again. "Don't imagine it is." She took note of the spilled oil still clinging to the prim pink face and instinctively raised a clunky finger to wipe it off. Her actions didn't sink in until after the fact as she felt the cool residue of the oil on her finger. She looked worriedly at Arcee for fear of breaching some untold barrier with physical contact, but relaxed when the Autobot responded with an appreciative smirk.

"Speakin' of sparklins", Arcee giggled with embarrassment, "Whatta mess I am. I apologize for my behavior."

"Do not apologize," ordered the General. "I vould behaffe much vorse if I had to put up wis ze Elite Guard bots."

"EG'll certainly drive a femme to drink." The tipsy pink femme attempted to stand up but instead tumbled into Strika's side and clutched her delicate fingers around the thick arm.

"Vhoa zere!" She tried to ignore the odd warm tingles surging up her supportive arm. "Vhere do sink you are going?"

"I need to go home now." Arcee whimpered like a little girl who strayed too deep into a forest. "Ratchet is prolly worried sick."

Strika planted the listless femme back into her chair and assumed a parental role, pointing to the mug of oil. "Not until you drink zhat. You von't effen be able to find ze exit, let alone Iacon city if you don't sober up."

The con couldn't figure out her inherent concern for this Autobot and watched with puzzlement as Arcee tilted the entire mug of oil down her petite pout, staining the sides of her face again in the process. Strika resorted to making more conversation in an effort of helping the sobering process along. "so…you don't remember any of ze var?"

Arcee slammed the mug down with accomplishment and drug her forearm across her lips; another delayed cringe and violent shudder after tasting the sludge. "Last mem'ry I have a'the war is Lockdown holding Ratchet and myself prisoner." She shook her head in disgust. "Butchu know the best part?" Her tone slid into sarcasm as she met the general's interested stare. "I woke up affer centuries of stasis only to find myself a prisoner of Megatron!" She cut loose with a bout of deranged giggling. "The Elee Guard can't protect their own for scrap!"

Strika was thoroughly entertained by hearing the Autobot bad talk her own faction. "You do not sound bozzered by zis…pattern of unfortunate effentz."

"How could I be?" The pink bot threw her arms up. "It was all outta my control." She settled back into a half-lean on the bar, attention fully locked on the towering femme. "They think I need therapy…they won't let me work until I undergo 'rehabilitation'." She slammed her fist on the bar. "Do you have any idea how demeaning that is? It's bad enough to deal with the lingering bigotry toward femmes in our society, but to be treated as incompetent and helpless…" Her rant trailed off as she mulled over her own words then her candy-striped shoulders sank in defeat. "I sometimes wish I never woke up."

The general was struck by the femme's moodiness but before she could muster up some sympathetic words, she noticed a green and black bounty hunter slither his spiked body up to the bar. Having just learned of this mech's negative role in the femme's life, the General's optics widened at the potential drama at stake. Without a second thought, she left her seat and strategically positioned herself on the opposite side of Arcee, creating an impenetrable wall between the bounty hunter and his ex-quarry.

This action bumped Lockdown off his footing, causing him to stumble. He jerked his body around to confront his assaulter who, to his surprise, towered considerably over him.

Arcee was bewildered by the General's actions and swiveled to cast her stare onto the femme's back. "Di—Did I say something wrong?"

Lockdown was not a bot intimidated by size. He eyeballed the femme with quizzical irritation, desperate to interpret her intentions. He finally enlightened to the situation upon hearing the delicate feminine vocals emerging from behind the massive tankbot. He leaned back into the bar and grinned deviously.

"Don't." Strika bored her red optics into the mismatched bot. That was all the warning she would give. She then turned back around to face Arcee. "You need to leaff zis place." She gently glided the confused pink femme from her seat. "Come. I take you to local recharge establishment."

Vibes appeared onto the scene, pinning Lockdown with a look of warning then shifting a skeptical expression to Strika. "Can you be trusted?"

Strika knew it was a rhetorical question, asked merely for show. There was an implied level of trust between Cybertronian femmes that could, on rare occasions, breach the barriers of faction. Strika simply responded with a sincere nod then escorted the wavering pink femme out the door.

Vibes turned back to the bounty hunter with a disapproving look. "Why you scare away my customers?"

Arcee's petite frame just barely fit into the cab of Strika's alt-mode. The pair journeyed down the main highway seeking the first neon lit inn that didn't scream cesspool, which was practically impossible to find this far out from Iacon. Arcee was slowly sobering up and made it a point to thank Strika every few cycles. She insisted she was capable of transforming and finding her way back home, but Strika wouldn't have it. The General had seen her fair share of drunks in the arena scene and knew too well the amount of time a bot needed to regain their driving skills.

