Beast Wars and all related belong to Hasbro. The story, its original contents and ideas, and any original characters belong to the author and cannot be used or reprinted without the author's permission
Disclaimer: No money, no rights, no life. I own all original characters unless otherwise specified.
Dedications: Like usual, the story is dedicated to the writers for their excellent work. It's also dedicated to all the voice actors, especially David Sobolov and Campbell Lane, for bringing these wonderful characters (especially my favorites) to life. As well as the writers of Beast Wars, it's also for the people I love in hopes that this will show that one day I can do something better.
Author's notes: Chapter two underway. Sorry this came out later than I had promised. I went back to edit it for upload and realized just how horrible it was. I HAD to redo it from scratch.
Epoch:
Candles
Joshin Yasha (joshinyasha at yahoo dot com)
The tall green and violet robot kicked aside a fresh pile of rubble that had coalesced under his work area. Now that he'd finished mining this section of green pyre, he braced himself against the rock wall fo the asteroid and slid to the ground. Reclining, the tall mech crossed his legs and retrieved the nearest oil canister that he had brought with him.
"Ahh, nothing like a can of oil to hit the spot," as he relaxed, he withdrew a tin filled with energon sticks, broke one in half, and began chewing on the pieces.
"That is incredibly pathetic," Stricture chuckled, leaning himself against the far wall. "I wouldn't have expected to find someone like you wasting your talents in some mine."
"Eh?" the green and violet mech turned to the other, raised an eye arch, and glanced from side to side. "Ewgh, you're not supposed to be down here. Not unless you're a miner."
"I know who you are, Decepticon," Stricture accused.
The mech waved his hands in effort to dissuade the other, shushing him to prevent others from hearing.
Stricture raised his own eye arch, then narrowed his optics. "You are Scrapper, one of the great builders! Why have you consigned yourself to a lowly mining position? You should be designing constructs of great testament to our cause."
"Look pal, it wasn't by choice. But you gotta keep your voice down," he pleaded, climbing to his feet and ushering the silver and gold Decepticon down a shallow passage. "Ya gotta go, okay? I can't be seen with other 'cons. My life depends upon it."
"Stop this," Stricture swatted the other's hands away, composed himself, then shook his helm in fury. "You are a Decepticon loyal to Megatron. You are the greatest engineer in the whole army. This place is not for you!"
"Just keep your voice down!" Scrapper shushed the other again, only this time instead of pressing a finger to his lips, he indicated to a metal strap bolted to his chest. "I can't transform, I can't even run without the Maximals tracking me down. This thing is designed to blow if I try to remove it - it'd take me and the next five-hundred meters with it."
Stricture blinked at Scrapper, went to press his hand over the device, yet withdrew it and blinked again. "Scrapper-"
"They don't know who I am. You gotta go before the ganger sees you," Scrapper pleaded. "I don't want to get another offense on my record."
"Very well, then," Stricture turned away, plodded a few paces, then threw a glance over his pauldron. "Should you wish to hear what I have to say, I will be in Ward Five, near the entrance to Round Deep. Tonight at the turn of the guards."
"I . . ." Scrapper had looked away only for a moment, but when he looked back to the passage, the Decepticon flyer was gone. "Eh, I don't need trouble. I don't need this . . ." Returning to his work area and downing the last of the oil, the green and violet Decepticon could have sworn he saw someone at the end of the tunnel watching him.
Depth Charge was awoken by the sudden chime at his apartment door. "Who is it?" he yipped, tripping over empty canisters of energon and oil.
"It's Jazz," the other announced from behind the door. "You said you wanted a wake up call before the Patriarch got back." He entered only after Depth Charge had opened the door and took a seat by the monitors arranged one next to the other. "So . . . since we're not at the base, is it okay for me to talk about the shuttle in the room?"
"I suppose," the blue and purple Maximal sighed, shoveling armaments and assorted tech into his subspace.
"Well, about the extra help you've called for. 'Lock and 'Slake and I were talking it over last night, and- well . . ." he composed himself, obscured the twitch at the corner of his optic with a subtle grin. "We heard they're femmes."
The chief of security rose to his full height, looked a question at the other, and said, "Don't go any further. You'll have to judge that on your own when they get here."
"About that," Jazz³ grinned and let the humour reach his optics. "The new monitor's already here. Cybershark went to meet her."
Depth Charge paused, cracked his neck in the direction of his third, and offered wide optics. Though they were not filled with surprise, his optics betrayed his disquietude. "How long ago did she arrive?"
Jazz³ grinned, "Long enough for Cy' to try his newly learned charisma on her."
". . . how did that turn out?"
