Dual Identity
PART I
It's funny, I've done this so many times, I've lost count—and yet every time still seems like my first.
I've traveled to Maccadam's Old Oil House, which is just about the only neutral place on Cybertron left, but of course I'm still careful to cover my tracks. And in my line of work, "careful" means careful. Once I reach my destination, I transform into my Autobot robot form. Right now, I am Punch, the secret alter ego of Counterpunch. Or rather, Counterpunch is my alter ego. There are some cycles when I have a hard time keeping it straight—and that scares me.
As Punch, I emerge from the shadows and slink into Maccadam's to meet with my contact. My optic sensors dart from left to right as I scan the poorly-lit room for him, but he's not here yet. As usual, I've gotten here first. So I sit down and order a non-intoxicating energon compound nicknamed the "Kremzeek"—best to keep a clear head at all times. Even something as relatively simple as inebriation could cause me to slip up somehow, costing me my cover and then my life. No, not just my life: if Megatron ever gets hold of the secrets in my head, it could compromise the Autobot force's already precarious position in this war. Too many innocent lives depend on me for my liking, but I suck it up and do my job like a good soldier.
The familiar roar of my contact's engine provides a welcome distraction from my distressed thoughts and I take a sip from my drink to soothe my frayed neuro-circuits. Just for fun, I count down the seconds between the dying of his engine and his entrance into the bar—and sure enough, he steps in as soon as I hit "zero." Have I mentioned that I've done this so many times I've lost count?
"'Sup, Punch?" Jazz asks too loudly for my tastes as he plops down with some cocktail. He must have noticed me wince because the next thing he says is "Slaaag dude, you look tenser than usual. Calm down a little 'fore you pop a gasket." As usual, I can barely understand him. Ever since Jazz got back from Earth he's been incorporating Earthen slang and idioms into his speech and it's slagging irritating, you dig?
"Keep it down," I whisper. "Are you trying to blow my cover?"
"Hey, c'mon. Th' only Cons here are Dreadwind an' Darkwing in th' corner over there. An' they're gonna be so hung over t'morrow they ain't even gonna remember you an' me." To my horror, Jazz tosses an empty bottle at Darkwing to demonstrate. It flies square into his head, shattering upon impact—and he slumps down onto the table, his head landing right on top of Dreadwind's. Both are unconscious, which is nothing new at Maccadam's. I face Jazz again and frown when I see that fragging cocky grin of his. "See? Nothin' t' worry 'bout, cat."
I reluctantly grunt in concession only because I don't want him to pull off something even more stupid as I hand him a datapad containing my report. "Here it is," I say. "As many Decepticon field placements as I could get my clutches on without looking suspicious. And this time I'm also including a formal request to Command to let more Autobots know about my dual identity. A few cycles ago I almost got terminated by Snarl."
"Eh, just 'bout every Autobot's gotten trashed by th' Dinobots at some point in their lives," Jazz says jokingly, though I'm willing to bet he's not too far from the truth. "But I'll letcha know what Optimus Prime says."
I gulp down the last of my drink, as it's time for me to go. "Thanks," I gasp out before standing up to leave. "Now I'd better get back before anyone at the fortress starts to suspect anything."
"Drinks're on me," Jazz promises with one last friendly grin, and I nod in thanks. But as I step out of the bar I overhear him sigh and say to himself, "Poor kid. Pressure must be gettin' t' him."
It's not that obvious, is it?