Title: Rites of Passage

Continuity: Marvel G1

Characters: Needlenose, Spinister, random artist OCs

Rating: PG-13

Genre: Gen

Warnings: Artcrime

Word Count: +2,700

Summary: Needlenose has a flashback to before the war and to the strange criminal decadence of the artists then.

The Slaughter City solid light simulation was notorious. While 'only' a simulation, it could and did kill. The simulation was designed to weed out the unworthy, and though he tried to keep it from showing, putting on a cool, unconcerned facade, Needlenose doubted if he really had the makings of a Mayhem. Fear stilling his servos, he thought, 'That kind of thinking is going to get me killed. I've got to stay hip to the situation; keep on top of things.'

An edge of exasperation cutting into his voice, Spinister asked, "You coming?"

"You coming?" asked Stopgap, Master Pulsegate's other apprentice. Stopgap had studied under Pulsegate longer than Needlenose had, but he was lazy and inattentive.

"Ah, this looks about dry," Needlenose decided, considering the antiquated-style glyphs calligraphed on his arms.

"'Death is certain'?" Stopgap read awkwardly.

"'Change is certain'," Needlenose corrected. Writings in the old tongue as bodily decoration were all the rage.

"Why's it look like death?"

"Well..." He paused; he really had no idea. "When you change form, you're not the old thing anymore. That's a little death, yeah?"

"Oh." Stopgap looked satisfied with that answer, if a bit confused.

"Now, let's get going. You're going to make me late." Needlenose stalked out of their quarters, which were small, cramped, and littered with a dozen half-finished projects. They quietly made their way down to Pulsegate's main gathering room. No one was here yet but Pulsegate himself; their master wanted them to help set up the room for the coming revel.

"I'll put out the drinks myself," Pulsegate decided. "You two tidy the workshop. There'll be a slating this revel."

Needlenose nodded and went off to do so. Stopgap followed a pace behind, perhaps a bit put-out that he did not get to handle the drinks. He would have tried to sneak some, which was no doubt the reason that Pulsegate reserved the task for himself. Indeed, tidying the workshop was just a make-work task designed to keep his apprentices from bothering him. The workshop was not messy.

Stopgap sat down on one of the light-blue worktables, finding it too much effort to stand. "A slating, huh? Those are always great fun."

"Yeah, but I'm wondering where he's getting the slate," Needlenose said, moving the hoop-rig into the centre of the workshop. It was a plain, opaque metal model, unlike the fancy clear one that Needlenose had seen at another revel. Big enough to encircle all but the biggest Transformers, the hoop-rig consisted of two rings, one fitted inside the other. One ring rotated horizontally and the other vertically. A mech locked into the hoop-rig by the sets of shackles attached to the inner ring could be rotated into nearly all positions.

Stopgaps suggested, "Maybe he got it himself for once?"

"Scut-work like catching slates is an apprentice's job," Needlenose reminded. The usual method of procuring a slate was to go into the slums and find a lone empty, a homeless Transformer. Lone empties worked best because, if other empties saw the artists, they might get wise. From there, they took the empty back with them, using force, lies, or bribery. Stopgap liked force, as it was generally quicker, but Needlenose preferred coercion. It did not harm the goods as much, not that it really mattered.

After all, they were just going to secure the empty, now called a slate, in the hoop-rig and strip out all the parts that could be stripped. Then, the fun part, which was mostly reserved for journeymen and masters, began. They replaced the slate's pieces with finely-crafted ones and transformed it into a work of art. After the reviews of the finished piece were completed, the slate was generally taken apart, its pieces given out as party favours.

There were other ways of acquiring slates and other fates that a slate might meet, of course. Needenose put those out of his mind and concentrated on shoving the worktables off to the side. Master Pulsegate's revel would not be as big or impressive as some revels were, Needlenose knew, but it was enough that Pulsegate even let them attend. Some masters did not let their apprentices attend revels at all, not wanting them to bother the more experienced, important artists.

Despite Stopgap's lack of effort, they finished in good time, long before the guests started to arrive. When the visitors did, Needlenose and Stopgap knew the rules. They were allowed to converse politely, if the guests showed interest but were not to bore or annoy them. If the visitors wanted something reasonable, Needlenose and Stopgap were to do their bests to get it.

Needlenose did so and found himself discussing a box of bolts with one guest, who said grandly, "This one looks really smug, doesn't he? Thinks he's the best bolt out there." He scowled and plucked another bolt out of the box. "He's better than the first once is, but he's too shy to say. Going to be head down in a gutter someday, he is. Too nice for his own good." On and on the reveller rambled, occasionally sending Needlenose to get him another box of bolts. All the while, the apprentice simply nodded helplessly and agreed with whatever the guest was saying.

