Author's Note (2/18/19): And so it begins.
If you're familiar with my (admittedly small number of) stories, you know that this isn't the first edition of The Rebirth. That came about a year and a half ago from the writing of this note, back when I was still starting out as a Fanfiction writer. In retrospect, my first chapters and stories weren't as bad as I had previously thought back around Chapter Five - they were so much worse!
Many of them, especially the first three chapters, were rife with continuity errors, bland dialogue, OOC moments that didn't contribute to anything, and contrived coincidences that served no purpose but to push the story along. It wasn't until a few months ago that I finally realized what needed to be done - I had to go back and fix them, for the good of the story. Many visitors had come to my stories, but very few of them ever made it past the first chapter (Phenometron, I give you kudos for making it this far! Thank you much!). Some more stalwart readers skipped ahead, reading the later chapters, but ultimately became disinterested and left.
And so, dear readers, I present to you the first chapter of my story: lengthened, strengthened, and generally much better (in my opinion) than it was before! I hope you enjoy it.
The companion piece for this chapter over at DeviantArt is still Autobot Hardhead, and I am still known as Dr-Do in those waters. However, it would be advisable to keep an eye on the earlier art pieces, as they are also due for some makeovers in the future to come.
The other chapters of this story are currently being rewritten as well, and I have a fresh new chapter of The Rebirth on the way.
Alright, I think that's about it, update-wise. Please enjoy the story and keep looking for those chapter fixes! Thank you.
-The Doctor (Do)
"Resistance, it is with a heavy heart that I come before you today."
Avoy Duros entered the nondescript shed in his backyard at a brisk sprint, his favorite Thokian Leather trenchcoat billowing behind him as he slammed the ramshackle door shut, simultaneously moving to ensure that the one-way opaque black glaze on the shack's only window was still intact and functioning as normal. Despite the utility shed's dilapidated and unremarkable appearance, it was pretty roomy, able to cozily fit all thirty-one trusted members of his Nebulan Resistance. As about a quarter of them hadn't been able to attend tonight's meeting, there was plenty of room to spare.
Nervous murmurings and chatters came from the assembled Resistance while he finished his check-up, only to stop expectantly as he faced them.
"Before I say what needs to be said here, let's make one thing clear. I've never forced any of you to perform our Zetca-given duties as good Nebulan citizens, however, I've never forced any of the more . . . militaristic individuals in this group to back down from a particularly challenging engagement, as long as you leave citizens and NSF personnel out of our, ah, personal grievances with the Institute, yes?"
A wave of uneasy agreement moved through the twenty-five or so people who were present. In the back of the room, David Z'náme shifted uneasily in his folding chair and did his best to melt into the shadows of the Resistance HQ.
"Well, I'm afraid the last raid on a Peace Warrior outpost has gone terribly wrong. We may be compromised, as a matter of fact."
As Duros expected, the small shed was immediately filled with alarmed shouts and furious conversation.
"Enough, please," he said, remaining calm. The others were uneasy but followed suit and quieted down slightly. "We don't know if the Warriors know exactly who we are or even where we are, but I think it's best if we err on the side of caution and assume that they're narrowing down a location right this instant. At work today, I was informed that Pierce - who's working the night shift with Flint and couldn't make it tonight - overheard talk among several passing Enforcers about a people's rebellion, which they believed was within less than two square miles from this very base of operations."
"Two miles - that's nothing to the Institute," Silas Lancer observed. "If Zarak really thinks there's a rebellion in Neoavún, he could move a Warrior unit or three over here, block the town roads off, and have us dead by daybreak tomorrow if he wants."
"That - that is exactly why we need to start panicking, Si! I didn't sign up for this! I've kept to the idea of a peaceful revolution ever since this group was nothing but a weekly tea party!" a thin, somewhat shabby man in the front whimpered hysterically. "Duros, please don't tell me that I'm going to be sent to the Rock just because my hyperviolent friends won't stop biting off far more than any of us can chew!"
"I say let them come, Quiggman. We won't bring freedom to the Nebulan people with a few well-worded and elegantly reasoned papers. Revolutions don't come quietly, and if I have to die for the cause, then so be it." Lynn Fong replied.
"And that's why I'll probably end up either dead or locked away in a reeducation center come next week, if that," Graeme muttered, sinking back into his chair.
"You're not going anywhere except safely to your own home, Graeme," Duros said with steely determination. "We'll make sure of that. However, for everyone's safety and for the preservation of the progress we've made so far, I think it would be best if we . . ." the leader of the Resistance sighed, "laid low for a while, so to speak. Just long enough to make it under the Institute's radar. Eventually, they'll move on to some other, more pressing concern and leave us alone - and then we'll resume all operations in force."
Duros checked his watch, an old relic once belonging to his grandfather. The strap, which was made of the same leather that his coat was, was heavily worn and stained, and the face was spiderwebbed with cracks. Despite all of its shortcomings, it was still superior in his eyes to any other timepiece, especially the bugged mini-computers that were sold in nearly every store on Nebulos. As a bonus, it reminded him of family that was no longer with him.
"We've got a bit of time left. I'd suggest that you all say goodbye to each other. It may be some time before we are assembled again."
And so the Resistance broke up into small groups to do so. Duros took the time to approach David, who immediately began fervently apologizing for his recent failure.
"By Zetca's Banner, I'm so sorry, Duros. I thought Erik and I could handle just a small outpost! We've certainly gone up against worse before. Erik got away with taking out their supply yard, but I completely dropped the ball on the main base. It's all my fault. Please, friend, forgive me. I'll make it up to the Resistance once we come back, I swear."
Duros nodded soberly. "It's fine, David, as long as you and Erik are safe. What's important now is that we stay that way and keep quiet for a while. Then, as I said, we can regroup and make a bold return."
David set his jaw and stiffened up a little bit. "A 'bold' return, you say. Ha. Avoy, I have no doubt that we could tear the Institute a new one if only we had . . . more. We lack manpower. We lack firepower. And the Institute gets stronger every single day. If we're going to do anything significant in this universe at all, we need better gear and more volunteers. How are we going to make an impact if we don't have the tools we need to achieve victory?"
Duros thought about this for a moment, and opened his mouth to reply; but at that moment there was an enormous roaring noise from outside that shook the shed itself to its very foundations. The window rattled and the single overhead light danced back and forth as the assembled members of the Resistance dashed outside as one, staring up in horror at the sky. Like some kind of colossal meteor plunging to earth, a massive starship wreathed in flames and pouring thick black smoke into the night sky hung overhead in an inexorable fall to the rugged Nebulan landscape below. Its engines, deprived of any useful fuel to burn, were making the all-encompassing roar that shook all of them to the bone, vaguely reminiscent of a determined scream as it passed overhead. As the pitch reached the loudest it had been thus far, most of the Resistance members clapped their hands over their ears and dropped to the ground.
Because of this, over half of the gathered Resistance didn't see the ship's impact, the mushroom cloud that ballooned upwards just west of Argent Peak - or the second flaming starship that streaked through the first's smoke plume and headed off to the south. They did, however, feel the shockwave that came soon afterward, the one that sent anyone who was still standing to the well-maintained turf of Duros's backyard.
When the worst was over, the entire Resistance rose to their feet with the exception of Duros, who dashed across the lawn and into his house, shouting the names of his two children and his wife. For a moment they stood there, watching the cloud of smoke in horror. Then, however, someone spoke, breaking the silence and sending everyone into furious conversation.
"We need to help those poor souls!" a female voice remarked, probably belonging to Ginevra Bough.
"Absolutely NOT, Ginevra, and I don't care if I have to physically tackle you and Cletus to stop you! With a crash of that size, the Institute will be all over this entire region in a matter of minutes!" someone else replied hotly.
"I'm with Lewis on this one," Chiron Coyle, one of the oldest members of the Resistance, conceded. "It's not safe to chase after that crash. It would be best for all of us if we just went home while we still can - before our opponents respond to the incident."
"Ditto," David shouted over the light clamor. "For all of our safeties, we should leave as soon as possible."
"What do you know about safety, David? You're the reason why we're here tonight," Ginevra's burly fiancé, Cletus Amprage, growled.
"Hey, hey, hey! There's no need for personal attacks, buddy! Everyone makes mistakes once in a while!"
"And there's no time to argue, Brick! We need to go NOW!"
"I'm not disagreeing with you, Si, ol' pal, but I just think we could stand to tone down the hostility here!"
At that moment, Duros, his wife, Maureen, and their two children stepped onto the back porch of the home. The spouses seemed to be having a hurried conversation which was resolved rather quickly, as Duros nodded, said goodbye to his family, and turned to leave as Maureen ushered the kids back into the house.
"We need to respond to the crash in some way, everyone," Duros said as soon as he got within earshot of the Resistance. "There are most likely lifeforms in there that need immediate attention, and we're the only ones who can do so right now."
"But what about the Peace Warriors, Avoy? If they see us assembled, especially with the likes of David or Lynn among our ranks, we'll be arrested - or worse!" Graeme noted. Duros thought this through for a moment, then seemed to reach a conclusion.
