A/N: Thank you to my reviewers, it's good to see some familiar names from the first time around! I hope you'll all enjoy the ride, and your words mean so much to me. ^_^

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The night is silent as I go down a stairway leading from a back alley to a faded, green door. That's how Sector Capri is during the lunar cycle; it doesn't matter whether you're an honest, hard-working citizen or a low life heavy pulling a job. Every bot in this sector keeps quiet during the witching hours, as if there's something that floats thick in the air and warns of a massacre should it be disturbed. Call us a band of superstitious loons, but there's some truth to what the glowing spheres of Moonbase I and II do to a bot's neural wiring come twilight.

I rap my knuckles against the rusting, green door at the bottom of the stairs, glancing around to keep aware of my surroundings before I look up as a looking slot is slid open, a set of red optics looking down at me joined by the pounding sounds of music and voices beyond the soundproofed entrance. I give a well-played smile to the mech behind the red optics, earning a growl from him. I've got something of a reputation with the chain of subsurface clubs and saloons that run throughout Sector Capri, bots know it's easier to just let me in through the door rather than have me sneak in through their air ducts. This way, they can at least try to keep track of where I am in their establishment.

"Kid, ain't you s'posed ta be readin' ya school books or somethin'?" the door guard questions, already opening the door for me.

"What's the point? I've written my own books." I reply with a smug smirk, perhaps a bit too content with myself as I walk into the underground saloon. The mech at the door rolls his optics and mumbles something under his breath, closing the door behind me. Continuing further in, I'm met by the dank, gritty smells that sum up the majority of the deals and propositions being made by the bots inside—dirty. The cheap, yellow and green-tinted lights in the place are masked by the ever present, ever shifting plumes of smoke that are the result of illegal grade cy-gars that are swapped under the tables.

Before I can seek out my intel bot, I'm gestured over to the bar by an old mech that's a regular at my mom's pub. I'm in no rush, so I make my way through the tight crowd of drunks and gambling card tables to the bar, hopping up onto the open stool next to the old timer and giving him a light smile. Kids my age don't generally realize that the older a bot is, the more they know, but they'll never share a word of it unless you give them your attention; because at some point, the years take a bot's luster, and they'll quietly fade away into the background noise, their wealth of experience locked away in a living tomb. That's why I give this bot all the listening he wants, because even if I don't understand some of what he says now, all I have to do is chew on it for a while to crack open its meaning.

The old mech reaches a trembling, skinny hand over and holds onto my arm, something he always does when we chat; as if he's afraid I might get up and walk away before he's finished talking. I only smile in return and lean in as he does the same so we can hear one another over the constant roar of the rambunctious patrons around us.

"Those idealists these days, the ones with the loud voices and broad chests, they say that we as a whole planet and civilization are stuck in stasis, unmoving, trapped in an oppressive state of harmonic drones. But I say they're just spoutin' their idealisms, that they're puttin' it kindly. We ain't stuck in no stasis, kid, no."

I tilt my helm a little as I listen to him. I have to agree, the caste system of Cybertron has done more than hold bots back from accomplishing their full potential and chasing ambitions. A bot is born into their function, their decisions are made for them, and only a select, lucky few of the higher classes have options for something more. We're not allowed to grow or innovate.

The old mech points a boney, rusted finger up towards the ceiling and continues, "You ever look up into the night sky and see those dead bridges? It's just as bad down here as it is up there, kid. This planet and its inhabitants are in decay. We've already passed the time of stasis, and you know what happens when something sits still for too long. It begins to crumble until all that's left are the ruins and ashes. Dust to dust, kid, and we're in a bad way, soon to be less than nothing."

With that, the mech releases my arm and returns to his cube of highgrade. I remain on the stool for a moment, glancing absently at all the colored bottles of potent highgrade on the bar wall, contemplating the old timer's words. It's true. This planet is in a state of decay, and we're just letting it happen.

No, I won't include myself in the mix. They are letting it happen. The rich and powerful, content with the way things are, pleased with keeping things comfortable for themselves, using their reigns to keep the rest of us in a vicious cycle of slog, rust, and repeat. This planet used to harbor something great, a race of inventors and creators, philosophers, scholars and bots of higher thinking who used to question and search for answers and new meanings. The Golden Age of Cybertron, an era I wish I could have been born in.

Less than nothing, he said. What's to say we're not already there? In a world where nothing changes, where ambition and inquiry is oppressed and scraped under the floor boards, and where there's an entire civilization of bots who do nothing about it… What is there that's worth keeping? What is there that's worth fighting for? There's nothing here but war mongers and uncultured husks, digging at their scabs in a search for a fresh drop of energon, life; I might as well be surrounded by ghosts.

What's gonna happen to me and the rest of my generation? Will we turn into them when we grow up? Mirage, Siren, my classmates, I see the kindling fires of potential in them all. Will it be smothered by the system we were born into? What can be done when we're not the ones in control?