"Plus-one for effort but negative-twelve on delivery. He'll be working the dents out for weeks."
"What time is it?" Depth Charge asked, purely for the sake of conversation.
"Five past thirty. Patriarch should be here in a megacycle. You going to meet him?" Jazz³ inquired, the smirk never once leaving his face.
"Like I have a choice. The damn bastard's got a stick so far up his aft there's no telling where it ends and his forehead begins." Incited, the security chief shoved the last of his artillery into his subspace and sealed it. He adjusted his gun blade along his hip and plucked a few empty oil containers from the floor and organized them haphazardly in the receptacle. Forcing an equally empty smile haphazardly to his face, Depth Charge ordered, "You should go help Cybershark before 'Therapy kills him."
"You'll be okay meeting the Patriarch alone? Sure you don't want me to send for 'Slake and 'Lock?"
"Yeah, I'll be fine. It's just some sparkling-sitting for a pampered bastard. What could possibly go wrong?"
The wealth of the colony was measured in resources, both astronomically and economically. The mines of green pyre, one of the heaviest metals known to Cybertronian kind, had sustained Omicron's economy and drawn thousands of miners from across the galaxy. Unfortunately, the influx of workers had created a social structure between those built for sub-zero temperatures and extraneous mining, and those built for more delicate, prestigious work.
Essentially, it was the difference between a low-level miner and the Patriarch.
Since Omicron was the furthest, fully self-sustained colony from Cybertron, it was one of the first checkpoints travels crossed going in and out of the territory. Even though it was three weeks travel by jump gate, a decent ship with faster than light capabilities could make the jump in less than two days. For someone like the Patriarch who had the resources, the trip was managed in a few hours.
In Depth Charge's opinion, it was too many hours too soon.
He watched from the flight tower as the shuttle toting the palatial barge into the dock. From his position against the wall, he peered through the protective plating that separated him from the depths of space. Not that it would matter - he was fully capable of surviving deep space travel.
What he couldn't survive was more than five nanoclicks in the presence of the Patriarch.
Running a hand across his face, Depth Charge soldiered his pride and prepared for the inevitable.
Making his way down to the harbour, the chief of security fumbled anxiously at his gun blade. The gesture went without regard by the sentries gliding along on patrol and the various dock workers shouldering their burdens of cargo and freight. While the sentries belonged to him in service, Depth Charge paid them no mind either; they were mindless drones, devoid of spark, and functioned only in a periphery sense. He liked them, for all they were worth, because they never got in his way and did their duty without flaw.
It was the Patriarch he didn't like. Especially with that face of callousness staring down from the platform of the barge. "You are late," the Patriarch denigrated.
Gritting, Depth Charge replied, "Your personal transport is waiting to take you to your quarters."
The Patriarch stooped under the trestle that crossed his path, paraded down the gangplank with attendants and pages following, and then came to a halt before the security chief. "Where is the rest of your guard? I was to have an armed escort."
Rather than contest that his guardians had other duties more important than a pyre patriarch, Depth Charge answered matter-of-factly, "I'll be escorting ya personally to your quarters."
"I am less than thrilled," the Patriarch chided. Directing a hand to one of his pages, the Patriarch indicated to his luggage. The page sprung into action, dividing the load between himself and the other servants. To Depth Charge, he quipped, "I do not think you take my safety seriously, guardian. Perhaps you would be better suited for another colony like Digamma or Upsilon. I hear Upsilon's last security chief took a walk out the airlock into the nearest star."
Ever inclined to ignore the Patriarch's condescending remarks, the blue and purple Maximal suggested, "If your security were not taken seriously, Patriarch, I wouldn't be here."
The Patriarch narrowed his optics in skepticism, pivoted off the gangplank, and began to stroll towards his transport. He made it to the door, held patiently by one of his attendants, who abased himself out of his master's way. Before he could climb into the vehicle, the Patriarch hesitated with one hand upon the seat.
Seemingly distracted by something unseen, the Patriarch cautiously backed away from the transport. His posture left much to be desired, for Depth Charge could not see around the other and into the vehicle. His instincts tingled, alert with the other's lack of vocabulary.
Primus and Murphy had horrible senses of humour.
Drawing his gun blade from his side, Depth Charge sighted down the barrel at the Patriarch's chest, just level with the middle of the vehicle's door frame, and ordered, "Move."
"I wouldn't do that, friend," someone suggested behind him. Depth Charge didn't have to look to know a gun had already been trained on the back of his head. "We're not after you, we just want that bastard."
"Do something!" ventured the Patriarch as he was subdued by his captors.