"Then they go home. All of you who have reservations about going to the crash site, you can leave too. But leave with the knowledge that there are lifeforms in that wreck, same as you or me, and that your help or lack thereof could possibly result in the - er, situation getting much - much worse for those in need." Duros paused, swallowing once as his eyes became steelier, his face shifting from the usual carefully guarded expression to a determined gaze. "Now, follow me if you will - but hurry up about it. We can only do so much to help before the authorities arrive."
Duros's car skidded to a stop. He didn't have time to check the axle of his cruiser, no doubt trashed after that hairpin turn off the road. With one look at the amount of smoke that had already poured into the still night air, he knew it would be a long, stressful night.
He knew this place, of course - Argent Peak, an old planetary park that had been officially closed about twenty years ago, furloughed to provide more funding for the foundation of the Peace Warrior organization and the construction of their unapproachable compound in the west, the Torchlight. As a matter of fact, the park had been taken off of non-essential official record and very few modern Nebulans - and, of course, tourists - knew that it even existed as a natural wonder anymore.
The many forest service headquarters and visitor centers still stood, perfectly preserved and abandoned around the park, and Duros himself had taken his children here countless times during weekends and summers. As such, it pained him to see the devastation that had been wrought on the gorgeous area. Most of the trees in the area had been blown backward by the blast, the ones closer to the crash site reduced to charred logs. Even as the Resistors who had agreed to help came through the damaged treeline, a tiny part of Duros almost wished the authorities would come sooner. Almost.
He exited the car and turned to those who had already arrived: the three Denué brothers; Haír, Grady, and Faust. All three of them were tense and on edge, and Duros suspected he was too. With them stood Chiron Coyle, the old all-world Prismaball champion, and James Gort, a free-spirited teenager; one of Duros's most loyal and upstanding allies.
Two emaciated men slid out of his car: Selvig Knudsen, a disheveled Terran who had stowed away on a cruise starship five months ago and was now close enough with the Duros family to be considered an uncle; and Tyler Solomon, a renowned former fashion designer long since driven out of his life's work by a stronger competitor. He'd lost so much weight it appeared that he would collapse in a strong breeze. His formerly handsome face was now haggard and drawn and his blond hair had turned almost white from stress. Despite this, he donned a bright and colorful suit sewn together from scraps and tailored to fit his thin frame and somehow, it was still visually appealing and stylish.
One quick discussion later, during which the Resistance leader explained how he had activated his Security Force transponder and was now receiving a steady stream of updates from the NSF database, and the five men charged toward the ruined treeline just ahead. Haír and Faust stayed behind to direct any latecomers and set a working perimeter. It went unsaid, of course, that they were also keeping a vigilant eye out for the first signs of the Nebulan authorities.
Sadly, when the five finally reached the next ridge, they saw that their efforts would do very little to help. The ship had crashed in a deep, craggy valley, a canyon almost, pockmarked with caves and hollows, and had broken into several enormous pieces. From here, one could make out what was once probably a bridge section, several massive chunks of still-recognizable hull, and the burning frame of a passenger section covered with portholes silhouetted against the sheer cliffs and mountain bases that surrounded the crash site.
"Resistance, we need to secure the crash site!" he shouted over the roaring blaze in the valley as the remainder of the Resistance arrived behind him. "Spread out and look for survivors! We've only got about a half hour at most, so get moving!"
He started to move forward into the wide field of damage, but Selvig placed a hand on his shoulder, effectively stopping him. "Wait. Look to the big part. The vin - vindows have . . . er, what is the word? De er sperret."
"Selvig's right!" Tyler acknowledged, coming to a realization himself. "The portholes are barred - and reinforced!"
"Det er et fengselsskip," the Terran continued, almost cutting Tyler off.
"Avoy, are you sure we can do this? There could be some dangerous creatures lurking around the crash site."
"Then we stay together as one, Chiron," Duros said, drawing his stun pistol from a belt holster and sighing. The Institute-mandated firearm wasn't much, but it was the best measure of protection that he was allowed to have. "Now gather close and follow me."
The gravel crunched underneath their collective feet as they navigated the slope. As several of them had previously guessed, the crash site was entirely deserted, with not a soul - living or dead - to be found among the burning hulks of the wrecked ship. They combed through the debris field and stepped several times into the less-immolated sections, each one entirely bereft of life. The interior of this ship was unlike any prison ship any of them had ever been, with wide, vaulted hallways and vast side rooms that more closely brought to mind a government base rather than a prison. Duros considered himself an expert in these matters, but the architecture of the ship wasn't familiar to him.
It's not Kryptonian - there's not enough gold plating, he thought, trying to associate the wreck with something he'd seen before. Reskaviit, maybe? By the Banner, this is an enigma . . .
Suddenly, KC Poe, the only Corvian Duros had ever had an acquaintance - or, indeed, an intelligent conversation - with, silently landed beside the impromptu search party.
"Guys, you're looking in the wrong place!" she exclaimed, her beak clicking loudly between words. It was occasionally difficult to understand her because of this distinct physical problem, but KC was remarkably articulate for a member of an otherwise non-verbal race. "There's absolutely no sign of life up here! The bridge section, the prison, everything up here's as empty as - as - well, what I'm trying to say is that there's no people here."
"Very well. Do you think the ship was automated?" someone contested.
Instantly, Duros replied, "I'm afraid not, Chiron. It's not legal on most A-class worlds in the Local Sector to fully computerize a prison ship, even if it's been decommissioned to act as a materials transport like this one seems to be. Although, I am starting to doubt that I have any idea of what we're up against . . . KC, you said there's no sign of life up here. What did you mean by that?"
The Corvian seemed to mull things over for a moment, instinctively snapping her beak together as she tried to put her thoughts into words. "Caves. I believe that some of the ship may have fallen into the caves."
As if drawn by some kind of intangible force, all of their eyes were simultaneously drawn to the nearest gorge, about a quarter mile east of the section of hull they were currently exploring. Though it was deeply recessed into Argent Peak's base, the jagged mouth of the cave was certainly big enough to fit a largish prison ship, especially one traveling at enormous speed. If one squinted into the entrance and listened carefully, they could see a faint orangish glow lighting up the cavern from the inside, and possibly hear a stray scream echoing from within.
James whistled. "Oooh yeah. There's people down there, all right."
At that moment, Duros's radio crackled to life. "-urity Force Friendship Units 90-106 en route. We're *kstch* just outside of the City Limits, estimated arrival in one hour. Peace Warrior Outpost Delta Five is sending a convoy, estimated arrival in 30 minutes."
"Peace Warriors?" Ginevra gasped.
"If they get here before we leave, we're toast," someone said in a low voice.
"I won't allow it," Duros growled. "We have less than twenty-nine minutes left by now, and that's twenty minutes we can spend saving lives - or at least stabilizing the crew's condition to the best of our ability. Follow me, Resistance. We must hurry."
And so they went, nearly sprinting into the cave mouth. James, ever the resourceful teen, pulled out a tactical flashlight that he had made himself and illuminated the gently-sloping terrain around them.
It was surprisingly warm inside the cave, and vast, slightly moist rock formations - those that hadn't been destroyed by the ship's impact, that is - grew up to meet each other every couple of yards. The Resistance was forced to make a few turns to navigate around some of the remaining spires and growths, but the path was mostly clear thanks in no small part to the ship's trail. As they walked, the cave grew lighter, and it wasn't long before James turned the light off entirely.
This was a mistake, though none of them knew it immediately. Deprived of their main source of light, their eyes took a moment to adjust to the relative dark, which turned out to be just a moment too long. Not even KC's quick-adapting retinas perceived the colossal mechanical form lying not ten feet away - until suddenly the stalagmites themselves shouted, "DON'T FRAGGING MOVE!"
Small lights activated at the base of a nearby formation, illuminating a large metal device that could not in any way be mistaken for something other than a weapon. It was pointed directly at them and making a high-pitched whirring noise, but it wasn't the weapon that startled Duros, or even the sudden movement the thing made, but rather, the very nature of this odd lifeform itself.
It was apparent that it was injured, as it was keeping one hand firmly clamped around its leg. Two oversized pauldrons with what looked like wheels attached to their midway points hung limply off its shoulders. A bright blue rectangle of light pulsed on its boxy chest and eyes hidden beneath a blue visor blinked and whirred as the giant took in the sight. Duros decided they really weren't eyes - camera lenses, more like. He'd seen creatures like this before, but it had been a long time since he'd last spoken to one.
"What are you? Why are you here?" it hissed in a low, short rasp. The voice had an air to it which reminded Duros of his Basic Training days - that of a drill sergeant which demanded a response.
Fighting the urge to stand up straight and say 'sir' at the end of each sentence, he replied, "We're Nebulans. We're here to help. Are you injured?"
The robot made a facial expression which Duros interpreted to be a scowl. "'Nebulos. Frag. 'Course I'm injured, fleshie. I've had worse, though. There're others in that chamber what need help more'n me. If'n you're truly here to help, you'd go in there." It paused for a second then let out a low chuckling sound. "Good luck providin' assistance there, little guy."
