Dead Man's Shadow

by Operation Ravage

Nightbeat struggles to uncover a murder mystery.

Dead Man's Shadow

I stood in the dim shadows of the dingy motel room, staring at the body lying on the bed. The mechanical form had gone strangely limp in death; the left arm lay sprawled outward, its fingers lightly kissing the stained and cheap carpet. The other arm was pinned beneath the body. The legs were spread apart, the toes bent upward at an angle.

Poor bastard. Shot at the base of the head, right where the spinal column attaches to the cranium on most mechanoids. He wouldn't have known that it was coming. The laser discharge had knocked out all of his relay passages, those fine wires that send impulses from the brain to the rest of the body—and more importantly, connects the Spark chamber to the head. Death hadn't been quick and merciful. He had lain on the bed for a good five minutes choking on his internal fluids before shuffling off his mortal coil.

I wondered what went through the mind of a dying man. Regrets? Desires? Disbelief, or was there a sense of calmness and acceptance? Was it the same for everyone, or did it vary from person to person?

I lay my hands on the cold body. He had been dead for hours. There was no surface temperature. I carefully flipped the body over, turning the face towards mine.

Fear. That was what had gone through the mind of this one. The look was unmistakable in his optics, still wide even in death. That cold, unbelieving stare that makes even a hardened veteran stop in his tracks and sends shivers down his spine.

I let out a small sigh and returned the body to its original position. The coroner would be on his way shortly. More than likely, the family and friends would be notified, a memorial service would be held in the next two days, and then the body would be turned to scrap for its usable components. Others accuse us of being an uncaring race. Perhaps we are. But there's no denying that we're practical about death.

A low peel of thunder rumbled through the narrow alleys outside the window. I stepped onto the narrow, metal balcony, allowing myself a few moments to compose myself. Without my thinking of it, I withdrew a methane cylinder from my side compartment and brought it to my lips as I stared out at the rain. It was a cold, relentless rain, the type of rain that shouts out all the sorrows of the world, only caring about its own torment.

"Nightbeat."

I didn't turn around. I knew the owner of the voice. Grotesque. My partner of many years, back when there was still a war to be fought. But now the guns of war were silent, having also been washed away.

He sidled beside me, and we stood in silence for a long moment as we gazed out at the dark and narrow alleyway. The sound of passenger cars and automotive Transformers carried to us through the night's storm, giving an already terrible night a pervasive sense of loneliness.

"Shouldn't smoke those things," Grotesque remarked after a long moment.

I smiled, still holding the methane cylinder between my lips. "I know," I remarked. "Old habit. They tend to die hard."

Grotesque let out a small snort. "Your vices aren't the only thing to do so," jerking his head in the direction of the corpse on the bed.

"You've got a rotten sense of humor."

"I'm not making jokes," Grotesque responded.

"I know."

Grotesque withdrew from the balcony and returned to the relative space of the motel room. "Find anything else yet?" he asked.

I shook my head without turning to look at him, and then expelled the methane from my mouth. Upon making contact with the cold, humid air, it turned into a fine mist and evaporated. The smoke was gone, but it had left a bitter and corrosive residue on my tongue. Awful stench. Awful taste. Awful drain on the wallet. I wondered again why I picked such a rotten hobby. I extinguished the remainder of the cylinder on the metal railing and let the butt fall into the flooded streets below.

"Not yet," I remarked, "I only got here a few minutes before you did. About the only thing I've confirmed so far is that, yes, that is indeed a body on the bed."

Grotesque pulled a small tool out of a metal box that he had carried into the room with him. "All right," he remarked to the corpse, "let's find out who you are."

I recognized the device immediately. It was an identification scanner, and it worked similar to a fingerprint test that the Earthlings use. It essentially takes a surface sample of the fingertip and finds the matching electronic file in the Central Register. An ingenious system, really, and it had been immensely useful since its fielding a decade prior. We liked to joke that there "were no mysteries anymore" down at the precinct.

But the small smile that Grotesque had allowed himself to wear quickly turned into a frown as the device emitted an audible buzz. "What do you mean, 'ID not on file?'" Grotesque snarled, "[i]Everybody's[/i] on file!"

"Everybody except him, obviously," I remarked somewhat callously.

Grotesque shook his head. "No, it's more than that. This is a very real security concern. I refuse to believe that this guy had just happened to miss the call for profiling ten years ago. It was a government mandate."

"And you'll also remember that the civil liberties unions had a field day with it," I reminded him. "Some Transformers said that they'd leave Cybertron before they allowed that to happen. Maybe he was one of those?"

Grotesque shook his head. "He would have been caught trying to come back on-planet as soon as the flight plan was filed. Everything is run through the Central Register. [i]Everything.[/i] I can run your file right now and find out how much you've spent on methane cylinders for the past month. The only way that he can be here and not on file is if somebody had erased his profile from the Central Register. Which is where my security concerns stem from."

"Well, maybe he never registered in the first place," I said, "difficult, but doable, provided he lived with somebody else and completely relied on them for everything. In fact, that has to be how he paid for the room; somebody else rented it and it's in their name."

"There's a place to start, at least," Grotesque responded, "I'll go speak with the night clerk, she's down there talking with the beat cops. You go around and check for anything else that might point us in the right direction."

I nodded. "Very well. Good luck, Grotesque."

The Monsterbot only nodded once curtly in response. "Thanks," he said. "I have a feeling that this mystery of goes down some very long and dark roads. You up to it?"

I smiled. "Of course I am. Mysteries are what make this life worth living, don't you agree?"

But five minutes after Grotesque left, I felt my former bravado ebbing away. The corpse on the bed had been covered with a thin sheet from the closet, no doubt kept on hand for the rare, if ever, occasions that biological beings stayed at this cheap motel. The light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across the room, but it wasn't enough to hide the sight of the mechanical fluid seeping through the white sheet that I had thrown over the body. The smell of diesel filled my nose, and I inwardly felt like vomiting.

I'd seen death before, in all of its horrible glory, back in my days of the war. Those mornings on long-forgotten worlds, where the suns rose over the horizon, casting the jungle into a simmering heat and causing the humidity in the air to seep into every crook and crevice in your body. That invasive, damnable humidity that got everywhere, causing infections and rusting our weapons. Death visited us on those worlds, and it visited us often. But no matter where you are, on which world your war takes you, the smell of death is the same. A deceptively sweet odor, one that fills your nostrils and kicks around your guts until all you want to do is fall to your knees and vomit up all that despair and hopelessness into a burning, black pool.

I brought a hand to my head. Primus, what a headache. Must be the methane cylinders. I made a mental note to quit, and a few seconds later made another mental note to shred that other mental note. I brought another one of the cylinders to my lips and lit up, disregarding the stained "Please No Smoking in Rooms" placard that set atop the uneven card table in the corner of the room.

I opened the nightstand as I continued my assessment of the room. The top drawer didn't hold anything out of the ordinary; a copy of the Book of Primus, a list of phone numbers to delivery places, and some pocket change. The second drawer, however, held a few more surprises.

The first thing I noticed was the washerbag of Shanasha grass. Banned on Cybertron, of course. Too many people were abusing it. I've never tried the stuff myself but I've seen the effect it has on people. Just a few blades placed under the tongue will have you believing that you're the son of Primus and Jesus Christ is your second cousin. That isn't an exaggeration; I've heard people grassed out make this claim. I've also seen people with a little grass in them saw off their own fingers because they believed that the Swarm was swimming through their circuits. Potent stuff. Very deadly. Also very illegal.

I dropped the bag into the evidence box and continued going through the contents of the drawer. They were seemingly random. A couple of replacement nuts and bolts, a couple of pornographic magazines, a writing tablet.

But the thing that caught my attention next were the business cards at the base of the drawer. I recognized a few of them. One for MacAdam's Oil Pub, but that was probably given to the stiff on the bed by the motel; mechanoids come from all over the galaxy to try MacAdam's once, similar to how a human might plan a vacation to Bourbon Street if I were to use an analogy. MacAdam's was one part tourist trap, one part heritage.

But there were other business cards in the drawer—cards that looked like the John Doeacon on the bed had been looking for something a lot more than a good time. There was one card for the Benedis Corporation, an arms manufacturer that had supplied weapons to both Autobot and Decepticon during the war. There was also another card for the Schitzotronic Club down at the Shantix Sector.

I shuddered inwardly. Nothing good happens in the Shantix Sector. Ever. It' s a maze of old alleys and passageways, much more constricted than even the dingy neighborhood where I was working, and offered a haven to all sorts of thieves and scoundrels. Smugglers and pirates of all species looked to make their trade at the Shantix Sector. I dropped both business cards into the evidence bag and then continued to rummage through the belongings in the drawer.

A flash of red caught my eye, and I held up a dim and stained Autobot badge up in the pale light afforded by the bed-side lamp. "So, guy," I stated, "you used to be a soldier too, huh? It's a pity that you wound up like this, a lonely man in a lonely motel room with a nightstand full of drugs and porn and a hole in the back of your head. But we don't always like the deck of cards we get dealt, do we?"

The corpse, of course, didn't answer. I put the badge on the pillow next to his head. "Maybe in death you'll get back some of that lost honor."

There was a light rap at the door, and I knew that the coroner was standing behind me without having to turn around to confirm it. "Been dead for a few hours," I stated, "you've got a bit of a mess on your hands, too. The sheets are done; put them in a contamination bag and get them out of here. Spread around some yellow sand or sawdust to seep up any mech fluid that was missed."

"Nightbeat," the coroner smiled, crossing his fingers over his rounded waist, "this isn't my first body."

I gave him a slight tap on the shoulder and sighed. "Yeah, I'm sorry. We seem to do this a little too often, don't we, Retrax?"

Retrax nodded understandingly. "Go ahead and get out of here," he said, "I've got this here. Have the next of kin been notified yet?"

"That's the other piece of this puzzle," I frowned, "we don't have an ID yet. So it looks like we're going to have to hold the body for an unspecified period of time."

Retrax grumbled. He was a stout Primarian, and Primarians had strict rules regarding the disposal of a body. Still, he knew that his religious beliefs had to be put on-hold when an investigation was pending. And there was most certainly an investigation pending now.

I left the room and allowed Retrax to begin his sad work. I made my way downstairs to the lobby, where I found Grotesque sitting at a high-backed stool, adjacent to a young biological female who held a cup of coffee between her lightly trembling hands.

I recognized her as a Makobian. They are generally humanoid, but are, of course, much larger than humans, being only slightly shorter than a standard Cybertronian. They additionally have six fingers per hand and have no ear lobes, and skin coloration that ranges from a pale white to a blue sheen. This particular Makobian was of the former variety, with her white hands looking strangely ghost-like when contrasted with the red polish that adorned the tips of her fingers. She was dressed casually, wearing a stripped polo shirt, a pair of khaki shorts, and a pair of tattered, cheap sandals.

Grotesque put a hand on her shoulder and then got up from the stool. Taking me by the crook of the elbow, he led me to a position out of earshot, provided that we spoke in whispers. "She's the one who found the body," he said, "poor girl's pretty shaken up."

I nodded. "That's probably not something that you expect to see when you're making up a room."

"I've gotten the basic questions from her," Grotesque continued, "turns out the room was rented out under the name of a certain Transformer named Ironfist. I ran the citizenry profile on him, and he's a frequently unemployed sort, charitably described as a vagrant. Tends to run around the Shantix Sector when he does have work, though."

"So how does a vagrant afford a motel room, even one as . . . [i]swank[/i] . . . as this one?" I asked.

"Exactly."

"Another mystery. Hmmm. I'd like to speak to the girl myself."

"By all means," Grotesque stated, illustrating the point by extending an arm outward. "In the meantime, I need to get back to office and report this. If somebody [i]is[/i] erasing names from the Central Register . . ."

