Hello! Here is my new short story, Malum Discordiae!
Title: Malum Discordiae
Rating: M
Genre: Horror, Supernatural, Suspense
Summary: There are always traitors, no matter where I go. The ones that are always whimpering and moaning for change that they are too lazy to do themselves. The ones that turn to selling classified information to the enemy in a poor attempt to fix the broken world. I am the one in charge of taking care of the rats. I am the one that every mech and femme should fear. I am the executioner.
Warnings: Implied Cannibalism, Soon-to-Be Explicit Descriptions of Gore, Mental Instability, Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe
Author Notes: N/A
Chapter One: De Fumo in Flammam
It was a normal day. My boss had been in a sour mood, as usual. My partner was the dimwitted detective—and I could not even call him that—that he was normally. My own mood was worsening, and I could feel the beginnings of a terrible processor ache rising already.
I had taken to excusing myself from the office when weapons were drawn and shots were fired. Technically, I was the one in charge of stopping the fights from happening anyway, but with my dour and darkly bellicose personality, as well as my worsening mood, I was more likely to start a fight than to prevent it. And that would make my commander very, very unhappy, which was something that not even the slightest of simpletons would want.
Currently, I was sitting at the helm of my ship, tracing my talons over the smooth metal. It was a frigid stellar cycle, comfortably so—for me, at least. My ventilations crystallized in the icy, toxic air around me, and my engines rumbled deeply within the confines of my chassis.
My thoughts were wandering now. I did not seem to be able to focus on what was really my problem—finding a way to please my commander without taking an acid shot to my wing.
I found myself drifting, my vision darkening and my electromagnetic field warping and pulsing around me, as it often did when I became agitated.
I had to move. To get out and just move. I was too restless.
I perked up, almost instantly, as I sensed a presence nearing me. Perhaps I would be able to—
/Hunter./ The deep, hoarse voice of my informant sounded in my communications link, tearing me from the path of my wandering mind.
Venting heavily, I pressed a talon against the receive button. /Yes, what is it?/
/What, did I catch you at a bad time?/ I could tell that he was internally laughing even though he sounded irritated. /I'll just get the point across. You have a new assignment./
/Really, now?/ I could not keep my wings from rising and showing my excitement, but my voice remained as cold and detached as it usually was. /And here I was thinking that you were going to invite me over to share a cup of hot Energon./
/You know that you are not allowed within the vicinity of me. You would rather kill me than enjoy a drink./
/What gave me away?/ I rose from my seat, my talons scraping against the sleek finish of the exterior of my ship. /Tell me the rendezvous location./
/Straight to the point, huh?/ The confidential informant huffed out a harsh cough of a laugh. /You will meet Muavre at the dock near the toxic waste dump near the band train station. Bring all of your usual supplies./
/Very well. Oh, and by the way, I would still want to share that cup of hot Energon with you./ Grinning darkly at the infuriated grumble the other mech gave, I flicked my wings and shifted my weight, hydraulics cracking and hissing as they snapped back into place.
Well, then. I guess I would have to continue my musings later.
He shut off the link, sitting back in his seat with a heavy vent. The Hunter was on his way, a realization that sent both a chill and a shot of fire through his spinal components.
This case would be a hazardous one, that he knew. Especially since they were dealing with a femme that had sold classified intelligence to the enemy.
They were dealing with a traitor.
He knew they had the failsafe in place. The things that would prevent him from snapping and tearing into every mech and femme around him. The hunter would be restrained and deactivated should such a thing happen.
The Hunter absolutely despised traitors.
There were rumors about why he did, things that ranged from an ex-lover being terminated by a traitor to an illegal deal gone wrong. No one knew exactly what had happened, and no one really knew anything about the feared bounty hunter. There were few that actually knew what he looked like, and even fewer who knew if the Hunter was a mech or a femme.
He was torn from his thoughts as a knock sounded at the door.
"Markshonor?"
The mech in question straightened at the cold, soft voice that was barely audible through the door.
The door hissed open, and a tall, darkly colored mech stepped in without a sound. He was slim, with obsidian, crimson, and silver armor and molten ruby optics. Beside him stood another mech, even taller than him—he had unnaturally long servos and stabilizing servos, and his pale optics were a match to the nearly blinding silver of his armor. The first mech had the silver one's servo in hand, tracing his digits almost idly over the long and curved talons.
"Nightstrike." Markshonor motioned to him to shut the door, rising to his pedes and sitting on the edge of his desk in front of them. His stare fixed onto the silent mech beside the assassin. "And who are you? I don't remember calling either of you down."
The silver mech made a hoarse whine, and Nightstrike's grip on his servo tightened as he reassured him with a slight murmur of comfort. "My brother. I would keep your comments to yourself. He's not very stable." The dark mech turned to gently urge the mech into a seat that he had moved into a corner. "Sit down, Steelfrost. I'll be done in a few minutes."
"Steelfrost?" Markshonor's optics widened, and he leaned forward with a morbid sort of interest. "The world renowned saboteur and assassin? I thought he would be—"
"Would be what?" Nightstrike was suddenly dangerously close, looming over the confidential informant. "Go ahead, Markshonor. Finish your sentence."
