RIGHT! Little cracky Transformers-inspired (note that 'inspired' tag - you won't find this in any Tf continuum!) fic for Lutra. See the post two below this for the backstory... (Edit: you don't need to know anything about the Transformers universe for this to make sense, but it may add to your fun if you do.)

SUDS!

The first indication Poppy had that there might be something wrong was when all of the washing ended up pink.
     She bent down to stare at the wet material pressing against the front loader's transparent door, scowling. Multitudinous shades of pink stared back at her. Opening the door and dragging the damp mass into a laundry basket, she rummaged through it in search of whatever stray pink article had had the audacity to creep into the wash while she wasn't looking.
     She couldn't find it.
     Frowning, she spun the drum around to see if it was clinging to the top, hiding itself away from her wrath. But no, there was nothing there.
     She stood up, lips pursed. Something in a pocket, maybe – a red paper serviette or something like that? Grimacing – there were few things she liked less than groping in wet pockets for lurking things – she explored the few items with pockets that had been in the wash, but found nothing more threatening than a couple of old bus tickets and a two-pence piece.
     Perhaps the laundry detergent? It was a cheap brand. Maybe some sort of...pinkening agent had got into it by accident? She poured a little of the powder into her hand and gazed at it. Nothing pink there. But then, perhaps it only activated when mixed with water? She dumped the handful into a glass and added a little tapwater, stirring it with a handy butterknife, then held it up to eyelevel to watch what happened.
     Nothing. Nowt. Not a sausage. Well, it dissolved as it was supposed to, but nothing more than that.

Hm.

Something in the water then? But the water from the tap had been completely clear. Chlorinated and fluourinated to within an inch of its (metaphorical) life, undoubtedly, but not pink.
     Grumbling to herself, Poppy glared at the heap in the laundry basket. She could either put up with everything being pink, or risk washing it again and hope the same thing didn't happen a second time. At least it was all her own stuff, so no-one else was going to be offended by pink boxers or sport socks, and while it wasn't her favourite colour, she could live with it.
     Putting it through another wash was a waste of time, water, electricity and powder. She opted to live with it.
     When the next wash also came out pink, she wasn't quite so calm about it. Especially since her favourite turquoise shirt ended up an ugly muddy purpleish colour. The machine was well out of guarantee, but the company did have a help line, of sorts. The bored voice on the other end had never heard of any such thing happening, but could send out a service engineer to look at it for her. Wincing at the cost, Poppy decided it was cheaper than buying a new washing machine and made the appointment.

The engineer who eventually turned up two hours late opened the machine, took one look and put the backplate back on, shaking his head.
     "Can't touch this."
     "Why not?"
     "Not our machine."
     "What... Of course it is!"
     He shook his head again, more emphatically.
     "Sorry love, this has been tampered with. This solenoid valve in't standard, the timer looks like... well, it's not timing in minutes any more, and your agitator's up the spout. And the motor looks like it's been turbo-charged."
     Poppy stared at him, helplessly.
     "...but..."
     "We can only work on our own machines."
     "... but..."
     "You'll have to get hold of whoever did the original work." He scrawled something across the work order then handed over the clipboard and a pen. "Gotta charge you for the callout, but there'll be no charge for parts or labour. Sign here."
     Poppy automatically scribbled her name where indicated and the engineer watched her, the faintest gleam of sympathy in his eyes.
     "Sorry love. My missus gets all aeriated when the machine plays up, so I know what it's like. Good luck getting it fixed."
     As the front door closed behind him, Poppy glanced over her shoulder, eying the machine warily. It seemed to smirk, mocking her...

