Requiem for a Sunday Picnic
The young Maximal named Crystal Widow looked up at the lonely and dark warehouse and suppressed a shiver. She had just graduated from the Iacon Central University with a degree in journalism, and had been hired on at one of the local networks as an anchor. Her first field assignment found her in the middle of the Shantix sector in the middle of the day, preparing to meet perhaps the most eccentric Transformer ever.
The Shantix Sector. Just the name alone was enough to deter many a Maximal. This section of Iacon had been infamous since time immemorial—all sorts of thieves, scoundrels, and beggars made their homes here. Even after the Second Golden Age and the Great Upgrade, the stains of Shantix remained.
She wondered again what had prompted Ikard to buy this old warehouse and to establish it as his home. Ikard had once been a great artist on Cybertron; his works were talked about in all of the major art circles, and people regarded him as a living legend in his own right. But the last decade had seen Ikard fade from the public eye; whispers that he had gone insane abounded. The press had a field day when Ikard abandoned his plush high-rise penthouse for this run-down and decrepit warehouse in the worst sector of the city. The artist started refusing interviews, shunting his friends. But the paparazzi had reported seeing lights in the warehouse at all hours of the night.
And now, after a year of mystery, Ikard had agreed to give an interview again, and it was Crystal Widow who would have that honor.
Crystal Widow reached for the door buzzer, but was taken by surprise when the door swung open before she could press the button. A beaming Maximal stood in the door, a grin plastered across his face. "Welcome!" Ikard cried, stepping back from the door so that Crystal Widow could enter, "welcome to my humble abode."
Crystal Widow entered the warehouse, taking a quick stock of her surroundings. There was a high-vaulted ceiling that stretched upward for nearly three stories, as well as a rusting catwalk that ran about the perimeter of the room. A large window stood in the rear of the warehouse, although it was so badly cracked and smeared that Crystal Widow couldn't see the buildings beyond. The entrance annex expanded outward in both directions, opening up into the central bay of the warehouse; Crystal Widow guessed that there were numerous empty rooms beyond in which Ikard kept his artistic supplies.
The main floor of the warehouse was sparsely decorated—and that was being generous. There was a pair of large chairs situated on an oval rug beside the door, along with a single table holding refreshments positioned between them. A few bookshelves were pressed against the wall, but they were mostly empty; what books did occupy the shelves were leather-bound, rotting, and bore names such as "Astral Projection: The Scientific Art Of Subconscious Control" or "See Spot Run: A First-Grade Primer."
But the thing that occupied Crystal Widow's attention the most was the large structure in the center of the warehouse floor covered with a white sheet. It stood nearly ten feet tall, and nearly eight feet wide. Ikard saw Crystal Widow's gaze falling on it and smiled. "Not yet," he said with a grin, "I'm not ready to show that one off yet."
Despite Ikard's words to the contrary, Crystal Widow found that she couldn't take her eyes off the giant sheet. "Is that it?" she asked, "the masterpiece that people are saying you went into seclusion to complete?"
Ikard only gave another grin. "You might say it's a part of the masterpiece," he said. Crystal Widow waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't she turned her attention back to the chairs and the table, which had obviously been positioned for the sole purpose of the interview. Ikard made a motion with one of his slender arms, gesturing that Crystal Widow should go ahead and seat herself.
The younger Maximal did so, crossing one leg over the other as she pulled a microphone and an electronic writing tablet from a metallic carry case. Ikard seated himself in the other chair, sighing comfortably as leaned back into the recesses of the cushions. Silence reigned in the warehouse for a long moment, and then Ikard reached forward to the table where a pot and a pair of cups lay upside-down upon saucers.
"Caligulan butter tea?" he asked, "I just had it shipped in. Back when I used to courier war material during the Predacon Incursion, I developed a taste for it. I have a cup with breakfast every morning, one in the afternoon, and yet a third before bed. It's also very healthy for you, by the way."
Crystal Widow gave a tight-lipped smile. "Please," she remarked, holding the cup outwards. As the tea sloshed into the rounded and handleless cup, a sudden chill worked its way across the palm of her hand; the beverage was almost uncomfortably cold. She gave a polite nod at Ikard before taking a small sip.
The tea was bland when it first hit her lips—perhaps even slightly bitter. But Crystal Widow found that it somehow had a sweet aftertaste, almost mint-like, and she felt the same coldness in her stomach that she had felt on her hand seconds earlier. The entire sensation was strange, but somehow soothing and comfortable. Had she had more time, Crystal Widow very much would have wanted to nap right in the chair; she had no doubt that it would be a restful sleep.
She quickly put the cup back on the table before repositioning her datapad. "So," Crystal Widow started, "let's begin. The question that everybody's been dying to know . . . why did you go into seclusion? What are you working on?"
Ikard gave the same smile. "Oh, many different things," Ikard pronounced. "You see, I had an epiphany, and I think that's it's made a very profound impact on my art. But immediately afterwards, I wanted to get away from the world so I could pontificate about my new beliefs and my understandings. And that is why, my dear, that is why."
"And what, exactly, is that epiphany?" Crystal Widow asked, drawing in closer.
Ikard leaned in closer, getting his face only a few inches away from the reporter's. "Reality is relative," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Crystal Widow blinked hard and drew back in her seat. "Beg your pardon?"
"All of time and space, everything you know, everything you think you know—it's all relative," Ikard said, a big grin on his face. "What I perceive is worlds apart from what you perceive."
"With respect," Crystal Widow said, "that's fairly common knowledge; people have differing viewpoints, after all, that's the basic drive behind a democratic political system . . ."
Ikard took a gulp of his tea. "My dear, I'm afraid that you're misunderstanding me." He then replaced his empty cup upon its saucer before standing. Spreading his arms wide, he motioned to the large window behind him. "I mean that all of this is relative. What's to say that my life—your life—in fact, everybody's lives—are nothing more than mere fantasy? What's to say that you're nothing more than a projection of another person's imagination in another world, and that our fates are already written for us?"