Duros nodded soberly, stashing his stun pistol back in its holster. "We'll do all we can, friend." He turned to address his allies.
"Resistance - we've got twenty-seven minutes now, so we need to get to work. Split into groups of four and tackle this thing as a cohesive unit. If I'm not mistaken, these creatures are Cybertronians, so they'll be rather difficult to get to safety. If we work together, we can-"
"That's enough." It was a curt, clipped interruption that stopped Duros in his verbal tracks. "Be brief of speech and long on action. Don't stand here orating while my friends are dying. Get to work already."
Duros was at a loss for words for a moment but soon realized his error. "My apologies, you're right. Let's go."
Once the Nebulans had gotten into their groups, they exited the corridor into an enormous cavern that Duros estimated must have plunged miles underground. Through a gaping maw of stalactites, stalagmites, and what even appeared to be cliffs, the Resistance surveyed the scene laid out before them.
The ship itself, slate-colored with blue and red plates of armor among its entire superstructure, had broken into three colossal sections, not including whatever remains had broken off up at the crash's epicenter.
Firstly, there was a blocky section closest to the cavern entrance; which appeared to be the rest of the bridge judging by the broken array of light blue windows nestled among several deep red structures - still more, heavier pieces of armor perhaps, if Duros wasn't mistaken as to the origin of these mechanical lifeforms. At the bottom of the structure was a large tear in the ship's outer plating, located near what could only have been an access port jammed open during the crash.
In the middle of the wreckage, a tall gray tower lay on its side as if it was a toy, thrown to the ground by a careless child. Most of it was half buried in gravel piled about thirty feet high. The top of the tower was a tapered, sleek prism with thin windows running in a direction that would have been horizontal if the tower had been right side up. This was undoubtedly the middle of the ship or close to it, judging by the torn metal at both ends of the section of spacecraft that the tower was situated on. The last portion of the ship was by far the largest, with barred portholes and an enormous gaping hole in the side that almost exactly matched the tear pattern of the cell block outside. An array of cherry-red thrusters at the back of this section were giving off vast amounts of heat even now, causing the air around the emitters to shimmer like a mirage.
The inside of the cavern was covered with robots of all sizes and shapes, all moving with purpose around and inside the smoking hulk of the prison ship. Excellent. That meant that repair and rescue efforts were already underway, which would serve only to make the Resistance's job easier. Even so, everyone in attendance felt it was their duty to assist these strange lifeforms, even if the infamous Peace Warriors were not far behind and closing quickly. The small groups broke away from each other and moved as one to help, Duros's group, who headed for the bridge section, included.
"Tyler, Selvig, take the access hatch! Silas, you're with me!" he shouted as they came within feet of the damaged spaceship. Though several of the robots had initially made exclamations of surprise fly at the teams of organics suddenly coming out of nowhere, they quickly died down to determined commands as the Resistance assured the creatures that they were there to help. Duros's group hadn't come near any of the mechanoids, simply because the section they had chosen was closest to the entrance and just a tad out of the way, skirting around where the robots were most heavily concentrated.
Duros and Silas slipped through the enormous crack in the ship's hull - big enough for both of them to fit through without even having to duck - and entered into what appeared to be the entrance to a panopticon.
The room was more of a large hallway; consisting of plain walls the same color of the ship's superstructure and several heavy-duty doors built into an equal amount of alcoves. Two lines ran down the corridor, one blue and one an angry red. Small fires burned the length of the room, and sections of the floor were pulled up, revealing sparking wires. Only two of the doors remained open, one of them on the far side of the corridor seeming to contain scattered navigational datapads and a single oversized desk.
"Hey! Who's there? I need a little help here!" a voice cried out from the other open room. Silas shot Duros a quick look, and both of them dashed to find the source of the voice.
The speaker was green and black with a giant tan shoulder cannon, pinned underneath a cube of metal that Duros guessed to be a medical cabinet, based off of the white walls of the room bearing similarity to that of a hospital room. The robot showed no obvious signs of distress or, in fact, being injured. As a matter of fact, he only seemed a little irritated at his plight.
"We'll help you out," Silas affirmed.
"Help me? You're a little small to be doing that, don't you think?" replied the alien, trying to shift underneath the cabinet and failing. "Ah . . . never mind. Well, as long as you're here, Try to lift this thing off of me. I'm pretty firmly stuck right now, but I could take it the rest of the way if I just had me some leverage!"
Duros followed Silas and took hold of the cabinet. "Of course, we'll do our best. On three. One-"
"Hold up," the robot said. "Reposition yourself to the side. You'll be able to put more into the lift that way. 'Kay. You're the boss."
"Again, on three," Duros said once he had repositioned himself accordingly. "One, two, three!"
The two men grunted with exertion. The cabinet had to weigh close to a thousand pounds by itself, and the latch threatened to give way at any moment and spill very sharp, jumbo-sized medical instruments on them. It moved a few inches, and the robot took it the rest of the way, grabbing the entire cabinet and placing it on a shelf behind the nearby exam bed. When this was finished he rotated the previously entrapped arm in a tight circle and flexed his surprisingly complex fingers.
"Nice. Gotta hand it to you, kids. You're stronger than I thought you'd be. Name's Hardhead and - whoa there. You all right?"
Lifting the cabinet had taken more out of Duros than he expected. It felt like someone had jammed a red-hot fireplace poker down his spinal column. His muscles screamed as they reminded him that he was not, in fact, the young man he once was and his lungs rattled as they tried to get in some air. Silas moved an inch closer to his friend, unsure of what exactly to do.
"I'm fine, I'm fine. Just old," the leader of the Resistance spoke through a haze of pain. Even as he said it he started feeling slightly better. He took a slow, steady breath and the pain subsided to an intense throb, finally allowing him to stand up a little straighter. "Are there any other injured people that you know of in this section?"
Hardhead's blue visor darkened to a shade of indigo as he paused for a moment. Silas and Duros could almost literally hear the gears whirring in his head as the robot appeared to access some kind of communications system. "Well, there's. . . no, he's already out . . . Sureshot's out of the ship, but dazed . . . got it, thanks . . . yeah, yeah, Nightbeat, I've got Section One secured. You can leave me alone now."
"I'm afraid not," A very strange blue robot strolled into the room, prompting Duros's mind to forcibly reboot itself. This newcomer - Nightbeat, apparently - had several oddly-shaped growths hanging off of his frame that, when taken together as a whole, made the impression that he was wearing some type of clothing resembling Duros's own trenchcoat. Surely these things wouldn't be inclined to wear coats, right? he thought, attempting to rationalize the image that was still gracing his field of vision. That's just an absolutely ridiculous idea.
As Nightbeat entered, he slipped his hand back into the metal . . . pocket of the "trenchcoat." At this point, both Duros and Silas simply accepted the oddity as one of the bemusing wonders of the universe and elected to ignore it from there on out.
"Hardhead. We need to talk," he said.
The first mech's visor returned to its light blue glow. "Of course we do," he grunted irritably, a complete turnaround from the personality he'd already demonstrated to the two Nebulans. "I told you already, that dent on Level 3 has nothing to do with me. It was probably-"
"I don't care about that." Nightbeat cut him off, his tone somehow icy and burning with irritation at the same time. "I've conducted a scan of the area surrounding this part of the Fortress, and it's not stable. We're talking a full-scale collapse if something isn't done soon. Only the ship's stabilizers are keeping this part up, and they're bordering on catastrophic failure." He regarded Duros and Silas with brief . . . distant amusement, maybe, and continued. "Sirs. We appreciate your help and thank you all, but I'd rather not deal with Nebulans or their government tonight. I'll have to ask you to first evacuate the ship, and then this entire area. For your own safety, of course. Hardhead, please escort the gentlemen outside and ensure that they are removed from the premises."
Hardhead bristled visibly, sections of armor rising off of his body and small lights on his forehead flaring purple as he stepped towards the much smaller Nightbeat. "Now you listen to me, fuzzbox," he growled, pushing into Nightbeat's personal space, "you're not my CO and I'm not sure you ever will be, so why don't you stop trying to give me orders right here and now? I make my own rules, unlike your protégés, so back off, will ya?"
If Nightbeat was bothered, he didn't show it and stood his ground. Staring calmly up at the larger green mechanoid, he replied, "Yes, of course, my apologies. I suppose that in the heat of things, we lose sight of the chain of command and attempt to assume others' roles. Very well. Once more, Hardhead, I apologize for the redundant request and realize that you didn't need the extra bidding to get it done. Please, don't let me stop you from accomplishing your endeavor."
Hardhead was visibly nonplussed. "Uh . . . all right. Nebulans, you'll have to come with-"
Just then, a mildly distorted voice blared over the intercom. "FORTRESS . . . ONLINE. INTERNAL *err* CONFLAGRATION DETECTED. HEAVY DAMAGE DETECTED. DEPLOYING FIRE RETARDANT SYSTEM."
