Elseworlds
Chapter One: Tailgate = Badass
A/N: A collection of 'what-ifs' from around the Transformers IDW universe mostly concentrating on MTMTE.
Our first chapter is the possibility of Tailgate being the absolute badass can-do-anything soldier he claims to be in canon but this veteran has some secrets lurking in his subspace. How will this affect his relationships on the Lost Light? Who knows?
Warning: Some coarse Cybertronian language. Nothing major.
Rating: Teen
Characters: Tailgate, Lost Light Crew
Disclaimer: I don't own the franchise which is good because if I did, it would have gone to pot.
Tailgate in this story is a modified version of his Generations toy. The main modification is his size (he reaches up to Skids' neck in this micro-continuity) and his alt mode (a Cybertronian dragster). Apologies to the people whom love the tiny little bot we all love but I felt the change necessary for his backstory.
(*****)
Cybertron, Six Million Years Ago, Underneath the Mitteous Plateau
Note to self, Tailgate: remain calm.
Remain calm and remember your survival training. Appraise the situation and react accordingly.
…..
Alright. The situation is bad. Not terrible, could be better, but still: not terrible.
The damage report states that my legs are shot. At the rate my luck is holding it's doubtful that any kind-hearted stranger who's willing to risk their neck out for a wanted criminal will be appearing with a new pair of legs that are just the right size.
In my current condition it looks like I will NOT be able to reach the Ark in time to stop Nova and his little 'Expansion' project. If I don't stop him then….
No, no. Focus now Tailgate.
The report also states that amongst other complications, my T-Cog, internal chronometer, and comlink are disabled. However…
My subspace is still operational, and I've packed a low-charge Det-Pistol and a few energon rations. If I detonate the rations, I'll blast a hole in the ceiling, and that in turn will act like a flare. If any pursuit teams are nearby, then they'll certainly come to check it out. They'd most likely attempt an arrest but I still have a few little 'surprises' in my arm compartment. If there's no one around, then I'll just climb out and drag my way to the launch site if I have to.
Okay. It's a plan. Just go to set the rations at a safe distance and then blow 'em. Not what I took those tactical classes for, but hey, better than nothing.
….there! Done! Now just got to….
(*****)
…retreat to a safe distance….
(*****)
….then detonate the damn rations. This would be so damn easier if I didn't…
(*****)
….keep blacking out. Arrgh, I've made it. Alright. Ready, aim…
(*****)
…Fire!
"ARRGH!"
For a second you can't help but think you're the one screaming as the world is engulfed in bright light. It becomes pretty apparent that it's someone else when you hear the tell-tale sound of plating being torn off by an explosion, something that you are far too familiar with.
As soon as the light fades and your optics reset, you crawl towards the massive hole in the ceiling. Straining your neck, you espy a trio of mechs peering down at you. No-one you recognise, which is a big plus in your book.
"Any chance of a hand?" You plead (disgustingly so you think) in the sweetest voice your voice can manage. Step One when confronting an unknown party with a large amount of damage to your chassis: always try to come off as helpless. It's an act of course but you know that you're not in any shape for a real fight.
Evidently they seem to think you're harmless enough, and two of them, one with a chevron and a medic's paintjob and the other gangly with a bright visor reach down for you. "C'mere pal. I don't believe we've met," the latter remarks as you're hauled out.
Wow. Either these guys don't watch the news or you're just sparked lucky. "Have-gnhh-have I missed the launch," you inquire in the same meek tone as they set you down on the ground. The scenery looks…different…in a way but you've never really been to this part of the Iacon district before so you can't place a finger on it.
A spindly rotary is lying on the ground in your line of sight. He's smouldering, which means the poor fragger must have been the one that your little lightshow hit.
"He's not dead, is he?" Now you're not acting. You really are terrified because this innocent mech whom was most likely minding his own business could be dying for all you know and you're directly responsible.
The blood of another innocent on your hands. Great job; you're a real example of the Vanguard, ain't ya? How many does this make? Six million and one?
You feel sick to your core. More than that; the stress of everything that happened today (the chase, the accident, and now this) is affecting your systems. Warning signs start flashing on your HUD informing you of an imminent blackout.
Aw, frag. Not now. Not here.
"Got-got to get to the la-launch," you splutter as your vision darkens. Maybe you'll be taken to the Ark by these mechs. Nova and Galvatron might bring you aboard to gloat or torture you in some hideous way for your 'crime'.
Of course, they could just core your spark-chamber and smelt the remains of your body. As the blackness envelopes you, all you can do is pray that Primus will see justice done.
Heh. Primus and Justice? Cyclonus, your religious spiel might have actually worked…
SYSTEM SHUTDOWN….COMPLETE.