The crunch came with the next wash she put through. She'd avoided using the machine for a week, but finally couldn't put a wash off any longer or she'd have nothing to wear for work. Tense with trepidation she loaded it, very carefully selected the right setting and added an anti-limescale tablet, the correct amount of detergent, having switched to a liquid in the hope it might rectify matters, and a half-capful of fabric conditioner. Then, holding her breath, she hit the 'start' switch. The machine whirred and spluttered to life, and she retired to the kitchen table with a mug of coffee to wait for the cycle to complete.
     Once again everything came out pink.
     "Oh for..." Poppy felt her blood pressure shooting up, and without thinking slapped the top of the machine as hard as she could. She was distracted from the pain of human flesh meeting plastic coated metal when the machine seemed to flinch under her hand. Disbelievingly she heard what sounded like a peculiarly mechanical 'ouch' come from deep within.
     "What the..." The analytical part of her mind absently noted that it seemed to be her month for incomplete sentences. The more emotional part jolted her into jumping backwards with a stifled shriek.
     "Who..? What...?" She stumbled back to the table and dropped into her seat, staring wildly at the appliance. For a moment her mind went blank, then began to cascade rationalisations. The engineer had said the machine wasn't standard – had she somehow managed to accidentally buy a prototype of a new sort of washer? One equipped with voice commands or responses or something? Was one of her friends playing some sort of obscure joke? Or had she simply imagined it?
     Occam's Razor, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath and trying to calm her racing pulse. I just imagined it. 'Course I did. Why would anyone make a talking washing machine, for Pete's sake?
     She glowered at the machine. "OK, you stupid hunk of metal..."
     It was as far as she got.
     "I'm NOT thtupid!"
     Silence fell like a workman's hammer dropped from a roof. Poppy debated briefly with herself whether she'd finally cracked from the stress of work, then reminded herself that being a minor accountant in a big company wasn't really stressful enough to cause hallucinations. And she was pretty sure there hadn't been anything... dodgy in the coffee.
     "You can talk."
     "Well, yeth." The tone suggested the 'duh!' on the end of the reply.
     "You can talk."
     The selection lights twinkled on and off across the front face of the machine. It vaguely suggested laughter, though how she knew that Poppy couldn't have said.
     "Tho can you."
     "Yes, but I'm supposed to be able to talk. I'm human."
     "Yeth. And?"
     Oh my god. I'm sitting here arguing with a washing machine. The realisation tickled, and before she knew it she found herself giggling near-hysterically.
     "You're a washing machine! You're a... a thing. An appliance. Things don’t talk."
     If a washing machine were capable of bridling indignantly, this one would have done so.
     "I might look like a wathing mathine. I might perform a wathing mathine'th functionth. But I'm not jutht a thing."
     Poppy managed to rein back the giggles enough to be able to speak intelligibly. Though not necessarily intelligently.
     "Why did you make my washing pink?"
     She could swear the voice turned whiney. "But I thought you'd like pink. Everything I've read thayth pink is a girlth colour..."
     "Everything you've read where?"
     "World wide web of courth. It'th where we all get our information from."
     'We'? Oh my god, there are more of them?
     "What are you? And what are you doing in my kitchen?"
     How a stationary cube of metal and plastic and hoses and wiring could look shifty she was never able to say. Nevertheless, the machine managed it.
     "Um..."
     "I think I have a right to know."
     There was the electronic equivalent of a sigh.
     "Hiding."
     It was mumbled, and Poppy leaned forward, frowning.
     "What?"
     "I'm hiding."
     Poppy blinked.
     "Hiding from what?"
     "Them."
     "Them, who?" God, she'd had easier conversations with a three year old.
     "Them." the machine hissed. "The bad guyth. Dethepticonth."
     "What are... you know what? I don't want to know. I just want an ordinary washing machine. One that washes clothes how I want them washed and doesn't talk back to me."
     "I can do that." It sounded overly eager to Poppy, who eyed the machine suspiciously.
     "But you're... alive. Well, conscious, anyway."
     "Yeth, but we're uthed to hiding. In plain thight, tho to thpeak."
     Poppy metaphorically banged her head against the kitchen table.
     "Isn't that a bit... unfair? Boring for you?" What am I saying? Why do I care?
     "Oh, it'th all right. Anything for a peatheful life."
     Poppy considered her options. She supposed she could get rid of the thing – although that would mean buying a new machine, and given her finances at the moment that would be a pain in the bum. Also... well, there was something weirdly appealing about having someone in the house that she could talk to when she was alone. Kind of like having a dog. A dog that didn't eat anything, need walking or taking to the vet. That stayed where it was put. And that could talk back, hold conversations with her... So not much like a dog at all, really... She frowned as a thought struck her.
     "Um... are you male or female."
     A moment's thoughtful silence, then, "Well, we don't really have male and female ath thuch. But I thuppothe I'd veer more to boy than girl."
     Oh my god! He's been washing my underwear! Inside him! And I've walked about naked...
     "But you're not my type."
     "What...?" Belatedly Poppy realised she'd spoken aloud, and promptly blushed a deep red. The machine regarded her for a moment.
     "Thee? You do like pink. You've gone pink."
     Gritting her teeth, Poppy scowled at the machine.
     "It's called 'embarrassment', you... perverted voyeuristic contraption you!"
     Another moment's silence while the machine, presumably, accessed the internet – how? Poppy wondered – to check the reference, and then, "That'th not fair." The electronic voice sounded – sulky? "It'th not my fault."
     "You could have made your presence known earlier! Right back at the beginning would have been good."
     Her imagination provided an image of a washing machine with its head lowered contritely, scuffing the floor with a foot.
     "Thorry."
     Poppy was about to launch into a rant – then changed her mind and took several deep breaths.
     OK, if she was going to keep the thing, they'd have to come to some arrangements concerning privacy. She'd have to find out what it was, where it came from, how many others there were...
     But for the moment...
     "OK. I want your promise that from now on, you'll just wash my clothes. You leave them the same colour they went in."
     "I promith."
     Poppy nodded.
     "Right. Good... So you do anything else? Other than wash clothes, I mean? And do you have a name?"
     The machine paused, then said, guardedly, "I can do other thingth, yeth." Before Poppy could ask what, her new acquaintance added, "And my nameth Thakeththpin."
     Poppy untangled the lisped syllables.
     "Shakespin?"
     "Yeth."
     Poppy sighed resignedly, then smiled. She was over the shock now. After all, not everyone had a... sentient washing machine in their home.
     "OK Shakespin. Welcome to the kitchen."

And the subsequent Skyping...

Lutra: ROFLMAO! He lisps!
Joules: Yers... I thought that was apt... No idea why, I just did.
[giggling] Completey appropriate.
[g] Like it?
Oh yes!
Goodgood. I shall post it on the blog, and maybe on ffnet too. And it really does kinda demand a sequel doesn't it?
And smut! ... Though to be honest I have no idea how [g] Though if ss really does have voyeuristic tendencies...?
[beg]
I have to visualise his transformed body. Haven't yet.
I should go to bed soon... oops, midnight. Very soon, then. Thanks for the fic - iz funny! (Oh had brief mental image of Poppy coming home to find the washing machine exerting himself with say, the new fridge.)
... [PING]...
[smirk]
[THWAPTHWAPTHWAP]
[yip!owowowo!smirk]
... I hate you....
[smirk] of course you do.

[shakes head] Stay logged in for the next instalment. Though if it has smut it may have to go in The (other) Zone...

Labels: fiction, Transformers