Three
A little over a decade ago this place would have been heavily protested. No one in their right bloody mind would have thought opening such a plant was a good idea. He recalled a conversation with Sparkplug once; the man was railing against animal rights activists and their complete lack of understanding of the little person's lot. Free range stuff was the demand of the upper middle class. Those with disposable income. Sure, it was an unfortunate life for the chicken, crammed in a cage, pecked by aggressive and equally stressed neighbours, constant unnatural lighting baring down on them. Her sisters on the bottom rungs unable to see much at all, that painful glare blocked by the rows of hens above, their excrement, feathers and the occasional maggot dropping down from above. The ones at the top taking the full brunt of the illumination. Those in the middle, theirs was a somewhat more tolerable hell. Rough handlers. Shoddy feed. Feet only ever feeling steel wiring underneath their swollen pads. A sad situation to endure so someone could have cheap eggs.
The man had shrugged, they should be treated a little kinder, a little cleaner. Happy birds do make better tasting eggs, but Sparkplug knew poverty. He knew what it was like to watch adults struggling to make ends meet. He knew what it was like to see exhausted parents argue, sometimes violently, over the slightest increase in rent. The stress of money on a marriage couldn't be undermined. So, you have a family of five, one income, maybe two pathetic ones, it's just not reasonable to drop eight bucks on six eggs because the layers lived happily on a farm, running around in the grass, scratching up bugs, living in a nice little wooden hut with happy sisters.
Things like free range and organic, those concepts had long since died out, along with sustainable forestry and carbon-neutral energy production. That's not to say concerns for the future of the planet's environment were never mentioned in politics or polite conversation, but since the outlook ahead was so irrefutably dismal most chose to worry only about the here and now. Their grandkids would end up paying the bill, of course, if there were even grandkids. It was an interesting decline to watch one that likely mirrored Cybertronian's elite classes as it became ever clearer that all out planetary war was inevitable. Only here, it happened incredibly fast, the reality of the collapse realised and actualised within ten months. Initially a lot of advocacy groups demanded better assistance from the government, there were mass protests, rolling strikes in service and health care industries, police funding was increased, and military operations overseas were pulled back destabilising foreign nations in order to try and keep an extra bank or two from being lit by enraged mobs, depending on one's point of view, unexpectedly or ironically, it caused further public outrage.
Schools were over crowded, universities, colleges, poly-techs only took the best students – and they'd take a paying one over offering some genius from the Bronx a full scholarship. There were fewer and fewer jobs as one stable companies collapsed, and those that wanted to survive moved productions off shore. Housing suffered. What food there was, it was bland. Whatever else, scarce. Once affordable medications became a luxury. Health suffered. Euthanasia was legalised almost overnight, a pathetic attempt to save a few dollars at one end of the health care spectrum. All regulations on abortion were equally removed, much to the despair and outrage of the wider pro-life movement. The pro-choice lobby celebrated, but were less impressed when the idea of one child per woman was mandated across multiple states, some states required a lengthy and expensive licensing process to even have just that one child, and most states implemented invasive three monthly "pregnancy checks" on all women of child bearing age. Ideas that China had long since done away with. It was always the vulnerable that suffered when times were tough. Infanticide and child abandonment increased. People couldn't afford grandma; they couldn't afford baby. Kill them both. Worry about population inconsistencies later. Hopefully it'd all balance out… maybe.
The politicians pushing these changes of course said it would be short term, maybe ten, twenty years. Sure, it'd be hard, heart breaking for some, conscience-racking for others, but the greater good had to be considered. American society was going down the toilet as other, once lesser nations flourished. Enemy nations.
The edifice before them was a grubby building, it's walls black and greasy from the years of burning coal. There wasn't a living blade of grass to be seen within a twenty kilometre radius of this slag pit. Whatever trees still poked from the earth were long since deceased, their brittle branches as black as the walls of their murderer. Ratchet had mentioned, casually, as he tended to do, that human death rates from cancers were 57% higher than the average population in cleaner areas. Not that were many of those left in the once great Nation. The chief medic had also quietly mentioned to a few that they had to have been burning something else here as well, to ramp up such a death toll, both of humans and the wider flora and fauna.
Beachcomber felt a little sad for the chickens, but he had to admit, he felt worse for the children he often saw on the side of the roads poking through the ever-increasing piles of trash. They were skinny, malnourished, many covered in sores and diseases. He wondered what Sparkplug would have made of all this, probably a gruff 'I-told-you-so'. Speaking of chickens, those of the anti-vaccine movement had come home to roost. Vaccination had at one point been considered a national priority, knowing the poverty that was coming, they'd pushed a very rigorous, and fully funded vaccine schedule. The conspiracy nuts of course claimed it was a way to sterilise everyone, a few celebrities claimed it was to "dumb" everyone down to work less than stellar jobs for less pay, and so many refused. Six years later came the "year of the coffins", where two million odd children died of whooping cough, or something frighteningly similar. It was much higher a figure, per First Aid's statistics.