"There's no reason to be so angry, Nightstrike. I meant nothing by my reaction—I was only wondering—"
With a furious snarl, the larger mech slammed his servos against the desktop. He loomed even closer, razor sharp dentia bared. "Shut your slag-eating mouth before I do it for you." When he was sure that the informant would follow his order, Nightstrike straightened, wings flaring out wide as he turned to face his brother.
Steelfrost was staring at the two mechs, pale optics having darkened to a violent crimson. He was scowling, large and fanged dentia bared as his powerful flier engine growled deeply.
"Steel." Nightstrike held out his servos as he approached the tall mech, optics narrow as he composed himself to look as non-threatening as possible. "Are you—?"
The silver mech didn't give the chance for the other mech to respond as he stood and headed out of the room.
"You made him mad." Nightstrike fixed his crimson glare on the smaller mech. "Don't be surprised if your guards end up vanishing mysteriously. Steel hasn't eaten in quartexes."
Markshonor narrowed his optics, crossing his servos. "You have yet to tell me why you are even here."
Nightstrike grinned roughly, wings flicking the air. "I heard that you were giving out new missions. Steel and I need the extra credits, so I thought I would come and take the job."
"Sorry, but it's already taken." The confidential informant raised his servos and shrugged as the Seeker snarled deeply. "Don't blame me. The one who already has it is one of high power and influence, and I'm not about to be tortured for quartexes on end because I didn't give him the job he wanted."
"Him?" Nightstrike narrowed his optics to two burning slits. He was silent for a moment—staring at the mech for a long while—before he laughed powerfully. "Don't tell me that you contacted that 'legendary' mech and actually believed in that ridiculous legend."
"I'll have you know, the Hunter is as real as the armor on my chassis. I've met him." Markshonor grinned viciously, optics flashing brightly.
"Sure you have." Nightstrike smirked and crossed his servos, making to say something before a pained roar came from outside the complex.
Markshonor growled, pressing a digit to his communications link. "Guards! What in the Pits is going on out there?" When he received no response, he vented heavily and rose to his pedes, striding past the assassin.
"What—?" Nightstrike growled and stalked after the mech, wings flaring wide. "Markshonor, what is going on?"
When all the mech received was a furious shout in response, the assassin snarled and stormed out after him.
Markshonor stood frozen, armor flared and electromagnetic field rippling wildly. He was glaring at the two figures rolling on the ground in front of him, servos clenched into fists as his golden glare burned brightly.
Out of the shadows, Nightstrike could see the figures—two mechs if he was correct. One was a winged mech, with pitch black armor adorned with crimson, white, and gold accents covering his lean and powerful frame. Bright crimson optics burned out of a long and lean, narrow faceplate, and his full mouthplates were pulled back in a vicious snarl that exposed long and sharpened dentia. As his glare locked onto the two approaching mechs, he snarled and snapped at them, wings flaring up out and wide before he was tackled and slammed into the ground.
Nightstrike's optics widened when he realized that the strange mech's attacker had been his brother. Steelfrost was pinning the other winged mech to the ground, huge dentia bared and pale optics now burning a dark, vicious crimson. Nightstrike could see the pain that the unknown mech was in, though he rarely seemed to show it.
"Steelfrost!" He remained unwavering even as those demented crimson optics fixed on him. "Let him go!"
The enormous silver mech snarled, wings flaring in a dangerous, primal aggression as he pressed the unknown mech deeper into the ground, tearing a hiss from his vocalizer as his wings were aggravated roughly. Nightstrike groaned and made to step forward, but he was blocked by Markshonor stepping into his path.
Molten ruby optics narrowed. "Get out of my way, dealer."
"I honestly wouldn't go near them," the informant countered, golden optics brightening a few shades. "They don't look as though—"
"—I do not have time for your fears." The larger mech pushed past the other, stalking towards the two fighting mechs. "Steelfrost!"
At the sound of his brother's voice, the silver mech snarled and crouched low on the ground, wings raised high and sharp dentia bared.
"Easy." Nightstrike raised his servos, optics locked onto the motions of his brother. "Let the mech go. He hasn't done anything."
A deep, hoarse snarl escaped the larger mech's vocalizer as his optics narrowed to slits. "Insulted...Nightstrike..."
Optics flickering the slightest bit, the obsidian mech scowled and shook his helm. "That is no reason to attack him in such a way." Nightstrike paused, wings flicking. "What did he say?"
"Assassin!" Markshonor glared at the mech, a deep and seemingly permanent scowl etched into his faceplate.
Nightstrike growled at the mech, fangs bared. "Do not order me around, dealer." He turned back to his brother. "Steel. I will not repeat myself."
The silver mech wavered, optics flickering and changing back to their original pale color for a brief moment. A rumble came from his powerful engine as he shifted, his weight lifting off of the unnamed mech the slightest bit. Nightstrike tensed as there was a short flash of movement, and it sent Steelfrost back into a frenzy, optics blazing crimson.
"I suggest you stop moving unless you want to feel what it's like to be eaten alive." Nightstrike snarled at the other black mech, wings tense behind him.