"Yeah," I finished, "I know."

Grotesque only nodded in silence and then took his leave through the automatic door, stepping out into the cold night rain. I turned my attention back to the girl.

Sliding the stool forward where Grotesque previously sat, I forced a smile to my lips. "Hi," I said, trying my best to sound sincere, "my name is Nightbeat, and I'm the detective assigned to investigate this case. I'm going to ask you some questions. Before we begin, I want you to take your time and answer each question to the best of your ability; there's no rush. Can you do that for me?"

The woman nodded and made a little grunt through her tight lips. I noticed that her hands were still absolutely clutched around that coffee mug. She wasn't just uncomfortable; she was terrified.

"Name, please?"

"Cronqvista an Bashad an Romrellia," she stated, her voice lightly wavering, "is my formal name. Tribe, mother's family, and my given name, as is the naming custom of my people. You can call me Romrellia if that's easier for you, but my friends just call me Rom and leave it at that."

Well. That was a fairly complex answer to a simple question, I thought. Still, no need to start grilling her yet. She was just nervous.

"And what brings you to Cybertron, Rom? Something tells me that you're not a native."

There. She smiled a little bit at the joke. I was getting her to relax a little bit. "We immigrated here," she said, "I mean, me and my family. We came right after the Autobots regained the planet back in 2006 and bought this building. My father said that with Cybertron back in Autobot hands, it meant that the economy was going to pick up and he was looking to make his fortune. He sunk his life savings into this motel. I help him out by working the nightshift, and my brothers during the day."

I nodded. The story was becoming more and more common since peace had returned to the planet. Immigrants, each looking to make their way in the universe. The most successful immigrants started intergalactic businesses—shipping empires, eateries, tourism agencies. The less successful ones owned dingy motels where people got murdered.

"And what can you tell me about the client upstairs?"

"You mean the one who got killed?"

"That's the one."

"Not too much," Rom said, setting her coffee cup down on the counter where stale crumbs leftover from that morning's continental breakfast still lay scattered, "other than he checked in two nights ago. I was working at the time. He signed in under the name of Ironfist, but I didn't think that the name really fit him, being that he was of a sleek form. I knew that he transformed into a race car of some sort, but didn't see him do it."

"Did you see him do anything unusual in the two days he was staying here?"

"No, not really. I don't know if he came out of the room during the day, being how I was back at my family's apartment sleeping then. Last night I saw him go out for a little while. When he came back, he looked like he was drunk—you know, weaving around slightly and the like. I asked him if he was all right, but he just swore and took the elevator up to his room. I went up after him, but the door was already closed and the light was off."

"And how did you find the body?"

"I thought that he had checked out already, because I remember him saying that he was going to check out of the room at noon today. So I went up to the room to drop off some fresh towels and straighten up a little bit, because my father or my brothers often don't do a very thorough job. That's when I saw him. I dropped the towels and screamed."

"What did you do then?" I asked.

Her lips pressed into a tight frown again. "I panicked," she said, obviously embarrassed by this admittance. "I started crying, and ran out of the room. I called my father, and he called the police. One of the other guests looked inside and then blocked off the room and then made me some coffee after the police were called."

"Do you have any idea why this wasn't discovered earlier?"

Rom rolled her eyes. "Sloppiness! Sloppiness, pure and simple. My father was too busy watching the damned television all day to worry about reconciling the books! So he didn't realize that Mr. Ironfist hadn't checked out properly until I found the body."

"So if Ironfist had any guests come to his room, they would have come up during the day," I reasoned.

"I suppose that's true," Rom remarked, staring down at her feet. "I didn't see anybody come or go."

"Do you have security tapes?"

Rom nodded. "I don't know if you'll see anything, though, my father is also bad about keeping them running. I sometimes have to start the tapes up when I come on shift." Rom paused for a moment. "But I think that they'll be helpful, when I came in this evening I checked the tapes and he had started running them. I think that they'd been going all day."

"Good," I remarked, standing up, "thank you for everything you've provided us, Miss Bashad. It will become most helpful." I extended my business card out to her. I was quite proud of the design, as I had made it myself, and I was always eager to pass them around when the opportunity presented itself. The card had a stylized eye on the upper left-hand corner, peering through a keyhole, and my name and contact information was listed in glossed lettering in the center. "If you remember anything else . . . anything at all . . . please let me know. Now, the tapes I'm going to have to confiscate as evidence, and I'm going to be returning tomorrow to ask your father and brothers some additional questions. Is that all right with you?"

Rom nodded. "Of course," she said, "please make use of our hospitality." She then gave a little bow at the waist, which I assumed to have been some sort of custom among her people. I smiled and shook her hand in return. I never know how to react when I see a custom I'm not familiar with, but I figure that everybody knows a handshake. Rom smiled and I took my leave of her motel.

I made my way down the central interchange in my car form, the radio playing soft music as I wiped the rain from my windshield. The city of Iacon shone before me, a shining jewel in the otherwise miserable night storm. The motel had been on the fringes of the city, in one of the developing commercial zones. It was dingy and shady, yes, but part of the industrial reform of the city under the New Iacon Zoning Initiative Board would see untold credits pumped into that sector to make it commercially viable. Maybe Rom's motel would start to see some respectable clientele in the next few years . . . if only they would do a better job cleaning.

But the interior of the city was different . . . much different. Apart from the city center and the Spires, there were a lot of bad places in Iacon, even since the Autobot reoccupation. Shantix was the worst . . . and that, of course, was where I was heading now.

I had run into two referrals to the Shantix sector during my initial investigation. One was the business card in the nightstand for the seedy club. The other was the personnel file on Ironfist. I suspected that the two were related.

I reviewed the facts in my head. Fact one: the corpse on the bed was still unidentified. Fact two: Ironfist was false name, or at least a borrowed one. Fact three: the corpse had probable ties to the Shantix Sector and definite ties the criminal underworld, judging by the Shanasha grass in the drawer. I still didn't know, though, if he was a pusher or simply a user. My gut instinct told me the latter.

My internal communicator chimed, and I patched through the message. "What's up, Grotesque?"

"Not too much. I kind of expected to see you back at the precinct by now."

"Just following up on a lead. Whoever killed the guy in the motel room is probably freaked. I think he went down to the Shantix Sector . . . I figure I apply the right sort of pressure, I might get a name at least."

"All right. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Let me know when you've finished up. Sure you don't want some backup? That Sector is pretty rough."

"I'm sure. I'll be fine, don't worry about me. Nightbeat out."

The line went dead; Grotesque knew better than to argue with me when I was chasing down a lead. I had an annoying tendency to be hard-headed, according to him. It used to not be so bad, but ever since I underwent the Headmaster process with Muzzle, things had been different.

The Headmaster process . . . what a terrifically terrible idea that had been. While Muzzle and I were compatible as partners, the Headmaster process unfortunately didn't address such things like homesickness, or love, or old age. In Muzzle's case, all three happened. We had to reverse the process about five years prior. Still, parts of one were intermingled with the other . . . while Muzzle now was slower to anger and more likely to think things through before acting, I was a little bit more reckless.

I wondered what Muzzle was doing now. He was probably sitting in his home back on Earth, enjoying a nightcap while bouncing his son on his knee. I imagined Muzzle reading a children's book, a smile on his face, while he acted out the voices for the Big Bad Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood. He was a good daddy; I could tell that much the last time I saw him at a park on a sun-filled day last year.

I pondered briefly at the flash of anger I felt. Could it be that I resented Muzzle for his happiness? Perhaps . . .

But I pushed the thought from my mind as I turned onto an off-ramp to merge into the next interchange. Such thoughts were in the past, and there was little impact that they had on the future. For now, I had a mystery on my hands, and such things like former friendships or lost opportunities needed to be put to rest.

I bided the time by pulling up the personnel file on Ironfist. I could tell right away that Ironfist—provided that I was looking at the right file—wasn't the corpse on the bed. Whereas the dead body had been a sleek Transformer with white coloration, Ironfist was a short and stocky sort, with a large hood that formed the chest of his body. He looked like he transformed into a military vehicle of some sort, which was certainly in line with his namesake.

I drifted down the file. Also a former soldier in the Autobot Infantry. I wondered briefly at this. The corpse on the bed had been a soldier, too . . . but so had many of the Transformers during the war. Finding two in such a short period of time really wasn't that unusual . . . but still, I wondered at the similarities.

The file on Ironfist included nearly three decades of active duty in the army. Before, he had been a shipport worker before enlisting to try to find his life calling, and he retired out as a senior non-commissioned officer—a platoon sergeant was his last duty position. His awards were impressive. The Autobot Army Merit Medal, the Cybertronian Expeditionary Service Award, the Valorous Combat Medal. Tours of duty included Nova Sierra Five, Gilgamesh Seven, and the Third Battle of Kaon.

But there, at the very end of the service record, was a letter of admonishment and a relief from duty. Civilian deaths during Kaon. Ironfist had called for an airstrike on a suspected enemy bunker in an industrial compound during the Reunification War in 2006. The "bunker" turned out to be a medical supply point for the Intergalactic Red Cross. One worker was killed; three were evacuated with amputated limbs. Stupid mistake. Terrible way to end three decades of service.

The personnel file ended soon after the service record did. Discharged under general conditions. Applied for veteran's benefits once or twice. Took out a loan to pay for an apartment. Debt collections not too long after that. A couple of overnight bookings for drunk and disorderly, one parole violation.

And then, the personnel record stopped. Ironfist seemed to have dropped off the face of the planet, forgotten and uncared for by anybody . . . until a dead man started using his name again.

I sighed and pulled off onto my exit ramp. Things never seemed to get much easier in this line of work . . . but then, I never expected them to, either. I wondered again at Muzzle, enjoying his retirement and walking through a sunlight park, his son taking one of his hands and his pretty little wife the other. There'd be a bright red balloon floating around for the ride, and a breeze would come through, sweeping the woman's hair back like a handful of summer grass. And Muzzle would smile, because he was happy. His work was done.

"I'm tellin' ya, you're not getting in here!"

The short Transformer stood before me, his arms crossed in front of him defiantly and with a sneer plastered across his face. I'm not quite sure what he expected to do, coming up only to my torso plate, but Primus help he who crossed his path.

"Rumble. I'm here on official business. Let's not do this stupid dance again."

The former Decepticon had been granted a visa to work on Cybertron after the war had ended. Once Galvatron had disappeared, the few remaining Decepticons had thrown down their weapons . . . for the most part, anyway. Cyclonus, Soundwave, Ravage and a few others were still clinging to the final vestiges of the Decepticon Empire. Hunted, with warrants out for their arrests and bounties on their heads, they made their way from system to system. Sometimes they'd try to raise a ruckus. More often than not, they were unsuccessful.

But Rumble had been one of the first to take a visa and an offer of amnesty. For somebody who prided himself on his lack of education and bull-headed personality, it seemed that he had, for once in his life, made the intelligent choice. Now he worked at a bouncer down at a club that catered to off-world species.

The Schitzotronic Club. Home of the loudest music, the loosest women, and more illegal substances than you could poke a scraplet with. I'd been down here often.

"And we got clients who are tryin' to enjoy their evening. Unless you got a warrant, you ain't getting' in."

"Very well." I extracted a small holographic projector from my side compartment. A small profile of Ironfist flashed in the bar, and several of the other customers turned around, surprised by the sudden flash of light in the darkened club. "You see this Transformer recently?"

Rumble shook his head. "Don't think so. We see a lot of turn-over here. I can't tell for certain."

I sized him up for a minute, and then I realized that he was telling the truth. Rumble had a tendency to fall back into his "tough-guy" routine whenever he was faced with a situation that angered or frightened him. Such a simple answer meant that he was being honest.