A gaunt, dark-hued mech with neon orange code traced over his frame approached and asked Needlenose quite clearly, grinning slyly, "What do you think of him?"

"I, uh, Master, ah?" Needlenose fumbled.

"Master Cognitive Sculptor Delve," the mech identified. "He's my newest creation."

Given that new information, the bolt-personifier's odd behaviour made sense. Cognitive sculptors carefully shaped ways of thought to make their artworks. So, the seemingly screw-loose mech had been cleverly created that way on purpose. Needlenose answered, "Very striking, Master Delve."

His name should have warned Needlenose, and the sculptor then spent a good block of time prying out in excruciating detail every little thing the apprentice thought about the sculpture. Being a shaper of minds, Delve proved very good at that task. He and his creation eventually left Needlenose, who felt exhausted by the ordeal.

The sculptor left just in time, too, because the slating was about to begin. Needlenose found Stopgap and joined him in keeping mostly out of the way but still there if needed. No slate occupied the hoop-rig, which made Needlenose uneasy. Had something gone wrong? The slate was usually bound in the hoop-rig by now.

Three Transformers separated from the crowd and neared the hoop-rig. One was white and pale gold with turquoise trim. He had a simple, lithe design and the look of a dancer. Under bright stage lights, his light, uncluttered form would fade away to almost nothing, with only his turquoise accents to define his dance. The second was a blocky orange and brown mech who had the look of construction equipment of some sort. The last of the three seemed to have stone for armour, swirling grooves cut into his shell. Needlenose recognised him a bit, though he could not put a name to the face. He was actually a painter; the odd carapace was a gift from a stone-worker.

Pulsegate navigated his way through the crowd to stand behind Needlenose and whispered, "Get up in the hoop-rig."

Needlenose looked back over his shoulder at his master, dazed for a moment. Thoughts surged through his mind. What? Me? Stopgap is the useless one. Maybe I have been arrogant, but I am worth ten Stopgaps.

Needlenose walked up to the hoop-rig resolutely, the thoughts of running or fighting never entering his racing mind. The three encircling the rig were reassuring, after a fashion. They showed that there was hope for him, that there might be more to this than just the entertainment of his betters. Needlenose set his feet on the horizontal-spinning hoop, careful not to fall. He would have his dignity. Sometimes, unwanted apprentices were slated. Needlenose caught the upper portion of the hoop with his hands and set the manacles to auto-lock as soon as something was placed within them. Sometimes, slating was the trial to become a journeyman, and if any of Master Pulsegate's apprentices were ready for it, he was. He ducked down and bound his feet. Smoothly as possible, Needlenose stood, stretched out his arms, and caught his wrists in the upper set of manacles.

In the case of such a test, three masters would oversee the slating. One would be a practical artist, to see that a fit body was created. One would be a high artist, to see that the body had artistic merit to it. One would be a performance artist, to judge the slate's conduct. Did it accept its fate as art with grace? Did it shame itself with ugly fear and resistance? Builder, painter, and dancer watched him and took up tools to remove the first pieces.

They did not silence his voice and did nothing to dull the pain as his armour was pared away. Needlenose was a little cheered by this occurrence. Slates were almost always quieted, and drugging them into stupor was not uncommon. If the workers neglected to do so, it was because they wanted to keep him from crying out or shaking with pain all by himself, to be a good subject and show himself worthy. He was silently appreciative that his creator had thought, for whatever reason, to give him a faceplate; it made disguising his pain and dread just a little easier.

Their ceremonial role in cutting the first pieces completed, the builder, the painter, and the dancer delegated tasks, getting others to do the tedious task of stripping out Needlenose's pieces, though the dancer kept a close optic on Needlenose's reactions. Having his carapace removed stung and smarted, but he tried to put the pain out of mind. Certainly, he could offline his perceptions of pain, but artists had odd ways of seeing things. If the dancer did not see the pain shutdown himself, another would notice it and report his weakness to the dancer, who would not take such news favourably. Shutting off his perceptions of pain would be like taking circuit boosters before a gladiatorial game. They might help in the short term, but they would get a gladiator killed in the long run.

His armour off, the revellers set into removing the next layer of components, mostly a sensor layer. Beyond merely the pain, the experience made Needlenose excruciatingly uncomfortable. The severing of shell from frame had involved cutting tools, which kept the others at a distance. The yanking of sensors was mostly done by hand, as if he was a dead, dumb machine not worthy of his own personal space. Even if circumstances necessitated touch, as with heavy repairs, others were generally polite enough to dampen their fields. None of the workers dampened their fields for Needlenose's benefit. He was thankful, so very thankful as each sensor was removed. Instead of the rude, intruding energy fields of the others, he felt a blessed dull, tingly pain.