It was also the year that humans started turning on the Autobot cause, or at least the American government. In order to offshoot their own blatant responsibility for the various social ills that seemed to be exploding all at once, the politicians attempted to shift focus. They blamed the Autobots. They've been here how many years now? On American soil! We've borne the brunt of the Decepticon terrorism! Yet we loyally and sometimes at much expense to ourselves offer charity and hospitality to the Autobot cause. Surely they can assist us in our hour of need? Prime had very sorrowfully declined, saying that their technology was cybernetic based, not organic. Autobot scientists and medical staff knew very little about organic disease processes. Despite being a little lax with the truth, it did keep the outrage culled enough not to result in any type of attack, well, a government sanctioned one. Prime was able to save face whilst holding significantly advanced organic medical technology close at home, there was a considerable fear amongst the Autobot science and medical core that it wouldn't' be hard for the humans to reverse engineer a cure into a weapon.
The Decepticon raiding party consisted of Starscream and Skywarp – Thundercracker being nowhere to be seen. Rumble, but no other member of his usual posse. Dead End and strangely Hook. It seemed a very messy affair, with the predicted focus being on the energy storage batteries. For all the orders Starscream was barking, few seemed to be paying him much heed. Skywarp was more interested in toying with Ironhide and Warpath than in actual combat, much to the warriors' chagrin. Rumble was busy doing damage to load bearing walls until he was, as he claimed, was so rudely interrupted by Cliffjumper and Brawn. Dead End was slouching about behind the newly crafted ruins of one of the main warehouses, blasting at the geologist's head. Hook was disappearing in and out of the main coal storage hub.
Coal was a filthy energy resource, and as desperate as Cybernetic life got, fuelling from coal based energon was a much-protested last ditch effort to hold off deactivation. Surely the Decepticons had a wider range of targets to go after, surely they must have had supplies squirreled away for such hard times? And could it have been that desperate that these were the rag-tag bunch that Megatron had sent? If they were truly that impoverished they would have sent more capable warriors, because their current tactics seemed to be wasting more energon than they'd gain from this atrocity. Beachcomber pointed his blaster over his shoulder and fired, somewhat aimlessly, no desire for violence a common thing, least of all today. Today, today it just seemed sad.
Dead End exhaled so heavily through his vents the geologist knew he'd concluded he may as well rush his enemy now, as death would get him sooner or later. Of course, the wee Autobot was no match in fire power for the Stunticon, who proceeded to transform and begin a rather violent and thoughtless rush towards the Autobot. An over turned trailer provided a makeshift ramp and the melancholic was airborne. Beachcomber took a quick dive to the left and avoided any immediate damage. Rolling up into a crouching position he fired near the tyres of the stabilising Decepticon. He grunted, more in abject frustration than any discomfort, yet did find it difficult to obtain tread. The Autobot decided he need a better vantage point and took off running towards an old brick wall.
On arrival, he noticed as he vaulted over the thing, that it had once been part of a building. He ducked down as low as he could manage while he checked through sub-space in the hopes he may have a stray proton grenade. Not likely, but occasionally he'd been asked to hold something for one of the others who held a more favourable view of war mongering.
"Look, I'm bored. And this is ever so disagreeable to my already miserly disposition. Please just surrender yourself for immediate termination or do me the privilege of hastening my journey to the void".
He droned more morose than usual, which was generally a hard feat to accomplish.
"If you insist".
Beachcomber threw the grenade. Standard issue explosive, nothing protonic about it.
"Oh goody".
The Decepticon, his voice drenched with sarcasm, had a few moments to consider the credibility of his suicidal ideation, decided he may as well drag his aft plates through another cycle and quickly moved to avoid the worst of the blast. The 'Con made it into a ditch and the most harm it did was picking up an assortment of rubble pieces and scratching his armour.
Beachcomber's resulting explosion, whilst generally small in the grand scheme of the battle, still managed to direct debris into the melee Rumble was currently engaged in. A small piece of glass stuck him in the side of the left optic, not sharp or heavy enough to break the delicate glass, but enough to scratch and alarm pain receptors, shutting down the effected eye. It gave him moment to pause, he stepped back and covered the rather pathetically sized wound.