I put the projector away and gave a tight-lipped smile to some of the other patrons. "My apologies, ladies and gentlemen," I said, "it appears that I have the wrong place." I turned around to leave, wondering where I should try next, when I felt a slender arm slide its way about my elbow.

"Running off so soon?"

I found myself staring at a green-haired Terelian female. Humanoids from the Terelius cluster, they had also come to Cybertron looking for work soon after the war ended. Judging by her tight dress and stiletto boots, I sized her up to be one of the bar girls. It was a trade that had developed in some of the bars since the Reoccupation; the girls work for the bar, and their only job is to get men to buy them drinks. The drinks, of course, are ridiculously expensive, and have very little alcohol content—if any at all. They can keep going on all night.

"I'm afraid so," I hastily said, but the Terelian slid one of her manicured nails about my shoulders. "That's too bad . . . because I think I might have known that Transformer you were asking about . . ."
"Really?" I asked, somewhat incredulously.

The Terelian led me towards a booth.

"Really. But maybe a drink would help me remember more . . ."

I got up to leave. "I don't have time for this."

She drew herself close to me. "Do you want help in this or not?" she hissed in my ear. The voice was stern, not the dulcet voice she had used a moment prior. I was caught off-guard, but then realized that she was actually sincere in her knowledge.

"Yes," I whispered back.

"Then play along and help me make my quota for the night, or else you're getting shit."

"Is that all you're doing this for?" I asked.

"I don't make my quota, they take the difference out of my paycheck."

"All right," I responded, settling back into my seat. "We'll do things your way." I slid a twenty-credit note across the table, and the Terelian handed it to a waitress maneuvering her way around with a tray full of drinks.

The night grew long, and my optics were clouded full of smoke and my ears were ringing from the noise of the music by the time the last call was made at the bar. In that time, I had been bled for nearly two hundred credits, and the only thing that I had found out that my source of information was named Levy and that she was trying to pay for nursing school—neither of which I believed, of course. The Energon that I had drunk hurt my stomach, as well, and I regretted ever having come here.

Levy laughed as Rumble turned another chair upside-down and placed it on the table. I couldn't remember why she was laughing. Had I told a joke? I couldn't remember telling a joke. Maybe she was just trying to be polite.

"Its' closing time, you know," Rumble remarked, sending a nasty glance my way, "the girls need their rest. You can come back tomorrow night."

I could barely hear him mumble, "don't know why the fraggin' Autobot is chasin' a Telarian anyway."

I chose to ignore the remark, and instead got up from the table. "Well, I had fun!" I lied, trying to keep things up for the sake of appearances. Levy threw her arms around my neck. "Come back tomorrow, hon," she winked at me, and then leaned in close, "meet me behind the club in twenty minutes. I'll give you what you're looking for then."

I nodded and got up from the booth. Rumble let out a quiet, but audible, "finally!" as he indiscreetly flipped the chairs from the far side of the table upside-down and placed them on the tabletop. I passed him a small handful of credits, and his optics lit up like a drunkard at an open Energon bar.

"Hey . . . thanks!"

I ignored Rumble and took to the streets. The night was dying now; the sun would be coming up in the next two hours. I had wasted far too much time at this club chasing what might have been a loose end. I wondered if I was going to be able to recoup the lost time, or if the trail was dead before I even started down this winding road.

I strolled around the block once or twice, gazing up at the fading constellations. I had been to many of them, back during the days of the war. There, far above my head, was the Protector of Githos. She was depicted on most astronomical charts as a fair-haired maiden, clutching a bow with drawstring, while a wolf or other canine lay sleeping at her feet. I remember spending countless nights on far-away worlds, staring up at the Protector and wondering if the old myths had any merit. Once or twice, I could hear other men in my company praying to her, believing that Primus had long since stopped listening.

Yes. Those cold and sleepless nights, cradling your weapon by your side and hoping that your joints wouldn't freeze before the sun rose, wondering if the enemy was being guided to your position by the light of the fires. You feared those fires, but you didn't dare put them out so instead you spent the entire night shivering with cold and fear, waiting for the inevitable attack that would never come and cursing yourself and the cold and this blasted, miserable war that just never ended.

But I forced myself back to the present. My wandering had taken me nearly a block away from the rendezvous point with Levy, and my twenty minutes were almost up. I quickened my step and found myself rounding the corner just as she came out the back door.

"I'm here," I whispered, casting a suspicious glance toward the far end of the street. "And I more than kept my end of the bargain. Pay up."

Levy's flamboyant demeanor, which she was so quick to use inside the club, had completely withered by this point. She regarded me with a near-callous patience as she lit up a long cigarette. "Yeah," she mumbled, "give me a minute."

I stood patiently, having invested far too much of my evening at this point to risk losing it by angering her. Levy took several deep inhalations, and then expelled the smoke out of her nostrils. Despite the pale light afforded by the streetlamps, I could see that her makeup was now smeared, and her mascara had run—she was a far cry from the pleasant bar girl that I had spoken with just a half-hour before. She looked tired, as if the work had taken all of the humanity out of her. Truthfully, it probably had.

"Right. I know that guy, Ironfist," she said, "he comes in once or twice a month, when the veteran's office releases its monthly stipend. He blows the entire check over the course of a couple of nights, mostly spends in on drinking. He'll do this for about two nights, and then the third he'll come in, drink on tab and start a fight so that he gets thrown out. It's his way out of the bar tab, see, but the management got wise to him and started barring him unless he shows the cash up front. We're not expecting to see him again for another week and a half. But if you're really looking for him, I know where he hangs out. You'll want to try down at the tourist district, down by the Spires. He hangs out there during the day, looking for a handout from the tour groups that come through.

"But there's more to it than that. You want to know more?" Levy crossed her arms and gave me a sidelong glance. I could tell that she expected some sort of compensation for generosity with her information.

"It depends on what kind of information it is."

"The kind that you hear at VIP tables. The kind of info that people die over," she said, turning away from me slightly.

"VIP tables?"

"Show me the money first."

"How about this, Miss Voivod," I said, using her real name. At this, Levy turned around, a look of surprise written across her face.

"Oh, yes, it wasn't hard to pull your employment record. You are, after all, listed in the Central Registry, just like every other citizen, immigrant, or visa worker to this planet. And I also know that you've overstayed said visa. Now, under law I'm obligated to take you in and turn you over for deportation back to your home world . . . but there's other deals that can be struck. If you get my meaning."

Levy sighed and threw her cigarette on the ground. "Shit, I knew that I was getting a bit too greedy with this." She stamped the embers out with a disgusted turn of her heel. "All right, listen to this because I'm only going to say it once. I was working the tables the other night when these two guys came in, both of them Transformers. I didn't get their names, but one was this blue character, looked like he turned into a race car of some sort. He waved a lot of cash around, got the best seat in the house. We hooked him up with a round of drinks, got him a hit of that Shanasha grass that you robots seem to like so much. I didn't hear too much, but I heard the blue one say to the other that they were expecting to link up with their runner to hammer out the payment. Said he was staying at some cheap dive over in the tourists sectors."

"Running? Running what?" I asked.

"I don't know. Heard them say something about a . . . 'nine-five-six?' I think that's what they said."

Nine-five-six? Weapons caliber, perhaps? But it could be just about anything else, for that matter. A cut of Shanasha, unfiltered Energon, anything.

"Describe the second one," I ordered.

"Short guy. Purple. Looked like a jet of some sort. Didn't have a mouth—neither of them did, when I think about it—but the jet one had a claw arm, as well. "

"Any insignia markings?"

Levy rolled her eyes. "Honey, you know how things roll in this part of the city."

She adjusted the leather coat that hung loosely about her shoulders and gave a small shiver. I realized that it must be quite cold, indeed, for a biological being at this time of morning. Still, I wouldn't be holding her up for too much longer.

"And Ironfist? What's he got to do with all of this?"

"Search me," Levy said, "all I know is that, of all the people I can think of, he's probably got the most to gain and least to lose."

I nodded. "All right," I said, "at least I've got something to go on for now." I turned back around, ready to depart that miserable back alley and the company it kept.

"Wait," Levy said, grabbing me by the crook of the arm. "There's one other thing that I heard, something that I think might prove all of this for you. The jet one asked the blue guy, 'and what if he decides to back out?' Then the blue one said, 'then we'll just have to wipe out the competition and find a new broker.' Then he started laughing. I don't know if that helps you out or not, but—"

But Levy's words were cut short. A shot rang out from the darkness. My instincts took over from my days in the Army, and I hit the concrete, my arms covering my head. Two more shots were fired, and I rolled into the relative safety of a dumpster. My arms instinctively flew to the blaster that I kept holstered at my side, and I realized that there wasn't a whole lot I was going to be able to do. Judging by the shots, those were discharged from a rifle. Meaning that the shooter probably had the advantage of distance.

I sat in the dumpster for what felt like hours, listening. After a full minute, I peeked out. If the shooter did see me, he didn't fire. I rolled out of the dumpster, shaking loose refuse from my feet, and then turned my attention to the prone form of Levy.

"All right, stay with me here," I whispered, as I started looking for the entry wound. Levy let out a groan, and then a gurgle. Blood spattered to her lips. Not good. Meant that she had been punctured through an internal organ, probably a lung, and my knowledge of anatomy of biological beings was rudimentary at best.

I stared upward, towards the end of the alleyway. Perhaps my eyes were playing tricks on me, but I thought I could barely see the outline of a silhouette running from the scene, its long rifle tucked under one of its arms. I couldn't follow now. Not when there was a life at stake.

I reached an arm behind Levy, feeling for the exit wound. I grimaced. It was huge—fist-sized. She was unlikely to survive.

The back door of the club opened, and I saw Rumble standing in the doorframe, a look of shock and disbelief written across his face. "Don't just stand there! Call an ambulance!"

Rumble turned and ran back inside, the door slamming shut behind him. Levy lay in my arms, and her eyes fluttered open. "Stay with me," I said, "that miserable little punk that you call a bouncer is calling for help."

Levy smiled. "Looks like . . . visa was cancelled . . . anyway . . ." she whispered.

"Don't talk like that," I responded. But any further words weren't needed. Levy closed her eyes and drifted into a quiet death.

"Long night, then," Grotesque stated simply, handing me a warmed cup of unfiltered Energon.

I took a long sip as I stared at the bloody sheet covering the body of Levy in that narrow alley, the sun now rising at my back. Such wonderful stuff, Energon. Prepared the right way, it will wake you up, or put you to sleep, make you drunk, make you forget. Quite the miracle substance, it is.

"That's something of an understatement," came my curt reply.

"You get any further leads?"

"Not too much. Mostly hearsay. It will come in handy if I can get some more names besides Ironfist . . . who, by the way, I still haven't found yet. On a hunch, I decided to check out the club's business card that I found in our John Doe's motel room."

"Any luck?" Grotesque asked.

I stared hard at the corpse being loaded into the ambulance. "No."

Grotesque only shook his head. "It's a hard life, it is. Fight in this war for so blasted long, and to be finally given peace—real peace!—and to find that it never really existed at all. Not in the way we wanted it to, anyway."

I put a hand on his shoulder. "Grotesque," I said, "such truer words I've never heard."

Grotesque only shook his head. "You need to get some rest. There isn't a whole lot more that you're going to be able to do from here."

"I think that I'm just getting started. If somebody was willing to kill a bar girl to shut her up, then I'm betting that they're only going to be more than happy to do the same to Ironfist."

"Do you really think he knows what's going on, or do you think he's just a fallguy for the entire operation, whatever it may be?"