The chief of security didn't try to risk a glance. They were right - if they wanted him dead, he'd be so already. Instead, he said, "I'm chief of security for Colony Omicron. You're making a mistake if ya think I'll let you walk out of here with the Patriarch."
"He made the mistake when he decided to deny the rights of the miners here. Over and over they've petitioned for better working conditions, and that slag-sucking-saurian keeps lining his shuttles with the credits he's refusing to put towards new equipment."
"You can't be serious," Depth Charge muttered. "Who are you, some intergalactic solidarity union for labourers?"
"Just some humble proletariats working to overthrow the bourgeoisie bastards who run us into the ground," the speaker corrected.
"So, what? Ya've read some Terran manifesto and think it applies to you?" Depth Charge tucked, spun, and used the flat of his palm to knock the speaker's gun into the air before the shot could ring out and into the Patriarch. Continuing his motion, the security chief gripped the smaller bot by the throat, got behind him, and put the edge of his gun blade along the other's chest. The vibration of his blade pulsed through the other's chest and down towards the speaker's spark chamber. "Let the Patriarch go and I'll let you live.
There was the simultaneous redirection of weapons by the crowd of assailants who had hoodwinked the pages and attendants. The focus was now upon the leviathan and the speaker, weapons targeting the leviathan as best they could - those who were behind him were left with only the option of aiming at his wings, which were shielding the most vital points of his body.
"I'd stand down if I were you," Depth Charge warned, cutting the edge of his blade into the other. It was a light scrape, but the resonating pulse of the blade warned it could easily go deeper. To the air, he asked, "Jazz, did you get all that?"
~"Copy that. We're two minutes away."~
"You've got a choice, Marx. You can order your crew to stand down, or I can order mine to tear ya to pieces. What's it going to be?"
The speaker grunted, lobbed his helm from side to side, and took in the sight of his crew. They had this bot outnumbered, his guardians were minutes away, and yet he presumed to order them. "You're crazy if you think we're giving up. We got the Patriarch. You kill me, and my crew takes off with him anyway. You let me walk away from this, and I'll keep my men from shooting you."
The leviathan leered at the moisture that had blotted along the side of the speaker's helm. "You're nervous," he said. "You don't want to die, and you aren't killers. You know I have the advantage here."
"If you want to believe that," the speaker paused. Perhaps he was embellishing his role in this situation, but he was beginning to feel the weight of his uncertainty crawling along his neck and helm. "The Patriarch is ours," he forced, "and he's going to pay for his crimes."
"I'm giving you one last warning," Depth Charge glowered at the bot holding the Patriarch prisoner. Lazily, Depth Charge drew an unnecessary breath and exhaled the condensing vapour from his body. The wisps of air fluttered against the speaker's helm, crusted into a fine coating of glittering ice, and chipped away with the shaking of his helm. "Let him go, or my crew tears you apart."
"Go suck on a bomb, you-" started the bot holding the Patriarch, only he paused. His face slackened and gave way to deathly fear. There was the grating squeal of metal being drawn over itself, and then the pounding of the Patriarch's feet against the tarmac as he was free to run for his life. Sans explosion, the bot who had held the Patriarch captive looked like someone had scored his gauntlets and forearms and forced them open like metallic banana peels. The under frame that composed the pistons and mechanics of his hands wound piece over piece in curlicues.
During his mad dash across the hanger, one of the captors had thought to requisition their hold on the Patriarch. They fought to contain him while the bot who had once held him wailed in pain and fury.
"I told you," Depth Charge reprimanded. "Last chance before you're all torn apart."
"How the Pit did you do that?" the speaker fidgeted in his grip, but controlled the urge to lash out. The vituperative reminder from the security chief's blade was enough for him to reconsider struggling. "How?"
"Call 'em off, Marx. Ya still got a choice."
"Go to the Pit!"
"Misery," Depth Charge's voice rose, carrying over the crescendo of weapons chambering their rounds, "I want them functional!"
The Patriarch stumbled forward, and the bot who had held him collapsed under the weight of the larger transformer. Misery's thrusters engaged and welded the bot's arms to the ground. For a moment, all optics shifted to her, which provided Depth Charge with an opportunity.
He carved into the speaker's body, bisecting the other's left arm just above the elbow joint. Tipping him over, the security chief caprioled to land next to the Decepticon female. Leveling his weapon at the surrounding bots, Depth Charge resettled his wings with a flap to conceal the cowering Patriarch. "So, Miz. Why is it that every time you and I get together, we end up in a fight?"
Unwavering, Misery declared impassively, "Foreplay."
Risking a glance, the leviathan plastered a knowing smirk across his face and leered at the female. "Oh. Hell. Yes." To the revolutionary who had taken advantage of Depth Charge's distraction, he promptly cracked the bot's face with a punch. "Remember, Miz," he holstered his gun blade, took a fighting stance, and continued, "you can't kill them!"