(*****)
SYSTEMS REBOOTING. SCANNING FOR DAMAGES AND INJUIRES. PLEASE WAIT.
SYSTEMS REPORT: ALL SYSTEMS ARE GREEN. OVERALL PREFORMANCE ESTIMATE IS NOW 67% AND RISING. ENERGON LEVELS AT 80%.
WARNING! UNIDENTIFYIED SCANNING IN PROGRESS. ALLOW?
…
UNIDENTIFYIED SCAN ALLOWED.
…
REBOOT COMPLETE. ACTIVATING SENSORY AND MOTOR FUNCTIONS.
You hiss under your vocaliser as you reawaken. Reboots are never an easy trip, and you loathe the taste of scorched metal that hits your taste sensors every fragging time.
The berth you are lying on is spartan, but compared to some of the other things you've woken up on it's a small paradise. Like the time the squad was captured by Ghanesheian pirates and you had to fight off the entire crew with only a half-charged Scatter Blaster, six dud grenades, and an empty ration upon revival.
Good times. Fun times too if Shellhead was to be believed. To be honest, you don't really remember much of that incident. There were way too many to count in your career in the Primal Vanguard for you to bother with the exact details after it got logged in the reports.
Right. Enough reminiscing. Time to figure out where the Pit you were.
In your peripheral vision, you take note of the medical instruments and supplies. That bodes well. You haven't been taken to some torture chamber of some kind.
There's a commotion over by another berth. The medic and spindly guy from before are there along with two new mechs and you feel relief. You didn't kill him after all.
That relief is tempered by how he's strangling one of the other guys. You immediately try to force your body into motion but the stick thin mech (whom seemed oddly familiar) managed to say something to break his assaulter's hold.
A terse conversation occurs and you take note of the information. Apparently the rotary is on his last chance with the outside world and if he doesn't behave then its prison for the rest of his life. Distantly, you wonder what he did to this Springer character before he turns for the door and you wince.
Empurata. The poor fragger. No wonder he seems so deranged. Fuse only lasted a vorn before he snapped and shot up that briefing room before turning the gun on himself.
As the rotary leaves the medical bay, you decide that it may be a good time to speak up. You start a greeting, then pause. Better pay the relief card here. "Thank goodness he made it out alright."
They turn to you now, and the minibot strolls over, offering his hand as does. "Who, Nut-Job? Nah. But don't worry, we won't hold it against you." He grins at you as he shakes your hand and you can't help but size him up. Regular size for a minibot - if you still had your original frame you'd be about the same height – with a grounder alt and a charming, slightly unnerving smile. "I'm Swerve, by the way."
"Tailgate." You respond in kind as you release his hand. Now, maybe these mechs can provide some information. "Where are we exactly? Is this the Ark? Does Nova Prime know I'm aboard?"
The medic seems startled by your questions. "Nova Prime?"
"Yes. You know, Primus' living legacy or whatever the Pit he's calling himself right now," you snark flippantly at him. If this is the Ark and no one's assaulted you yet, then maybe Nova has not clue you're here.
The job might just be that much easier.
"Hold on – you believe that this is the Ark? The original Ark?" The medic's voice is tinged with disbelief and his optics are alight with shock. "I don't quite know how to break this to you, but you've been out of action for-"
"Wait! Stop! Stop!"
Swerve pulls the medic to the side and they speak in hushed tones. He seems oddly eager to tell you something.
You get the feeling it isn't anything good.
Swerve turns back to you and his smile seems far less innocent, like he's got a private joke lined up. "My dear, dear Tailgate. You know when you're hooked up to your recharge slab and you're in sleeper mode and-"
"Where is this going, Swerve?" You don't mean to snap but your patience is thinning out and you just want a straight answer, not a full story.
He leans in and whispers.
"SIX MILLION YEARS?!"
(*****)
After your little 'breakdown', the medic (Ratchet, he curtly introduced himself) checks your systems and gives you a clean bill of health before shooing you both out to clear the way for the incoming wounded. Swerve suggests going outside for a walk and, mind still abuzz with the revelation that you're a Sharkticon out of temporal water, you agree.
The planet the ship has landed on is barren but at least the air is pure and it's a sunny day. Swerve shifts to his alt and trundles beside you, blabbing all the while. Apparently (you're able to wrestle from the onslaught of words) the crew of this spaceship are searching for the Knights of Cybertron but they ran into a 'slight mishap with the quantum generator' which left one mech fused with the generator ("Poor Ore. What a way to go, amiright?") and forty others being blasted into space before making planetfall.
