Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers Animated or any attached characters, nor any here in mentioned and recognized songs, culture references, et cet. I only own the story.
Summary: TFA: John Macbeth knew that he was a fighter at heart, but had never dreamt, or dreaded, that he would ever be able to let his true self out, certainly not in the way he was given the day his life ended. At the same time, three good mechs just can't stay dead…
Rated for: Language, violence, hints of mature themes
Author's Note: This was originally supposed to be two different stories, but I realized that if I was going to be dull and make two stories of humans and Transformers merging then I should at least make an attempt at avoiding redundancy and ta-da, made them one story. Sorry if the chapters are long, I'll do what I can about them.
Also, I'm not going to flat-out write Blitzwing's accents. I am not going to run a risk of butchering it or making his speech hard to understand.
To avoid confusion whilst reading parts with our schizophrenic pal, Blitzwing:
Text: Hothead speaking. Text: Hothead thinking. Text: Random speaking.
Text: Random thinking. Text: Cold speaking. *Text*: Cold speaking.
Chapter 1: Introduction
It had been a sunny day in Detroit; the sort of summer day Detroit was kin to having. As usual, people strode about on their own business, seemingly oblivious to the automatons that crawled in the corners of their vision. The mechanical drones were tending to the dirty jobs that the Detroit residents had long since deigned below them to do; washing windows, cleaning up garbage, selling hot dogs and the like. But this story does not start in these sunny streets, but in a karate school in Up Town Detroit, where places like the city mall and Sumdac Tower were set.
In this karate school, the north wall faced out to the street while half the southern wall faced out over the city's bright green park. The western end of the large one-room school was taken up by a set of small bleachers on which many a proud parent, reluctant teenager, and bored older guardian sat, waiting for the show to start. At the eastern end of the room, numerous youth, ranging from children just past being toddlers up to teenagers were dressed in white robes with a variety of colored sashes around their waists. These students were practicing their moves to show off their guardians and parents. Sometimes a little one would mimic the older children and fail by falling hard on their backs, often breaking out into crying fits that their mothers rushed across the room to soothe.
A middle aged man in his early thirties stood by the door, frequently checking between his watch and the street outside. The white robes and the black sash around his waist were clear pointers to that he was a teacher of the school.
Some of the mothers often glanced over at him, seizing him up, as he was a rather hansom man for his thirties. Not yet seized by the curse of gaining weight when he stopped being officially young, the teacher had made sure to keep his limbs taut, muscular and strong with his shoulders square and his back straight. His slightly curled blonde hair was neatly combed and his bright brown eyes, like perfect caramel, seemed to have an "alluring gaze". AKA: the wives wanted a certain marriage-ruining gift from him and were becoming delusional for it.
Finally, the teacher sighed and shook his head, apparently giving up on whatever he was waiting for, and walked over, standing in front of the bleachers, motioning for the kids to get ready.
"Sorry for the wait, everyone," he announced, his voice graced by the faintest brushings of a Russian accent, "But the other two teachers of the Recreational Youth School of Karate appeared to have skipped out on the graduation ceremony—"
"Wish I could join them," one bored teenager called out.
His mother elbowed him hard in the side.
"So we'll just go on without them. Allow me to introduce myself: I am John Macbeth..."
He then proceeded to tell the family and friends of his students how he was so proud of them for working so hard and how he had never had a better class and how he would miss them all and blah, blah, blah. It was something he said for every class every year.
While the parents bought into it, it looked like most of the teenagers who had been forced to come knew very well that Macbeth was just going through the motions to keep himself from loosing future customers. Still, this job was better than the job Macbeth had for the rest of the year; a limo driver and body guard. True, driving and guarding local celebrities around sounds far more glorious than being a karate school teacher. That is, until one realized that "local celebrities" merely meant spoiled rich little girls who had been sent on a shopping spree to let her daddy have time with his mistress and any stupid local teenager that had enough cash to pay at prom time.