"Well, for one, there's the fact that we have free will," Crystal Widow offered.
"But maybe you only think that you have it."
Crystal Widow rubbed her chin. "Well, prove that we don't have free will."
Ikard smile remained unchanging. "When you prove that we do. You see," Ikard continued, "you must imagine time as a giant ribbon. It has a definite beginning and a definite end, and there are no breaks in between. But you can only perceive one part of that ribbon at a time. Because we are projections of another reality, and perhaps that reality a projection of yet another one, there is no way for us to determine our fate. We only think we do. And before you try to prove me wrong by dropping something and telling me that it was your free will," Ikard replied, eying the pencil that lay on the table, "prove to me that was your idea all along and not a scripted action from somebody else's mind."
Crystal Widow withdrew one of her clawed hands and sat on it, embarrassed that Ikard has so quickly guessed her intention to drop the pencil that lay on the table. The young Maximal sighed, disappointed that the interview had become a hotbed for philosophy. She had hoped that she'd be able to analyze the mind of one of the greatest artists of her time, and was horrified to find that it was the mind of a madman.
But Ikard seemed to think differently, taking the interview in great stride. It was obvious that he was having fun, and Crystal Widow momentarily wondered if he was simply playing her for a prank, or if she had fallen unknowingly into some bizarre performance art. Given some of the last works he had designed before his self-imposed seclusion, it didn't seem too strange a possibility.
"But enough with the heavy thought," Ikard announced, stretching his long, blue limbs skyward, "I'm sure that this is all very depressing to you. It depressed me, as well, when I first realized it. Such a realization is enough to drive a man insane. But when you realize that it doesn't matter, anyway, you learn to have a little fun with it as a result. Of course, the only reason that I'm having fun is because my fun is a projection of somebody else's fun. And thus," Ikard concluded in an abrupt transition, "insanity itself may be a form of art! Say," he said, quickly changing the subject, "do you think that there's little effigies or figures of us somewhere in the projecting reality, and that people or aliens or whatever are using them to create this world?"
"No," Crystal Widow said firmly, "I don't."
Ikard shrugged. "Suit yourself." Ikard then walked to one of the bookshelves and pulled a piece of canvas from behind it. "I wanted to show you some of the other art that I've worked on while I've been away," he said, "this is one I'm especially proud of. It's a special watercolor, one of the most and tried mediums of artistic expression. I call it, 'Happy Birthday Wishes.'"
A sheet had been messily thrown over the work, and Ikard leaned the canvas against the base of the table before sweeping the sheet away. Crystal Widow's eyes grew wide, and she raised one of her hands to her mouth in shock.
"Grotesque" was a kind way of describing the painting. It featured a close-up of a human male face, but its features were contorted in agony. Part of his hair had been burnt away, and his left ear had blackened and shriveled. The left eye was gone, a mass of gore existing in the naked socket as blood ran down his face. Part of the cheek had been peeled away, exposing tendons and the white cheek bone beneath. His teeth were yellowed and chipped, and one tooth looked like it had rotted away entirely.
"My God, that's terrible!" exclaimed Crystal Widow, "what in the world happened to him?"
"What do you mean, 'happened to him?'" Ikard asked.
"Well, was he in a war or in an accident or something?"
Ikard shook his head, a look of genuine confusion on his face. "Nothing happened to him. He's just that way. And nothing's going to change for him, either."
"But what about all your discussion about perceptions and projections of reality? If he's a projection of your reality, then that means that he's real, and that means that something must have happened to him if time flows like a ribbon, like you said earlier," Crystal Widow tried to reason.
Ikard shook his head. "Not for him. He's stuck."
"But if you really mean everything you said, then that means that you've created a terrible reality for that man!"
"No, I didn't. I'm just a projection, too."
Crystal Widow buried her face in her hands. "You're hurting my head."
"No, I'm not, because . . ."
"You're just a projection. Right."
Ikard beamed. "Now you're learning!"
Nearly an hour later, Crystal Widow found herself leaving the warehouse in which Ikard had made his home. She shook her head in bewilderment and frustration. The remainder of the interview had gone much the same; Ikard had shown her an array of artwork, all of them with strangely tranquil names that were in direct conflict with violent and grotesque imagery.
"Soothing Afternoon Siesta," for example, was a sculpture of a soldier with an arrow through his eye. "A Child Dreams of Christmas Morning" was a collage of black-and-white photographs of Earthen roadkill. "Pop-Art Popsicle" was an ice sculpture of Andy Warhol impaled on a stick. And "Nihilist's Nirvana" had literally been an empty canvas. Strangely enough, "Burning Miasma of Despair" was a rainbow drawn in crayon.
Crystal Widow shook her head in confusion. Everything seemed to be reversed about Ikard. It was obvious that he operated on a completely different wavelength than the rest of the Cybertronian populace. She wondered briefly what could cause a person to fall that deeply into insanity.
She stopped herself, offering a mental chastisement as a counterpoint. Ikard was an artist, after all; certainly he was entitled to some eccentricities.
Still . . . how many sane people lived in giant warehouses, claimed they were projections of other people's imaginations, and withheld that pictures of dead raccoons were legitimate expressions of the artistic spirit?
Crystal Widow could think of none. Not even the once-great artist Ikard.
Disappointed with herself and her interview, Crystal Widow hailed a cab and tried to forget about the entire ordeal. Behind her, the sun set over the Shantix sector, casting Ikard's bizarre art gallery into the dark shadows of the night.
A drunkard stumbled down the street, his gait hampered by the effects of unfiltered Energon. His voice was unnaturally high, along with his spirits. "And the war goes on and on and on," he drawled, belting out an old Autobot war tune, "the war goes on and on . . ."