A strange white foam shot out of tiny ports in the corridor walls, covering the small fires and nearly everything else, including Nightbeat. Some of it landed on the two Nebulans.
It was stickier and thicker than Duros expected, almost like the "glue guns" he had carried during the early years of the Institute before they were confiscated and banned. It gave him an itching sensation rapidly progressing to a painful burning. He quickly brushed it off.
"Holy Zetca, what is that stuff?" Silas asked to no one in particular as he brushed himself off as well.
"Fire-retardant foam, made of petroleum distillates, a few bases, harmless chemicals, et cetera et cetera. It's only a mild irritant to carbon-based lifeforms." He shook the foam out of his coat. "Follow Hardhead out of the Fortress, you two, then take your friends and kindly forget you saw anything here. Our business here is . . . well, let's just say it won't be sanctioned by your President if something unexpected comes up. Hardhead, I'll leave you be. You can take it from here if you like."
The ship's operating system spoke again, slowing down minutely as it continued its report. "HEAVY DAMAGE DETECT *err* DETECTED. CRITICAL INJURIES SUSTAINED. ENTERING TEMPORARY STASIS LOCK IN EIGHTY CLICKS . . ."
Nightbeat sighed. "Dear me. If Fortress enters stasis lock, this entire section will collapse into itself. The living quarters, the armory, the life support systems, even, are all contained here. We'll be without a field base if something isn't done soon. Hardhead, carry on, if you would, but be quick about it. I'm going to secure the area outside and see if I can't find out where Cog got off to. Hate to sound cliché, but the fate of this planet may rest on our next few actions."
"Roger, High Emperor," Hardhead jabbed. He waited until Nightbeat had left and dropped his voice to a whisper, putting on an exaggerated "old man" voice. "Young upstart's two ranks higher'n me and thinks he's something special. Do you feel reasonably secure here, not counting a possible complete collapse of the entire area followed by our painful deaths?"
"Not exactly," Duros admitted after a brief pause. "But my job's got everything to do with not feeling safe. I think I can handle it."
Silas shrugged. "Well, when you put it that way, I'm game, I suppose."
Hardhead brightened. "Great! Then let's go! If the Fortress collapses, I'll protect you." He rapped his head with his knuckles. "This ain't the only thing that's 'specially reinforced for protection against severe blunt force trauma.'"
With that, he set off at a casual pace, meaning Duros and Silas had to sprint to keep up. They were nearing the caged ladder in the back of the corridor when a loud banging issued from one of the closed blast doors.
"THEY'RE ALL O'ER ME! GET BACK, YEH VILE BEASTIES! YOU'LL NOT TAKE ME T'YER MASTER AS LONG AS THERE'S LIFE IN ME SPARK!"
"What in the Pit is happening now?" Nightbeat materialized out of nowhere, sounding quite irritated but still remaining calm.
"Scrap, not again! I thought Stripmine said he was done with these!"
"Who's done with what?" Silas shouted over the din.
Ignoring the question, the blue-and-yellow mech approached the door. "Cell Block B, open. Verification: Nightbeat."
"ERROR. DOOR JAMMED."
Nightbeat visibly bit back a curse. "Nuts and bolts. Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way. We've got to force this hunk of junk open."
"Now that's what I like to hear!" Hardhead shouted, cracking his knuckles. "Stand back!"
He punched the center of the door with enough force to dent the metal, then slipped his hands inside the crack which resulted. Nightbeat took one hand out of his coat pocket and did the same. Together, they strained to open it as sparks fell from the ceiling and alarms blared.
"FORCED ENTRY DETECTED IN CELL BLOCK B. DEPLOYING COUNTERMEASURE LOCKS. ALL AVAILABLE PERSONNEL REPORT TO CONTAINMENT AREA."
A loud, percussive noise issued from the door as three thick deadbolts slid into place, halting the two bots' progress.
"SLAG! Fraggit, Fortress!" Hardhead yelled, cursing the ship between pulls.
"If we let go, the locks will deploy further, thus - erng - thus keeping Quickmix locked inside. Assuming I'm not mistaken, the fallout will be detrimental to his continued mental health," Nightbeat managed to grunt.
Duros glanced at the locks. Already they were failing under the robot's combined strength, but he doubted the Cybertronians would be able to hold on much longer. It looked like they just needed an extra push to disengage. What was more, the doors were already open enough for him to possibly put his arm through.
"Avoy! I can't grab hold of anything! Any ideas?" Silas asked urgently, inspecting the door himself. The metal surrounding the gap was sharp and jagged from the impact Hardhead had given, making it impossible for the farm boy to gain any purchase without getting cut. From here, it seemed that several damaged portions would be possibly enough to shred a certain Nebulan's arm to bloody ribbons - but the deadbolts were right there, only hanging on by a hair.
"NIGHTBEAT! Use your other servo!" Hardhead snapped, jarring Duros out of his analysis. Indeed, the mech in question was keeping his left hand jammed firmly in the pocket of his strange trenchcoat, and-
Trenchcoat.
The solution hit Duros like a train. "Yeah, Silas, I've got one," he affirmed as he removed his own coat, wrapping it firmly around his arm several layers deep. As Nightbeat retorted something about an old war wound, the Nebulan charged up to the door and stuck his arm through. Sparks showered off the sturdy garment, but loud ripping noises as his favorite coat brushed against the door's edges proved that it wouldn't last long.
"Can't hold on . . . much longer . . ."
With a final defiant yell, Duros thrust his arm at the bolts, roughly jostling them loose. A centimeter to go - a millimeter - he could feel the deadbolts slipping . . .
The door flew open with a mighty crash, ripping the rest of the coat to pieces and admitting the largest mechanical lifeform Duros had ever seen into the corridor, massive arms flailing wildly. It was mostly red and white, with yellow accents and trace amounts of green. Next to the giant, Hardhead and Nightbeat looked no bigger than the Nebulans themselves appeared next to them. Its head scraped the ceiling with black antennae longer than Duros's body. It was completely covered in the fire-foam and trying desperately to brush it off - but the most striking thing about this one was that its right arm terminated in a mixing barrel large enough to fit both Nightbeat and Hardhead inside with room to spare. He knew this because the barrel was feverishly spinning about, opening and closing lengthwise like some carnivorous plant-based creature as it did so. In the tiny corridor, the robot came close to smashing Silas, Duros, and even Nightbeat against the walls several times. Luckily, Hardhead managed to take hold of the giant's arm and twist it behind its bulk, gently lowering it down to the ground. Nightbeat came around its colossal back, roughly brushing the foam off, which seemed to calm the larger mech down somewhat, and addressed it directly.
"Quickmix, calm down! You're safe, you're safe, you're with friends. There aren't any Terrorcons, Mecannibals, Insecticons, or arachnoids around for megamiles. What do you remember? Can you recall my name or anything else about your current state?"
"Ach . . ." The robot's visor clarified from a foggy sapphire to a sharper cobalt. He spoke like he was shot up with a sedative, slurring his words through his entire dialog. This combined with his strong accent made it quite difficult for Duros to understand him, but he prevailed. "You are naet Siren, I know tha' much . . . it's on the tip o' me glossa. . . I want to say Blurr, but I know that aein't right, an' you're deffo not a lass, so it cain't be Joyride neither . . . Bingo!" He jerked his head upward, conveying an expression of delight even though his face was covered by what appeared to be a jumbo-sized breathing mask. "You're Nightbeat, are ye not?"
"Good. Your designation database is apparently functioning. Do you remember everything else? Perhaps what happened when we recruited you? The Battle For Cybertron? Unicron? Any of this ringing a bell?"
Quickmix paused for a moment. A wave of dread seemed to settle upon him like a cloud of thick, choking smog. "Och hen. Thes ain't good. . ."
The blue mech muttered something under his breath. Duros thought he caught a disappointed "slag . . ."
"Ah cain't remember half o' that, boss. 'Tis sae slaggin' foggy . . ." Little pinpricks of light shimmered at the edges of his visor. "Ah'm sorry."
Nightbeat's face fell even further, if that was possible. "That's fine. Come with me. Hardhead, release him."
"Gladly." The green mech released his hold on the giant, dusting off his hands as the larger mech rose to his massive feet.
"Hardhead, I'm going to get Quickmix here some fresh air and see if I can track down Cog. I'd appreciate it if you'd go to the bridge and evacuate anyone who might still be up there while he reactivates the Fortress."
"OOH! What about the organics, boss? Can they come, too? I promise I'll keep real good care of 'em!" Hardhead pushed far into Nightbeat's personal space again, looking up at him with pleading eyes and causing the latter mechanoid to flinch backward. Duros couldn't help but chuckle. Even if Hardhead was obviously trying to force the higher-ranking officer to cater to his desires, the green mech's enthusiasm reminded Duros of Galen learning he was getting a baby sister. . .
No. He couldn't dwell on that. Those memories brought only pain, so he shoved them to the back of his mind.
"You know, Nebulans are pretty tough for their size, I hear. They could help me out as long as they're careful."