"I'm fixing to find out. I'll check in with you once I get back downtown. Go ahead and get in touch with her family," I said, nodding towards the ambulance now making its way silently through the city streets, "I'm sure that they're going to want to know what happened. Primus, less than twelve hours and I've got two dead bodies on my hands. I don't know what kind of scraplet nest I've stirred up, but it is [i]angry.[/i]"

A short drive across the Iacon interchange brought me back to the Towers. The sun gradually made its climb up the morning sky, and I tried to fight of the increasing tiredness. Grotesque was right. I did need to get some rest.

I pulled into a small cul-de-sac at the base of the towers, where the city transit systems would deposit tourists from the plush motels and the intergalactic space port. A group of human children, barely reaching up to my knee, made their way past in a single-file line. It had been about twenty years since the Reoccupation of Cybertron, but I never felt like I would get used to seeing humans on our planet. But still, there they were, serving as ambassadors or taking jobs as day laborers, being able to fit into places most Transformers couldn't.

I transformed and stepped into the larger walkway. A smaller, covered one lay to my right, designed for beings that were of a non-standard galactic scale; it was there to protect them from the irresponsible gait of larger beings. I had never had a problem with humans getting underfoot, but there had been accidents in the past. I grimaced slightly when I recalled the Cerclian ambassadorial entourage incident. The accident site was closed for three weeks and there was nearly a war. The press had described it as tragic, but Muzzle, who was one of the first responders, had compared it to "a Bosch landscape sculpted in Play-Doh and jelly donuts."

Muzzle always had a more caustic sense of humor than I.

Still, I pushed the memory out of my mind as I made my way through the covered pavilion that served as the information and ticket counter. Several of the children pointed in my direction; I guessed that I was one of the first Transformers that they had seen before. The Autobot presence on Earth had dwindled in the past twenty years from a full garrison to little more than an embassy.

I flashed my badge at the android working the ticket counter, and he waved me through with one of his spindly arms. Not that it really mattered; they only charged admission to go inside the Spires. The grounds outside, of course, were free for all beings to loiter about. And that was precisely where I was heading.

A jet of water spouted forth from the fountain in front of me, and was replaced a moment later by a stream of diluted Energon. The fountains here had been installed relatively recently, as part of a design choice that had been imported from Earth. Traditionally, the Spires had no fountains. But the Autobot architects had learned a lot about design during their furlough on Earth, and one of the things they learned is that tourists liked fountains. As soon as Reoccupation happened, so did fountains, and so did tourists chunking coins into it.

The fountains were situated around a large statue that stood in the center of the pond; this statue depicted the Autobot victory at Iacon. A group of Autobots, running forward bravely into battle, the leader with his hands pointed towards the heavens and another proudly bearing the New United Cybertron flag.

There were several beings huddled against the sides of the fountain, and several more that I guessed to be biological sleeping on the heating vents and huddled beneath dirty blankets not too far distant. Several of the Transformers at the sides of the fountains glared at me. Back during the days of the war, we called them "Empties." Nowadays, the politically correct figures were in power, and we called them or "Temporary Residence Deprived Individuals." Fancy words for the same thing.

There. I recognized the boxy one to my left, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees—and awkward position for him, due to his large chest compartment. A pitiful, failed being sitting dejectedly beneath the symbol of victory. Ironfist.

"You there," I said, pointing at him, "name."

"Don't gotta name."

"Bullshit. Out with it."

"What's it to you?" he snarled.

I flashed my badge at him. "Everything," I responded, "so make with the talking."

But Ironfist only smirked at me. "You think that showing me that badge of yours is going to do you any good? I've seen and beaten better men than you, back when you were just a young pup. What makes you think that you'll be any luckier than the others?"

I tried not to let the frustration show in my face. I had, after all, anticipated Ironfist being unwilling to talk. Hell, if I were in his shoes, I can't say that my reaction would be too much different. But I knew where Ironfist had been, what kind of past that he was coming from . . . and I was also willing to bet that his old code of honor hadn't yet broken.

"Because the others didn't have two dead bodies hanging over their heads."

"Make it three and then we'll talk."

A flash of anger traveled along my spine. He was, of course, referring to those three civilian deaths that he had inadvertently caused during the Battle of Kaon. Before I could stop myself, I found myself gripping him by the shoulders and holding him pinned against the back of the fountain.

"Slag you!" I snarled, the words coming out of their own accord, "your mistakes are your own—not anybody else's. You think you're the only one that had it rough during the war? You drunk, selfish—"

I realized that I had pulled my arm back into a fist. Something about Ironfist's words had struck a nerve deep down, had caused me to take it personally. I stared at the fist, risen in anger, and then back towards the vagrant that I had pinned against the leg of the statue. He looked at me, his eyes full of apathy. He [i]wanted[/i] this. I dropped my fist, allowing Ironfist to slump into a pile at my feet.

"If that doesn't mean anything to you," I said, "then maybe you're exactly where you need to be."

Ironfist sat on his rear, his knees curled up against his chest. I stared hard at him for a long minute, and then turned to leave. I suddenly didn't want his help. I'd find another lead without him.

"Wait."

I turned around to see Ironfist making his way shakily to his feet. "All right, maybe I do know something," he said, "you buy me a square meal and we'll talk."

I watched Ironfist as he ate. Energon by itself can fuel a Transformer, but to feel properly satisfied one needs to diversify their diet. Ironfist attacked a bio-fish fillet with a tenacity that I hadn't seen since . . . well . . .

Not since the war.

"You going to eat that?" Ironfist asked, motioning towards a set of mechanical chips. I shook my head and pushed them in his general direction. No sooner had the basket touched the edge of his plate than had he crammed a handful of them into his mouth.

"Ah yeah, that's hitting the spot," he mumbled, obviously content with the meal that I had provided. I added up the meal tab silently in my head. It was mostly cheap food, stuff that could be bought for a handful of credits . . . but Ironfist was eating a lot of it. Still, I figured that I could take a few expenses. This was minor compared to the bar tab from the night before.

After nearly another ten minutes, Ironfist pushed the plate away from him and made a contented sigh. "You ready to answer questions now?" I asked.

"They got dessert in this place?" Ironfist asked, glancing about as he tried to visually track down a waiter.

"No."

"Shame," Ironfist mumbled, returning his gaze to his plate as he looked for errant crumbs.

I took out a digital notepad and prepared my pen. "All right, let's get down to the point. State your name, occupation and current residence, please."

"Now you're being mean."

"It's for the record," I responded, "official use, you know."

"All right," Ironfist sighed, obviously embarrassed, "my name is Ironfist, currently unemployed and without a residence. I'm a former soldier in the Autobot Infantry; I left the service with over three decades of active duty. Now I shake down college kids and tourists."

"And where were you the day before yesterday?"

"Here, I think. Hard to remember, I think that was the day that I managed to get my hands on some unfiltered stuff. Don't remember a whole lot aside from nearly getting hit by a train when I stumbled onto the tracks."

"So you didn't rent a motel room?" I asked.

Ironfist just laughed. "Of course not, if I had enough money for that, you think that I'd be staying out here in the cold?"

"Actually, I think that it would have gone to unfiltered Energon before you could even get to the motel."

Ironfist cast a sidelong glance at me. "I don't need your judgment, boy."

I didn't apologize and instead continued on with the questions. "So you were here the day before yesterday, and you have been here for some time. The reason I'm asking you this question is because somebody took a motel room out in your name—in your Central Residency profile, to be exact—two days ago. Whoever rented the room is dead now, and I have no name to put to a body."

Ironfist's gaze disappeared into the distance. "Ah," he whispered, "that."

I let the silence go on for a few minutes, allowed him to gather his thoughts. Ironfist had fixed his gaze upon a row of television sets at the far end of the café, but it was obvious that he wasn't seeing what was on the screens. I noted briefly that there was a soccer game being broadcast from Mexico City on one screen, a crime drama on another, and a commercial for the Benedis Corporation and the final one; but if Ironfist was paying attention to these, he made no indication of it.

"Okay, it's like this. You remember when the Central Registry was incorporated, right? I had managed to screw things up pretty good not too long after that. I lost my home, the debt collectors were coming after me. I didn't know what to do. I was out on the street, staying in a homeless shelter when this light-blue Transformer approached me. Still wearing the Autobot insignia and everything, fresh from the end of the war. He tells me that he can get things set right for me. All I have to do is sell him my name from the Central Registry. I ask him how he intends to do that, he tells me that he has ways of doing it and to not worry about it. Says that I won't have to worry about anything, he'll get my name set right if I just let him use it for a while. And on top of that, he'll drop me off payment every month.

"Well . . . I didn't have anything to lose. And that's one hell of an offer. One hell of an offer indeed, to have all your debt just wiped out? To get a second chance at everything? Get my discharge turned into an honorable one? I jumped at it."

I scratched my chin, wondering about this. The story seemed unbelievable . . . to have done that, the person would have to have contacts in the government. But who would set up such a conspiracy? For what means?

"And how much is it?" I asked.

"A couple hundred galactic credits. Enough to keep me alive. In fact, I'm due to get another payment tomorrow afternoon."

"Where?" I asked.

Ironfist gave a jerk of his head. "There's a loose brick over at back of the Grand Spires Hotel. The runner is a big, muscled humanoid—has a great big mustache. He slides it behind the brick once a month at about one in the afternoon, I come by and get it about fifteen minutes later. I'm not supposed to know what he looks like, but I watched him once about a year ago from the shadows of the loading dock. I didn't mean to see him but . . . you know . . . I was in a hurry to get my money."

I crossed my fingers in front of me and sighed. "If what you're telling me is true," I said, "then you've just admitted to several felony convictions."

Ironfist closed his eyes and nodded. "I know," he said, this time giving a small sigh of his own, "but there's just a time when enough is enough, you know? You've pretty much got me dead to rights. When this offer was made to me, I hoped that they'd do what they needed to, and then let me get on with my life. But months turned into years, and nothing changed. I don't know if they used my name for a front before now, I don't think they have . . . otherwise you would have come looking for me earlier. They sat on my name for years, let me starve out on the streets, and now they've finished destroying it. Anything I do at this point is like throwing a rock in a gravel pit.

"Still . . ." Ironfist said, "its' just not fair for one person to get shit on quite this much."

I nodded in assent. "Yeah," I replied, "I know."

I made my way from the café as the sun was getting high in the mid-afternoon sky. I had asked Ironfist several other questions and then let him go. I suspected that I'd be arresting him soon enough, but taking him off the streets at this point might cause the wrong heads to turn . . . and I needed to see who was going to be making that money drop tomorrow. I didn't want to scare whoever was behind this plot—at least not yet.

My internal communicator chimed, and I found Grotesque on the other end of the line. "Got any leads yet?" he asked, "things are getting a little antsy up here . . . you know how Perceptor can get when his reports aren't in exactly on time."

"Tell Perceptor to stick it on his head and wear it like a hat," I remarked sourly. "I'm really not in the mood for his officiousness today."

Grotesque hid a chortle. "Anything else you want me to tell him other than that you're sorry that you're late today and that you will do much better in the future, O Grand and Exalted King of the Sciences?"

"Throw in some more groveling and an offer to polish his driveshaft."

"You know Perceptor. His head would probably implode," Grotesque pointed out.

"And Cybertron would celebrate. Listen, I'll be back to the office soon. I've pretty much reached a dead end here, at least until tomorrow afternoon. I'll see you in a bit." I cut out the communicator, and then started walking down the street. It was a far cry from the way the world used to be, I thought. Back during the days of the war, there was nothing to stop you from simply transforming and taking off. Now we had traffic regulations. Foot traffic was the only permissible traffic here. I'd have to walk to the roadway, then transform, then merge, then find the interchange, and I'd be expected to remain idle if there was a traffic jam . . . things were just a little bit [i]too[/i] civil sometimes. Such was the price of peace.