With a laugh, the old Empty stumbled into the dark recess of a nearby alley. This looked as good a spot to spend the night as any, he figured, especially because there really wasn't a home for him to go back to. Sure, he could find one of the half-way houses or relief missions that had sprouted up across the city since the Maximals had come to dominance on the planet . . . but he didn't really feel like falling under the accusatory glance of an old fembot that evening, asking him with that unmistakable twinge of derision in her voice if he wanted to find Primus and clean himself up.
No, Magna Stampede figured, he most definitely did not want to find Primus. He was perfectly happy spending his days hiding in the bottom of a bottle. Responsibility, he figured, belonged to those who wanted it . . . and Magna Stampede answered to no man or ideology.
The empty bottle dropped from his outstretched hand as Magna Stampede fell into a contended, if somewhat uncomfortable, sleep. Behind his heavy eyelids, a dream sprang to his vision as a drunken slumber overtook him; it was something about a roller coaster . . . and that sweet little news anchor on channel six without her chest plate . . .
"My, my, my. Isn't this pathetic."
Magna Stampede forced his eyes open, disappointed that he was being awoken from a pleasant nap. Figuring that he was being accosted by the police again, the former Maximal let out a snort of derision as he pushed himself into a fully seated position.
A group of five Transformers stood before him, all of them with the same pale-white and gold coloration. Magma Stampede, however, was too drunk to even try to identify his accosters. "Been nipping a little of the old unfiltered, eh?" remarked the tallest of them, the corners of his face plate turning up into only what could be a grin.
"That's right," Manga Stampede slurred, "what's it mean to you?"
"My, my. Such a lack of manners. Scylla . . . I think that we should teach him some."
One of the smaller ones grinned. "Whatever you say, boss," she remarked.
Magna Stampede let out a scream as four Transformers piled atop him and began to beat him senseless.
Five minutes later, the five attackers strolled into the main street, leaving a half-dead and groaning Magna Stampede to suffer in a pool of his own vomit and mech fluid. They walked calmly and confidently, not caring of their recent transgression. They were, after all, the Seacon Space Pirates, the most feared band of criminals throughout Iacon.
Truthfully, that wasn't saying a lot, compared to the number of war crimes committed by Predacons such as Tarantulas, Cryotek, or Ravage. But the Sea Pirates considered themselves to be the true descendants of the Seacons, a Decepticon Combiner Team that had played havoc with the Autobots during the Great War; and their list of petty crimes was well-known throughout the modern city of Iacon.
The ransom of the Transportation Administrator, for example? That had been them. The theft of the painting, "The Adonis of Kaon"? The Space Pirates. The burning of McAdam's Oil Bar last year? Also them, although they truly hadn't meant to do that one; it had been an accident involving a dare, a methane tube lighter, and a bottle of unfiltered Warkardian rum. That last stunt had brought down the full fury of the Iacon police force, and the Space Pirates quickly found themselves rounded up and put in a correctional facility.
But they had behaved themselves, and parole comes to all good beings, or at least to those who can fake it long enough.
The five of them were free again, and enjoying their first evening out in over a year. Although they swore allegiance to the Predacons, the Space Pirates were truly their own free agents—much in the same way their proclaimed ancestors, the Seacons, were. Their leader, Halfshell, transformed into a massive turtle who's words and temperament were just as cruel as his bite.
Coagleon assumed the form of a scaly monster fish. A loyal follower of Halfshell, Coagleon was a coward at heart . . . but as long as he had his fellow Space Pirates around him, he was able to keep his yellow streak in check.
Terrormander transformed into a large bipedal manta ray; his winged form allowed him to maneuver not only in the water, but gave him limited gliding capability, as well. A braggart and a drunkard, though, Terrormander rarely had an opportunity to put his innate talents to use.
Sea Phantom could turn into a limbed shark. Known throughout the quadrant for his iron will and his fearlessness, Sea Phantom had once been a trick shot in the Predacon Infantry. But those days were long behind him now, now that he had learned how lucrative a life of crime could be.
Syclla was the lone female of the group, and she assumed the form of an octopus monster. She was somewhat sensitive about her grotesque alternate mode, and hated using it. But that was to be expected. There were only a few things in life that Scylla didn't hate. Halfshell was one. Violence was another.
Scylla stretched her limbs out. "We need a room. That check that the correctional facility gave us will get us a couple of run-down sties, tops. And we also need to eat. Beating up Empties is fun, but it doesn't really pay the bills. And it's been a year . . . we deserve to reward ourselves a little bit, you know what I'm saying?"
"There'll be plenty of time to get a pedicure later," Terrormander grunted. He was half-teasing, half-tormenting Scylla. He knew that comment would piss her off to no end.
"Go slag yourself, ball-bearing breath," came the rude retort.
"Scylla does have a point," Sea Phantom stated, "we do need money, and beating up beggars isn't going to do the trick. You got something up your sleeve, Halfshell?"
"I'm thinking," their commander stated, "don't rush me."
The five of them continued down the street in silence for a long moment, watching the sun getting ever lower on the horizon. Somewhere in the alleys of the Shantix sector, the faint wail of a police siren could be heard; Halfshell visibly startled when he first heard it, and then relaxed somewhat as the siren's cry faded into the distance.
Halfshell suddenly halted in his tracks, turning his gaze to a large building to his right. "What? What is it?" Coagleon demanded.
"I've seen this building before," Halfshell stated, racking his memory, "it was on a television show . . . on one of those 'where are they now?' type documentaries. If I'm not mistaken, this is where the artist, Ikard, retired to . . . and they say that he's loaded."
A slow and nasty grin crossed Halfshell's features. Scylla was quick to follow, although the rest of the Space Pirates weren't quite as up to speed with their leader's idea.
"So . . . we're going to break into his house and steal his stuff?" Terrormander guessed.
Scylla clobbered Terrormander on the back of the head with an open-palmed slap. "What did you think we were going to do? Sell cookies?"
Sea Phantaom, with his face now in a wide smile himself, strode forward to the front door. But Halfshell reached forward and gripped him by the shoulder, "wait," he said, "you never use the front entrance. A warehouse this kind of size has got to have more than one entry or exit point . . . let's take our time, find the point where Ikard is probably least likely to expect visitors. And then we'll take our time."
