Chapter 3

The Underground was not glamorous, with the permanent smog choking the streets and drifts of garbage everywhere, refuse and ash that tumbled from the gleaming towers above. But there was one stretch on Grit's daily commute where the shops were merely dingy and worn rather than being in immediate danger of falling apart.

He had even seen one shopkeep scrubbing down the stainless steel front of her narrow shop, once. He had offered her a brochure, thinking that her willingness to strive against the inevitable would make her a valuable recruit, but she had threatened to call the enforcers on him before he had gotten three sentences out.

These days he walked past the shops without sparing them a glance. Or he would have, if Eye Candy weren't along.

The jet dawdled at every shop window, sometimes snorting in amusement at the wares ("Can you imagine relying on turpentine for polish? Honestly, I'd just kill myself."), staring in confusion at any tool more complicated than a hammer in a way Grit found irritating, and very, very occasionally taking a genuine interest in a ware.

It was this last that was slowing down their progress and making Grit antsy.

"Come on, kid," Grit called. Eye Candy had slipped away to stare at a window display on the other side of the street. That was to say, on the other side of the empty void that jets treated as a street. Eye Candy reluctantly dragged himself away, checked both ways, and crossed the gap with a running jump. Grit's spark leapt to his throat. He forcibly reminded himself that Eye Candy could fly.

"About time," Grit said. "We've already been attacked once tonight, in case you forgot."

"You got attacked. I can take care of myself." But Eye Candy picked up his pace, staying close to Grit. At least until the next window display caught his attention.

"Kid," Grit said impatiently.

"Hmm?" Pressed up to the glass, the Seeker didn't even spare him a glance.

Grit rolled his optics. "Hurry your aft up, Eye Candy."

It wasn't until Eye Cand—the red jet—swiveled around with an indignant gasp that Grit remembered that it wasn't his real name. "Wh-what did you call me?"

"You heard me," Grit said, doubling down. "But if you've got a better word for in your fancy Vosian dialect for someone who's only interested in his appearance—"

"It's not all I'm interested in," he snapped.

"Is that so. 'Cause I noticed all it takes is a couple cans of wax and some mannequins with wing decals to stop you in your tracks."

"We're walking by them! Why shouldn't I look when they're literally right there? Ugh! I saved you, you know!"

"So I'd buy you stuff?"

"No." He paused. "But if you wanted to—"

Grit let out a long sigh. "Come on."

He half-expected him to refuse, but after a moment Eye Ca—the red jet—uncrossed his arms and followed along. He refused to look at Grit, though, staring sulkily down the street.

"What's your real name?" Grit asked after a minute.

"Vermillion."

"Vermillion?" That threw Grit for a loop. "Like, 'red'? Your name's Red?"

"It's not Red, it's Vermillion. It's not the same thing at all, it's . . . it's fancy."

"But it basically means red, right? How old are you?"

"I'm not a newspark, if that's what you're asking." His plating bristled, then smoothed down as he took a deep breath. "I just want to think of something really good. I don't want to be like Starlance aka Sunlance aka Sunspark aka Glitterwing, where no one even tries to remember what he's calling himself anymore because it changes every week. I want to reveal my name and have everyone say, 'Wow, that's so perfect for you!'"

"You're never gonna be able to please everyone." So 'Vermillion' was a placeholder name. That made Grit feel better, that he wasn't dragging a just-out-of-cohort, wide-eyed, literal new spark into a dangerous part of town. "Okay. Nice to meet you, Vermillion. I'm Grit."

"I know, I heard Professor Airwave call you that," Vermillion muttered, still out of sorts. "I'm not deaf."

"Well . . . great. What were you looking at in that shop?"

"Fingercaps."

"What're those?"

"You know. Fingercaps. Like, enamel tips you put on your fingers? To make them longer. And pointy."

Grit tried to picture this and guess their function. "For stabbing people or—?"

"Stabbing people?" Vermillion forwent sulking in favor of staring at Grit. "No, they're just—they just look good!"

"Oh. Nice."

"Do you stab people? Is that what Decepticons do?"

"No, on both counts." All he needed was rumors flying around about him shivving bots. "Praxus is dangerous, 'least parts of it are, so you always gotta watch your back. But the Decepticon movement is all about peaceful resistance—"

"But you're against the caste system, right?" Vermillion interrupted. "You're trying to frag everything up."

"Like things aren't fragged up already.

"Just because life isn't a hundred percent perfect doesn't mean you should tear everything apart. That's selfish. Anyway, how else would we get workers?"

"You don't need the caste system to have job training, kid."

"But how would people know which job to do?"

"They'd choose 'the path that makes their spark sing'." Grit was thinking of a line from one of Megatron's poems, although he knew he'd mangled the quote. "Whatever they were most passionate about."