You sigh. That's exactly why safety standards were a precedent when dealing with interstellar travel. This Ore character clearly had either a death wish or he was just plain stupid. Or both. Both was an option too.
Swerve continues to chatter and you marvel at just how many words he can cram into one sentence. It's been less than a standard half-hour but he's managed to fit three monologues, six rhetorical questions, and a limerick in that amount of time. The mech should have been in the Office of the Prime's PR department. The scandals that had started to stir under Nova's reign might never have seen daylight if he'd been there to bury them with the power of his vocaliser.
"So," you focus on his question, "how about showing me your alt mode?"
You fix him with a steady gaze. "Ratchet said for me to take it easy, remember? I've barely moved in the last six million years. If I tried to shift to alt, it would hurt and I most likely would freeze up mid-conversion." Never mind that your wheels ached for a good stretch and you forcibly quell the impulse to ignore the doctor's orders.
Carnage had refused to listen to Jumpstart when the latter specifically spelled out that he needed to use a handheld instead of his in-built weapons when the heat diffusion systems crashed but the tankformer refused to listen. He'd gone into battle wooping and hollering, firing his main cannon all the while. When he'd collapsed mid-way through, they'd opened him up to find his internal components have either melted or fused together.
The moron hadn't survived. So yeah, listen to the doctor or suffer the consequences.
"Okay…" Evidently Swerve wasn't pleased by your answer but focused on another topic. "What's the 'osal' stand for?
Ah. That.
Bomb Disposal originally. It had been your first mark on the world and your first love. When you moved on with your skills and career, you kept those two words as a reminder where you started.
You were an expert at disarming bombs; so good in fact that you were given the chance to do the opposite and make them. That too you excelled in.
Your bombs were pinnacles of the art, no specifications too great or too small for your hands and mind. That didn't mean things didn't go wrong. Often the demolition crews didn't respect the explosive they were carrying, and often they perished for that grievous misjudgement.
The third time that happened, you marched straight up to Galvatron, in full view of the entire officer cadre, and demanded full combat training. You were no longer going to stand on the side-lines, you'd snarled at him, and let incompetents handle your work. Either the Vanguard would supply the training or there would be no more explosives of your calibre.
You'd expected to be shot for that. Hell, the whole room expected you to be shot. Instead, Galvatron had roared with laughter before, still chuckling, he agreed to your request. As you left the room, giddy over the fact you'd stared the Scrapmaker in the face and lived, you heard him assigning some mech to oversee your training.
That mech had been Cyclonus. Strong, intelligent, fierce, stubborn Cyclonus.
The two of you hadn't gotten along to begin with. He saw you as a civilian masquerading as a soldier despite your retrofit while you saw him as a stuck-up bodyguard with the emotional range of a dead mech. He expected nothing less than everything you had, and you were willing to give him everything and more, so determined were you to prove him wrong.
The training had been gruelling, and often you felt like you were going to die from exhaustion, but you persevered. The day you managed to wrench Cyclonus's arm out of its socket had been the turning point.
He opened up to you. Over drinks he'd told of the old legends, of the Guiding Hand, and of the wars that had ravaged Cybertron before Nova brought peace. Sometimes you'd sing together in Primal Vernacular when you'd both had a few too many Deceased and Diseased's. When you passed the training with flying colours, he'd been the first to salute you, and you him.
You look down at Swerve, and you wonder how you should phrase everything you've done. The university classes at Harmonex you attended and eventually lectured at. How you learnt medicine after Shift and Nighteye bled out in front of you because you couldn't treat their internal injuries. When the Intel team checked your resume, they begged you to train as an operative, which you had accepted and trained under Camoturret in the art of espionage.
You clear your vocaliser, then subside. These mechs…you can't trust them yet. After what you did to Nova there was a sizeable reward, a reward that might still be out on your head. Not to mention that you were still a criminal under Cybertronian law and the attempted assassination of a Prime was not a light crime. At best, you could expect incarceration for life. Worse wasn't an option.
You need a cover story. Something so mundane that no one will question it.
"I was in…Waste Disposal…" you mumble to Swerve, putting the right amount of shame and humility into your voice. The right inflection would make you seem humble and meek, an act that would serve to unbalance Swerve and possibly forestall questions into your past.
"Oh…oh…waste disposal, huh? Dunno, thought you'd be something cooler or something." A pause as the minibot replayed his sentence in his head. "Not-not that there's anything wrong with a waste disposal bot! I mean, cogs of society and all that..." He groans at his gaffe. "Look, I mean whenever you read a sci-fi novel you hear about these awesome soldiers or heroes or whatever hailing from the past, y'know? Guess I was just expecting some kind of sterotype." Though you can't see his face, you get the feeling that he's smiling frantically at you.