"And what if we find Ikard, boss?" Coagleon asked.
Halfshell smiled. "Well . . . then we'll get to practice being space pirates again, won't we?"
Nearly twenty minutes later, Halfshell pushed his shoulder against a heavy metal door that had been found unlocked on the building's east side. The door had rusted at the hinges many years ago, and did not easily give if pushed; Halfshell figured that Ikard must have thought the door locked and not have checked it too closely. The door let out a mighty squeak as it was forced open, and the Space Pirate leader waited for a long moment to see if the forced entry had alerted the lone resident to their presence. But when the warehouse remained silent, Halfshell entered, and his four compatriots fell into step behind him.
Terrormander let out a low whistle as they found themselves in a long, vaulted hallway; a second-story railing ran about the interior, and numerous rooms opened off to either side of the corridor. "What do you suppose that he keeps in there?" he wondered aloud.
"Who knows? Who cares? Let's just find us some stuff to steal. I doubt he'd even notice it's gone, and a few Ikard originals would fetch us quite the credit on the black market," Halfshell snapped, "now, check out that first door to the right."
Coagleon approached the door and gave in a hearty shove. It swung inward silently, and the Predacon peered into the darkness for a long moment. "Doesn't look like too much in here, boss," he called back, "looks like a bunch of supplies. Empty canvases, cans of paint, a few bags of paint brushes."
Halfshell pushed his way forward so that he could see for himself, and was disappointed when he found his subordinate to be right; this was just a big supply room. There were several large blocks of marble at the rear of the room, and Halfshell guessed that Ikard must be planning to use them for his sculpture work in the future.
"We're not going to get any money out of this," he said with a certain amount of disdain in his voice, "let's keep looking."
Scylla pushed open a door at the other end of the hallway. "Bingo," she whispered, taking in the stained and moldy canvases that lay within, "this looks like some of the past stuff he's done . . . doesn't look like he's touched it in quite some time, though."
The assembled Space Pirates began pulling some of the old paintings out of the room. Within just a few minutes, a large pile of canvases had flooded into the interior hallway, and the five Predacons began picking through them, trying to find a painting that would be worth several thousand credits at least on the black market. Unfortunately, none of them had a very good sense for art, and they found themselves wondering if the eccentric art pieces were even finished or not.
"I have no idea what this is," Scylla snarled picking up a painting that was comprised of squares and circles. "I have seriously vomited better art."
"That's probably what this is, then," said Sea Phantom, holding up a canvas that was comprised solely of chunky green splatters. He then tossed it to the far end of the hallway with a look of disgust. To emphasize his point, he then shook his hands as if he had gotten some sort of vile residue on them. "Gross," he whispered.
Halfshell let out a grunt of disgust. "We've obviously found the closet where Ikard stashes his outdated ideas, or failed art projects," he surmised, "we're not going to find anything here."
Coagleon moved to start putting the canvases back in the closet. "What do you think you're doing?" Halfshell demanded.
"Putting this up?" Coagleon announced.
"We're not maids or janitors. Leave it here, we've got better things to do with our time."
Coagleon tossed another painting aside, and then let out a small scream of dismay. "What the slag is this?" he asked, holding up a small figurine that had been lost in the piles of canvases. A small white and gold figure, it was a rough approximation of Coagleon himself. The figure was in its hunched fish mode, and the resemblance was uncanny . . . save, of course, for the giant metal rod that had been rammed through its head.
"I don't know if I like this, boss," came Coagleon's worried statement.
Halfshell grunted as he took in the sight of Coagleon holding his smaller doppelganger. "Don't be such a Micromaster about these things. It's called a coincidence. Now throw it down and let's keep going."
Coagleon did so, and stepped in front of the rest of the other Space Pirates. His enthusiasm over this heist had suddenly dwindled exponentially, but he was at loath to allow the others to see it . . . not when so much weighed upon his perception. Fundamentally, they knew he was cowardly, and Coagleon was determined to prove them wrong.
He took three steps forward and disappeared into a hidden pit. He didn't have enough time to scream.
Sea Phantom let out a squawk of dismay and peered into the pit. It was obvious that there had been a thin piece of carpet covering the opening . . . if it had been daytime, or there had been better lighting, Coagleon would have been able to see it. But in this half-darkness, he couldn't have known.
The pit seemed to descend into unfathomable depths. Sea Phantom called downwards. "Coagleon? Can you hear me?"
Silence reigned.
Terrormander let out an audible gulp. "Boss, I think you'd better take a look at this."
The assembled Space Pirates turned to look at Terrormander. He held a single canvas that he had retrieved from the pile of discarded paintings. Terrormander's gaze was haunted, as if he had seen his own death.
The canvas held only a pair of words, painted in a bold and sloppy red; "YOU'RE NEXT."
The remaining four Space Pirates stood in silence for a long moment, each one of them at a loss for words. Terrormander was thinking about how much he wanted to leave; Sea Phantom was thinking about what might have happened to Coagelon; Scylla thought about how stupid all of this was; and Halfshell wondered how much of a profit he would lose now that he had one less person to carry loot.
"Boss, I think we'd be better off if we just left . . ." Terrormander started.
Halfshell marched across the room and pinned Terrormander to the wall by his neck. "We're not leaving here without something to sell off," Halfshell snarled, "we've put far too much into this venture as it is. What would Coagleon think if he knew that you wanted to back out now?"
"Probably, 'good!'" Terrormander admitted.
Halfshell tossed Terrormander across the open pit in the center of the floor. "You're a coward," he bellowed after the flying figure, "scarcely worthy of the name of a Space Pirate! I should tear you from limb to limb on the spot . . .!"
Terrormander skidded against the far wall and let out a groan. Halfshell and the other Space Pirates carefully stepped around the gap in the center of the floor—there was barely enough clearance on either side of the pit to accommodate them—and then joined Terrormander on the far side.