"What if you don't feel that way about anything?" Vermillion said. When Grit looked at him, he added defensively, "I'm working hard. I'll be a good medic."

"I didn't say you weren't."

"I just think it's kind of nice, knowing you have your own place, where you belong."

"I can see how you'd think that, up in the sun. What about down here?"

"Well . . ." Vermillion stared down the street, lit intermittently by whichever street lights weren't broken, littered with trash. "They should just pay everyone more. Mint more money . . . Vos mints real coins, you know, for special occasions. I have a collection."

"It's— Yeah." It wasn't just about money, it was about freedom. Not that 'make novelty coins' was a solution anyway. Trust a upper caste bot to propose the dumbest solution. "Good idea."

"Thanks. Professor Airwave says I'm one of the most imaginative students he's ever had. He says—uh oh."

Grit tensed. "What?" The hotel was just a half-block away. They could make a run for it.

"Nothing," Vermillion said in a low mutter out of the side of his mouth. He seemed more embarrassed than worried, his optics flicking to the shadows at the left and then back again. "Tell you in a minute."

And he lifted his head and sped forward in a too-stiff, too-fast imitation of his usual walk.

It was then that Grit saw the bot in the shadows. Even as a stranger in a hostile city, it was impossible to take her as any kind of threat. But a surge of shock ran through Grit's frame as he took a better look at the bot rooting through a dumpster, tossing bits of scrap metal into a bulging bag beside her. Half her exterior plating was missing and her remaining paint was splotchy with discoloration, making her form hard to take in. Was that a bio-magnifier over one of her optics? She raised her head to stare at him, not angry or fearful or even curious, but with the dull expression of hopelessness. He turned his head away as he passed.

He'd almost forgotten Vermillion was there until he dropped in pace beside him. "That was—"

"In a minute." Grit led the way to a building with an 'Occupancy' sign stuck in a yellowed window. "This is the place."

Vermillion gave the rundown hotel a dubious look, but followed Grit inside. The suspicious stare of the bulky jet at the front desk tracked them down the hall. The room had two deadbolts and a chain on the inside. Grit pulled them all closed while Vermillion fidgeted.

"That bot out there," Grit said. He lifted a slat of the blinds to look out. She was still searching through the refuse.

"She's a scrap-picker. Old bots, like the really ancient ones, they say they'll suck out your soul if you look them in the eye. I mean, I don't believe that, but—"

"What kind of alt mode would you say she had?"

Vermillion moved up to the window to take a peek. "Uh . . . microscope, I think?"

"Microscope."

"Yeah, she has that shoulder thing like they sometimes do. Why? What do you think she is?"

"Same as you." Grit fell silent. "Makes you think, huh? What led her there."

"She's probably on circuit-boosters," Vermillion said, without malice but without sympathy either. "Or else she couldn't pull her own weight at the docks or whatever. She looks flimsy. I mean, it's not that surprising."

Grit stared at him. "What caste are microscopes here?" he asked finally.

"Unskilled Laborers. They're useless. Well, not useless," he amended with a quick, nervous smile at Grit. "Just not good for much. Scrap-pickers are caste-less, though. So she must have fallen out of her caste."

Grit stepped away from the window. "In Praxus or Iacon microscopes would be working alongside you. They're medics and scientists."

"Microscopes are?"

"Yeah."

"Huh. Here scientists use real microscopes, that aren't people." Vermillion sounded confused. "What do they do if their equipment gets sick or walks away?"

"The microscopes are scientists, not just 'equipment'. It's their job."

"But how do they get anywhere? Even grounders at least have wheels. Unless . . . do microscopes in Praxus have wheels?"

"No. They go in shuttles or hire drivers."

"Well." Vermillion looked dubious. "It sounds very inefficient."

Grit didn't answer; he shoved his suitcase of brochures under the bed and sat down at the (very cramped, very small) desk in the corner to think. The proponents of the caste system said it was impartial and scientific. But this was proof that it wasn't: one city-state putting microscopes in nearly the highest caste while another put microscopes in the very lowest caste.

If he got nothing else out of this trip, at least he had that. Megatron could do something with that.

"You staying the night?" he asked, making a note on his datapad to follow up on information about the Vosian caste system.

"Of course I am," Vermillion said coyly.

With some misgivings, Grit turned. There was the sleek red Seeker, posing on the bed with his hand draped over his thigh, giving him a look from half-closed optics.

Grit knew a lot of bots would have jumped at the chance to bed an exotic Vosian Seeker. Hell, he would have been tempted . . . if he hadn't seen this particular bot cry sniveling tears over his ruined finish, listened to his woeful tale about his 'mortal enemy', and learned that his name was, essentially, the color of his paint, like half the newsparks out there.

"You're sleeping on the floor if you stay," he said. He hoped this wouldn't spur a tantrum or, worse, more tears.