After the speech, Macbeth moved aside and allowed the kids to have their show, play fighting and showing off their moves. As they did their thing, Macbeth looked at each student and envied their youth. They had their teenage years ahead of them; the time where they had just the right amount of dependence and independence where they could do whatever they want behind their parents' backs and yet, still be dependent enough as to not need a time-consuming job. As teenagers, they would have the ability that was no longer an option for Macbeth: Fighting.
As teenagers, the worse that could happen when two boys duke it out in a back alley was a smack upside the head from their mentor. Maybe some time in the police station's cell, or even juvie, but only if they were stupid and pushed it too far.
As adults, two men could go to jail for fighting, an activity that Macbeth desired. Everyone has desired combat at one point in their lives; to pick up a weapon and crash it into an opponent's soft body, to punch their opponent until the knuckles were bleeding, or kick into someone just to feel their ribs snap, ending it all by howling their defiance just so on lookers would raise their eye brows and applaud their energy and strength. It was one of the most basic and primal urges and desires of human kind; to let out all their frustration, anger, and defiance, as well as prove their strength, through violent combat. Even the most innocent person has at least one time in their lives when they just want to smash someone else's face in.
But society forbade such "barbaric acts" and hence, Macbeth was trapped inside a net of laws and rules, a net that had not yet closed around the teenage population, always looking towards the sky where he had once spread his wings and screeched his war cry while on the hunt.
Meanwhile, many galaxies away…
Megatron wished he were dead.
He wished that the Autobot space bridge rock clear man, Optimus Prime, had dug his energon-laced axe into Megatron's cranium and ended his life. He wished that Optimus had stopped being such a good little Autobot and had let his inner rage out to rip apart Megatron's Spark chamber. He even almost wished that his idiot, backstabbing second-in-command, Starscream, had succeeded in throttling the life out of him before the All Spark fragment in his forehead had been ripped out for the purpose of defeating Megatron. He wished for death, though, not because he was the disgraced leader of the great Decepticons, not because his beloved arm cannon had been crushed and removed, not because of the jeers his Autobot guards always gave him, but because of something worse. He was doomed to spend the rest of his life…
"The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout…"
He slammed the back of his head into the wall.
He was doomed to spend the rest of his life in a prison cell beside Blitzwing.
"Blitzwing," Megatron shouted, "I swear, by Primus, if you don't cease that racket at once, I will build an arm cannon from my leg just so I can blow through this wall that separates us and throttle the music out of you!!!"
A short whirring noise of gears could be heard the next cell over and the voice changed to a far calmer German accent than what had been singing before.
"My apologies, Lord Megatron," Blitzwing replied, "It is rather boring in here, no?"
"Of course, Blitzwing," Megatron said, leaning back on the bench in his cell, "The Stockades were built for punishment, not pleasure."
Normally Megatron would not deem any of his soldiers worthy to speak with him in length, but since the two had been moved into an abandoned branch of the Stockades, far below ground, for the purpose of mental breakage and the guards had been coming less and less, even he desired social companionship. Blitzwing and his three split personalities could be a head ache to deal with, but he was gradually becoming used to it. Or loosing his own sanity, Primus save him.
"If I may ask, Lord Megatron," Blitzwing ventured, "What are you going to do when you get out?"
Aw, Blitzwing was trying to cheer Megatron up! He asked this question at least once every day, even though he knew the answer, knowing that Megatron loved a good rave.
"First," Megatron began with a devilish smile, "I will rip the Spark chamber out of the first Autobot I see, whether it be mech, femme, or proto-form. Then I will free all my mechs from this cursed prison, hi-jack several spacecraft, and burn this cursed place to the ground. Then I will seek and find out the Autobots who put me here and kill each and every one of them, one by one, very slowly. But I won't start with them, oh no, no, no, that would be far too easy. Rather, I'll begin with their friends and family, starting with those least important to them and making my way up to their lovers and best friends. Then I will kill their best friends and lovers ever so slowly in front of them and give them hope by acting like I have some sort of sickness or weakness. We will fight and I will let them win part way… then I will crush them beneath my boot!"