"Don't worry," you say quietly. "That was my function. There is no wrongdoing in having expectations of a mech." You make sure your voice still carries the humble tone. Swerve seems the type to blab to anyone who'll listen. That means your reputation (or lack of one) will spread through the ship easily, which means most mechs won't inquire to your supposedly mundane life.
You both move in silence from there until you espy a monument of some kind on the horizon which as you get closer looks like a memory stick. Pointing it out to Swerve, he laughs merrily, your conversation behind him. "That's just Rewind giving his T-Cog a spin. Chromedome can't be far from him. I swear those two are closer than Rack 'N' Ruin." He shifts back to root mode. "C'mon, let's go say hi."
Chromedome and Rewind turn out to be the other two mechs you met yesterday. "Good to meet you properly, Tailgate!" The memory stick is a cheerful mech whom reminds you greatly of Datalock, another Disposable that you'd become acquainted with in the Vanguard's Intel team. His partner is far quieter, but you can tell he has a secret of some kind. He has the disposition of someone trying to hide their past behind them.
Still, Chromedome is pleasant to both Swerve and yourself, taking the time to shake your hand. "It seems yesterday was an event for all of us," he quips lightly.
Swerve is curious about why the two of them seemed to be moving back towards the ship. "We're heading back to the Lost Light because the search got called off." Chromedome offers in explanation. "Brainstorm's found Polaris and Hyperion's remains. It looks like they were caught up in a piece of the ship when they-"
Your highly trained audio sensors pick up something. Heavy footsteps, sharp intakes of air, and, oddly, 'Nineteen-Eighty-Four'. The sounds of conflict, something you are all too familiar with. And it's coming closer.
You're proven right a second later as a blue and red mech crashes to the ground in front of you. You automatically place yourself between him and the others. Though instinctive, you curse yourself for the break in your fresh cover.
Fortunately the others don't notice. Chromedome walks over to the mech, calling him Skids, which means that he must be known to some of them and potentially isn't a threat.
The giant golden Guardian knock-off that's following him is though. Skids commands Chromedome to get the inhibitor claw he's been implanted with. Once it's removed, he charges the enemy with an impressive array of in-built weapons.
The fight is brutal and utterly one-sided. Skids demolishes his foe with an ease that intrigues you mightily. You give an approving nod at his skill. This is a warrior you certainly wish had been in your old unit.
When it's all over and the others are asking questions, you move over to the remains of the robot. Obviously a droid of some kind, its head keeps spouting 'Nineteen-Eighty-Four' before the power runs out. You find yourself wanting to take the remains with you but a shout from the others is enough to leave it behind.
A mystery for another day.
(*****)
You return to the Lost Light without further interruptions. The captain, a red and yellow mech by the name of Rodimus, gives a speech and then starts answering questions the crew pose at him.
You're standing next to Skids and Swerve, doing your best to listen to the multitude of conversations around you. Everyone here is a stranger, and the more information you have the easier blending in will be. A flash of purple near the viewport catches your eye and your gut pinches.
Oh scrap, it can't be…
Rodimus speaks up again. He wants everyone to pair up and select a hab-suite while he takes a team to investigate "something absolutely unremarkable and actually quite boring." The mentions of industrial strength energy dampeners and the nullification booths raise an optic ridge but since you have none of those it doesn't concern you.
Besides, you have 'business' with someone you thought dead.
You shoulder your way through the crowd of mechs, following the tall, well-built, purple bot. He walks into a hab-suite alone and no one follows.
Perfect.
You notice a few people staring at you as you wander into the suite. Their optics are filled with something akin to curiosity and fear, and you can't help but wonder what he's done to earn this. You give a jaunty wave to the mechs in the doorway opposite to you and walk in to your new home.
He's staring at the stars through the window when you lock the door. This is a private conversation, and you don't want anyone to walk in.
He turns, and you meet optic to optic, red eyes to blue visor. He makes no overtly visibly sign that he's shocked except for the slight widening of the eyes.
For Cyclonus, that's the equivalent to a jawdrop.
You duck your head in greeting. "Well met, Cyclonus of Upper Tetrahex," you state in Primal Vernacular. "It has been quite some time."
He observes you, long enough for you to become uncomfortable under his scrutiny. Eventually, he too speaks. "Well met, Tailgate of Rivets Field, Iacon." He pauses, observes your frame intently. "You appear to remain unchanged from the last six million years."
"The same cannot be said for yourself." You gently note, taking in the red-once-yellow optics and the broken horn. "Regardless, I am glad you survived our last encounter."