But Vermillion just looked surprised. He sat up and shifted his arm to rest on his knee and, as simple as that, his seductive pose became a casual one. "Really? I thought that was the whole reason you brought me here."

"To frag you?"

"Well, you did call me eye candy and take me to a hotel," Vermillion said. His manner did not suggest either relief or disappointment at learning that he'd misinterpreted Grit's intentions. At least not until he looked over the side of the berth and saw the mystery stain that covered a good portion of the floor. He made a face. "If we frag can I sleep on the bed?"

"We're not fragging, period. But . . . you can sleep on the bed if you don't get handsy, I guess." Grit paused. "Why did you come along if you thought I wanted that?"

Vermillion shrugged. "It's a good way to connect with people. And it's fun." After a moment he added, "And you're not hideous or deformed or anything."

"Wow, thanks," Grit said drily.

"You're welcome," Vermillion said. Either he had perfected his game face or he had not caught Grit's sarcasm.

In any case, he wiggled over to one side of the berth, settling on his stomach with his wings bristling up from his back. Grit lay with his back to him, listening to Vermillion's quiet, even vents as he sank into slumber.

I can tell the bots at home that I slept with a high caste Seeker anyway, he thought. It's technically true.

The next morning Grit woke to the sound of his neighbor's vid-screen, muffled through the wall. At least that was what he assumed, based on past experience, until he opened an optic, still pixelating from his sleep-state, and saw Vermillion hunched over his, Grit's, datapad.

Grit sat bolt upright, crazy ideas flitting through his processor. What if Vermillion wasn't who he said he was? What if he was looking for the oh-so-carefully guarded Decepticon membership roles? It would be easy for a skilled spy to pass himself off as a student . . . The Senate would love to jail everyone involved with the cause, from Megatron and Orion all the way down to the grunts like Grit.

"Hey," he said, surprised his voice was so calm.

Vermillion jerked upright guiltily, pulling the datapad to his chest before offering it to Grit.

"Sorry," he said, but he didn't sound sorry, he sounded excited and nervous. "You were asleep and I was bored and . . . What are they?"

Grit glanced at the video clip, still playing. "It's a street race." An illegal one. The clip ended with enforcers pouring out to 'arrest' the competitors, then accepting bribes to let them go free.

"But they're grounders, aren't they?" Vermillion was leaning over his shoulder now. "I've never seen grounders that look like that." He leaned back a little to give Grit a critical look. "You don't look like that."

Grit tamped down his irritation. "I'm a construction vehicle. Those are speedsters."

"They let you work in construction? You must be very good," Vermillion said in a distracted tone, optics fixed on the screen as the clip began to replay.

Grit remembered him saying something about all grounders being in the Unskilled Labor caste. Who knew there was a place where his caste would be considered 'high'.

"Yeah, I'm good," Grit said. He opened a different file, this one of Megatron fighting Sunstreaker in the gladiatorial arena, and handed the datapad back to Vermillion. "See if you like that. Then we can head upstairs together."

"Okay." Vermillion retired to the desk in the corner, optics fixed on the screen.

Vermillion was quiet on the trip upside. At first this was because he was watching videos on the datapad as he walked. After he almost walked into traffic, Grit took it away from him. His silence was more thoughtful after that. It lasted until they were halfway up the stairs.

"Speedsters aren't in the construction caste, are they? Are they all fighters, like that gold bot?"

"They're in lots of different castes. Not construction. But shops and things. Some are professional racers." He paused. "Those gladiators, they were Sunstreaker and Megatron."

"Oh."

"Megatron . . . the leader of the Decepticon cause," Grit said. "Pretty powerful, huh?"

"The other grounder was a lot better looking," Vermillion said. "Really shiny! Do you know what his daily beauty routine is?"

Oh well.

"So I take it Vos doesn't have gladiators."

Vermillion shook his head. "Not that I know of. Or street races."

Grit could understand that, given that anyone driving on Vos' narrow (and rare) paved roads was in danger of plummeting to their death if they hit the throttle at the wrong time.

"Well, if you're ever in Praxus you should visit the Trintagun Racetrack. Races twice a week."

Vermillion's steps slowed as they reached a landing. "I'll never get to Praxus."

"Why not?"

"'Cause they don't want us getting hurt or kidnapped or killed even in a foreign city. I mean, I understand. We serve the glory of Vos . . ."

"What about after you graduate?"

Vermillion shook his head. "That's even worse. You don't spend all your time polishing a precious jewel and then throw it away once you're done."

"You saying you can't leave the city ever?"

"We can if we get permission," Vermillion said. "Only it's really hard to get permission . . ." He broke off, straightening his back and hiking his wings. "It's okay, though. Vos is a great city! Everyone knows the rest of Cybertron is jealous of us. Everything I need is right here."

But he looked a little unsure behind his smile.