Megatron leaped to his feet, standing tall as a vengeful fire burned in his ruby red optics while he clenched his black metal hands in excitement.
"Then I will laugh at them as they die!" he shouted, "I will laugh while they bleed and die below me! And then I will go on to ruin Cybertron and take my rightful throne as Lord Megatron, ruler of the universe!!!"
"Hail, Megatron!" Blitzwing cheered. "For it shall be done!"
"Yes, yes it will be—"Megatron began.
But the sound of Blitzwing's faces changing sounded out again and the first voice that had been singing, the one warped with energy and enthusiasm, interrupted Megatron.
"No, really, it'll happen! I know a way out of here!"
Megatron stared at the blank wall of his prison for one dumb moment as he ran the last sentence through his processor a couple dozen more times in quick succession. Finally, he spun around and faced the wall through which he and Blitzwing were communicating.
"What!?" he exclaimed.
The whirring gears sounded again and the calm voice of Blitzwing replied, "It's rather simple and an old trick: I pretend to be dead and the guards will come in to see if I'm okay. When they're close enough, I'll off line them, take their prison keys, and revenge is yours."
"How will you manage to play dead?" Megatron asked curiously.
He heard a boot kick the ceiling and glass shatter as the light there was taken out.
"There, they won't be able to see for sure until it's too late," Blitzwing said in satisfaction. "Now we wait…"
"Blitzwing, if this plan works, you will be rewarded well," Megatron promised and meaning it for once while not actually promising death.
Several more hours passed and Megatron became more and more impatient. Normally, he would despise any and all contact with his guards, as it would always end with them jeering at him and making sarcastic comments about his plummet from greatness, thoroughly abusing his situation. It was not also embarrassing, but demeaning and infuriating. But if Blitzwing's plan worked, then he would be able to make his guards eat their insults. But first the guards needed to come…
Megatron had not meant to fall asleep, but next thing he knew the automatic cell light was off, signaling night time, and he could hear voices next door.
"Hey, triple changer! Answer us!" one of the guards snarled.
"Uh, he's not moving," the second guard said nervously.
"Oh come on," the first guard snarled as an electronic lock beeped as it was unlocked. "What could have killed him? He's in a freaking Stockade cell for Primus' sake…"
A triumphant smirk crossed Megatron's face when he heard the crash of metal on metal as Blitzwing burst into action. The guards screamed before there were awful metal snaps as they were disposed of. But the smirk disappeared, how ever, when emergency sirens had been going off.
"What the Pit--?" a deep-voiced, angry side of Blitzwing began to ask outside.
"The alarms were attached the guards' vital signs," Megatron snarled. "Quick, unlock me!"
"I am trying; the locks won't work!"
"The locks must be programmed to shut and stay shut if the alarm is tripped," Megatron cursed. "There is no time to bust me out. Blitzwing, I am giving you a direct order: Escape, go to Shockwave, and help him rally my army together to free me from this prison. Go, now!"
"Yes, Lord Megatron!" Blitzwing replied. "I looked forward to when we will meet again."
The familiar series of mechanical tones of a Transformer behaving on their name sake sounded out and rockets blasted outside as Blitzwing assumed his jet form and sped away. Megatron sat down hard on his bench, resting his elbows on his knees and his face on his fists, feeling rotten and yet, relieved.
He felt rotten because freedom had come so close—so close!—and had eluded him because of some simple alarm tricks. But he also felt relieved because he had sent Blitzwing out to gather his army for him; a soldier that, while unusual, had proven himself to be valuable and loyal.
Now, it was a simple matter of waiting…
- - - -
"You didn't have to go so fast," Officer Charles said as he scribbled some writing onto the ticket. "I mean, if you were delivering a woman in labor to the hospital, or had someone loosing a lot of blood in the back seat, I would understand. Heck, if you were being chased by robots I would order you to go faster!" he laughed, completely ignoring how his unfortunate victim cringed in his seat.