"Something the matter, pussy?"
Cliffjumper mocked, following his words a strategically placed left hook, followed by a right, another left and a foot to the crotch.
The cassette unable to take the veracity of the strikes lost balance and fell to his aft. He looked up with his operational optic and spat. A sudden attempt to transform his arms into their alt mods was met with a swift rifle butt to the back of the cranium from Ironhide, whose frustration with Skywarp lead him to engage other tactics. It was a generous whack, but didn't quite push him over into stasis, his equilibrium scanners would be a little itchy for the next cycle, however.
It was around that point in the battle that Warpath figured out, or just got plain lucky, where the teleporter was going to appear next. The seeker's arm landed a few metres from Beachcomber, the fingers still twitching, a macabre sight, but the minibot had seen far worse in his years. Of course, when he was the butt of a nasty joke, it all ceased to provide amusement. Compelled as much by rage from that point as well as the blatant realisation that he was no longer fit for battle and probably a little in danger, Skywarp retreated without orders. Fuck Starscream.
Dead End noticing that the last two active mechs wearing that little purple face were Starscream and Hook, decided the best course of action, even if it was futile in attempts to out-drive the grim reaper, was to follow the seeker.
"Two left".
Ironhide said with a grin, as he clocked his rifle, pivoting he began an exceptionally intentioned walk towards the remaining 'Cons.
The red warrior, however, would have no further part to play in the skirmish as Starscream's shrill vocaliser suddenly let rip with a torrent of both earthen and Kaon profanities. Beachcomber stole a glance only to note a highly amused bulky green triple changer Transforming mid-flight and ploughing the Deception second into the dirt. He offered his own statement, probably equally profanity laden, known Springer, but the mini-bot couldn't quite make out the syllables of the roar of a rather concerning looking inferno burning in a neighbouring warehouse.
"DO IT NOW HOOK! YOU SLAG FRAGGIN' PIT BRED PILLOCK!"
That of course had every Autobot in audio-shot taking a pause.
"Ooh, that can't be good…."
Springer groaned, the Decepticon struggling to free himself from the head lock.
Hook came casually walking out from the storage hub. He seemed to ignore every other individual in the situation, sighed irritably.
"It's done, so stop your whining".
He took off.
Starscream managed to get himself free of the grip, but more in part because Springer loosened enough, concerned that he was going to suddenly need both hands free.
The remaining Decepticons took to a quick retreat.
"Ah, we should be worried, right?"
Cliffjumper noted.
The explosion was as loud as it was predictable.
It tore that dirty structure to shreds as lumps of hot coal tore in every which direction from the force of the blast.
When Beachcomber would wake, he'd note the massive plume of pitch black smoke still rising enthusiastically into the sky above. His internal clock was a bit sketchy and giving him conflicting information about how much time had passed since whenever he was knocked into stasis and now. Regardless, the small mech pushed himself up into an unsteady standing position. The processing plant was a violently smouldering mess of a rather large collection of various shades of black and grey. A very toxic looking sludge was leeching out down a small slope, slopping into an already heavily polluted stream. Humans staggered about covered in the soot, their wet eyes red from the irritation, their coughs a pathetic attempt to rid their already battered bodies from the toxins. He didn't need to have medical programming installed to know a good number of those men were going to be dead by the end of the week.
Ironhide and Springer were working together to pull Warpath out from under a twisted column of jagged metal. The oily residue, or whatever the slag it was, preventing both mechs from getting enough traction to free their companion. The minibot knew he was unlikely to be of much assistance to them.
"I'll look for Brawn and CLiffjumper".
He called to the two much larger warriors, who either didn't hear him or couldn't be bothered acknowledging his statement.
He transformed, and the small dune buggy began hoping over the less than stellar terrain. It wasn't going to be an easy experience for his suspension, he thought as he found himself yelping in pain as he struck a large facture in the ground. It did manage to propel him a little higher into the air to give him a slightly better vantage point though. He noted Cliff on his back between a few piles of rubble that served to obstruct the view others had of him, but certainly would have offered some protection from the secondary blasts that had been triggered by the initial one.
He transformed mid hop and landed gracefully in the soot.
"Cliff? You awake man?"
His fellow mini-bot groaned.
Beachcomber slowly helped him into a sitting position.
"Wow, gonna be feeling that in the morning".
He chuckled as he rubbed his dented helmet.
"Where's Brawn?"
"Over here, idiots".
Brawn was trapped under the remains of one of the many foul-smelling chimneys. Amply covered in the black ash that this filthy place produced.
"Humans really know how to build 'em, huh?"