A neon sign with a respectable amount of bulbs still lit came into view and Strika settled on the inn it advertised as her passenger's drop-off point. Babysitting a drunken Autobot was not her intended plan of action tonight, but oddly enough, she didn't mind. She enjoyed their conversation during the trek down the highway. Despite their vast differences, they were both still femmes and could relate to the struggles that presented themselves daily to their model. They even ventured onto the topic of interfacing: Arcee expressed her discontent for Ratchet's traditionally dull methods and Strika complained about the little effort put forth from Lugnut.

Arcee laid casually across the bench seat, leaning her heavy head into her hand. "…I mean, how do you tell a mech who's good to you in every other way imaginable, that he fails at 'facin'?"

Strika laughed, her dashboard light flashing in sync to her vocals. "I know exactly vhat you mean. Lugnut is wery sveet but he doesn't understand zat verbal praise is not enough. I haffe physical needs too, but he usually falls into stasis after ze first offerload, too exhausted from fighting to comprehend 'facin as a two-vay street."

Arcee was comforted by her company's understanding and continued with her venting. "He acts as though a new position would break me in two and frag my hard drive, which in all honesty sounds hotter than what he has to offer. He doesn't let me take the control either, no matter how hard I try. He says 'it's not me' and 'I must be reacting from some random amnesia-induced glitching."

Strika replied curiously. "Shouldn't a medic be attuned to a bot's pleasure sensors?"

"One would think, but not when the medic plays his 'I'm too old for this' card at every turn. I mean, hell…I'm almost as old as he is!"

They pulled up to the dilapidated building which contrasted immensely from how the highway sign boasted it. Arcee dropped out of the bulky vehicle and scanned for any signs of sentient beings associated to the place. Strika transformed and beheld the place with discontent. She spied the dim flickering from the screen of a pay kiosk and approached it with a sigh.

"I don't sink ve vill find anyzing better zan zis." She tapped through the series of options and windows on the machine, searching for the best room available. A bot knew they were at a truly low class establishment when not a single employee could be found on the premise. The rooms were instead checked out via the kiosk; a rather risky method as these machines never failed to accept payment but had a bad reputation of mis-communicating with the doors' autolocks. It was not unusual on a weekend night to find two bots interfacing on the door step of a room, most likely too broke or horny (probably both) to seek a respectable solution to the kiosk's malfunction.

"For Primus sake, let me pay for my own room!" Arcee stepped up to the kiosk. "You've done enough for me already."

"If ze door does not open, you pay for second attempt. Deal?"

Fortune smiled on Arcee and the door clicked open without posing a problem. Strika insisted on inspecting the room before leaving the femme to a potentially nauseating fate and Arcee, being new to this experience, didn't argue. The lights were on motion sensors and flickered on as the femmes entered. Strika wasn't surprised to see silvery stains decorating the room; she simply hoped the original color of the walls were still decipherable. She also hoped the neighboring rooms were empty, but that was asking too much as their silent inspection was interrupted by a rhythmic thudding upon the shared wall.

Strika sighed with hopelessness. "Perhaps I should just risk driving you to Iacon."

Arcee still carried enough of a buzz to be impartial about her surroundings. "That won't be necessary. This place will due." She turned to the Decepticon and grasped one of the massive yellow hands with both of hers. "How can I thank you for your generosity?"

Strika couldn't comprehend the Autobot's question. Where did generosity play into the enjoyment of one's company? She should have been the one offering up gratitude. It didn't matter that the night was cut short or that it was ending in a condemnable room, the brief connection they shared was enough to break the Decepticon from her routine and make the evening pleasurable. "Dere is no need for sanks. Just make sure you haffe ride home next time." She turned to leave but felt the small grip tighten on her hand.

"You don't understand." Arcee said suggestively. "I need to thank you…"

The adamant grip on Strika's hand sent welcome shivers coursing through her curious frame. She took a deep intake to combat them. She would not be the kind of bot that took advantage of a drunken femme. "You are not processing clearly." She gripped the small frame by the shoulders and guided her to the berth. "Is time you recharge."

Arcee's optics flared up. "You sound just like Ratchet!" She wriggled her shoulders out of the massive grip and pressed her chest into the General's thighs, hooking her fingers over the top edge of the pelvic plating staring her in the face. "I intend to prove you and everyone else wrong!"

The Decepticon froze as her chassis warmed to the touch. The feel of tiny probing fingers along her sensitive circuitry was a far cry from Lugnut's clumsy claws and she released a moan of exhilaration in response to it. She could have melted at how good the bot felt, but it wasn't right. Not here, not under those circumstances. She tried with all her being to pull away. If Arcee was sober, there would be no hesitation but Strika feared the Autobot may come around mid-'facing causing the situation to turn ugly. It took a couple cooling ventilations before she could formulate the words of protest. "I cannot…allow this."