Mentioning the Transformer robots that had come to plague Detroit may have been excess, but it was a harmless joke of a threat. The parents told their children about the boogeyman to keep them in line and Officer Charles told law breakers about the alien robots to keep them in line. Sure, many of the robots, the Autobots, were good guys, but there were other guys, like the Decepticons, who were bad guys and had earned their reputation of fear.
Five years ago the robots known as Transformers had appeared, turning Detroit into their battlefield for power. Charles had seen a lot of action in those days, starting with the enormous slug bug made of nanobots, moving on to everything from hay wire police drones, a super speedy thief, and a massive technology freeze on the entire city. Oh, and the fire-breathing Dinobots; that was particularly memorable because Captain Fanzone, head of the Detroit police department, had actually taken a bazooka from someone near him and… well, you get the idea.
Life had been such pain for a long time after that, but Charles and the other police men got used to it. Among the usual calls of getting cats out of trees and investigating an occasional homicide or robbery, every police and fire man in the city would find themselves bolting to one end of the city where buildings were being crushed while enormous titans of steel fought it out in the wide streets of the advanced technology city. Heck, after a while it became a joke as the officers bet among themselves which building was going to get a "renovation" soon.
"Here," Charles said, handing the Pink Slip of Doom to the driver of the car he had pulled over. "Drive safe, now; there's road construction ahead."
The driver nodded and waited until Charles was on his way back to his motorcycle before speeding away. Charles didn't even bother considering chasing after the reckless sap; he was having a good day. The sun was shining, the weather was warm, and he hadn't had to investigate any gruesome murders or robberies lately. He didn't have to worry about robots because a year ago the Autobots finally defeated the Decepticons, leaving Detroit safe. Now the Autobots were stationed in Detroit to keep an eye out for any more threats, but so far the threats were nothing the well-armed police force couldn't handle. Life was good for the police man, and on top of that, he had his motorcycle.
The day the police force had received its new motorcycles, Charles had thought it was a publicity stunt of some sort because they were so cool. The motorcycles were sleek and black with golden headlights and accents, seeming more like something a young action movie star would be riding. The price tag proved such a fact, but the bikes were for the police and the police alone.
Charles loved his bike, polishing it once every week and keeping it clean and in top condition. He loved how it hummed beneath him on the roads, gliding across rough and smooth pavement alike, and turned at the gentlest twist of the handle bars or leans. Other officers often joked that Charles and his bike were a lot alike; slim, strong, and dark. Charles begged to differ; with his brown mustache, curly hair, and deep blue eyes, with only slightly tanned complexion, he thought he resembled a truck driver. Just put the man in jeans and a flannel shirt, driving a beat up 1980's Ford through a dusty Texas field and he would complete the image. But who was he to judge his looks?
He threw a white-panted leg, clad with a knee-high black boot, over the back of his motorcycle and settled down on the comfortably firm black leather seat. He picked up his white helmet from the seat in front of him and set it over his brown curly hair before pulling a pair of mirror shades from the yellow collar of his black police top and slipped them on. Gripping the handle bars with his black gloved hands, he started his motorcycle up and slid into the Saturday morning traffic of the highway. Larger vehicles zipped by all around him, threatening to shove him off balance with their wind flow, but Charles rode firm, a small smile implanted on his face as he patrolled the highway, keeping an eye out for speeders, but not being a stickler for the laws, either. It was a nice day; there was no need to be discourteous!
The traffic soon stopped and Charles had to stop behind a large semi between and in front of some cars. Ahead of him, around the sound of idling engines and music blasting from car radios, he could hear construction going on ahead as the city fixed yet another busted area of the highway left over from the Transformers' battles. Charles turned on his own radio, tuning into a country station, and began to hum along to the familiar beat, tapping his fingers on the handle bars. The song lulled out momentarily before its final crescendo.
But the crescendo never came.