Cliffjumper laughed in response, though there wasn't much sincerity behind it, it mirrored Brawn's sarcastic tone more than anything else.
"Saw that fuck-nuts Rumble take off".
"I've comm'ed Ratch, ETA 8 minutes".
"Sure thing, hippy".
ooOOoo
Beachcomber's afternoon ended well enough in the wash racks. The damage he took was generally superficial, a few dings, a lot of scratches, an annoying burn mark to his inner left wrist joint, but nothing that couldn't wait a few cycles. Ratchet had his servos full with the others.
Despite Brawn's always gruff exterior and bloated sense of physical resilience, he'd taken a considerable amount of damage, more from environment than actual Decepticon connections. He now lay in a medically induced stasis so Ratchet could work on repairing a rather large hole caused by a rather large piece of exceptionally hot coal that went flying, stabbing him before said chimney collapsed.
Cliffjumper had been dealt to by First Aid, and was now recovering in his quarters as his bragging about how he'd given it to Rumble was driving CMO nuts. The red mini bot was now off duty for a good few weeks, so that was going to prove an interesting thing for the brass to manage. A bored Cliffjumper was an exceptionally dangerous one.
Warpath, acting with a little more sense, was keeping his mouth plates shut and remained in the repair bay. His injuries were also a little more concerning, but didn't require anything as significant as stasis. His linkage was busted and Perceptor would need at least 72 hours to craft a replacement part.
Ironhide tolerated the invasiveness of Ratchet's scans, but his injuries were like Beachcombers, and didn't require extensive repairs. Springer, that lucky son of a fusion cannon, had only a few scratches that could be easily buffed out. The green triple changer was already in the rec room recounting his heroic deeds to whatever femme was stupid enough to sit down to drink her ration.
He wondered if it was a traitorous thought to entertain, how were the Decepticons managing? Skywarp had obtained the most irritating of injuries, but as inconvenient as it was, a severed limb was never fun. He'd often considered the nature of Decepticon medics, the earth based unit didn't appear to have one – that Autobot Intel knew of. Soundwave, Hook and Shockwave if he had a spare klick were it. Most Decepticons had learnt through years of experience how to deal to their own minor injuries. Anything more serious, treatment depended on the resource equation of the value of the mech verses the waste of resources needed to get them functioning as cannon-fodder, concurrent, of course, with whether the repairer could be bothered, or didn't mind the mech dragged before him. That was the other point, Beachcomber knew he didn't have a lot of friends in the ranks, especially amongst the more energon-thirsty, but he knew they'd always drag his batted aft into see Ratchet if he was injured.
It was probably one of the most glaringly obvious differences in terms of conduct for their respective militaries. Decepticons who'd jumped ship to join the red-face bigrade, and there were quite a few, had always pointed that out. The first time was always an exceptionally overwhelming surprise, upon opening their optics expecting to behold a benevolent and forgiving Primus only to see a rather surly Ratchet waving a wrench around cursing in his native Iaconian. Despite the frightening sight, it was a welcome one. A meeting with Primus wasn't going to happen today.
Now Beachcomber being only a lowly geologist, he was not privy to any intelligence debrief about why the 'Cons had attacked that wretched looking dump. As far as he knew, which wasn't much, no one had any idea what the 'Cons had escaped with, if anything. He had already heard a rumour that they'd just done it to be jerks, although stronger language had been used. He'd also heard that Megatron was dead and Starscream was now leading the only few who were loyal to him. That, of course, was total bullshit, as the humans said. No way in the pit Rumble, least of all Dead End would follow that screech bag.
All he knew for sure was the human death toll. One hundred and sixty-four. Fifty-three were critically injured, most of them would likely die secondary to their limited means and no expressed offer of assistance from their employer, which frankly, wasn't unexpected. Another three hundred and eight were being treated for serious poisoning from the toxic smoke, and was likely that 80% of them would expire. Just over ten thousand were suffering from mild exposure effects. The immediate area around the plant had been evacuated, leaving a very lonely and unsettlingly still environment around the burning disaster.
Optimus Prime had offered the assistance of the Protectorbots, the President had basically told him to go fuck himself. She was too proud.
All up, it was a sad outcome to an attack no one seemed to understand.
oooOOOooo
Author's NB: I forgot to mention I can't type in Ironhide's accent, I just hear it in my head. Heh.
Also, I'm not sure if Ratchet is from Iacon proper. I read somewhere that he was a from a village nearby, but couldn't find a name. I did see Tyger Pax mentioned, but again, no idea.
Someone needs to compile a list of where these guys come from, it'd be extremely helpful. If there is a list, please let me know.