"You are particular," she holstered her handguns, spread her hands out, and widened her ice blue dactyls. Lowering her gauntlets towards the ground, Misery clenched her fists and raised them above her helm. In one fluid motion, the grating rumbled, crumpled upward, and enclosed the feet of two of the attackers. Falling into a dead run, Misery flipped into the air and leapt over the captive pages, then grabbed hold of the two bots. The green orbs of her shoulders grew in intensity and ice spread from her grip along their arms.
Once their frames became fragile and brittle, she crushed them in her pincer grip, ripped them from the rest of their bodies, and left them trapped within the grating. At the same time, Depth Charge shouldered his way past two more bots, dodging their weapons and shoving their faces into the ground. Disarming them to the lesser extent than Misery had done, the security chief broke their weapons under his feet and moved on to the others.
Gripping at the site of his amputated arm, the speaker weighed his options, understood his new disadvantage, and turned tail. As Depth Charge brought the last of the speaker's followers to the ground, he caught sight of the fleeing bot and yelled to Misery as he threw stasis-cuffs on the assailant, "Misery! Stop him!"
Transforming to jet mode, the blue and black Decepticon bypassed the speaker, transformed again, and landed in front of the speaker with her weapon drawn. She trained her hand gun upon the other's knee joint and opened fire. The blast buckled the Maximal and dropped him to the ground. She said, "You are finished."
"Misery, holster your weapon," he commanded, approaching her with the Patriarch in tow. Even though the Patriarch was yelling obscenities at the leviathan, he did take the time to share a long gaze with the Decepticon female.
Understanding passed between them, and Misery fastened the gun to her hip where it folded into the confines of her subspace. "Depth Charge," she nodded.
"Misery," he acknowledged. Behind him, the Patriarch ranted into his audio, criticizing everything from his role as a security guard to the size of his transformation cogs. Despite having crimson optics only for one another, they both had given over their audios to the Patriarch's inane gibberish.
"-and this goes to show your absolute disregard for my well-being!" screamed the Patriarch.
At last they turned to face him, finding the Patriarch on the verge of overwhelming rage. It was Misery who commanded coldly, "You will be silent."
"You dare to speak to me like that," glowered the Patriarch.
"You are alive, unfortunately," Misery took several steps up to the Patriarch, reached out with her left gauntlet, and proceeded to shove him back several paces. "You hold no authority here. You hold no rank. Depth Charge rules this colony and you are nothing but a merchant."
She lowered her face close to his, scarlet optics narrowing as the orbs upon her shoulder's dimmed. "You will do as commanded, or the goal of these revolutionaries will be unmitigated."
"You would see me destroyed by miners? Labourers?" the Patriarch cowered, lifting his arms to shield himself from potential harm.
Slowly, sadistically, Misery warped her grimace into a manicured smile filled with vehemence. "You underestimate the strength of that lies within a miner's melancholy." Then, she brushed past him to go and stand among the captured villains.
The Patriarch flashed a venomous scowl at the leviathan, but before he had the chance to say anything further, Depth Charge met him head on. "I've put up with your shit long enough. I've got no servitude to you, so don't expect me to arrange for any more security details for you." He raised a silver finger and stuck it in the other's face to keep him from interrupting. "Shape up your act, bastard. Otherwise you'll have another rebellious group after your head."
Passing him by, Depth Charge left the Patriarch speechless in what must have been the first incident of anyone disagreeing with him. Jogging to close the distance between himself and Misery, Depth Charge joined her at the same moment that Jazz³ landed with Air-slake and Air Lock in tow.
"Yo, bossbot," Air Lock chuckled, peered at the subdued assailants, and continued, "looks like you didn't need our help after all." To Misery, he said, "Hello. Who might you be?"
Depth Charge spoke for her when Misery offered the Maximal only a passing glance. "This is Misery. She's our officer on loan from the Tripredacus Council."
Air Lock paused, swallowed carefully, and shared a side-long exchange with his twin. "It's a," Air-slake hesitated, chose his words carefully, then grimaced, "pleasure to meet you."
The Decepticon female paid them no mind, favouring an aside to Depth Charge to account for his unasked question. "I arrived twenty cycles before you transmitted on the open security channel."
"You're not officially on duty, yet," Depth Charge offered. "Ya didn't have to pitch in if ya didn't want to."
"It is a plausible choice. One I may choose to implement in the future." She flicked her tongue across her upper lip, erected herself to full height, and rapped her dactyls upon her collar. "Yet, you are the chief of security for Omicron. My services are to you as requested by the Tripredacus Council."