Halfshell leaned over Terrormander. "Well? Do you have an answer for me?" he demanded.
Terrormander remained silent, too scared or outraged to respond. Halfshell stood over Terrmormander for a long moment, as if to prove his point. "Hah!" he finally surmised, "I thought so."
Sea Phantom was peering down the pit. "Coag? You okay, buddy?" he called down the pit. A groan drifted upward, and Sea Phantom cried out, "he's still alive. We've got to find a rope or something."
"Leave him," Halfshell ordered, "it's his own fault for falling down there, anyway, and the sooner we get out of here the better. The Maximal police will take care of him."
Even Scylla was forced to recoil at the coldness of Halfshell's words. Never, in all of their years together, had he suggested leaving one of them behind. Scylla guessed that the figure, the trap, and the painting had rattled him more than he let on. "Come on, boss," Scylla ventured, "there's got to be a length of cable or chain around here somewhere . . ."
"I said leave him!" Halfshell snapped, "now quit dragging and let's go."
The other three Space Pirates obeyed their leader, falling into a hushed if somewhat subdued step behind him. Another groan could be heard coming out of the pit, and Terrormander cast a long look over his shoulder. "Sorry, buddy," he whispered, "see you on the other side, all right?"
Another groan floated from the hole in the floor, and Terrormander pretended that it was Coagleon giving them his blessing and not him squirming around in the inky darkness with a possible rod impaled through his skull.
The hallway made a right-angled turn to the right, and the Space Pirates found themselves facing a large metal door that had clearly been disused for quite some time. Heavy skid marks marked the bottom of the door and the concrete floor, evidence that the door proved problematic to open even at the best of times. Furthermore, large deposits of rust clung to the hinges. Sea Phantom took the handle in his hand and gave the door a hearty shove. "It's jammed," he said, knowing that he was essentially stating the obvious.
Halfshell let out a grunt of frustration. "Get the slag out of the way," he demanded, roughly pushing Sea Phantom aside. Wrapping both of his hands around the handle, Halfshell tugged backwards mightily and ripped the door from its hinges. He then cast the door aside, sending in clanging down the narrow hallway behind them.
The four space pirates entered a strange room that lay beyond. In stark contrast to the rest of the warehouse, this room was fully furnished and carpeted. The red carpet and the gilded ceiling frame looked exceptionally pretentious, and a pair of overstuffed chairs were situated in front of what could have only been described as a makeshift fireplace. A painting of a farmhouse hung on the mantle, and books lined the shelves behind the chairs.
Between the two chairs of positioned an easel, holding a canvas that had been covered by a sheet. Terrormander reached towards it, and slowly withdrew the sheet from the canvas.
"Disgusting." Scylla was the first to offer her opinion.
And indeed it was. The painting was "Happy Birthday Wishes," the same painting of the horribly disfigured human that Ikard had shown to Crystal Widow just a few hours earlier—of course, Halfshell and his crew had no way of knowing that, nor would they have particularly cared even if they did.
"What sort of demented fruitcake paints these things?" Sea Phantom wondered aloud, unaware of the irony of his words. Sea Phantom had once chewed a police officer in half and then laughed about it in a bar not but a day later.
"Damned if I know," Scylla admitted, for the first time hinting that she was voicing what was on everybody else's mind: that she simply wanted to get out of this strange Maximal's house of horrors. It was obvious that Ikard was quite mad the further and further they went into his home.
"Primus, that is ugly," Terrormander said, "cover it back up."
And then the painting, who had remained silent throughout the entire discussion, decided to voice its own opinion.
"I can hear you, you know," the painting said, its' half-rotted lips moving perfectly in synch with the speech, "and I'll have you know that I take exception to your words. I happen to consider myself the epitome of handsomeness, I'll have you know."
Silence reigned among the Sea Pirates for a long moment. Scylla buried her face in her hands. Terrormander stood with his jaw slackened. Sea Phantom only looked scared—and Halfshell appeared furious.
Finally, Halfshell broke the silence. "You can talk."
"Obviously," replied the painting, "and I'm not just 'you.' My given name is 'Happy Birthday Wishes,' although you may call me Rupert if you feel so inclined."
"You can talk," Halfshell repeated.
"How droll," Rupert replied, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling, "why does everybody always stare when they find out I can talk? You'd think they'd never seen a talking painting before . . ."
"You mean . . . you're alive?" Scylla ventured.
Rupert's shoulders, which were only barely visible at the bottom of the canvas, shrugged. "Who knows? I'm not even sure myself, some days. The Master said that I was made with special optical paint and an artificial AI, but he also told me that I was a projection of another person in another reality, and I'm inclined to believe him. After all, the person I'm projecting probably isn't a painting. But maybe he is. Who can tell?"
"You're not real, then," Terrormander ventured.
"Of course I'm real!" bellowed the painting, "you're talking to me, aren't you?"
"But . . . you just said . . ."
"Just because I'm a projection doesn't invalidate my reality. God, then the universe really [i]would[/i] be a mess."
Terrormander raised his hands to his face. "But . . . what if this means . . . I'm not real, either?"
"Relax, you're real," snapped Rupert, "just as real as me, anyway."
Terrormander hung his head low. The painting smiled. Halfshell frowned. The painting smiled even wider.
"Just a quick question," Scylla asked, pointing at the burn marks that covered the majority of Rupert's face, "how did you get like that, anyway?"
"Oh, that," Rupert said, "people have asked me that before, and I don't really have an answer for them. I'm just that way."
"I see," said Scylla, cocking a fist under her chin and nodding understandably.
"No, you don't!" interrupted Halfshell, "you've never had any appreciation for the finer arts. You understand Rupert about as well as you understand quantum physics."
"Oh, like you understand any better, slag-breath?" retorted Scylla, getting into Halfshell's face, "you wouldn't know art if it bit you in the chassis . . . in fact, I seem to remember you failing out of the Iacon University because you kept skipping Humanities 101. Who's qualified to be an art critic now?"