He grunts under his breath, a clear sign of irritation. "No thanks to you," he grouses, staring intently into your visor. "Your little trick nearly cost me my life."
"And who was the mech fooled by a hologram wired with a bomb?" You chuckle softly at his frown. You've really missed the banter that invariably cropped up between you.
With a sigh, Cyclonus turns back to watch the stars. You stand next to him, and for a while, you both say nothing. The silence is bliss in a way.
Finally, you speak again. "Are you still willing to kill me?"
He looks at you again before averting his optics. "No," he intones, "Nova is dead and gone. There is no reason for your death any longer."
"Somebody killed the fragger at last?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
"Good."
More silence. Then you speak again. "So, what have you been doing in the last six million years?"
He pauses, collects his thoughts before replying. "We successfully launched the Ark only to be pulled through a wormhole into a hostile reality of unlife called the Dead Universe. Everyone on the crew was converted into unalive entities and we sought to expand its hold under Nova's command. We were stopped by the efforts of the Autobots but Galvatron was revived by another aspect of the Dead Universe called D-Void. He then led an undead army, including myself, on a quest that turned out to be a plot by D-Void the entire time. I briefly managed to wrestle control of myself from Galvatron and attacked to defend Cybertron, for which Vector Sigma gave me a new lease on life, curing me of my undead status. I have since chosen to join this quest in the hopes that there is something better than the inferior Cybertron our world has become."
"…and I thought being stuck in a hole for six million years was rough…"
"Pfft."
(*****)
It's the grand opening of Swerve's and the atmosphere is electric. The proprietor himself chatters to his customers as he serves the drinks, his cheer infectious. Everyone around you is laughing, joking, arguing, and above all drinking.
You've situated yourself in a booth well away from everyone else. Sometime soon you'll make some new drinking buddies in this new era. That time isn't now though.
You brought a bottle of Nausea Fuel with some 'Energon Pocky' (a recipe developed by the nominal third in command Drift) to enjoy while you catch up on the last six million years. Rewind offered a compressed visual history from his databanks but you politely refused. The four million year civil war means less to you right now. The text on the datapads in front of you is of greater import.
So far you've read up to Nominus Prime's reign and you're starting to feel sick in your tanks and it is definitely not the alcohol talking. Triple M, the Malware Brigade, the rise of the Functionists, and the corruption behind the lineage of Primes are just some of the horrors you've been forced to take in and learn about your once home.
Sighing, you pour another glass. At the rate you're going, you'll finish the whole thing in one evening. Premium fuel like this is expensive but you had the foresight to withdraw every shanix from your accounts before you attempted to take Nova's life. This single bottle costs little in the grand scheme that is your story, but you are quick to remind yourself that this is not a habit.
Your cover as a waste disposal bot has been accepted by the crew. Indeed, Ultra Magnus has offered you a job as a cleaner and all-round handyman for the ship with a small wage attached, which you have decided to accept. It will give you a chance to learn the layout of this ship and learn more of its inhabitants covertly.
Still, it is not perfect. Rung was in the medical bay that day, and you kick yourself for not recognising him. You never met face to face but you know his reputation. He was around during Nova's Primacy, and you are worried if he might remember the news coverage if given time. A little 'accident' might need to be staged if things become….awkward.
Cyclonus is no threat to you in this. He's let you know the past is the past and that he sees no point in following the orders of a dead mech, which you are grateful for. It's nice to have someone you call friend not trying to kill you.
Rewind might be a problem too. Unlike the unnoticeable Rung or the reviled Cyclonus, he's well-liked by the crew. He's also a living library of knowledge from the last six million years and beyond. That means he might have some information, a report or a piece of news coverage, and he could bust your cover if the wrong filmstrip was played. Best to keep an eye on him and fabricate another story just in case.
You down the glass in one and pour another. Your 'crime' wouldn't be considered as such from what you've heard around you. No, it's the reasons why you did it you don't want getting out. You're ashamed of what you did; not even Cyclonus knows what drove you to kill your Prime, and if you have your say, no one will.
You nibble on a pocky stick as you watch your new crew. Swerve jokes as he races from the tables to the bar with his drinks tray, Trailcutter starts up a drinking song with Seaspray and Toxin, and Sunstreaker glares at anyone who giggles when he feeds Bob a treat.
Yep. You're gonna fit in here just fine.
(*****)
Elseworlds – Tailgate Pt 1 = Complete.
What secrets is Tailgate hiding? What made him throw away everything for revenge? And how will he keep his cover intact aboard a ship of nosy parkers?
All will be answered.
On another note, Nausea Fuel is a trope that I thought could be made into a drink like good ole Nightmare Fuel.
Until next time.