Arcee was fed up. She was under the impression this 'con grasped the ripe reality presented to them. She now realized her misjudgment and decided it was time for teacher to educate the student. She summoned her weakest energy blast and released it through her fingers into the 'con's sensitive chassis. Strika hollered and her body went limp, limp enough for Arcee to shove it into a seated position onto the berth. "Lesson number one: relax." She knelt onto the floor and pushed the General's thighs farther apart. Her delicate white fingers traced the inner seams up to the edges of the leg plates and into the adjoining cables, pressing firmly on the universal hot spot that was known to induce an involuntarily retraction of the pelvic plating.

Strika was recovering from the stunning effect of the blast when the cool air against her exposed circuitry invoked another wave of immobilization. She slipped another moan, this time louder and longer, responding longingly to the teasing digits artfully exploring her anatomy. "I can't…oooohh, zhat is…you are—." She regretted bothering with vocals and conceded to lean back onto her elbows and sink into ecstasy.

Arcee was enthralled by the success of her first lesson and felt her chassis heat up with tingling desire. Her fingers gently parted the flexible wiring that hid her partner's sadly neglected sensory node. The aching treasure throbbed with a pink glow, captivating the blue optics locked upon it. Arcee leaned in and captured it in her mouth, caressing it expertly with her glossa and moaning wantonly at every twitch she triggered from the mighty thighs surrounding her. She slowly fed her fist into the hungry valve beneath her chin then buried her arm in elbow-deep. She extended her fingers out to reach as deep as she could. The lubricated lining of the General's walls were pulsing around the adventuring arm and Arcee began thrusting it in out while continuing to devour the engorged node.

Across the shared wall, the smaller of two 'cons perked his audio receptors at the wailing moans emerging from the neighboring room. He wriggled out from under the crushing copter enough to bring his head closer to the wall. "You hear that?" A shitty grin spread across Barricade's face.

Blackout was not pleased to be pulled from his stasis and simply growled in disinterest, rolling over to leave his easily amused partner to his own devices.

Barricade, now fully engrossed in the muffled song, sat up on the berth and leaned his audio receptor against the wall. "I know those vocals."

"Why am I not surprised," grumbled the copter. "Now shut the frag up and stop ruinin' my recharge."

Barricade ignored his hulking lay and initiated an energy signature scan. The results were quick and satisfying: Faction: Decepticon, Rank: General, Name: Strika. He leaned back into the wall and smiled as if her cries of overload were his all-time favorite tune. "Heh…'bout fraggin' time."

The next couple of megacycles flew by with enlightening revelation as Strika laid on the dirty berth, petting the candy-stripe body draped diagonally atop her chest. "I feel…gud. I haffen't felt zis gud since…my first victorious battle as General. How do you feel?"

Arcee sighed dreamily. "Like a young bot again."

"Zen you haffe felt zis before?" Strika inquired.

"Uh huh…back when I used to date Rodimus, well before the war." Arcee paused while the memory made its way to the surface of her processor. "He was hot…very aware of a femme's needs too."

"Vhy are you not wis him?" pondered the general.

"Because… his magic touch sadly wasn't enough to awaken a comatose femme in distress and, being the impatient bot he was, he moved on."

Strika scowled. "Zen he fully deserved to have his aft handed to him by my team."

"Right, the cosmic rust incident." Arcee spoke distantly. "I don't think anybot deserves that kind of punishment. Cosmic rust changes a bot, if they're lucky enough to recover from it. I hear rumors that Rodimus spends all his off-time in Iacon's low class pleasure houses now."

"Pleasure houses?" The term was somewhat alien to the Strika, and she felt a strong urge to change the topic. "Vhat is zis place you speak of?"

Arcee twisted her head to display her utter confusion at the question. "How is it a seasoned 'con doesn't know what a pleasure house is? Isn't Kaon bursting with them?"

"Dezepticons do not require designated establishments to seek…pleasure. It usually occurs in ze bars, alleys or dives like zis place." She shook her head in disgust. "Most 'cons haffe no shame vhen it comes to 'facin…Tell me vhat zese houses are like?"

The Autobot rested her head comfortably back upon the General. "Well, I don't exactly frequent those places, but from what little I know…they are repulsive. No class, no attempt to present their employees with dignity. And the worst part is how the femmes value a few meager credits over their own dignity."

"Are zere no mech companions?" Strika wondered.