Instead, after a moment of silence, a sort of banjo instrument began. It was the sort of sound that one immediately associated with Asian dujos and Buddhist temples. In Charles' own mind, he suddenly drew up an image of a red-wood dujo with yellow paper screens making the walls, adorned with ancient paintings of Chinese symbols and long, serpent-like dragons. Weird, this was a country station; maybe someone got the tapes mixed up in the radio station?
Charles prepared to change the station, but a flute entered the song, adding the impression of femininity to the song. But then the flute began to warp, being chopped by strange beeps that faded out into whines and whistles. It wasn't an ugly noise, but it was just so strange!
In his mind's eye, the red wood of the dujo became metallic, and the Chinese symbols and dragons turned into strange runes--
Charles quickly swatted the radio's off switch, silencing the music. It took him a moment to realize that he was shivering and panting heavily. Why was he so afraid of music?
He hesitantly turned the radio on again in time to hear the final lyrics of the country song. No weird dujo music, no Asian-techno; just an all-American blue-collar worker singing a sad sort of praise about love and summer nights at the lake.
He got off his motorcycle and rolled it between the cars over to the side of the high way. The highway was built on a bridge over a series of flood-control gates and concrete creeks. He looked down on these from over the edge of the over pass. Sighing, he rubbed his face. What was wrong with him? Maybe he was sick and should call off work. He had been sleeping poorly lately…
- - - -
Had Officer Charles kept looking over the edge of the highway down into the flood control system, he would have seen a matter that may have required his assistance. A smallish man with slicked back grey-brown hair, dressed in ragged pale blue jeans and a denim jacket over a white shirt bolted across the dry concrete banks, fleeing from a larger, angry-looking man in a red leather jacket, white shirt, and black jeans.
The black-haired man bellowed at his quarry, "Get back here, you little snitch! I'll show you what it's like getting back stabbed, you s#*! Toby! Get back here!"
"Sorry, no hard feelings, Rick, but I have to bring bread to the table and I needed to know what you know about the underground dog fights!" the fleeing blue-based man called over his shoulder. To him, his words were understandable, but to his pursuer, they came out as a rushed garble.
"What the hell did you just say to me, you little punk!?" Rick snarled.
Toby just screamed in panic as they came to the other side of the dried flood control creeks. Toby was still shouting when he saw an alley entrance blocked off by chain-link fencing. He scrambled up the fence, leaping down from the top, and bolting on to the safe, crowded streets of shopping district of Detroit beyond. Rick stopped at the fence, panting heavily as he glared after the smallish man. Snarling in frustration, he smacked the fence hard and shook his head.
"If I could just fly—"He began to mutter, but he realized how stupid that sounded and corrected him self. "If that little speedster was just a little slower, I would teach him a lesson about loyalty…"
But, seeing as how the chase was over, he turned away and walked away, already planning his route to a bar with a mug of beer to loose his anger in.
Toby mean while, saw that he was safe and slipped into a crowded second-hand store reeking of mothballs. Hiding in the corner between walls of cheap jewelry and behind a rack of moldy fur coats, he pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
"Hey, Josh," he said, "It's me, Toby, I got good and bad news."
"What's the good news?" Detective Josh Owl on the other end of the line asked his partner.
"Good news," Toby began. "I found out where the crooks are running their dog-fighting business. Bad news; the guy I was tailing, Rick Spinster, found out who I was and now I can't show my face in public or else he's going to kill me--"
"Can you calm down and say that again? You're talking too fast."
"I am talking normal," the stool pigeon argued, but took a deep breath and repeated him self anyway. Towards the end, he teased John by speaking slowly.
"… This has been brought to you by Whale Speak Incorporated," he finished slowly. "Courtesy of Nemo—"
"Shut up and get your ass back to the office, Toby," Detective Owl laughed. "I'll buy you a drink for the job well done."
"See you there," Toby replied quickly before hanging up.
Once out of the shop, he decided that it was a nice day to enjoy a little exercise and bypassed the process of hailing a taxi, choosing instead to run back to the office instead.