Briefly, the blue and purple Maximal considered saying more, but decided not to pry further into her motives. "Well, Misery, if there's no further interruptions, perhaps you should be seen to your flat."
"Perhaps," she casually nodded.
"I feel like we're missing something here," Jazz³ whispered to Air-slake, who only grunted in response.
"Yeah," Air-slake sighed. "Like we're missing some cosmic, pre-ordained story."
Jazz³ furrowed his brow in confusion as Air Lock elbowed his twin in the side. The twin waved his hand adamantly in protest, "I think what my brother means to say is that there's a story here. Something we've not been privileged to."
The third-generation sired returned his attention to the Decepticon female. The corner of his mouth quirked with too many presumptions and not enough facts. He gestured to the bots who now lacked hands with which to fight. "Misery, yeah? I guess all this is your doing?"
Offering an upturned palm, she mused with deadpan accuracy, "I disarmed them."
No one laughed.
"You are preoccupied," Misery observed. Their tour had lead them to one of the residential districts of Ward 1, which was structurally seated upon the dome to Ward 2. Only the dim lighting of the hallway illuminated their bodies, but the tense posture of the Maximal was evident.
"Just wondering about the blowback that's gonna result from us pissing off the Patriarch," Depth Charge said distractedly.
"The resulting ramifications number in the thousands. You would do well to preempt the Patriarch."
"What would you suggest?" Depth Charge asked, tilting his helm upon his pauldron before coming to a halt outside a set of double doors. Depth Charge withdrew a data crystal from his side and offered it to the console. He indicated to the screen, "You can reset the passcode, by the way. The temp' is seven-seven-nine-two."
The black and blue Decepticon typed the code into the touch pad, paused long enough to eye the larger Maximal skeptically, then typed 1-9-8-4 into the panel. Withdrawing the data crystal from the console, Misery pocketed it into subspace before enjoining, "You could always beg for his forgiveness."
Sashaying up the stairs into the flat, Misery halted at the top and winked coyly. As she Disappeared around the corner, Depth Charge ascended the stairs with fervor and joined the Decepticon female in the common area. Having seen the schematics, the Maximal knew to expect the view overlooking the crest of the asteroid the colonists mined from, as well as the evening star descending below the horizon. He also knew to expect the floor-length windows that turned their gaze upon the interior of Omicron.
But for someone unaccustomed to the angle, the view warranted an instinctual survival grip. The artificial gravity that composed the residential area embedded into the walls of Ward 1 was designed to provide wealthy colonists with a bird's eye view that left the onlooker perpendicular to the center of the colony.
"I have swept the flat for listening devices," she said upon approach, placing a hand upon the forearm that Depth Charge had leveraged against potentially falling through the reinforced glass and into the streets of the city. "I detect none."
"Good to know," Depth Charge swallowed with considerable effort, righted himself in relation to the room, and turned his back to the windows to stop himself from flinching for the nearest bolted object. Finally, he said, "It's good to see you, Misery."
"Your sentiment is noted and dully ignored," she responded, tentatively tracing her fingertips along the modernistic lounge chair. "This flat is exotic for my tastes. I prefer simplistic quarters."
"If ya don't like it, I can find ya something else." Depth Charge rolled his pauldrons in an aloof version of a shrug, completely noncommittal and nonchalant. To the wall, he said, "I bought this place a long time ago to use as a safe house. Never had to use it, but I thought you'd prefer it since it's off the grid."
Misery eyed him, trying to discern a subtext existed beneath the Maximal's words, and retorted, "It will suffice."
Turning to face her, Depth Charge offered an empty expression that leaked lust from his optics. "Miz, about earlier. I was thinking-"
Cutting the security chief off before he could sully the moment with romantic notions, the blue and black Decepticon postulated, "You are concerned that I would not undertake a residency at the behest of the Tripredacus Council unless I had knowledge of Xyston's whereabouts."
There was a moment of discomfort from the other as he fought to conceal his emotions. Depth Charge chose his words with considerable effort. "Well, the thought had crossed my mind."
Misery gave him an awkward glance, revoked the chemicals within her pauldrons so that they dulled to a muted green, and then paced around the lounge. Now that she stood in front of it, Misery resigned herself to the lounge and planted her feet firmly upon the floor on either side of the recliner. "I will be frank, Depth Charge. Xyston is here," her admission induced an uncontrived gulp from the other. "He is within the wards of Omicron, and I intend to liberate him from his captors."
"Are ya sure that's a good idea?" he queried. "He tried to kill ya last time."