"Sirs, are you quite sure you'll be fine with staying in the ship for however long the evacuation takes?" the blue mech asked, trying to nonchalantly push the other away. "We won't be held responsible for any injuries you may incur as you navigate the Fortress."
Silas looked doubtful, but Duros immediately replied, "Yes, I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me."
"Actually, I'd really rather leave. It's getting late, and the Peace Warriors will be here any moment," the younger Nebulan said.
Mentally, Duros slapped himself. He'd gotten so caught up in the action that he'd forgotten entirely about the approaching Peace Warrior convoy. By his estimate, they had about nineteen minutes left in total, with only ten more minutes to spend in the ship. "Silas is correct. I'll still go to the bridge, just to help with the evacuation, but we do need to finish up here."
"In that case, very well," Nightbeat huffed resignedly. "But be quick about it, Hardhead. The Nebulan Peace Warriors are some of the most violent law enforcement personnel I've ever had the displeasure to deal with, and these Nebulans must get home as soon as possible."
"YES!" Hardhead shouted. "Thank you so much, sir! You are the greatest-"
"Soldier," Nightbeat interjected, cutting Hardhead off with a single quiet yet forceful word. "Time is absolutely critical at this point. We must hurry."
The faux excitement leached itself entirely from Hardhead, leaving only staunch professionalism in its place. "Yes, sir."
They parted ways promptly, Hardhead approaching Duros again and Nightbeat leading Quickmix and Silas outside with a quick "With me, Mr. Silas." Duros nodded a good-bye to his friend and turned to Hardhead as the steadily more confused voice of Quickmix faded into the distance.
Hardhead broke the brief silence. "Well, enough about that. You probably can't climb the ladder all the way up, so hop on my hand. Be quick about it."
He lowered his hand towards Duros, its palm barely big enough for him to stand on. Up close it was a masterpiece of delicate gears, panels, and hinges. A vague thought came to Duros that Flint Lockheed, one of the Resistance's most tech-savvy individuals, would probably like to see the Cybertronians and exactly how they went about life. But then again, Flint was working the night shift at the precinct with Pierce McHeir, and thus had not been able to attend the fateful meeting that night. Not wasting another second, Duros quickly stepped on to Hardhead's hand and braced himself for motion. Hardhead's hand lifted gently upwards and deposited the Nebulan onto his shoulder, where a section of his shoulder cannon folded out to form a reasonable seat. Once Duros had gotten comfortable, the Cybertronian started towards the ladder at the back of the room.
Duros managed to catch a glimpse of the room behind the chain links as Hardhead scaled the ladder. It seemed to be an enormous prison cell, about four cell blocks high and lined with catwalks and observation points. The blocks stretched upward to the ceiling before disappearing into a haze of red lights. Below was the small structure consisting of the four rooms that they had just exited, crowned with a small watchtower. Most of the cells on the lower floors were open, with large rectangular crates strewn about the prison's floor space. Hardhead began to climb faster, leaping two rungs at a time. The Nebulan held tighter to his seat, growing painfully aware of the massive height they had now reached and the seconds ticking inexorably away.
A question nagged at his conscience, one that would not go away. He cleared his throat and let it out, to take his mind off of the multitude of things that he was worried about at the moment.
"Say, Hardhead. About that big one-"
"Quickmix."
"Right, Quickmix. After that . . . er, episode, he told Nightbeat about not being able to remember certain things about his past. It didn't seem like amnesia or anything of the sort."
"You're right, it's not."
"If you don't mind me asking, was it brought on by anything?"
"Yep. Y'see, Quickmix was a big - no pun intended - name on his home planet of Gigantion. They're construction aficionados over there, an' he built all sorts of stuff. But what he was really known for, especially after our war ended - " he passed by two enormous access hatches, one roughly ripped off of its hinges by the crash, "- was chemicals. Acids, bases, solvents, mortars, Quickmix was your 'bot. When we got to Gigantion, they followed us. We had no choice but to draft some of the locals for the war effort, and Quickmix turned his optics to items of a more offensive nature. His napalm in particular - man, that's good stuff. Problem is, over time, the fumes started gettin' to his processor. Every now and then he has hallucinations like what you just saw. After these things, he forgets certain parts of his whole life. It's a real tragic thing for all of us workin' around the Iacon Spaceport area, we've all heard about the Chemist at one point or another. Mech won't stop makin' chemicals, though. Vorn after vorn he slips away from his hab-suite an' his buddy Stripmine and gets to work in the Spaceport's lab. Says he wants to keep the armory stocked, no matter the cost. Apparently, he doesn't think the war'll stay gone for long."
Another floor went by before Duros answered. "That's terrible. Is there anything that can be done to keep him away?"
Hardhead took a bit of offense to that. "Well, us Autobots do everything we can short of locking him in the brig to stop him, but he just keeps at it! Fragged-up idjit doesn't know what's good for him and what ain't."
Duros frowned. "Sounds to me like he needs someone more to look after him than just one person - Stripmine, did you say? Might be worthwhile to see if some other people would be willing and dedicated to take care of him."
"Yeah, maybe. You try keeping that mech away from the lab. 'S not as easy as it sounds, and judgin' on the state of the Fortress, it'll be decacycles before he can get the treatment he needs."
More silence. Hardhead arrived at a closed carbon-steel hatch. The door had about five different high-tech locks on it, including a heavy deadbolt not unlike the ones that had attempted to keep the prison doors shut down below. A large red sigil in the shape of a robot's face was centered on the hatch.
"I can't let you see the combinations, buddy," Hardhead said curtly in the same tone he had used when talking to Nightbeat. Duros felt bad, having obviously insulted the robot to some extent. Another section of Hardhead's cannon unfolded to form a kind of blast shield which completely obscured what he was doing. Another, much chillier, silence fell excepting the beeping of the locks.
"Look, Hardhead. I'm sorry. I understand that he's your friend, and it was rude of me to try to presume like that. I was just trying to suggest a fix to the problem at hand-"
"I know what you were trying to do." Hardhead's voice was low. "Don't even know the guy too well, but we're all friends around here - circumstances demand it - and his condition affects us just as much as they do him, even though I just met the guy, not a decacycle ago, and most of us haven't even known him for a full three vorns. I'm sorry I gave you the cold shoulder coupling. Thanks for your input . . ."
"Duros," the Nebulan supplied. "Avoy Duros."
"I think I'll just call you by your last name if that's all right with you."
Duros shrugged. "Everyone does anyway. I'm fine with it."
The zeal slipped back bit by bit into Hardhead's voice. "Good. In that case, Duros. . ." He grinned beneath his faceplate, though no one knew but him. "Let's go wake the baby."
The bridge was a large, dark room. Two weak emergency lights flashed in the entryway, periodically illuminating the area with reddish-orange light. Twenty-four workstations were scattered around, organized into tiers of six, some glowing with light and some not. These all faced a single station in the front, a long line of terminals and towers that were glowing a periodically fading blue. A giant panel of windows overlooked the inside of the cave, where robots were dotting the landscape and speaking with the other members of the Resistance. Even the largest mechanoids look like ants from here, Duros thought. He could just make out Quickmix's hulking form and a few tiny specks around him that were possibly Silas and Halle Weiss, if he wasn't mistaken.
At the main controls, a handsome red and gold mech dashed from computer bank to computer bank, tapping furiously on each terminal and cursing at random intervals.
"Almost got it - FortMax, respond! Cerebros, Cog, respond! Someone give me an update, slaggit!"
Hardhead rushed down the tiers, Duros clinging to his cannon to avoid being thrown out of the seat. "Boss, we've got to boot, scoot, and boogie! This entire section's gonna come down next cycle! "
The red mech ignored him. "I'm almost there, Hardhead! I just need to reboot FortMax, and everything'll be fine! I can do this . . . Pit, I know I can do this . . ."
Hardhead clamped a hand on the other mechanoid's shoulder, forcing the latter to stop in his tracks. His visor darkened a few shades again as he spoke in a quiet tone - again, completely at odds with what he had demonstrated since Duros had met him. "Boss, if you don't get out of here, you'll die. Then we'll be without a base, a ship, and a leader. Come with me. We can do without the ship if we have to, but we can't go without you . . . Prime."
A note of apprehension crept into Red's voice, "No, no, I need to save him - I need to save you all. We need to get home."
Hardhead looked off to the side, his gaze falling on one of the nearby data towers. Its casing was blackened and its damaged internals were exposed, but a single blue light at the bottom of the bank still stayed on, albeit fading quickly. "You can't always expect yourself to save everyone, Rodimus."
All was silent for a moment, but suddenly, the green mech seemed to notice something about the terminal that he hadn't before and visibly brightened up. "Then again . . . sometimes you CAN save them! Rodimus, you've been sweating the small stuff ever since we landed here, but you didn't go all the way with it. What I think ol' Maxie here needs is just a little bit of percussive maintenance!"
Without warning, he slammed his fist down on the terminal's casing, nearly sending Duros flying off the mount. Rodimus surged forward, shouting a quick "NO!", but Hardhead entirely ignored him.