Then, his primary brain module support was cut. His awareness of his environment, already dulled by the removal of so many sensors, dimmed more. Had Needlenose's optics still been in his head, they would have blackened for a moment. Energy was shuffled from sensing the world to preserving his life. The workers took out his now still fuel lines and pump. His secondary pump and lines, buried deeper in his body than the primary system, still functioned, as did his tertiary brain module support, his battery.

Next, out went his locomotive system, and Needlenose felt absurdly grateful. He felt more pain - a sort of torn feeling, the fuzziness of static from no input, and a queer sense of loss, as a large portion of himself was gone. The joy and relief came from no longer needing to force away his urge to quiver, as now he could not move at all.

They severed his secondary brain module support and removed its trappings; the little pump nestled in and the thin lines wrapped around his deep structure. Needlenose was left his near-bare bodywork, mental components, his battery, a smattering of sensors, and a scant few wires twined around his innermost frame, barely keeping his few parts connected. He felt tiny and insensate, receded into himself. The workers loomed large, flickers in the dark, light catching the edges to suggest a form far greater than his mind could hold and behold.

Though taken leisurely, as neither ceremony nor entertainment held any hurry, the paring down of the apprentice to his bare self in truth passed quickly, many eager hands making light work. Only to Needlenose did the ordeal stretch out to span a private eternity.

His rebuilding set the previous experience on its head, as if time was flowing backwards, albeit down a different stream than it had previously run. Needlenose could tell, even early into the shaping, that his new alternate mode would be quite different from his old form. Someone, perhaps that cognitive sculptor Delve, tinkered with Needlenose's mind to prepare him for his new body. The more that Needlenose thought, the less that he could even identify the apprentice who helped Stopgap tidy the workshop as himself.

The workers set wheels into his structure, and Needlenose felt a twinge of sullen anger glinting within like metal barely heated to glowing, though he doused the feeling and let it die before its wrathful shine betrayed him. He needed serenity and willingness to accept what his remakers decided. Needlenose felt his body take on the shape of one who transformed into a ground vehicle. Those had gone out of style ages ago. Furthermore, the officiators of this slating ceremony, the builder, the painter, and the dancer, were none-too-subtly hinting that he was arrogant and needed to come back down to the ground. He thought sulkily, Is it pride when I really am that good? Needlenose resolved to show them all, if he survived in any meaningful fashion.

Now pieced together, Needlenose ached dully and static clouded his mind, his thoughts clearing slowly as he adapted to the new body. The guests circled around him, looking with piercing gazes. They searched for flaws in the design and flaws in the materials - him! Needlenose listened to the critiques of the crowd half-interestedly. He found it hard to connect the abstract reviews of style and methodology with the physical body that he wore. The comments seemed so irrelevant and far away. The revellers used the hoop-rig to contort him into awkward positions and even into his new alternate form, and he grew a bit dizzy.

Trying hard to think, Needlenose knew that there were a few ways that the slating could end, and he mentally reviewed them. If Master Pulsegate owed someone a favour, Needlenose might end up in that someone's private collection. That outcome seemed unlikely, though. If the dancer, his judge, was truly displeased with his performance, he would be killed and his pieces given out as party favours. If Needlenose did poorly but not so poorly as to be killed, his brain module would be given to an artist who could make use of a living soul, and the rest of his parts would be gifted away. In the final option, Needlenose would be set free and acknowledged as a journeyman.

He felt hands at his wrists, removing the manacles. Half-freed, Needlenose flicked his optics slightly to each side in turn, confirming the painter and the dancer as his partial-liberators. The builder had dropped down to remove one of the manacles on Needlenose's feet. The practical arts were always regarded as lower and less important than the performing and high arts, though construction was perhaps the most sacred of practical arts. Only a sensor-dead mech could deny that the planet felt alive, and though many debated what it meant. Everyone agreed that it meant something, even if the meaning was that there was no meaning. Construction mechs sculpted the face of the planet, hence the great respect for their kind. Needlenose vowed that he would have that kind of respect - no, more - for himself someday and bent to remove the last shackle.

As he did, the stone-clad painter hissed, "You'd do well to leave painting to your betters." The painter held a piece of Needlenose's old armour, the plate that displayed the 'change' that Stopgap had mistaken for 'death'.

Yeah, Needlenose decided, keeping his expression neutral as he stood on the uncertain perch that was the rim of the hoop-rig. I am going to be your better, and everyone's going acknowledge me as just that.

The dancer said, "Coming down anytime soon, Journeyman Needlenose?"

Spinister glared at Needlenose, losing patience with the potential Mayhem.

Reverie over, Needlenose nodded and affirmed, "I'm coming."

The End

Author's Note: This is a very old fanfic of mine, mostly just tossed up here to collect my fanfics in one place.