"Put yourself in his place," she tilted her helm to the left, optics narrowing to slits of blood dotted with evening suns. "Xyston was captured, abused, and experimented upon. Those unbroken by torture often reciprocate revenge ten fold upon their abductors."
"What he did to Ultimatum wasn't revenge," Depth Charge sighed, folding his arms over his expansive chest.
Raising an eye arch in curiosity, Misery goaded, "You defend the Autobot who sought to murder you?" There was a twitch at the corner of her mouth, then she smirked from audio to audio. Although Depth Charge did not know it at the time, Misery's second in command had teleported into the room quietly and was currently giving his captain two thumbs up. "To argue that point further would bring us to an impasse. Memory serves that we were both attacked by our allies."
The Maximal turned away at the same moment that Stricture chose to teleport to the other side of him, leaving the space undisturbed and keeping to the periphery so as not to be seen. Pantomiming with his hands, the blue and silver Decepticon mimicked a meeting between two acquaintances, feigned hesitation of the left hand, coercion with his right hand, juggled empty air with both hands in decision, and "shook hands" with his left thumb and right pinky.
"What will ya do once you find him?" Depth Charge asked juxtaposed unknowingly to Stricture's movements. "I can't condone either of you killing anyone on this colony."
"Why, Depth Charge, however could you?" Misery suppressed a laugh. No reason to aggravate the leviathan. At least, not yet. "As I am a liaison to Colony Omicron on behalf of the Tripredacus Council, I cannot disobey an order from the chief of security."
Silence devoured the flat, and when Stricture realized Depth Charge hadn't immediately jumped at the chance to give his captain a direct order, he wagged his finger in Misery's direction and grinned as if to say 'Tricky, tricky, that was a good play!'.
Torn between his Maximal upbringing and the teachings Misery had bestowed upon him seven stellarcycles ago, Depth Charge was at a loss for words. Life was the right of all sentient beings, but Misery had taught him to question the decisions of others, regardless of faction. The overwhelming evidence at the research facility that day they simultaneously found and lost Xyston pointed undoubtedly to Maximal involvement. He'd seen it. He'd identified it.
"Perhaps it is a decision not yet to be made," Misery offered, nearly cracking her neck with whiplash. Her posture had tensed for a fraction of a nanoclick when Stricture had teleported yet again to avoid being caught by Depth Charge. Stricture waved emphatically to the female Decepticon, and then, just to press his luck, he made several lewd gestures that insinuated gratuitous acts between Misery and Depth Charge.
Had they been alone, the Decepticon female would have thrown the first object she could get her gauntlets around. However, since the Maximal was in the room and currently being eluded by the silver and blue male, she filed it away as something to be punished later.
Scrapper berated himself. Not only did he wander into Ward Five by evading the normal checkpoint, but he had trampled too close to the entrance of Round Deep that he had been noticed and approached by the security droids. There would be no hiding for him - his size and caution strips designated out of place for the amphitheater.
Before the droids had a chance to accost him with limitless inquiries, the Constructicon felt hands wrap around his arm and draw him close. "You'll have to excuse my date," Stricture pleaded, waiving a hand to deter the security drone and putting on his best smile. "I told him we were going to the opera tonight with all the fancy folk and here he decides to make his political statements. I swear, I can't do anything with him sometimes."
Stricture patted the back of Scrapper's gauntlet, and much to the other's distraught reaction, he laced his fingers with the taller Decepticon and gave him longing optics. To the security droid that narrowed its optic strip, Stricture presented the transparent film invitation. "I'm Vessel, and this is my plus-one."
Inspecting the seal upon the bottom of the invitation, the security droid returned the document and hovered back to its place by the door. "That was . . . unexpected," Scrapper grimaced. "But, the opera?"
"The Round Deep is the stepping stone to your freedom. We'll be meeting some very important people in here who cannot know who you are."
"Deception I can do," replied the green and violet male, and though he still felt like he should turn tail and run, he was lead by the hand through the door and into the nearest lavatory.
"First of all, let's see about some cloaking," Stricture locked the door behind them, walked three stalls down, and rapped on the door. "Tass, you were right. He did come unprepared."
From his perch against the wall, Scrapper saw the door swing open. The red and black Decepticon male climbed out toting a case over his back. "The engineer," Taciturn grinned, and though he paid no compliment, he hoisted the container onto the table. Withdrawing the minute, hexagonal device, Taciturn rolled it over in his palm and proffered it to the taller Decepticon. "Based upon your designs. This device will subdue the markers while also creating a perception filter over your tag."
Scrapper pinched the device between his thumb and forefinger, examining it with professional intensity. "You modified the design for cosmetic purposes," he observed, rolling it over to his other hand. "I didn't think a perception filter could be made on a small scale."