To his surprise, the dark mech only gave a hoarse laugh, wincing as more pressure was put on him. "Believe me, I know what that is like." His voice was deep and dark, a cold and detached baritone that would have sent chills down the spinal components of any mech or femme that possessed a fear. But of course, that excluded Nightstrike.
The black mech groaned as pressure was put on his wings, turning to glance at the curious Seeker. "Does this thing belong to you? I would appreciate it if you would tell it to stop harassing me."
"That thing is my brother." Nightstrike flared his wings in a grimly veiled warning, snarling softly. "Steelfrost, get down."
The silver mech hissed softly, optics flickering as he glanced between his brother and the prey pinned beneath him. With a soft whine, he relented and released the strange mech, slinking back over to his brother.
Suddenly Steelfrost roared in pain and then was stumbling, not colliding with the ground only because of his brother steadying him. Snarling viciously, Nightstrike immediately noticed the gun that was in the black mech's taloned servo, smoking with the evidence of a recent discharge.
"You slag-eating—" The Seeker stopped only when the gun was pointed at him, and it was then that he noticed the mark on the barrel. He had only assumed that those legends were merely legends. This mech couldn't possibly be...could he?
"I would stop right there if you know what is good for you." That emotionless, detached voice rang clearly throughout the area, filled with an almost unrecognizable contempt and a vicious feral nature. Dark crimson optics burned with a demented light, and Nightstrike knew that the mech was surely hoping for a fight, if not to satisfy his bloodlust and bellicose nature.
"Alright, mechs, how about we stop this here?" Markshonor stepped forward, servos outspread and in a gesture of surrender as the newcomer aimed the gun at him. "What did I tell you about causing such scenes? It can't certainly be good for your health."
A sound reminiscent of a scoff came from the mech's vocalizer, but he did not lower his weapon. "My actions are far from beneficial for me, mech." Suddenly the gun was gone and he was approaching them, seemingly ignoring the warning snarl of Nighstrike. "Where is Muavre? He was not at the rendezvous point."
"Most likely somewhere else, then." At the darkly irritated glare, Markshonor shrugged. "I told you an approximate location."
"You told me a location, and that was the rendezvous point." The winged mech bared long dentia, seemingly intent on shooting the mech before him to pieces. Nightscar noticed Markshonor tense and was about to unsheathe his sword before the newcomer fixed his glare on him.
His crimson glare then settled on the seething silver mech, who most likely would have attacked had he not been in so much pain. A faint frown crossed the black mech's face, and after glancing at his gun he vented heavily and sheathed the weapon.
"I apologize profoundly. I seem to have an unnatural desire for causing others immense pain." He raised his servos as if surrendering, and in a second he was unnervingly close to Nightstrike and his brother. "You are Nightstrike, correct?"
Ruby optics narrowed. "And what if I am? What is it to you?"
The mech grinned—a sight that Nightstrike would never forget—and bowed lowly, enough for the Seeker to see the deep and vicious scars on his backstrut. "I have traveled far to see you. No thanks to Markshonor." The mech in question shrugged, simply giving a helpless smile before the strange mech continued on. "Markshonor, I expect more from you, and you continually disappoint me. I do not like being disappointed." At that statement, his wings flared out wide, and his powerful engine gave a rough snarl that echoed viciously throughout the clearing.
"Just what exactly is going on?" Nightstrike demanded, wings flaring wide as he ran a comforting servo over the trembling Steelfrost's wings. "Who is he, Markshonor, and what right does he have to shoot my brother?"
"I would say in the right of self defense." The strange mech murmured, the words unsettling with his emotionless voice.
Nightstrike ignored the mech and glared impatiently at the dealer, waiting for an answer.
"Oh, fine." Markshonor moved so he was next to the strange black mech, placing a servo on his side and ignoring the irritated snarl he received.
The dealer and confidential informant spread out his unoccupied servo. "Nightstrike, Steelfrost, allow me to introduce you. This is The Hunter."
"What? You cannot be—"
"Oh, but he is." The mech—no, The Hunter—had shrugged out of the dealer's reach, instead staring intently at the Seekers. "I have come to collect the bounty for my next meal."
Nightstrike snarled. "You are probably better off leaving right now. Steelfrost and I came to collect the credits, and we need them more than you do."
The mech tilted his helm. "True. That is most likely true." A dark grin showed off his pointed dentia, and he snarled at them almost playfully. "Yet I have a desire for the thrill of the hunt. You can take the credits, and I can tear my prey to shreds while they scream oh so deliciously."
"You'll have to go through me, then." Nightstrike was unperturbed by the mech's demented grin. "We want it more than you do."
"Then how about you fight for it?" Markshonor spoke up, spreading his servos wide with a mischievous grin. "Winner takes all."
The Hunter vented heavily, sending a wash of chilled air over the mechs closest to him. "Very well, then." His talons were extended and fangs bared as he drew his gun, crouching low with that same maniacal grin on his otherwise emotionless face.
"Let the hunt begin."
Alright, here's Chapter One. Let me know what you think.