I wondered briefly if that meant that I missed the war. I suppose I did, in a funny sort of way. The war, after all, had defined us. Without it, many of us were like Ironfist. There, but not. Our worth had gone away with our last bullet.

I stepped into the roadway and assumed my car mode. Several humanoids shuffled for the shelter of the Grand Spires Hotel as the clouds opened up and the rain began to fall.

The next day, I found myself hunched in the shadows of the loading dock of the Grand Spires Hotel as I waited for Ironfist's mysterious benefactor to arrive. A couple of older Autobots shuffled about, oblivious to my presence, as they took perishable goods off of a refrigerated anti-gravity sled. They would be preparing the evening buffet in the hotel now, I guessed. All you could eat, compliments of the hotel . . . provided you had paid for a ridiculously expensive room that provided a scenic view of nothing. One of the workers stopped in mid-step and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. I noticed that the chrome of his midsection was stained, probably with old food. The old veteran had fought and risked death for ketchup stains. Such was the price of freedom.

I let out a disgruntled groan as I lit a methane cylinder. Maybe I was getting a little too cynical for this line of work. After all, the old Autobots working the dock seemed a lot happier than I was. I intentionally pushed the thought from my mind. No sense in getting too self-absorbed when I was supposed to be watching this loose brick about fifteen meters away. I had felt it when I arrived and had determined that there was enough room behind it to hide an envelope.

I pulled back into the shadows and quickly stamped out my cigarette as I saw a figure approach. Just as Ironfist had described, it was a large humanoid male, quite muscular; he wore a large trench coat and a floppy fedora, but I could see a large mustache framed underneath his bulbous nose.

My eyebrows furled. There wasn't something quite right with this . . . humanoids on Cybertron were still a relatively recent introduction. But yet I had seen this humanoid before . . .

Stranglehold.

What, in the name of the Pit, was the old Decepticon Pretender doing delivering a packet full of credits behind a hotel? And, come to think of it, why did he still have the Pretender shell at all? Those had been confiscated at the end of the war and returned to centralized armories.

But there was no denying it. It was, indeed, Stranglehold. I remembered studying his personnel file during the final days of the war, when I had been transferred from the infantry to Autobot Central Intelligence.

I stepped out from the shadows, my blaster drawn. "Drop it," I ordered.

Stranglehold turned to look at me, surprise written across his features. The envelope fell from his grasp as he turned towards me. I had a sudden feeling that I should have called in for more support.

The trench coat flew open, and he was pulling a rifle from the folds of the garment. I opened fire with my own blaster, hoping to hit his hand and cause him to drop the weapon; but I knew the likelihood of that was slim to none. The Pretender shell gave him additional protection from small arms fire, and I knew that my world was about to become significantly more painful.

His rifle shot rang through the afternoon air, narrowly avoiding me. I could actually [i[feel[/i] the air next to my head ionize. I needed to move, to keep him from narrowing his field of fire. I jumped behind one of the anti-gravity sleds, and a bag of freeze-dried Darmokian shrimp about a foot above my head turned into freeze-dried powder.

I spun out from my hiding spot, trading off another shot with Stranglehold. I got lucky; the bolt hit him in the chest, and I could hear him grunt audibly. I dropped to one knee to try to push the advantage, letting off another volley.

One of the shots was reflected off of his maroon helmet, and I paused briefly to let the barrel cool down. Stranglehold stumbled, obviously knocked for a loop with the shot I had bounced off of his thick skull. The barrel cooled sufficiently, I took the opportunity to remove the charge pack and prepared to slap a new one into place.

Stranglehold's eyes fixed to my own, and I realized that they were full of hate. Not good.

The Pretender shell split, and Stranglehold's true form charged forth. The rhinoceros, though small, had the advantage of brute strength and speed. I fumbled with the full charge pack, and cursed as I dropped it.

Stranglehold slammed into me, knocking me from my feet. But instead of stopping, he continued to charge. His horn imbedded in my torso, I gave a glance behind me and noticed the wall of the hotel looming in my vision.

This was going to hurt. A [i]lot.[/i]

I hit the wall and kept going. Strangelhold and I continued our one-sided dance right through the layer of concrete and brick, and right through into the Grand Spire's kitchen. Even that wasn't enough for Stranglehold, though. No, he saw fit to also punch me through a row of freezers, a deep fryer, and the far wall of the kitchen.

With a rain of mortar and plaster, we stumbled into the main dining hall. With a snort, Stranglehold finally halted his charge, and then lowered his head. His horn had neatly bisected my armor plating, and he shook his head to try to tear his horn loose. I stood up and helped him. I didn't like having a horn in my side.

"Thanks," he said.

I kicked him in the chin.

Stranglehold let out a groan, and slumped to his stomach. I pulled my blaster forward, getting ready to shoot him; but then I realized that the dining hall was occupied. Stranglehold had managed to implant us in the middle of a wedding reception.

The Terelian groom stood at the far end of the hall, his eyes dancing with anger. His new bride had looped one of her gloved wrists through the crook of his arm and quietly sobbed, her mascara streaming down her cheeks.

I turned around to look behind me. The wedding cake . . . well, it had exploded. I estimated the largest portion to be about five inches in diameter as it slid down the wall. The mother of the bride lay on her back, her eyes wide with shock, as a viscous red fluid ran down her ears and the sides of her mouth. I thought she was bleeding to death. I found out later when I received the dry cleaning bill that it was strawberry filling. After paying the bill, I wish that she [i]had[/i] bled to death.

"Uh . . . sorry . . ." I managed.

Stranglehold, however, was not. He used the moment to regain his footing and transform to his robot form. Although still a head shorter than I, he still had the advantage of strength . . . and he pushed it.

We tumbled into another table, sending a punch bowl flying into the air. Several of the guests ducked out of the way, trying to get out of the patch of flying condiments and robots. The table collapsed beneath me, and I fell to the floor with Stranglehold atop me.

"Why are you following me?" he demanded.

I couldn't have answered had I tried. Stranglehold's fingers were clenched about my throat, cutting off any words that I could have offered of explanation. My head flopped to my left, and I realized with a sense of urgency that Stranglehold's Pretender shell was now stomping its way through the hole in the wall . . . and it was carrying its wrecking ball. My day was about to become very bad indeed.

I noticed one of the Terelians at the wedding take a step towards Stranglehold's shell. "Now, sir, just hold on for a moment," he started. But any further protests were ended when the shell gripped him by the lapel and chunked him through the nearest window.

The shell hoisted the wrecking ball over its head and began to spin it in a slow circle. I closed my eyes, wondering how badly this was going to hurt.

But then I heard doors flying open, and a familiar voice yelling, "drop it and put your hands over your head. We've got you surrounded!"

I chanced opening my eyes again. Grotesque stood in the main entrance, his double-barreled blaster drawn . . . and he was flanked with comrades. I recognized Red Alert, Hot Spot and Streetwise, in addition to numerous other Transformers who worked down at the precinct.

Stranglehold, despite being headstrong and stubborn, was not stupid. "Ah, slag," he remarked, taking his hands off of my throat and placing them neatly behind his head. I used the opportunity to regain my footing.

"Grotesque . . . I thought I told you that I wouldn't need the back-up . . ." I started.

"Well, then it's a good thing that I didn't believe you," he responded, taking me by the crook of the arm and leading me to a wooden chair that sat nearby, "now let's get you patched up, you're getting mech fluid all over the carpet."

"What the hell is that noise?" I asked, referring to a piercing wail that filled the entire hall. Grotesque grabbed a medical kit from the emergency droid who had been brought along with the other Autobots.

"That's the bride."

"You're not going to tell this to Perceptor, are you?"

"Only everything," Grotesque smiled as he patched up my side.

Stranglehold sat in a confinement cell, seated across from Grotesque as he drilled the Pretender for questions. I stood behind the double-sided glass, smoking a methane cylinder as I listened to the interrogation.

"Where did you get your old Pretender shell from?" Grotesque asked.

"I'm not saying anything until I get my lawyer."

"Why were you at the hotel?"

"I'm not saying anything until I get my lawyer."

"Are you the one who offered to buy out Ironfist's name?"

"You slaggin' deaf? Lawyer, pencil neck. Then answers. Maybe."

Grotesque shook his head and got up. "Listen, Stranglehold, I want to help you out here. I really do. But I don't know how much longer your attorney is going to be . . . if you don't talk to us, we don't know where to start with this."

"Awww, that's too bad. Cry me a river."

Grotesque leaned across the table. "Don't you care about this at all? Two people are dead now because of this entire situation. More people may get hurt."

Stranglehold spat in Grotesque's face. "You really suck at this 'good cop' routine. I'm a fraggin' former Decepticon, remember? You remember what I did on Klo?"

Grotesque rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "As a matter of fact, I do remember Klo. And I also remember that charges were never drawn up for that little incident—all in the interests of re-integrating Decepticons into Cybertronian society, you see. A lot of things were 'overlooked.' But now that you remind me—"

"Now just wait a slaggin' minute!" Stranglehold screamed, "you can't do this!"

"Can't do what?" Grotesque asked, innocently. "Ignore genocide?"

"All right," Stranglehold whimpered, his head hanging low, "I waive my right to have my attorney present. I would drop off an envelope full of interstellar credits once a month behind that brick behind the hotel. Who it was supposed to go to, I don't know."

"And who gave you the envelope?" Grotesque asked.

"Name is Snare. He's a former Decepticon, used to run with me once in a while back during the war. I don't know what kind of interest Snare had in the hotel or the money, he would just pay me a couple hundred credits a month to drop it off."

"And the Pretender shell? Where'd that come in?"

"Also Snare. Don't know where he got it. I turned the shell back in after I moved back to Cybertron, but Snare said that I had to use it to make the drop-offs. So the rest of the time, I keep in a closet at my apartment.

"Good," Grotesque said, walking away from Stranglehold. Exiting the room, he came to stand beside me.

I took a sip of Energon as I stared out at Stranglehold. "What do you think, Grotesque? You think that he's telling the truth?"

Grotesque nodded. "I don't see any reason for him to lie. But that just puts us in the same place again. We're no closer to finding out who the poor sap in the motel room was, or who is behind this thing, or who is clearing and buying names from the Central Registry—about the only thing that we do know is that they've got to be somebody important to have done all that, and to have gotten a Pretender shell out of the armory."

I turned to access a computer bank. "I'm pulling up the personnel file on this 'Snare' now," I said. A picture of a light purple Decepticon filled the screen. "Fought in the war, of course. About ten years of active service. After graduating from the Decepticon Imperial Academy, he was accepted into the elite 'Predator' force—a group mainly comprised of jet Transformers, although the ground commander, Stalker, was also a part of that force. They specialized in high-altitude infiltrations and sabotage. He got out of the Decepticon Air Force after the war ended on Cybertron, applied for amnesty and was granted it in 2007. And that, of course, is where his personnel file ends."

"So nothing on record since then?"

I shook my head. "Thirteen years of being a being a blank slate. Somebody got to his record, too. I have to wonder, though. Ironfist was used as a false name, and doesn't have any further contact with whoever is behind this. All Stranglehold did was drop off the money for Ironfist—Stranglehold was being used intentionally to confuse investigation efforts in the event he was this scheme was compromised. And Snare . . . what is Snare covering? Who's covering Snare? How much further down the rabbit hole do we have to go before we find out who's really behind this thing? There's no record on Snare, nothing to point us in the right direction. Where do we go from here?"

Grotesque shook his head. "I wish I knew. About the only thing I can think of doing is having somebody search Stranglehold's apartment, seeing if there's some sort of contact information for Snare on hand. They knew each other during the war, maybe we'll get lucky."

I nodded. "Yeah. That's where we'll have to start. And the sooner, the better. I don't want some other mysterious fellow showing up and trying to throw us off the trail again."