"I had much to go with," Taciturn indicated to a flashing light on the device, "since your schematics were thorough enough that I could modify them with ease."
He was no longer the quivering miner hiding from attention. Instead, Scrapper had regressed to his emphatic nature - at least temporarily forgetting his compulsion to play the role of an obedient citizen. "You've tested it, then?"
"Many times," the wing mates jointly answered.
"We have two cycles before the introduction to Hrrr Jursjjk begins," Stricture withdrew a second unit, clipped it to the inside of his forearm, and engaged it.
As a result, Scrapper found it difficult to focus upon the silver and blue Decepticon. Each time he tried to make eye contact, he had the inclination to avert his gaze. Blinking the sudden blurriness from his optics, Scrapper pinched at his brow. "How'm I supposed to find you if can't keep an eye on you."
"These are calibrated on the same frequency," Taciturn fixed one of the small machines to Scrapper's chest, just on the other side of the marker, and adjusted it much like a concerned parent would primp and groom their son's tie before his first date. "Once activated, you'll be immune to the filter's effects. You and Stricture will go unnoticed by the crowd but be able to communicate with one another throughout the night."
Twelve energon mixers, two intermissions, one elaborate explanation, and 140 minutes later, and Stricture and Scrapper had found their way backstage to mingle with performers. After many warranted compliments, Stricture had charmed their way into the after show dinner with the director, a few mezzo-sopranos, and a large group of patrons.
"I was overwhelmed by the development of the weapon smith," one of the patrons admitted to his company. Cupping a hand to his mouth, the patron leaned closer to his ambiguous guest and whispered, "The whole leitmotif. It's been done before, but I thought his transformation from a meister to a beggar was phenomenal. So many trials and tribulations that left him scarred and disfigured, and yet he still refused to recount himself to the mercy of the viceroy."
"It is a compelling tale," Stricture admonished, "but I could spin you a greater tale of an unyielding god, unseated and cast out upon mortals."
"It seems trite," the patron clenched his optics shut when he tried to face the blue and silver Decepticon directly. He pinched at his brow, rubbing the weariness from his eyes. "By Primus, I must be getting old. I can't seem to hold my energon like I used to."
Grinning pleasantly, Stricture caught the attention of Scrapper, who had wandered across the diner to fetch more energon hors d'oeuvres, and waved him over to their table. "My dear Curate, have I introduced you to my comrade Fencer?"
Squinting, Curate turned unfocused optics upon the other Decepticon. "Fencer, eh? Seems like a violent name for such a pleasant fellow."
A tingle ran through him, and Scrapper was unexpectedly aware of Stricture's hand on his upper back. He looked to the side, raised an eye arch at him, and crimped his face in vexation. He wanted to ask, Did the perception filter falter?; instead, he said, "It's for my precision. I have an exactitude with my art that cannot be contested."
Curate shook his helm, rubbed again at his optics, and peered indirectly at the two. He more or less found himself examining a painting on the far wall. He said to the air, "What is your medium?"
Scrapper looked to Stricture, awaiting judgment or some kind of warning, but received a face ushering him on. "Bodies."
"Oh, you're one of those movement artists? Using the living form to contrive representations of emotion and symbolic form?"
"Not quite," Scrapper corrected, drumming his fingers upon the table. "I find a subject, restrain them, and wire them piece by piece into a structure of my design."
Before Curate could maul over this explanation, Stricture interjected, "Dear Curate, I heard you were not only a patron of the arts, but also the advancement of Cybertronian research."
"Yes, that is correct. I find that since the Great Upgrade, our race has become complacent with our new bodies. I worry that we may become static instead of moving forward with the technological advancement of our kind."
"Fascinating," Stricture mused, "does that include experimenting upon live subjects?"
"W-what do you mean?" Curate found himself fighting to sit up and look at the two, but each attempt left him slumping and focusing upon the dish of half-consumed energon delights.
"Do not play the recalcitrant patsy and take umbrage. You are a founding member of the Sanctuary Corporation, a shell company operating on behalf of TRUNDLE." Stricture leaned forward and put a hand on the Maximal's shoulder, lowered himself into his periphery, and whispered, "I want him back. You took him from us, and we want him back."
When Curate declined to be forthcoming, Stricture tightened his grip, "Where is Xyston?"
Curate quivered, clamped his jaw shut, and began searching the area for an escape route.
"Curate," Scrapper crowded in from the vacant side, pressing a blaster into the Maximal's side. "It would do you well to answer my comrade's question." To any onlooker, they appeared to be concerned for their friend, but the gravity of the taller Decepticon baring down on the Maximal left him fighting to retain control of his guise.