"That's because it was below my level," snapped Halfshell, "I wanted to study art, not splatters of paint and black-and-white squares. I subscribe to the classics . . ."
"Classics? Hah!" retorted Scylla, "I seem to remember a certain trip to a museum in which you spent the majority of your time giggling and pointing at nude sculpture's genitals!"
"Look out," Rupert suddenly said.
A chandelier that had been affixed to the ceiling gave way and crashed upon Terrormander's head. The Space Pirate collapsed to the floor in a pathetic heap, groaning under the tremendous weight of the wood and diamond decoration.
"Primus!" screamed Sea Phantom, "what the Hell caused that to happen?"
Rupert shrugged again. "It was supposed to fall."
"And why didn't you warn us earlier?" snapped Scylla.
"I wasn't supposed to."
Halfshell bent over the unconscious body of Terrormander. The chandelier was heavy, and Halfshell groaned as he tried to move it. The chandelier, however, had other ideas, as it refused to budge.
"I'm sorry to interrupt, gentlemen . . . and lady," Rupert stated, "but the Master wanted me to pass along a message . . . I do hope that you don't find it too aggravating . . ."
The three remaining Space Pirates turned to look at Rupert. The disfigured human now held a sign in his hands which read, "TWO DOWN, THREE TO GO. HAVE A GOOD DAY!"
The three remaining Space Pirates found themselves in a long hallway, similar to the first passageway that they had entered. After the incident with the chandelier, Halfshell had ordered Terrormander to be left behind. Sea Phantom was unsurprised at the turn of events, given what they had seen earlier regarding Coagleon, but he was still disappointed with his professed leader. He didn't like the idea of leaving a comrade behind—perhaps it was simply a holdover from the days with the Predacon Infantry—but it simply felt wrong.
Still, Terrormander was alive, only pinned under the massive chandelier. No doubt the police would take care of him once Ikard inevitably called them.
But that raised another question—a question that caused Sea Phantom to suppress a shiver. Ikard seemed to know that they were already here—indeed, he had seemed to expect them! How else could he explain the figure of Coagleon with the stake impaled through its head, or the sentient painting in the drawing room?
Sea Phantom realized that they had bitten off more than they could chew this time around, and judging by the expression on Halfshell's face, he had realized it, too. But Halfshell was prideful, and Sea Phantom knew that it was going to be a cold day in the Pit before he admitted that he was wrong.
Halfshell yanked open a door and let out a grunt as a pile of brooms and mops clattered on the floor. "Figures," he said, "the greatest artist of our time doesn't have any art worth stealing."
Sea Phantom pushed another door open gently and found himself staring at another long and grey corridor; however, this hallway was different from the others they had encountered previously due to the tall bookshelves that lined either side of it. The three remaining Space Pirates pushed their way into the furnitureless room and began to gaze around.
Books of all sorts were stacked from the floor to the ceiling. There were leather-bound books, paperback books, magazines, folders, loose piles of paper, newspapers, datapads, and even what appeared to be a couple of scrolls propped up in a dusty corner. None of it was categorized, and the staggering amount of genres was appalling.
Scylla grabbed an old paperback novel off a shelf and read aloud. "Kent pushed his fingers into Amanda's wind-swept hair as the sea air swept about them; Amanda's long and exquisite dress billowed about her ivory legs. 'Take me, Kent,' she begged, 'take me and make a woman out of me, over and over and over again! I am yours, now and for eternity!"
Halfshell let out a snort. "Flesh creatures write the worst drivel."
Scylla threw the book into her bag. "I'm keeping it," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
The other two Space Pirates shot her a long glance of derision. "Oh, shut up," Scylla snapped back.
Halfshell began to rifle through several large stacks of books. "There's got to be something here!" he cried, "we've been going through this place for hours and we don't have anything to show for it except for a dime-store paperback romance novel." The Space Pirate leader sighed as he threw aside a text book on general theories of economics, and then let out a snarl as he found a Quintesson cook book.
Sea Phantom picked up a large collection of papers from the shelf; the top of the sheet was labeled, "Requiem for a Sunday Picnic."
"Hey boss," said Sea Phantom, "this is different . . . I think that it might be something that Ikard's been working on."
"What's it about?" Halfshell whispered.
"I don't know," Sea Phantom admitted, flipping to the front page. And then he began to read:
"The young Maximal named Crystal Widow looked up at the lonely and dark warehouse and suppressed a shiver. She had just graduated from the Iacon Central University with a degree in journalism, and had been hired on at one of the local networks as an anchor. Her first field assignment found her in the middle of the Shantix sector in the middle of the day, preparing to meet perhaps the most eccentric Transformer ever."
"Pretty boring," Sea Phantom said, and instead turned to a random page.
"Sea Phantom picked up a large collection of papers from the shelf; the top of the sheet was labeled, 'Requiem for a Sunday Picnic.'
'What's it about?' Halfshell whispered.
'I don't know,' Sea Phantom admitted, flipping to a random page. And then he began to read:
'Sea Phantom picked up a large collection of papers from the shelf; the top of the sheet was labeled, 'Requiem for a Sunday Picnic . . . "
"What the slag is this?" Sea Phantom screamed, throwing the book across the room, "the damn thing's about us!"
Halfshell seemed unimpressed. "So?" he snorted, "we're infamous for some of the heists that we've pulled. That's nothing."
"You don't understand," Sea Phantom said, visibly suppressing a shiver, "that was about us . . . right that minute. And it was right . . . it was describing us exactly . . ."
"Let me see that!" Halfshell bellowed, flipping to a random page as he retrieved the collection of papers from the floor.
"Halfshell seemed unimpressed. 'So?' he snorted, 'we're infamous for some of the heists that we've pulled. That's nothing.