Stranglehold's apartment turned out to be a small and cramped affair, being only barely to hold the former Decepticon and his Pretender shell. There was a small living area, with a chair pulled in front of a holographic television set; a small kitchen area; and then the lavatory and sleeping area, offset from the rest of the apartment by a small divider. With the exception of the lavatory, there were in internal doors. If the windows were opened, everybody and their brother would be able to see in and see what Stranglehold was doing. Such a small apartment probably cost an arm and a leg in the city limits. I knew that mine was hard to afford, even with a steady paycheck down at the precinct and my veteran's benefits.

Still, the closet was barely big enough to hide the Pretender shell. A back door at in the sleeping area led to a small patio area, where Stranglehold kept a chair a small table. I searched through the exterior storage closet, and, not finding anything, returned my attention back inside.

There was a small computer desk located at the mid-point between the living area and the sleeping area, where a computer had been set up. I marked the computer with an evidence tag, noting that we would have to take the computer back down to the precinct so that we could review the files on it.

I made my way to the refrigeration unit. There were several notes pasted to the side, held up by all matters of magnets. I noted, with a sense of amusement, that Stranglehold had He-Man magnets. Fitting.

One note in particular caught my attention. It was a simple contact number, scrawled out carelessly, and without a name listed. I remove it from the side of the cabinet and dropped it into my evidence bag. Maybe it was just a favorite delivery place . . . or maybe it was something a little more sinister.

A sudden noise behind me caused me to spin, drawing my blaster. The holographic projector at the far end of the apartment had clicked on, and a television commercial began to play in mid-airing. I holstered my blaster; the projector must have been operating off a timer.

"Benedis. We work for [i]you[/i]!" announced the smiling Transformer on the commercial, pointing at the screen while a cast of workers from innumerous worlds waved as the camera faded out.

I grabbed the remote and turned off the holographic projector. I was feeling a little too antsy. I supposed that I had every reason to, given the beating that I had taken at Stranglehold's hands just a few hours prior.

Still, it was just the television. I noted with a sense of relief that the digital recorder cut on a moment later. Stranglehold was just taping a program. I picked up a discarded projector guide from where it lay overturned on the floor and scanned it briefly.

"Real-Life Magic?" I pondered, "fifteen beauties from the ring worlds are given the makeovers of their dreams! Who will be voted out of the apartment this week?" I read, with a sense of bewilderment.

I tossed the magazine over my shoulder, letting it fall onto the kitchen table. I then pulled out my communicator, getting ready to send my report into the precinct, when I heard somebody shuffling behind me.

I turned and found a person quickly shuffling away from the window. He had been watching me, apparently. And in my book, that spelled reasonable doubt.

Chasing the fleeing figure onto the exterior walkway, I drew my blaster and steadied my aim. "Stop right there!" I yelled. I noticed, with a sense of accomplishment, that it was a purple Transformer, who indeed looked like he turned into a jet of some sort. I figured that this was none other than Snare, no doubt coming by to check on Stranglehold's progress . . . but instead of finding Stranglehold, he found a detective ransacking the place. I marveled at my sudden turn of fortune.

Snare turned a corner on the mezzanine, trying to get the advantage of distance. There wasn't quite enough room for him to transform; the mezzanine opened into an interior courtyard that was open to the sky, but if he jumped the railing and tried to take to the air he would just crash into the far side of the complex. I realized that he was trying to get to one of the exterior hallways, one that would open to the outside railing and allow him an exit. I figured that I could open fire—but that ran the risk of missing him and punching a hole right through the door or window of a bystander.

Snare turned towards the exterior hallway, jogging past a janitorial closet. I opened fire.

The blast caught him neatly between the shoulder blades, and he let out a scream of pain and toppled forward. Dark smoke billowed from his back, and I closed the distance between us quickly.

"Hands behind your back," I ordered, bring in knee into the back of his torso, "you're under arrest under the charges of conspiracy and intent to defraud. You have the right the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a criminal trial. You have the right to an attorney . . ."

"You got lucky," Grotesque said, setting his cup of Energon down on the desk. We were back in the room behind the mirror; Snare sat at the table inside, having not resisted arrest any further since I read him his rights.

"How so? I asked.

"What if that hadn't of been Snare? What if that had been some bystander that you shot and arrested? Perceptor would have had your badge for sure."

I flashed a grin at my partner. "Well, then I guess we're all lucky that it turned out to be the right guy after all."

"Listen, Nightbeat," Grotesque said, taking a long sip from his cup, "you've got to be more careful. You got lucky this time, but what would have happened if you were wrong? I don't like the way this investigation is turning, frankly. Two dead bodies, then Stranglehold tried to put the ice on you—and I don't doubt Snare would have, too, if you hadn't have taken him by surprise. Maybe it would be best if you laid low for a while—"

But I cut him off there. "Primus, Grotesque, I can't believe that you'd even [i]suggest[/i] such a thing. Break things off now? Are you serious? I think that Snare's going to be the break in this investigation, I really do."

Grotesque's lips pressed into a fine line as he crossed his arms. He cast a long look at Snare, sitting dejectedly at the table in the interrogation room. "We know he used to run with the 'Cons," he said, "and did a pretty good job of it, too, from what I hear. I don't think that he's going to be an easy one to break."

I smiled. "Well, then I'm just lucky that you happen to be trained for this sort of thing, aren't I?"

Grotesque set his cup down and reached for the doorknob. "Don't press your luck. I don't know how much longer it can possibly hold out."

I sat down at the long desk as I watched Grotesque enter the interrogation room and pull a chair across from Snare. Grotesque began to ask the routine questions; name, serial number, that sort of thing. I tried to concentrate on the questions, but then found my concentration fading despite my best intentions.

I wondered what lay at the end of this long trail. It had already produced so much death . . . so much pain. I noticed, with a sense of unease, that everybody involved so far were veterans of the war. Ironfist, using his own name just to make ends meet; Stranglehold, doing much the same; and Snare, operating for some mysterious benefactor. And while it wasn't rare for there to be veterans involved with most matters on Cybertron, there had also been many civilians during the War—the Autobot camps, at least most of them, didn't practice mandatory conscription.

It meant that whoever was being this was enlisting the aid of veterans exclusively—some, for the purpose of exploiting them, like Ironfist. But the more explicit purpose was for their experience with combat.

I wondered briefly what Muzzle was doing back on Earth. He hadn't faced the dangers of the past few days, of course. He was enjoying his retirement, oblivious to what had been going on here on Cybertron. That's what Muzzle did, I knew; he was a stay-at-home dad. He woke up early in the mornings and carefully packed peanut butter sandwiches into plastic Snoopy lunch pails and held his little boy's hand while he got on the big yellow school bus. Then he went back inside and drank his coffee and read the funny pages while he waited for the dry cleaner's to open so that he could drop off his wife's skirt to get hemmed. And that was his day, at least until that big yellow school bus crested the hill and dropped his life back off.

I was bitter. There was no denying I was bitter about it. You don't have a man serve [i]as your head[/i] for fifteen years and not feel a little bit betrayed when he finds something better.

Still . . . I can't say that I would have done anything different if the roles were reversed . . .

I was drawn out of my reprieve when Grotesque entered the room. He heaved a sigh and then pulled up a chair next to me. "I can't get anything out of him."

"What do you mean, 'you can't get anything out of him?'"

"He says he doesn't want to talk to [i]me.[/i] Says that he wants to talk to [i]you.[/i]"

"Me?" I asked, "why the pit does he want to talk to me for? Usually perps can't wait to stop talking to me!"

Grotesque gave a slight shake of his head. "Yeah, I know. Caught me by surprise, too. But Snare keeps insisting that he'll talk, he just wants to talk to the guy who brought him in. Some ridiculous thing about honor, I guess. I could never figure out the Decepticons when it came to things like this. You figure with a name like "Decepticon" that honor would be low on their list of priorities . . . but there you go."

I got up from the table and entered the interrogation room. Snare's gaze drifted upward to match my own as I rounded the table. I grabbed one of the metal chairs and pulled close to him. "All right," I said, "talk."

Snare nodded. "OK," he said, "it's only a matter of time before you figured it out, anyway. The dead guy? Name is Hurricane. Former Autobot, served as a Turbomaster during the war."

"Did you kill Hurricane?" I asked.

Snare shook his head. "No," he responded, "but I know the man who did."

"Who?" I asked.

"It's not just a 'who,' detective. You're missing the bigger picture here. Maybe you should start with the 'why' and the 'how.'"

I drew the chair close and leaned across the table. "All right, then," I said, "why?"

Snare leaned back, looking quite content with himself. "You know doubt have noticed that none of the people involved with this have had up-to-date or even existent profiles in the Central Registry," Snare elaborated, "now, who would have that kind of capability, and why would they doing it?"

"That'd be the Cybertron government," I said, "but there's no need for them to . . ."

Snare raised an eyebrow. "You're sure it's the government?" he asked, "who else might have access to the Registry?"

I scratched my chin. "Well, there was some contract work that was done on the . . ."

"Bingo."

"Wait, what? What do you mean, 'bingo?' I haven't gotten any further yet!" I exclaimed, standing from my chair.

Snare gave a smirk. "Just think about it a little while. I'm sure that you'll stumble across it. But in the meantime," Snare said, stifling a pretend yawn, "I'm pretty tired. And you know, my lawyer hasn't arrived yet, so I don't think I'm up to answering any more questions until he gets here."

I slammed my fist into the table. "Damn it, Snare, I haven't even started yet—"

"And this isn't your job, Autobot. Both you and I know that. See you in the courtroom."

Grotesque and I sat at a bar that night, both of us peering over upturned shot glasses. "Contract work," I whispered, "what could he have meant by that?"

Both Grotesque and I had been racking our brains all afternoon and then all evening after that. A late night turned into a business dinner; and then the business dinner had turned into a social drink; and a social drink had turned into drowning our sorrows.

We'd been over nearly all the possibilities in our heads. Government contractors? No, those had been carefully regulated, and those agencies had far too much to lose by breaking laws. Maybe individual employees? That seemed a lot more possible. We had pulled a list of personnel who had access to the Central Registry since its inception.

The first few had been easy. Optimus Prime had been off-planet for the past ten years, so it couldn't have been him. And Ultra Magnus? Definitely not. Perceptor? A bit more likely, but not even he was that big an ass.

But those three had been easy. And we had thousands of names.

"We'll try a lie-detector test tomorrow," Grotesque said with a hiccup. "I'll go down the list, one by one, and I'll say, 'did so-and-so do it? And he'll have to say yes or no. And when I get to 'yes,' by Primus, that's when we'll get him! Nobody will stop us then," he finished, his voice now at a whisper.

I poked a shot glass with my finger. "That would take hours."

"We have all the time we need!" Grotesque shouted, throwing a hand limply into the air.

"Let's hope somebody else doesn't turn up dead before then."

We had managed to pull an old service record on Hurricane, one that hadn't been migrated into the Central Registry. Everything checked out. He was indeed the body on the bed. But finding who killed him . . . that was going to be just a little bit trickier.

"Are you guys going to order anything else?" the waitress asked, coming around our table again. Grotesque shakily handed his glass to her. "Another one of these," he burped. He shot me a glance, a nonverbal cue to follow his lead. I shook my head. "No thanks," I grumbled, "I think that I've had enough for the time being."

Grotesque gleefully accepted another glass of defiltered Energon cut with Warkadian rum. "Suit yourself," he finished, downing the entire drink in a single gulp.

Grotesque sank his head into the table after a moment of silence. "I jusht can't believe that we're shtuck now. It sheems like we had gotten sho closhe . . ."

"Yeah," I said, "tell me about it. It's frustrating, that much is sure."