"No self-respecting mech would lower himself to be a pleasurebot. And they're not companions, Strika…merely sentient valves for desperate spikes…too young and ignorant to recognize their misuse." Arcee had worked herself into a ruffle and sat up on her knees to continue the soap box speech. "How I would love to pull those girls aside and teach them a thing or two about the power of technique. Their customers wouldn't know what him them."

"Vhy don't you? Strika's voice sang of encouraging praise. If you can teach zose femmes to do to a mech vhat you haffe done to me, zen your knowledge is more valuable zan ze cryztal mines."

Arcee cycled a dozen scenarios in her processor before replying humbly. "You really think so?"

"Of course! Honey, I know a gift vhen I zee vun I haffe been told I possess vun myself." Arcee reacted excitedly to this. "Vhy don't you go into busines for yourself. Prooff to zose idiot Autobots zhat you are not damaged goods. Make a new name for yourself."

Arcee was reduced to confusion by her partner's words. "Wha—what do mean? How would teaching pleasurebots to 'face properly bolster my reputation to any respectable level?"

Strika sat up, excited by her sudden entrepreneurial advice. "You will be setting yourself apart as a self-sufficient businessbot in a business traditionally operated by old fashioned mechs. Plus, new businesses are popping up everyvhere and gaining success from ze crowds brought by ze arena."

Arcee stared curiously into the General, processor obviously working overtime as Strika continued with the motivational speech. "Get on ze bandvagon. Ze 'conz lack a pleasure house in Kaon. Buy up one of zese rattrap inns and turn it into Cybertron's first respectable pleasure house."

Arcee remained still and silent, only managing a slight optic flutter and eagerly awaited the General's next handout of empowerment.

"You have nozzing holding you back, you said it yourself. Ze Autobots von't effen let you work. Get yourself a loan and do it! Talk to Blaster and Vibes. Learn some tricks of ze cross-factional trade."

Arcee was dumbfounded with motivation. She internally cursed herself for not having thought of this on her own. She leaned into Strika's face, nearly in a trance, optics growing dangerously wide. "I don't need a loan. My savings earned impressive interest while I was in stasis. I have the means to build a pleasure…theme park!"

Strika laughed at the visual of such a place but quickly quieted when she beheld the sternly serious gaze upon her.

Arcee gripped the General's arms intently. "Let's do it together!"

That was all the convincing Strika needed.

One extremely busy month later, the unlikely pair found themselves standing proudly in front of a decadently restored inn, each raising a flute filled with sparkling pink liquid. The pioneering pleasure house shone with a brilliant red neon sign, boasting the name "Inamorato" written elegantly in the Cybertronian equivalent of a cursive font. The grand opening was announced for the following night, but like any well-to-do social event, there was a rehearsal.

Only three patrons were scheduled for the evening's events as there were only three escorts on the staff list so far. Arcee decided a couple weeks ago against training Iacon's trashy femmes when she learned of three prospects that were already trained accordingly, by both nature and experience. She was keen to their reputations and went out of her way to tackle the rigorous political gauntlet that was required to liberate them from the Elite Guard Stockade. Luckily, Sentinel Magnus easily warmed to the idea of sentencing the prisoners to a demeaning occupation that wouldn't cost him a single taxpayer credit. Arcee was content to let the Magnus wallow in his bigoted ignorance and welcomed Sunstorm, Ramjet and Chromia to their new life of house arrest and profitable pleasure.

Inamorato enforced the strict policy of 'leave your weapons and politics at the door.' Any bot who didn't comply with this would be quickly exiled by the hired muscle. It initially didn't sit well with Arcee to offer a life of luxury to an amoral double-agent and a pair of potentially back-stabbing seekers, but she didn't know of any other bots that can do the job so well or so eagerly. She also wasn't about to hypocritically stray from her own gospel policy. She settled to accept Strika's reassurance that the bouncers were there to keep the staff inline as well, and that any employee foolish enough to look a gift horse in the mouth would quickly find themself back in the stockades. (She also had never witnessed a seeker in heat before and was anxious to see how this natural phenomenon will affect business.)

It took very little effort to advertise the place. Word-of-mouth was a primus-send for their line of business, planting the seeds of curiosity at both the B&V and the arena. Two weeks into the house's construction and the patron list was booked solid for the first three months. The femmes were not in it as much for the money, but more the culturally enlightening experience of exotic escapism, and therefore were very meticulous on who they allowed in. Their rates were reasonable but just high enough to discourage the typical scoundrel from visiting.

The Inamorato became the hot gossip of both cities, gaining fame by rumor alone; a very accurate rumor that properly labeled it as the first business of its kind on the planet.

Arcee and Strika clanked their flutes and tipped the bubbling symbol of success down their throats. They tossed the delicate glasses over their shoulders with a laugh and entered proudly through the grand red doors of their promising new life.