'You don't understand,' Sea Phantom said, visibly suppressing a shiver, 'that was about us . . . right that minute. And it was right . . . it was describing us exactly . . . '
'Let me see that!' Halfshell bellowed, flipping to a random page as he retrieved the collection of papers from the floor.
'Halfshell seemed unimpressed . . .'
"How the hell does this even work?" Halfshell screamed, throwing the document onto a table. "This doesn't make any sense!"
"Let's see how it ends!" Scylla cried, with a strange amount of glee in her voice; she had been reading over Halfshell's shoulder, and she seemed the least upset of the three.
"I don't want to know that!" Sea Phantom cried, aghast at the suggestion, "what if we die at the end?"
"Then it'd be nice to know how it's coming, wouldn't it, dumbass?" Scylla scorned.
"But what if it's a self-fulfilling prophecy?" Sea Phantom whimpered, "what if I find out how I'm going to die, and I spend all my time trying to avoid my fate, and my fate is sealed because I went out of my way to avoid it?"
"You can't avoid fate, that's why it's fate!" Scylla snickered.
And then it happened.
Sea Phantom began to cry.
They weren't tears of fear, or tears of sadness, but they were the deep and racking tears of a man who's life has just been shattered. He fell onto his rear and sat in the middle of the barren floor, unashamedly bawling at the thought of his mortality.
"Stop it," Halfshell ordered through gritted teeth, "you're embarrassing yourself."
"I can't help it," came the sobbed reply, "it's just too much to bear . . ."
Scylla leapt at Sea Phantom and backhanded him viciously. "Pull yourself together!" she screamed, following up her initial attack with a ferocious open-palmed slap. Sea Phantom groaned and fell to his side, refusing to fight back or to stop his tears. Scylla was atop him in a flash, spouting obscenities as she continued to pummel Sea Phantom's head and face.
"That's it . . . I've had enough," Halfshell snorted, bringing his rifle to bear and pointing at the book, "I'll atomize the thing and stop your whining."
"No!" Sea Phantom screamed, untangling himself from Scylla and grabbing at the rifle barrel, "you'll kill us all!"
Halfshell simply pushed forward with his rifle, sending the pathetic heap that was Sea Phantom stumbling backwards. The smaller Predacon lay sprawled on the floor, his eyes full of fear.
"Go," Halfshell ordered through gritted teeth, "get out of here. There's no place for you now."
Sea Phantom said nothing. He simply sniffled, hung his head low, and left the way he had come. Scylla and Halfshell did not see him again.
"Now, let's finish up this loose end," Halfshell stated, pointing his rifle at the collection of papers again. The barrel of the weapon hovered over its target for a long moment; but try as he might, Halfshell found that he couldn't muster courage enough to pull the trigger.
"Well, do it then," Scylla encouraged.
Halfshell let out a snort and withdrew his weapon. "Let's go," he snarled, "we've wasted enough time as it is."
Scylla cast a long glance at the strange book lying on the ground. "Good call," she remarked, falling into step behind him.
The two remaining Space Pirates pressed onward; although no words were spoken between Halfshell and Scylla, and unspoken understanding had been reached—and that was to find the quickest way out of this demented funhouse of Ikard's, mug the nearest pedestrian, and start off with that. There had to be easier ways to make a dishonest living.
The hallways were nearly maze-like, and it wasn't too long before they had lost all sense of direction and time. For all Halfshell knew, the sun had already risen outside; there were no windows in these interior rooms to indicate otherwise. Halfshell choked back a sigh as he found himself facing yet another door.
Wordlessly, he gripped the handle in his hand and pushed his way forward. Beyond lay a small anteroom, garishly decorated in contrast to the rest of the warehouse. The floor was laid with alternating black and white tiles, and several pedestals with marble statues lay on either side of the room.
Scylla and Halfshell made their way forward, gazing at the statue that lay on the right-hand side of the room. Scylla recoiled in shock. "It looks just like me," she said, "but where are my legs?"
Halfshell looked behind him. " . . . I think they're behind you."
Scylla turned and let out a gasp. Halfshell was right; the statue that depicted Scylla was neatly broken in half, with the torso lying on one side of the room and the legs on the other. Scylla struggled to pick up the statue's torso.
"What do you think you're doing?" Halfshell demanded.
"Fixing me!" Scylla cried, "I don't want to be broken in half! Now are you going to help me or not?"
Halfshell gripped one half of the statue's heavy torso and pulled upward; but no matter how hard he and Scylla strained, the heavy statue part wouldn't budge from its' pedestal. After nearly two minutes of exertion, Halfshell grabbed Scylla by her hand. "Come on!" he said, "I think we're nearly out of here, and then you won't have to worry about it any longer . . ."
He broke into a sprint, nearly dragging Scylla behind him. The door ahead was a thin wooden one, and Halfshell barreled into it with all of his strength. The door flew open, and the two Space Pirates spilled out into the warehouse's central bay.
The first thing that Halfshell noticed was the large structure that stood in the center of the warehouse, still covered with the massive white sheet that Crystal Widow had seen earlier in the day. Scylla paused, but Halfshell turned to the right and saw the main door. "There!" he said, pointing at the entrance, "that's our way out of here. Let's go!" Halfshell took off in a sprint.
But just as he reached the halfway point, the blinding overhead lights shut off, casting the two into darkness. "Scylla?" Halfshell whispered, "you still there?'
Four pillars of flame roared to life at the back of the warehouse, so tall that they nearly touched the ceiling. Halfshell shielded his eyes to protect his eyes from the sudden burst of light, and as he gradually became accustomed to it, he turned his attention back to the massive structure in the center of the room. A strange song began to play, starting off slowly at first but gradually rising in loudness and intensity, until it filled Halfshell's ears and nearly drowned out his thoughts.
"Welcome! Welcome to my humble abode!" cried Ikard. The blue Maximal was standing beside the giant sheet, his slender arms raised to the heavens. Halfshell instinctively reached for his gun; but before he could pull it from the sling across his back, Ikard had swept the sheet off of his mystery project.