Grotesque said nothing further. I turned away from him, instead turning my attention to one of the televisions at the far end of the bar. A smiling announcer gleefully extolled the benefits of calling now and investing in miracle joint lubricant made from diluted Sharkticon oil. Call now, and get a second bottle for only a credit more. And for a limited time, receive a hygiene curtain, a twenty credit value, absolutely free.

"Grotesque," I said, giving him a slight poke.

No response. He had fallen asleep right at the table.

"Come on," I said, looping an arm about his winged shoulders, "it's time that we got home."

"Huzzguwah," came the groaned affirmative.

"I'm going to remember this."

Grotesque let out a burp.

"But you probably won't," I finished.

The television switched to another commercial as we passed. A blue Transformer filled the screen, sitting in a neat suburban home on the suburbs of Iacon. "What do you think when you hear the words, 'weapons development', 'systems security', and 'home defense?' Do you think of some corporate monolith who cares nothing for the common man?"

I stopped dead in my tracks.

The blue Transformer continued walking about the screen. "Well, if that's the case," he said, "then I'm glad to tell you that you're wrong!" He then stepped into a well-groomed yard, neatly seeded with Cerellian cyber-grass. Several alien children played in the yard, throwing a Frisbee in the background. "Here at Benedis," the Transformer continued, "we work hard to protect your hard work. Benedis—" he smiled, pointing at the camera, "where we work for you!"

Grotesque punctuated everything by throwing up on my feet.

Grotesque grumbled as he held a cold compress against his head. "Remind me again why it's twenty-hundred at night and I'm back in the office."

I threw a datapad on the table. "Don't you see, Grotesque? It all adds up! Benedis used to be in weapons marketing during the war . . . and then, after the war, they were one of the corporations that got a contract to the Central Registry! Most of the work's been finished now, but they still do systems admin—they have access to innumerable files still. The capability to adjust and purge files . . ."

"Why?" Grotesque snapped, spreading his arms apart. "Why, though? Why, why, why, why, why! That's what's going to kill us on this, Nightbeat!"

"Think back to what the bar girl told me, back when the unidentified Transformer and Snare were meeting in there," I said, "something about weapons caliber. I bet if we pull Benedis's export logs, we'll find ships that were loaded under quota—meaning that there was something else along for the ride! Weapons, guns, bombs, you name it, and I bet you that Benedis has been selling it on the side."

Grotesque shot me another look. "I know. Why," I finished, "it's no secret that Benedis's market shares have fallen in the past decade. Weapons manufacture is a huge business . . . business that they just don't get any more. Not since the war ended."

"But why the hell would they even risk this scheme?" Grotesque asked. It looked like his head was about to explode from the hangover.

"Why does anybody do anything?" I asked. "Listen, this has got to be something that they're keeping quiet in the upper management levels . . . they're probably just selling off old surplus to make a profit off of that. I'm sure we would have heard something before now if they were still actively producing weapons beyond what they supply to the police and military. But Benedis had a lot of weapons left over from the war . . . enough to make somebody determined into a very dangerous person indeed."

Grotesque gripped his forehead with the palm of his hand. "Primus."

"I'll say. I'm heading over there."

Grotesque got up. "What do you mean, you're going over there? We don't have a warrant, all we've got is a theory. This has got to wait until the morning."

"And what then?" I asked, turning around, "wait until Benedis's assassin strikes again? Who will end up dead next? Ironfist? Me? [i]You?[/i] The bottom line is that they know that Snare's been captured, and that he probably sang. Whoever is behind this, he's proven that he's more than capable and willing to kill. They'll be looking to consolidate their resources and get rid of the evidence . . . and that means us."

I turned to leave. Grotesque stood behind me, watching me leave. "I'll send back-up," he called after me. "As for the warrant, I'll work something out." I turned back around and flashed him a smile. "Thanks," I said, "one way or the other, this little mystery of ours is going to wrap up tonight."

I drove through the rain of the Iacon night, wiping the torrent from my windshield as I made my way towards the Benedis building. I could see it looming on the horizon, an inhuman grey and silver monolith framed against the permanent haze that forever hung trapped in the Iacon sky. Light pollution, the scientists called it. I personally just thought it was the city's way of never sleeping. Light shone from the top of the tower, indicating that at least somebody was still working at this late hour.

My towers splashed through the accumulated puddles as I edge my way ever closer. I wondered what lay at the top of that tower . . . I pulled the files on the current Benedis upper management. The current CEO was a former Autobot intelligence officer named, appropriately enough, Boss. He, like Hurricane, was a former Turbomaster. I wondered if Boss was actively engaged in this plot or if he was only passively aware—even ignorant—about it.

He was a standard size Transformer, according to his profile; and judging by his coloration and his face that was reminiscent of a Prime, he was the same Transformer that I had seen in the Benedis commercial back in the bar. If Boss was indeed involved in this plot, I wondered at the degree of callousness that it must have taken to have Hurricane, a former comrade that he knew by sight and by name, killed.

What makes a man turn his back on his friends like that? During the War, I had—as I hoped that everybody else had—subscribed to a higher code of personal conduct. You stayed with your comrades, even when the stakes were high and the chips were down, because that what was expected of soldiers. You stood your ground, even when it was hot and sand crept into your gears and your were afraid to put one foot in front of the other because of landmines, because it was the right thing to do. After a while, you stopped shaking with fear and trying to convince yourself of this—because you knew it to be true.

But for Boss to have abandoned those ideals . . .

My internal communicator chimed. "Nightbeat," Grotesque started, "I grabbed Snare for a late-night interrogation. It's all true. He confirmed everything in front of his lawyer—and says that Boss is in on it, too. You have permission to begin questioning Benedis executives, but a warrant for arrest isn't granted at this time."

I sighed. "Better than nothing, I suppose. I'd better get to it, then. Thanks, Grotesque."

The comm-line went dead, and I continued my progression towards the building on the horizon. I thought again about Boss's willingness to sacrifice the code of the Autobots for his personal gain.

I realized that I was offended. Boss's disregard for life, his contempt for the values upon which the Autobot cause had been formed, [i]offended me.[/i] I realized that I would stop at nothing to bring him to justice.

"Sir? Can I help you?"

A pair of security guards stood at the front desk of the building. I took a moment to take stock of my surroundings. The lobby was large, constructed with marble and granite, and looked very officious. A row of small offices were offset from the remainder of the lobby; I guessed that this is where middle management would talk to prospective clients. Each of the offices was lined with glass; the only privacy that they offered the employees inside were rows of vertical blinds, which I'm sure company policy mandated that they keep open during the day, which destroyed the purpose of hanging blinds it the first place. But as I was quickly learning, Benedis was about appearances for appearance's sake.

My gaze drifted in the direction of the elevators, about twenty meters to my left; to my right, the lobby looped around into a large reception area, where overstuffed chairs and out-of-date magazines lay on an oak coffee table. The backside of the building was comprised with tall glass windows, and I could see a small garden beyond, complete with a small playground area for kids. Everything looked exactly as it should. Very welcoming. Very homely. Very innocent.

I flipped my badge out. "Detective Nightbeat," I said, "Sixty-Third Iacon Precinct. I need to speak with the CEO immediately."

The night guards, of course, gave me mixed looks. One of them was a female Gilgan; she looked awkward in her uniform, almost as if she felt like she didn't really want to be wearing it. Her partner was a Transformer, a green and purple fellow who looked like he turned into a car of some sort.

"Uh . . ." the Gilgan stammered, "you know, I'm not really sure [i]what[/i] company policy is on something like this."

The Transformer spread his arms wide. "They don't pay me enough to get in the way of law enforcement."

"The Gilgan stroked her chin. "True," she considered, "but at the same token, I think that we'd be at least expected to let Boss know that he had a visitor en route. Sir," the woman said, turning her attention back to me, "if you would kindly follow me, I'll take you upstairs."

I nodded my assent. The two of us boarded the elevator, and the guard hit the button for the proper floor. The elevator started with a lurch, and I watched the numbers on the elevator slowly crawl by as we made our way up the innumerable stories to the penthouse offices.

"Oh, dear," the guard said, raising her hand to her mouth as I drew my blaster, "it isn't going to come down to that, is it?"

"I don't know," I admitted, "I hope not."

The elevator continued its slow assent, and I realized briefly that a soothing melody was playing over the speakers. I had heard a similar melody, long before when I was on Earth for an intergalactic police conference. Muzzle had still been my partner then. We had been driving down a small country back road in the Tacoma area, Muzzle in my driver's seat, when the song came over the radio.

"This is terrible!" I remember saying. "What the devil is it?"

"Elevator music," Muzzle explained, "you play it when your heart is full of hate and you don't like whoever is on the receiving end."

Back in the present, I could see the strangely prophetic nature of Muzzle's words. The elevator blared on.

Finally, the elevator came to a halt on the final floor, and I stepped into a large lobby. A desk stood to my right, surrounded by several potted plants; I supposed that a secretary sat there during the course of the day, but he or she had long since gone home. A screensaver bounced about a monitor on the desk; it looked like the friends and family of whoever used the computer. I guessed that it was another biological being who worked as the secretary, judging by the pictures. A small photo hung above the desk, that of a kitten clutching to the limb of a tree; "hang in there!" adorned the lower edge.

But as I reached the frosted door at the far end of the office, it swung open, seemingly of its own accord. I found myself stepping into a large, high-ceilinged office. A massive desk stood at the far end, with a high-backed chair facing out over the city. The office continued to pan around past a wall on the left; I assumed that there was probably a small conference room, a lavatory, and maybe even a small kitchen area offset from the rest of the office.

The chair spun around, and I immediately recognized the form of Boss. "How can I help you officer?" Boss asked, standing up from his chair.

"I've got some questions regarding Benedis's activities over the past decade," I stated, pulling forth a small holographic projector. An image of Hurricane hovered in the relative darkness of the office. "Do you recognize this Transformer?"

Boss nodded his head. "Yes," he said, "that's Hurricane. We served together during the war. How is he doing?"

"Dead."

"A pity," said Boss, getting up from his chair. "Now, what sort of questions do you have for me, Detective?"

"Namely, who you've been selling weapons to."

Boss stood. I noticed a certain gleam in his eye, and if he had a mouth, I'm certain that he would have been smiling. "Why, to the Decepticons, of course. Cyclonus and his bunch are more than happy to pay to keep weapons run to them, and nobody ever knows the difference because it's all old surplus. The war keeps going, at least for them, I empty Cybertron of old weapons, and the company turns a profit. Everybody wins. Everybody except for the two of you, that is."

I reached for my blaster, but before I could bring it to bear, a shot ripped through the darkness. The Gilgan guard screamed, a blaster bolt ripping through her lung. She sunk to the floor, blood seeping through the cotton of her shirt.

Another Transformer stepped out of from behind the alcove to my left. A red and yellow Transformer, he held a long rifle in his hands. His face was stern, his expression cold and remorseless. My attention drifted back towards the Gilgan, who lay squirming on the floor; I could see that she was already a lost cause. Her lungs had filled up with blood, and it now lay spattered about her lips. She coughed, sending a spray of blood into the air and covering a window; and then her body lay motionless.

"Allow me to introduce Flare," Boss smirked, "he's the one who killed Hurricane. Poor Hurricane," Boss remarked, "never would have had to kill him if he hadn't of suddenly grown a conscience. If smuggling weapons is fine once, then it's fine twenty times, by Primus!"

"And Flare also whacked the girl outside the bar, I'd wager," I said, my attention still turned to the body on the floor, "that's your modus operandi, huh? Shoot them through the lungs? Classy."

Flash remained silent throughout the entire exchange, instead keeping his rifle trained on my chest.