A loud noise echoed throughout the bridge, so deep Duros could feel it vibrating in his teeth. The emergency lights clicked off while bright overheads washed the room in almost-harsh white light even as the ship settled itself in the gravel of the cave, right-side up and completely stable. Terminals all about the room flashed on, their blue glows pulsing rhythmically. The AI's voice from the medbay came on again, stronger this time, and boomed, "FORTRESS MAXIMUS - ONLINE. EQUILIBRIUM RESTORED. RUNNING DIAGNOSTICS."
"Well, guess it worked, more or less," Rodimus huffed, still steamed despite the great results of Hardhead's stubbornness.
"What can I say, boss? It's either my way or no way," the mech in question replied snidely, with a grin on his face so wide Duros could hear it in every word he spoke.
Although the ship was unmistakably in pieces, the overall damage to its operating system and life-support capabilities turned out to be quite a bit less than what was expected.
During the first stage of the A.I.'s diagnosis, two hidden panels opened up in different locations of the bridge, revealing two similarly-built mechanoids, one with two enormous red spires shooting up from his shoulders and the other with a clear chest filled with glowing wires and cables, who introduced themselves as Cog and Cerebros, respectively.
Cerebros was charged with repairing and rewriting the ship's datafiles, a task he immediately set to work on as Cog began to further stabilize the ship. Rodimus Prime - the red-and-gold mech, of course, who seemed to hold a high rank among the Cybertronians - Hardhead, and Duros were commanded to leave the ship, though a scan executed by the computer confirmed this section was in no danger of collapsing and there were no personnel left in the entire ship. Despite this, it was judged that it would be wise for the three in the bridge to leave so repairs could commence.
Duros checked his grandfather's watch again, surprised to find that the Resistance had a tight, but doable, window of eight minutes in which to leave the Fortress's crash site.
"Hardhead, I'm afraid that my group and I need to leave immediately. What would be the fastest way to get back to ground level from here?" he asked, turning to face the mechanoid.
By now, the Cybertronian had reached the long ladder that had led the two to the bridge. "Fastest way down's vis-á-vis this ladder. It'll take too long to climb the whole way, but . . ." Underneath his facemask, Hardhead's lip plates ticked up in a smirk. "Well, I got an idea, now that you bring it up. Hold on as tight as you can."
"All right. What are you going to-" was all Duros could get out before his Cybertronian mount leapt up and around the mouth of the ladder, firmly clamping both hands onto each rail and letting gravity do the rest of the job. Had the Nebulan been paying attention to anything but putting a death grip onto the armrests of Hardhead's seat and trying not to fly off into the chain-link cage just feet away from him, he would have seen great clouds of sparks blazing to life where Hardhead's hand met the ladder's metal. As it were, when they finally hit the ground floor with an almighty jolt, he hardly loosened his grip.
"Fun, ain't it?" Hardhead chirped lightly, dusting off his hands. "Only took a handful of astroseconds. Now run, Avoy Duros, and meet with your friends before the Secret Police or whatever you Nebulans have arrives."
"Thank you," the still-dazed Nebulan mumbled as he was let down to the ground. Before either person could leave, however, Rodimus Prime reached the ground floor as well by the same method that Hardhead had used.
"Hardhead. Would you mind if I pulled the organic aside for a breem?" he said. "I've just got one last thing to ask him before he leaves."
"Not my place, boss. It looks like I've got some work to do outside anyways," the green mech replied. "Duros, thanks for getting me out from under that cabinet. It was nice to work with you."
Rodimus nodded, as did the Nebulan in question. "I appreciate it, Hardhead. As long as you're out, tell the others that we'll be along in a few klicks."
Returning the nod, Hardhead stepped outside. The red mech waited until he was out of earshot, then took a knee by Duros's side.
"Let's get down to business. You helped us quite a bit today, and for that I'm grateful." Rodimus said quietly. "But one of my soldiers - Pointblank - told me that you said you were from some kind of . . . resistance, was it? Is that true?"
Duros pursed his lips. "Yes. We were actually just having one of our biweekly meetings when your ship crashed."
"That's unfortunate," Rodimus Prime said. "Nebulans are already under the thumb of one of the worst dictatorships in the Local Sector . . . If the Zarak Institute finds you out here in the middle of the night, that's bad enough, but if they've got files on you guys being members of a GOI, you're worse than dead." It really was interesting how the mech's face moved as he spoke, moving just fluidly enough to avoid the uncanny valley. Rodimus's eyes whirred like the lenses of a camera as he focused on Duros, and he got the feeling that his complete attention was on him.
"Duros, I'm going to let you in on a secret - and be as quick as I can about it," he said, moving closer. "You probably know about us Cybertronians - our war, our factionalism, and certain, shall we say, events that have come to light recently around the galaxy regarding our race."
The Resistance leader shifted position slightly, reports of bloody battles, ancient eldritch beasts wreaking havoc on the universe, and colossal property damage on distant worlds flowing through his mind. "Yes, I'm familiar with Cybertronians and their history. Any NSF officer worth his salt knows about your Great War."
"Good. Well, first off, I want to assure you that we are Autobots. We're the good guys - although, given what's been going on, there's a lot of 'good guys' on both sides - Anyways. If you're well-versed on our culture, then you know that the War's ended recently, yes?" the mechanoid returned. Duros responded in the negative - galactic updates from the Torchlight and the Department of Knowledge became less and less reliable by the day.
"A pity. Avoy, I hate to tell you, but what I'm about to say is crucially important to you and your friends - and everyone on this planet's - continued survival. You are the only person on this planet that I feel I can tell you about this, but it's vital that you spread the word, as discreetly as you can, of course. Do you understand?"
The Nebulan nodded, ensured that the Resistance still had time to comfortably leave, and listened.
"You see, to our species, peace is an alien concept. Our war criminals and terrorists are still brutally rocking Cybertron and her colonies, heedless of the War's end, as we speak. Not seven vorns ago - er, that would be about seven and a half of your Nebulan hours, I suppose - there was a horrible attack on one of Cybertron's most important spaceports. We barely escaped in this very craft, but a Decepticon battle cruiser followed us, shooting us down over your upper atmosphere." He gave Duros a moment to digest that and continued. "We came down in flames, but not before we were able to take them down with us. We're online and functional, but there's a battleship somewhere else in this area, probably nearby, filled with a number of very angry Rebels built just like us and led by a psychotic warlord, and they won't be happy whenever they reactivate, let me tell you."
Duros was struck dumb. "By Zetca in Indalánd . . . what are we supposed to do? We've got families, friends that could be in harm's way! We need to tell everyone - immediately!"
Rodimus set his jaw, camera-eyes utterly focused, determined for what would come next. "For starters, you don't try to engage the Decepticons in any way if you see them, and for your own safety, don't call the Peace Warriors either; however, I doubt I need to tell you that. We'll do our part and send out search parties to find our enemies as soon as we possibly can, but you must ensure that the public is knowledgeable about the Decepticon threat."
"I'm Commissioner of the NSF, that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Assuming Dakota Scott's feeling generous, I can probably schedule a press release for tomorrow," Duros interjected grimly. "What can we - the Resistance - do to help you guys out, though?"
"If I were you," Rodimus Prime began, "I'd get back to your home as quick as you can, draw the blinds, and forget you saw us. Same goes for your friends. Try to pretend this whole encounter right here was a bad dream or a product of an overactive imagination, but make sure you get the word out that Nebulos just became a lot less safe, copy?"
Duros stiffened. "Yes, sir. Although, it hasn't really been safe ever since Zarak came into power."
Now, it was Rodimus's turn to be at a loss for words. In a dark tone, he answered, "I - I suppose you're right. Slag . . . how are we going to do this with the Institute hanging over the whole planet . . ." He tried to rekindle his previous boyish lightness and failed, seemingly preoccupied with the newly realized ramifications of the task ahead of him. "Well, we should get going. We've dallied enough as it is." He stood up with unexpected grace for a giant robot and started toward the exit, saying something about beginning to sound like Nightbeat. Duros followed in his footsteps, stewing in the knowledge of this new threat, even greater than the Zarak Institute or the closest Peace Warrior outposts. Troubled, the Nebulan began to seriously consider his options.
As he had expected, the cavern outside was swarming with Autobots. Mechanoids of all sizes and shapes even more diverse than he had noticed on his way in milled about the gravel-covered ground, some moving off towards the broken portions of the ship to begin repairs. The members of the Resistance that had come with him had gathered in a loose circle in the center of the cavern, all of them ready to take flight at the drop of a hat. Some of them were conversing excitedly, such as young Halle Weiss and James Gort, who were talking to each other at a rapid-fire pace, both teens' eyes alight with joy. Others, like Graeme Quixote, were struck speechless, his mouth moving but no sound coming out. Some even seemed bored. Brick Rifleman seemed wholly uninterested in the amazing events unfolding around him and was instead closely examining his laced fingers.