Halfshell wasn't sure whether to scream or laugh. What lay beneath the sheet had been a giant metal octopus, complete with a pair of windows that served a pair of inquisitive eyes. If it hadn't been for the fact that he was absolutely terrified, Halfshell would have found it quite humorous.
"You two are the first to witness the unveiling of my latest work," Ikard announced with pride in his voice, "the Tako Tank!"
Halfshell struggled with his rifle. Scylla stood rooted to the floor. The two Space Pirates watched in horror as Ikard opened a side hatch on his invention and stepped inside, sealing himself within.
Bolts and rivets squeaked as the machination came to life. A massive pair of tentacles, that had previously lay dead upon the floor, rose towards the ceiling. The Tako Tank struggled from its makeshift bay and lurched towards the pair of Predacons.
Halfshell cursed and fired off a round from his rifle. The bullet whizzed harmlessly off of the tank's outer shell, ricocheting into the ceiling.
Scylla's eyes grew wide as the Tako Tank towered over her. One of the tentacles descended downward, taking her in its grasp; and then suddenly she was hoisted skyward. Scylla started to spout obscenities as she fired downward with her blaster.
The other tentacle wrapped around Scylla's legs, and with a slight tug, the Seacon was torn in half. Scylla's abdomen went clattering to the floor, while her legs landed not too far from Halfshell.
Scylla was still alive; it took more than that to kill a Transformer, of course. She extended one of her arms outward. "Halfshell," she cried, as mech fluid sprang to the corners of her mouth, "help me!"
Halfshell said nothing, and instead turned and ran. He made it to the front door in only a few seconds, but then cursed as he found the door sealed. Halfshell began pounding on the door with the palms of his hands. "Help!" he screamed, "somebody help me! He's insane! He's slagging insane!"
A tentacle swept forward, impacting the wall right above Halfshell's head. The force of the impact caused the concrete to shudder, and Halfshell noticed with a sense of relief that part of the wall actually gave way under the blow. Halfshell threw his weight against the cracked rock, and stumbled out into the night in an inglorious pile of flailing limbs.
Turning left down the main avenue, Halfshell ran. Behind him, the Tako Tank let out a roar, and then the entire front of the warehouse crumbled as Ikard steered his bizarre invention forward. The tank followed the Space Pirate into the street, its tentacles waving about it in a flurry of ferocious energy. "No . . . no!" screamed Halfshell, reaching for his rifle; but he let out a curse as he realized that it had been dropped somewhere along his escape from the warehouse.
The Tako Tank turned to pursue. Halfshell ran, pumping his arms up and down as he lengthened his stride. Behind him, the Tako Tank followed, its large and innocent eyes belaying its intent.
How long Halfshell ran, he had no way of knowing. With terror filling all of his circuits, the chase certainly seemed to take much longer than it actually did. But streets turned into blocks, and blocks turned into districts as the one-sided chase continued. No matter how fast Halfshell ran, the Tako Tank matched his pace, a murderous machine filled with all of Ikard's creative genius and eccentricity.
"Help! Somebody slagging help me!" screamed Halfshell as the Tako Tank continued to follow. Pedestrians turned and watched, all of them amazed at the giant octopus filling the streets of the Shantix Sector; but this was the Shantix Sector, after all, and stranger things had happened. They turned and went about their business.
Finally, Halfshell rounded a corner. With a last bid for speed, he broke into a sprint just as the Tako Tank came about the corner behind him.
And then it stopped. When he no longer heard the grinding of its gears, Halfshell turned to look for himself.
The Tako Tank stood frozen at the street corner, its once-lively tentacles now immobile. Steam issued forth from vents on either side of the cockpit, and Halfshell could barely see Ikard inside furiously adjusting numerous switches and levers.
"Hah!" Halfshell panted, "I beat you! I slagging beat you after all!"
But just as he said those words, the Tako Tank began to change. A hiss emerged from the front cockpit, and Halfshell watched in horror as the otcopus' head split down the center. The two halves folded flat to either side of the tank's base, and Halfshell noticed with a sense of hopelessness that Ikard had now seated himself in a motorcycle that had been hidden within the tank.
Ikard revved the engine.
"Oh, slag," stammered Halfshell.
The motorcycle roared to life, and with a squeal of its back tire, it flew from the tank. "Beep beep!" Ikard bellowed at the top of his voice.
"No . . . no!" Halfshell screamed as the motorcycle's headlight bore down on him.
Crystal Widow had been awoken early the following morning, and it was with a certain amount of resentment that she found herself returning to the Shantix Sector at daybreak. There had been an incident at Ikard's warehouse, her informant had explained, but the real story had occurred forty city block southward. Police had found a giant octopus filling up the center boulevard shortly before daybreak, with a hysterical Predacon writhing in the center of the street screaming at specters. And all the while, Ikard had sat on the back of a bench, watching Halfshell.
Crystal Widow approached the police barricade. "Press," she announced, flashing a badge. An officer at the scene nodded his head and allowed Crystal Widow to proceed forward.
She recognized Halfshell right away from a news report that she had done on them the previous year. A pair of medical orderlies hoisted Halfshell to his feet. "Gold plastic syndrome!" the Seacon cried, "manufacturer error! Repaint! It's all fake! It's not real! Secondary collector market!"
"All right, buddy, let's go," said one orderly, restraining Halfshell's arms with a medical binder, "we've got a place for you to be quiet for a while . . ."
Ikard stared at Halfshell impassively, but not without the hint of a smile on his face.
Crystal Widow looked at the massive Tako Tank filling the downtown boulevard as the police examined it. "And I suppose that's your greatest masterpiece," she finally said, "a giant weapon of destruction disguised as a harmless—and cute--octopus."
Ikard smiled and shook his head. "No, my dear; while I am proud of that piece of art, that's not my masterpiece." Instead, he pointed at the screaming and hysterical figure of Halfshell being led away by a pair of orderlies. "He is."