"And what are you going to do about her, Boss?" I snapped, pointing at the dead Gilgan. "You can't just kill people because it's [i]inconvenient.[/i] Somebody will find out, eventually. And then you'll pay for your crimes."

Boss sighed, returning to his chair. "My dear detective, you aren't seeing the big picture. I can and I do, because I have the power to do so. Access to the Central Registry . . . it's such a satisfying feeling! Complete power over people's lives. As for her," he said, glancing at the body, "I'll have her erased. Nobody will ever know she existed. Just like I'm going to erase you."

I moved. Flare had brought the rifle to bear, but my quick movement had thrown him off-guard; the laser bolt ripped through the office, flying off into the night sky. I hoped that it would hit the atmosphere and evaporate harmlessly, but I had more important things on mind at the moment than to worry over errant shots.

Flare was good. He dropped the rifle and instead turned his full attention to crushing my neck. His fingers began to close around my windpipe, and I went limp and fell onto Boss's desk. Then, mustering my strength, I brought my knees into my chest and kicked Flare away from me.

Flare stumbled into a large statue that lay in an alcove. It was expressionist art, meaning that it didn't look like anything recognizable; but it was fortunately top-heavy. The statue leaned forward, shook on its pedestal, and finally fell with a resounding crash right onto Flare's crown.

The former Autobot stumbled, dazed; but then he regained his footing. His eyes fell to the rifle lying not but a few feet away. "Don't even think about it," I said, bringing my blaster to bear.

His eyes fell on the rifle, and then turned back to me. And then back to the rifle. He lunged. I shot. Flare let out a scream and then rolled to his side, injured but otherwise alive.

I spun around to find myself face-to-face with Boss. He had snuck up behind me while I was dispatching Flare, and now held a blaster only inches away from my chest. Hatred danced in his eyes. "Close," he said, "but not quite good enough, Detective. I'm going to kill you now."

I smiled and pointed to my arm, where my communication device was housed. "Do what you will," I said, "but I've been recording and transmitting everything since I stepped out of that elevator. They've got your full confession down at the precinct; they know you've been supplying weapons on the side. You're done, Boss. Benedis is done."

Boss let out a scream and pulled the trigger. The blast caught me full in the torso. I screamed and fell to my knees, staring at the smoke spilling out my chest. "Good luck with that, Nightbeat," Boss snarled. "By the time you recover enough to give chase, I'll be on my way to the roof and my own personal ship out of here. I'll never face trial."

Boss turned and walked from the room. "Wait!" I yelled, reaching towards him. Boss didn't turn to look at me. Instead, I crawled behind him, desperately trying to find strength to give chase.

I had just pulled myself to the hallway when I saw Boss hit the button for the elevator. The doors hissed open, and Boss moved to board it; but then he stepped backwards when he saw the massive Transformer already occupying it.

"Oh [i]no![/i]" Boss cried.

"Oh yes," replied Ironfist, "I've come to take my name back, thanks very much."

The massive Autobot reached behind him and pulled forth a minigun that he had strapped to his back. I ducked behind the wall of the alcove as I heard the minigun whirr to life.

Bullets whizzed not but inches past my head, kicking up sparks and chipping plaster as they impacted the far side of the room. At first, there was a lot of screaming. Then the screaming stopped. But the minigun continued to whine and the bullets continued to fly.

Finally, the minigun ground to a halt. When I was sure that there was no more danger of being decapitated, I peered around the corner.

Ironfist stood in the center of the secretary's office, his minigun held aloft. As for Boss . . . well, Boss decorated the walls. And parts of Ironfist. He looked oddly happy, aside from the mech fluid dripping from his face.

"You know that I'm going to have to arrest you now," I called out.

"I know," came the reply. Ironfist then threw the minigun onto the floor of the lobby. "But I figured that it was throwing a rock into a gravel pit at this point anyway. Besides," he said, flashing me a smile, "that felt [i]good.[/i]"

I sat on the back of an ambulance, wincing as a medic patched up the hole in my chest. I had been lucky; the blast had been low-grade. It appears that Boss didn't know as much about weapons that he should have. He had never taken it past a stun setting. Grotesque stood nearby, a smile on his face, as the police raided the Benedis skyscraper. Computers and other evidence was being dragged out through the main lobby, and other officers had been notified. Even now, they were enroute to the homes of other high-ranking Benedis executives. I imagined them being pulled out of their beds, their wives and their children screaming as they were led through the night rain in their underwear, and I couldn't help but smile.

"Keep still," the medic ordered.

"Sorry," I replied, bringing my head back inside the ambulance.

Ironfist was led past in a pair of shackles. "Wait!" I yelled at the officer escorting him. With a worried glance, they brought the former warrior over to where I sat.

"You know you're going to have to pay for what you did just now," I said, and I realized that I was genuinely disappointed for the way things had worked out for Ironfist. I remember Levy remarking that he had the most to gain and the most to lose out of everybody in this mess. How sad it had turned out that he had finished losing everything.

But Ironfist didn't seem remorseful or sorrowful in the least. He seemed quite content with the way things had worked out.

"I know I'm going to jail," he said, "but I'm Ironfist again. [i]Ironfist.[/i] I haven't worn the name in over ten years . . . I'm Ironfist! The one who took down Boss! That's who I am!"

I shook my head as he was led away. I couldn't pretend to understand his enthusiasm . . . but then, I had never been in his position, either. I gave a knowing glance at Grotesque. "He was the backup you called, wasn't it?"

"I know nothing and I resent that you're insinuating such a thing."

"You're also a terrible liar. Perceptor would have you strung up by your heels if he found out."

"Then it's a good thing that Perceptor doesn't know, isn't it?"

I shook my head. "It's going to take a while for things to settle down, I guess. The media's going to have a field day with the Benedis scandal. On the upshot, we won't have to put up with those terrible, 'we work for you!' commercials anymore."

Grotesque smiled. "And that is a good thing, indeed."

I stood up from the ambulance, the patch on my chest causing it to feel unnaturally tight. "Well," I said, "guess that I'd better clean my blaster, turn it back in to the arms room, and turn in for the night." But then I sighed. Grotesque fell into step next to me, obviously picking up that I needed to get something off my chest.

The two of us walked in silence away from the ambulance. Once we were safely out of earshot, I confided in my partner. "What's really been bugging me about this is that most of those involved were former Autobots. Hurricane . . . Ironfist . . . Flare . . . Boss . . . all were former soldiers in the Autobot Army during the War. We all had similar circumstances. We all fought an enemy on foreign soil, all fought for the same ideals. But once the war ended . . . those ideals weren't so ideal anymore. At least not for them. Look where they ended up. Running weapons for their former enemies, all suspicious of each other."

Grotesque nodded. "That's the funny thing about ideals," he said, "not everybody—in fact, most people—can't hope to live up to them. They're going to fail, because they're only Cybertronian. Boss and his crew," Grotesque said, "they're the anomaly, though. Most people are good, I think. Take a look at Ironfist. Maybe his methods weren't right, but the intent was. And then there's people like . . ."

"People like you?" I asked, smiling.

Grotesque laughed. "I didn't say it."

"But you insinuated it. Come on," I said, stepping away from the crime scene, "I think there's enough time left in the night for a round at the bar. And then I've got a video call I need to make. I haven't talked to Muzzle for a while."

The two of us made our way from that monolith that was the Benedis monolith, its light seeping its way into the torrid night skies. The rain fell on our backs, not shouting out the sorrows of the world tonight but instead washing away its worries. Maybe there would be other nights for regrets and for sorrow; but for tonight, a dead man's shadow had vanished.

[b]Author's Notes.[/b]

Well, I had gotten into the habit of offering some additional information and insights for my stories back when I was a more regular contributor, so I figured it prudent to continue the tradition. To be honest, I had kind of considered myself as having gotten out of the Transformers fan fiction business . . . but then something terrible happened.

I watched Revenge of the Fallen.

Yes, I know that I had been a cautious supporter of the first Transformers film back in 2007. And I did enjoy that movie, but at the same time I felt that it was lacking something. That something, as it turned out, was characterization.

I was hopeful that Revenge of the Fallen would be a better offering than its predecessor, but that was sadly not to be. Fan-favorite Transformers were introduced and then removed faster than we could catch them, and the end result was a hodge-podged movie that, while visually stunning, didn't really tell a cohesive story.

And it was then that I realized that I wanted to make my own stories again.

I've always been impressed with the Nightbeat character, and I felt that I had gotten to the point that I could do his character justice in a solo story. However, I wanted to bring some different ideas to the table. Most of my previous stories have involved evil aliens and ancient artifacts and far-off worlds—unfortunately none of those make for a particularly compelling Nightbeat story. Nightbeat, as immortalized during Simon Furman's Marvel UK run, is about dingy alleys and smoke-filled bars and corrupt gangsters. A Nightbeat story needs a slower setting, one that is more psychologically-based than action-based.

To create a believable setting, I went back to my own fanfiction continuity. This story is set sometime in the not-too distant future, after peace has returned to Cybertron—think about the year 2025. The events of one of my previous stories, The Alchemist's Legacy, are alluded to in several areas—namely, the partnership between Grotesque and Nightbeat. I had always been infatuated with the Grotesque character, and so I had featured him heavily in my previous offering. Elements from some of my other stories are also felt. For example, the Grand Spires Hotel had previously been used in "Phoenix into Flames," part two of my Ravage Trilogy. And the Benedis Corporation is another previous invention—I had briefly mentioned it in "The Magnificus Complex."

One of the techniques that I used "The Magnificus Complex" to hammer home its theme of betrayal was to make allusions to infamous traitors in human history—and so the Benedis Corporation is derived from the name Benedict Arnold, an officer who betrayed George Washington and returned to the British fold during the American Revolutionary War. When I came up with the idea of having a corrupt organization as the central antagonist, the Benedis Corporation was the only route I considered.

I also wanted to slow down the dialogue and the action in the story, to create a more "visual" atmosphere . . . and so I returned to one of my favorite literary devices, the first-person narrative. Additionally, I experimented with some different writing styles in different areas. I wanted to create a dry, sarcastic demeanor for Nightbeat throughout, and so I'd occasionally intercut with a wry observation or a diatribe that evoked a "film noir" atmosphere. However, I also wanted to frame Nightbeat's experiences as a soldier (and to specify that, yes, being a detective is his second career), and so I used a more "stream-of-consciousness" technique in other areas. I am personally pleased with the result.

My influences also differed for this story. Before, I would gain inspiration from watching an episode of the Transformer show, reading one of the comics, or from just handling a specific figure; but I wanted to ingrain elements from "gritty" properties to emphasize the nature of Nightbeat's work. I personally took most of my inspiration from the film [u]Robocop[/u] and Alan Moore's graphic novel, [u]The Watchmen[/u]—and maybe just a pinch of [u]Catch-22[/u]. The name of the story, "Dead Man's Shadow," is derived from a song title by the Norwegian heavy metal band Kalmah. I like to think that I've created a story that while undeniably based in the Transformers mythos also offers a fresh look at Cybertron and the city of Iacon.

As far as the antagonists are concerned, they're mostly from the late G1 European line. Admittedly, I feel kind of bad using them like this . . . Ironfist, in my eyes, was a perfect running mate for Roadbuster, a character that some of you know is one of my favorites. Flare is also a cool figure. And Boss . . . I love the Boss figure. It's perfect. But when the character has a name like Boss, well, that's just asking for trouble . . . and so my villain was born. I will say, though, that I have no problems with the way I used Stranglehold.

I've spent the past year and a half experimenting with developing my own writing style through writing original works, so I hope that it has been reflected in this return to fanfiction. Truth be told, it's good to be writing again—the great thing about fanfiction is that it can be shared immediately with an already-established fanbase. I hope that you enjoyed reading "Dead Man's Shadow." I know that I enjoyed writing it.