"Hey, Duros! Isn't this awesome? Look at this! Look at - look at them!" Tyler Solomon exclaimed as he and Selvig approached the Resistance leader. Everyone else closed ranks somewhat around the three men, bombarding Duros with tales of their own exploits during the rescue attempts. Strangely enough, it appeared that most of the comparatively diminutive Nebulans had actually banded together over the night and managed to provide a great deal of assistance to the Cybertronians, much to Duros's surprise.
After about half a minute, the exhilarated stories slowed to a satisfied halt as the Resistance's overexcitement died down somewhat.
"Forgive me for saying so, but shouldn't we get the Darkh outta here?" Michael Fulgure said flippantly in his usual fashion. "I'm just utterly blown away by all of this, but the absolutely exquisite punishments that the Peace Warriors'll give us is kinda harshing my mellow."
The Resistance fell silent. Echoes of "Right" and "About that" bounced around their ranks. Thankfully, as they found out after a watch-check, there were still four minutes left to pull off a decent retreat.
"Well, ain't no use in waiting around for 'em to get here," Ginevra Bough drawled, smartly turning on the spot and prompting her fiancé Cletus to hold his hand out to her.
"Shall we abscond then, milady?" he rumbled, eliciting a soft laugh from Ginevra. As the two lovebirds left, holding hands like an old married couple, the remainder of the Resistance broke away and began heading back up the cavern's gravelly slope. KC flew overhead, managing to catch an efficient thermal updraft even inside the cave.
Duros himself started to leave, but as he walked, he overheard someone nearby whisper his name. To this, he reacted as anyone else would upon hearing his or her name and stiffened up, searching left and right for the search of the voice, which turned out to be just a few yards to his right, by a small portion of the ship's damaged hull. Rodimus Prime and a light blue mech with white wings, holding what looked like a briefcase of all things, were standing by it, having a hushed conversation. Duros caught a snippet of the discussion:
". . . a chance to test my theory, Rodimus! Cerebros showed me the footage of him and Hardhead, and it's a match made in heaven!" the winged mech said, gesticulating freely as he spoke. His optic-eyes were a strange shade of yellow compared to the other Autobots' light blue, yet this mech's eyes were much more expressive than the others', Duros thought to himself.
"Absolutely not, Brainstorm. We need to direct our efforts towards fixing Fortress and establishing a perimeter around the crash site, finding the Rebels before they hurt anyone, and IMMEDIATELY getting off this planet. We're not here to subject innocent civilians to an experiment that just might work and force them to participate in our war."
"What experiment?" Duros asked just loudly enough to halt the conversation. Maybe he was pushing his luck, but the mentions of this experiment - especially the fact that it seemed to involve Nebulans, piqued his interest. Rodimus bristled, plates of armor raising and settling tightly on his frame. "It's classified," he said in a stone-cold voice that seemed to hit Duros with tangible force.
"On the contrary, sir," the other mech - Brainstorm, was it? - said energetically, "my ideas are free domain to anyone who's proven themselves an ally to the Autobots until they're put in the development stage. I don't see any reason why the Nebulan can't hear a fantastical plan for a process that just might work, as you said. Besides," his deeply set eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch as he held the briefcase tighter to his chest, "they might help us round up the Rebels if all goes well. Assuming, of course, that they're all right with joining up for a trial run."
Rodimus looked astounded. "Brainstorm, you're talking about brain surgery here! Binary bonding, even! Which are both - obviously - VERY complicated processes, and we don't even know if these organics would agree to it! That's not even taking into account the danger they'd be in every day until we're done here! I forbid it!"
"I might consent," Duros said, an idea slowly creeping up on him. Rodimus's eyes widened. "If this is what I think it is, I'll be more than happy to take up arms for my planet and her people. Besides, one of our members is the best brain surgeon in the entire Local Sector. Maybe he'd be willing to help with the binary-bonding thing, just for an operation on me. We'll see how it goes."
"See, Roddy? We now have a willing test subject - er, I mean volunteer, of course - and the means to facilitate the process. Y'know, we're going to need all of the help we can get to round up the Decepticons, and his service in our ranks could be just for the duration of the time we're stuck here. What d'ya say?" Brainstorm studied his leader closely.
Rodimus Prime appeared stuck for a moment, his gaze flitting to and from Duros. Finally, he let out a sigh, causing vents on his midsection to flare briefly. "We'll have to discuss this later. If you can make it back here in one joor - er, week - from now, I'll inform you of the extent of this decision you seem to insist on making. Perhaps then you'll change your mind."
Just then, however, the radio on Duros's belt came to life with a report that caused his heart to take a not-very-graceful swan dive into the pit of his stomach. It was loud enough to cause the Resistance to turn back in his direction even halfway to the cavern's exit, and caused the Autobots to jump into action.
"This is SWAT unit 71," the cold, impassionate voice on the radio said. "We took the Neoavún shortcut and are just pulling into the old Argent Peak Planetary Park. Recommend all other units follow suit. Chopper and Enforcercraft inbound."
"Copy that, Unit 71," a different voice growled. Unfortunately, Duros recognized this one - none other than Dakota Scott himself, head of Nebulos's Secret Police, captain of the NSF SWAT team, and Duros's boss. "we're right behind you. Clear a landing site for our arrival when you get there. These Cybertronians are gonna regret ever coming here."
An orange mech with large black wheels mounted on his shoulders came out of the crowd. "Not good at all. Retaliator, take Mr. Duros and deposit him and his friends at the cave mouth. Landfill, Quickmix, Stripmine, come with me. We're going to block off the egress as soon as the last Nebulan leaves the cavern! Rodimus, if you don't mind me giving the order?"
The Autobot leader raised a hand. "Go ahead, Scoop. I'll send backup once you get there!"
"Very well," the orange mech said with a commanding air. "Autobots . . . ROLL OUT!"
Duros had heard fantastical tales of the mechanical ingenuity of Cybertronian life forms, but nothing quite compared to the thrill of seeing several of them transforming at the same time. Their forms shifted and changed in breathtaking and entirely unique ways, plates of armor and limbs sliding about and clipping neatly into other parts that materialized themselves as they were needed. To the Nebulan's surprise, some of the mechanoids retained mostly humanoid shapes as they transformed right up until they dropped onto four wheels and suddenly had turned into vehicles.
Despite himself, despite the pressure that he was feeling at the time, and despite his idea born from the conversation with Rodimus Prime and Brainstorm occupying a very persistent corner of his mind, Duros had time to think Awesome!
The mech that Scoop had designated as Retaliator, now in the form of a heavily armored black truck bearing the letters SWAT on the side pulled up alongside the Nebulan. "Get on, sir! I'll take you to safety!"
One is never safe when the NSF is coming, Duros thought bitterly as he climbed onto the Autobot's side. He wasn't by an means a fan of the force's reputation, but until recently considered it out of his hands to reform the organization.
Retaliator's wheels spun in the loose gravel until they finally bit, sending the Autobot flying up the nearby slope. The rest of the Resistance was already most of the way up, as they'd started to run right after the radio had finished its foreboding broadcast.
The air noticeably changed as Retaliator neared the cavern mouth, going from a warm, smoke-filled miasma to the cool, but not uncomfortable, breeze of a typical Nebulan summer night. Quickmix and a tan dump truck - Duros guessed it was Landfill - gained on the Autobot Duros was currently riding, and for a moment he almost forgot his troubles, simply enjoying the thrill of the events happening around him.
The key word, however, was almost. Retaliator rolled to a stop, allowing Duros to neatly step off. He'd done that tens, perhaps hundreds of times before, but this time the action came slower and sent a brief wave of pain crawling up his leg. Not to be dissuaded, Duros kept moving, exiting entirely into the vast canyon that made up this part of Argent Peak. The night had crept on while they were down in the cavern, enough to leave the moon high above the mountains and the stars twinkling brightly in the night sky, undaunted by the dusty tan rings of Nebulos arcing far into space and the smoke that was filling the air. If you were really looking for it, you could see some of the larger ships high above, docked in the spaceport and awaiting clearance to enter the planet or go on to distant places elsewhere in the galaxy, much like the Fortress Maximus itself had been doing before it was shot down.
Duros turned, along with several of his friends, to thank the Autobots, but the mechs were already in motion, superior officers barking out orders and the larger-built personnel following them. The sounds of rock splitting and boulders rolling as they attempted to blockade the cavern mouth drowned out any verbal communication that the Nebulans could make with the Cybertronians.
"Everyone out of the way!" a voice cried from within as a light blue spacecraft approached the entrance, transforming in midair to Brainstorm, who was carrying a large device that resembled some kind of arachnid with a long metallic spike on its underside. As he fell, he jammed the device into the ground and pressed a few buttons on its casing. An enormous pulse shot out from it, causing the Resistance to stumble back even as a vast rock wall shimmered into place, coming into existence as if it had always been there.
"A hard-light hologram? Holy crap, that's amazing!" Halle exclaimed.