"Curate, a smart bot like yourself would know your history." Putting his mouth next to Curate's audio, he enunciated, "My real name is Scrapper. Maul it over."
"I-"
"Where is Xyston?" Stricture asked again. "If you don't answer me, I will start ripping the metal from your frame and force feed it to you."
"It-"
"He," Stricture corrected.
"-he-" Curate gulped, clenched his optics shut, and went on, "-there's a project. Protoform X Project. The work's divided. Only the top scientists have access to all locations."
"What do you have access to, then?" Scrapper prodded.
Swallowing, Curate tried to muster his strength, "If I tell you, you'll only kill me."
"If you don't tell us," Scrapper preened, "my friend here will let me play with you in ways that aren't conducive to your health."
"Consider it, Curate," the blue and silver Decepticon flicked his tongue over his lips. "I want you to think long and hard. You can be a good Maximal and answer all my questions, or you can become Scrapper's new toy. And I can tell you, it's been nearly three-hundred stellarcycles since he last made a sculpture."
"There's a supply station. It's in Ward Nine. It makes for easier access to the mines. I've level six access to the facility, but you'd need a ten to get access to all locations."
"Where's the other locations?" Stricture encouraged.
"Ward Five. Ward Seven."
"Which one is Xyston in?"
Curate attempted once more to make eye contact with his interrogator and failed. "I want to live. I want to leave here unharmed. Can you promise me that you'll let me go if I tell you where he is?"
Stricture smiled, "I give you my word. You tell me where Xyston is, and I will allow you to walk unharmed out of this building and be on your merry way."
"Ward Five. He's being held in Ward Five."
True to his word, Stricture slid away from the table, waved a hand towards the exit, and helped the Maximal stand. "Time to be on your way, Curate. But leave slowly."
After Curate had fumbled to the exit, Scrapper inquired, "Are you really going to let him go?"
"I'll keep my word. He's allowed to walk unharmed out of this building and away from here. But I never said I wouldn't kill him." Stricture gripped his fellow Decepticon's pauldron, concentrated on the tracking device he had slipped onto the Maximal, and disappeared with a subtle displacement within the diner.
Briefly, they appeared in the alleyway ahead of Curate, snagged him by the arm, and teleported to their pre-arranged destination. Flailing and screaming, the Maximal tried to run for his life and received a kick to the face for his efforts. He wailed, "But you said you'd let me go!"
"I am certain if my second offered a deal, that he did so without tying his hands," Misery bore down upon the Maximal and squatted in front of him. Now laying in a fetal position and cradling his face, Curate struggled to back away from the Decepticon. "You are responsible for ma modestie's absence. I seek compensation for my woe."
"Please, just let me go," Curate begged. "You don't need to do this. I don't even know who you are!"
"I know who you are," Scrapper grinned, taking a seat next to Taciturn on an empty crate. "The Covenant of Primus chronicles you extensively. 'So spake the tyrant king, and from his mouth came the great host, and his void wrought misery upon his dissenters'."
"No, please no," the Maximal cried. "Nooo!"
"Who knew a Maximal could scream that long?" Scrapper chuckled only after Misery had brushed her gauntlets clean of the argent fluid.
"Scrapper of the Constructicons. The great engineer," Misery climbed to her feet and circled the taller Decepticon. "Your presence fills me with enthusiasm."
"I believe I have proven I am still loyal to our cause. Misery, I wish to speak with you in private."
She inclined her helm to Stricture and Taciturn. The wing mates bowed casually, backed away, and left the two to their privacy. To Scrapper, Misery nodded, "Speak plainly."
"I said I knew who you are, Misery. I meant it." He narrowed golden-hued scarlet optics at her, stooped so their faces were close together, and made a wry smile, "I was there when you rolled off the line."
Blinking once, Misery curled her mazarine lips into a smile. "You know what we stand to gain, then."
"Yes," Scrapper said.
"You will act as my proxy in this matter?"
"Free me like your flyer promised, and I will be your voice."
Without drawing away, Misery engaged her comm. link and reached out to her second and third. "Return to me." A blast of coloured smoke and the two Decepticons were once again at her side. She ordered without breaking eye contact, "Stricture, as was agreed."
"Of course," he said. Stepping up to place his hand on the Constructicon, Stricture flexed his wings systematically. Next, he folded them together and motioned to Misery and Taciturn, who then each gripped a wing. Briefly, Stricture inspected the marker, finding the hairline division between it and the Constructicon's chest. Finally, he chuckled, "I hope you're ready to start your life anew."
Their selective teleportation left the bomb to detonate within the empty warehouse.