"We don't have time to appreciate it, Weiss, we have to go NOW!" Duros barked, dashing for the treeline. Everyone else followed suit, but just as the blaze of their vehicles' headlights came through the pines, just when they all thought they were home free, Selvig ran smack-dab into a broad, chitin-glazed chest covered with a bulletproof vest.
"CEASE AND DESIST, CRIMINAL SCUM! GET ON THE GROUND! DOWN ON THE GROUND BEFORE I VAPORIZE YOU AND ALL YOUR WORTHLESS FRIENDS!" the insectoid SWAT officer yelled once it had seen the rest of the Resistance. Rail-mounted tactical flashlights swept in their direction as the sound of rifles priming echoed throughout the clearing.
Duros, like the others, snapped his hands behind his head and kneeled on the ground as commanded, trying not to draw the ire of the trigger-happy officer. He started angrily when the insectoid kicked Selvig to the ground but remained begrudgingly in place even as the officer shouted, "Fire on my mark!"
"CANCEL THAT!" a familiar voice rasped as a brutal-looking man stepped out of a nearby van. A formation of Enforcer spacecraft flew overhead as the newcomer stood in front of Duros.
The first aspect of Dakota Scott that Duros took in that night was his old, worn steel-toed combat boots, flecked with mud and dried stains and studded with half-inch-long nails on the bottom. Allegedly, the nails were there to provide the more humanoid members of Nebulos's law enforcement community with extra footing during tense situations, but they also worked just fine as interrogation tools in the field and back at base. It wasn't an uncommon sight over at the NSF headquarters to see perpetrators roaming the hallways, crying as they nursed an injured limb shot through with bleeding holes in the shape of several footprints.
The next thing that caught Duros's attention was Scott's leggings, and then his torso, which had an enormous military rifle resting across it, in true fashion for the Secret Police captain. Every inch of fabric that was covering Dakota's muscular build was padded or armored in some way, and a lot of that armor was, in turn, covered with kneepads or a great tactical vest or some kind of ballistic-gel-and-Nebulan-steel exoskeleton.
Lastly came Scott's head, which was just about the worst thing of the whole picture. Square-jawed and built like a sledgehammer, everything about his head seemed to convey brutality. The close-cropped hair on top of his was covered with a faded navy SWAT baseball cap that sat on a cocky angle as if daring someone to point out that it wasn't on right. His cold blue eyes glittered with repressed thoughts of violence and unrepentant sadism.
"I know this guy," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. "Don't shoot him - yet."
Duros didn't move a muscle. He had seen Scott bait "perpetrators" with this exact tactic. He hoped with all of his heart that the other members of the Resistance wouldn't fall for it either.
"Avoy Duros, Commissioner of the NSF - and his friends, I suppose. My underling," he added, eliciting a wave of thuggish laughter from the other SWAT officers.
"Scott," Duros acknowledged cautiously.
The captain smirked at the sound of his name and continued in a falsely obsequious tone. "So, what brings you out this far from home tonight, citizens? Out for a walk? Vehicles break down on the side of the road? Don't you know it's past curfew in the City at this hour? You know, as your friendly neighborhood peace officer, I'm always here to help if you need it."
Chiron spoke up in a quiet, yet clear, voice, even daring to meet Scott's eyes. Duros's heart began beating a little faster as he hoped for the second time that night that the SWAT captain was in a reasonable mood. "We have residences nearby, Peace Officer. When the ship crashed, we immediately rose to the occasion and attempted to give aid to the crew - which, of course, is our duty as good Nebulan citizens."
Scott nodded, an agreeable expression crossing his chiseled face. "Sure. Sure, that seems exactly like the sort of thing a certain group of rebellious sociopaths would say to cover up an anti-Institute crime against all Nebulankind! On your feet, pustules! You've just signed your death warrants!"
The firearms around the clearing snapped up again, except this time there were more of them. Even the pilot of the nearby helicopter aimed a pistol right at Duros's vulnerable chest.
"Dakota, WAIT!" he cried, springing to his feet. "You know me! You've been in my house before, eaten underneath my roof! You know that I live nearby, and you know that I'd never do anything to cause harm to the Institute or our god-President Lord Zarak, his name be exalted! What Mr. Coyle here says is true, sir. With all my authority as Commissioner of the NSF, I stand behind him. Please, Scott, allow us to leave, return to our homes. We won't attempt to disobey the City's grand curfew again, even in the matter of another accident."
For a bone-chilling moment, Scott's eyes didn't change a bit. His rifle was raised at Halle Weiss's head, nostrils flaring in bloodlust. Duros felt like he was frozen in place on the edge of a cliff - any bare movement ready to cause everything around him to break down.
Then Scott chuckled, an ugly sound that gradually grew in volume and intensity until it caught on to the rest of the force. Their rifles lowered enough to not be an immediate threat, and the Resistance remained in place, confused and still more than a little scared, as the SWAT team exploded in mirth.
"You kidding me, Duros? I'm not going to kill you. You're too valuable to the NSF to get rid of. As for the reason why you're here, well, there's a reason we call it our Zarak-given purpose to help others if they're in need. Did you find anyone, my friend? Any . . . corpses, perhaps?"
Duros shook his head solemnly, still visibly shaken. "Not a soul. It must have been an automated cruiser, or mostly so. Perhaps if you get down there quickly, sir, you could find the pilot. We, unfortunately, could not."
Scott seemed to register this and spoke. Duros noticed that he didn't turn the safety on his rifle back on. "Maybe, Avoy, you just weren't looking in the right places. Some lifeforms, my friend - dangerous lifeforms - can hide almost in plain sight if they don't want to be found, take it from me. Makes 'em sneaky, untrustworthy; needing to be taught a lesson in good Nebulan civility, if you get my gist."
The Resistance leader deliberately met Scott's direct gaze for the first time that night. "Then it's a good thing such paragons of the community as yourself are always willing to protect Nebulos and her people from the forces that would seek to tear her apart."
"Don't sell yourself short, Avoy. Provided you keep up the good work, I'm sure our Beloved Leader will see fit to send some good fortune your way. You and your neighbors can go. Men, let's move! We've spent too much time here as it is."
"Mr. Scott . . ." Duros said after a pause as the SWAT captain moved past him. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you looking for in that wreck that requires all of this fire-and-manpower? It's just some computer-controlled merchant's vessel, isn't it?"
Scott stopped in his tracks, but his men continued towards the crash site at his command. Most of the Resistance was now standing, but even those who were still on the ground flinched away from his sudden stop. "Mr. Duros, you may be useful to the Institute's plans as the NSF Commissioner now, but never forget that you're up against some pretty heavy competition. The higher-ups, more powerful than you and me combined, favor those who do their job and don't ask too many questions when compared to the likes of some crazy extremist who tries to know any more than he needs to. You're a good guy, Duros, stalwart, strong against the . . . more unsavory citizens of our glorious planet, and not bad at your job on top of that. I'd hate to see you have an accident in the prime of your career."
He turned again and resumed his march. "Take it from me, it really bugs some of the higher-ups at the Capitol when their underlings don't play nice."
With that, Dakota Scott stomped off into the underbrush and was gone.
The rest of the Resistance shakily made their way to their feet. Duros hoped with all of his heart that the Autobots' solid-light hologram would work properly, and Dakota would shortly get bored and return to the Torchlight. The clean-up crews would likely come tomorrow, he thought - assuming the SWAT team didn't find anything worth their time.
"All right, guys," Duros said, weariness in his voice, "let's go home."
The rest of the night was a blur: Duros somehow managed to get home with barely any gas in the tank and a cracked axle, made sure his friends could safely make it home, and finally retired with his mind aflutter, though he found when he walked in the front door that he sorely missed his lost trenchcoat. He told Maureen the whole story, omitting the part where he had volunteered himself for a combat experiment, of course. Though they trusted each other completely, Duros wasn't quite sure he should tell her about that part just yet. After all, he had his own reservations about the whole thing, and he still wasn't quite sure he'd ultimately follow through on the offer. But the Decepticons were out there, somewhere, and what could he do in his current position to protect his loved ones?
Maureen and Avoy retreated to their bedroom, but it was still some time before Duros fell asleep. What had he gotten himself into? What about his family, his wife laying aside him? What about the others' families? Was all of this really worth it?
Would joining the cause make a difference for the people of Nebulos?
He drifted away, lost in his thoughts.
FIN
Author's Note: Well, I can't think of anything to say that hasn't already been said before. It is my solemn wish that this new rewrite of Emergence has proven itself vastly superior to the early editions of my work. Hopefully, I was able to tidy up the narrative, fill any stray plot holes, and put my characters firmly in their place as their true incarnations.
The rewrites of the chapters to come will be finished at a later date not far from now, and the all-new chapter should be online as soon as I can get everything in order. For any old readers that still maintain interest in my stories, I'd like to thank you from the bottom of my heart, and for any newcomers that have managed against all odds to make it all this way, welcome! I hope you have enjoyed this chapter, but sadly, I cannot hear your voice through cyberspace, so leave reviews ~ because I can't fix my work if YOU don't tell me what's wrong with it! Once more, thank you.
-The Doctor (Do)