Perhaps the greatest mystery that's ticking in my processor, but I can't sit still and ponder it any longer tonight, I've got to find out what these dark stones are. I leave the bar and the quiet old timer behind and start through the maze of crowded bar patrons.

It doesn't take a lot of searching to find the bot I'm looking for as my optics are drawn to the back of the main lounge to a broad set of grey shoulders met by a golden-plated back. Making a beeline for the mech's table, I'm brought to the conclusion that the bot must have a set of optics in the back of his helm as he beats me to the punch and greets me without looking back at me.

"You're like a bad case of cosmic rust, can't scrape you off no matter how hard I scratch." His voice is deep, his tone and demeanor mellow. It's always a 50-50 shot when talking to a drunk Dinobot. They're either compliant and willing to talk, or they're locked in 'Me Dinobot Smash' mode.

It's not like I was expecting a friendly greeting. Walking around the table, I take a seat across from the lumbering Dinobot and look up at him, offering a small smile.

The mech's red visor meets my orange one, staring at my smile for a moment before huffing, "Cute routine might've worked a few years ago, kid. Lost its charm the day you found you were tall enough to operate a crane."

I can't help it as a grin overtakes my smile, "Oh c'mon, Grimlock… you're still mad about that? You would've been ten fathoms deep if I hadn't plucked you outta that sinking scrap heap in the harbor."

The mech releases a gruff vent of air, "Still would've had my original left ped if you didn't."

"Just because I was tall enough to operate a crane didn't mean I knew how to…" I reply with a sheepish smirk. I perk and sit up straight as the mech shifts a little, giving away how anxious I am to ask him about my query. He catches on.

"Spill it," he puts simply. However, I assume he didn't mean it quite so literally as I follow suit and pull the dark stone samples out of my subspace compartment and drop them onto the table, as his visor gives a surprised flare. I get an uneasy feeling as Grimlock glances around the crowded saloon before putting his hand over the stones—hiding them. Turning his helm and looking to me, he asks in a lowered tone, "Where did you get these?"

I'm a bit taken aback by the normally mellow bot's reaction to the stones, my mouth hanging open in a dumb look for a moment before I snap out of it, "From a Decepticon mining site in Tarn… They've been stockpiling these things by the mega-tons, shipping them around in modified factory-grade energon cubes… You know what they are?"

"Yeah, they're bad luck." I'm about to open my mouth to protest as he gathers up the stones in his hand, but he cuts me off, "This one's too deep for you, kid. You need to leave this one alone, you'll end up floatin' face-down in a smelting pool, or at least what'd be left of ya."

"Grimlock, why are the Decepticons digging these things up? What are they?" I shift on my chair and stand on my knees, palms resting on the table as I lean in with anticipation, looking up at the massive mech. A childish action, I know, but I can't help it, knowing the mech's keeping a juicy puzzle piece from me.

Grimlock tries staring me down, but when he finds I'm too bent on finding out what he knows, he realizes it's useless to resist, all too aware of my persistent nature. Brandishing one of the stones between his chunky thumb and index finger, he looks to me with a serious gaze, "It's the fuel of their future. Stuff's unstable, toxic to a bot's systems if injected into the energon lines. Megatron thinks he can harness the stuff, make it work for 'im. I think he's a fraggin' fool, he'll get his bots killed before they can throw the first rock at Iacon." With that, he leans back in his seat, "Let it go, kid."

I nibble my bottom lip in a bad habit while I think over the revelation. Why would Megatron bother with this stuff if it's hopelessly toxic? I know he's a smart mech, there must be something else. My thoughts are drawn away, however, when I look back up at Grimlock and find him looking… antsy. Odd. There's something on his mind…

"What is it?" I ask him upfront. There's no need to try to be manipulative or tip toe around questions with this mech, he'll either tell you or he won't. There's no getting information out of him when he doesn't want to share.

Again, our visors meet, shielded optics locking. The mech's silence for another moment and subtle, uncomfortable shifting in his chair tells me he'd rather keep his mouth shut about what he's about to let out, "Capri Detective."

I freeze. My initial instinct is to yell something angry at the mech for saying the name. My dead father's nickname, bestowed onto him by the criminals and masterminds he brought down and chased. However, I keep quiet, waiting for the mech to make his point.

"The name's been passin' through the com channels, bots sayin' they've seen him."

I stare at the mech in suspended disbelief for a moment before frowning deeply, "I don't believe in ghosts manifesting in visible forms, Grimlock. Where have these com channels been coming from?" I grit my teeth together as I speak with a tense jaw. No, don't ask questions about it, there's nothing there, nothing to look into. I know the truth of what happened to my dad. Megatron killed him, he got caught up in something the 'Cons were doing… He's dead, that's it, there's nothing else to know.

I'm sent into further suspense, however, when my question is answered, "Channels 'been coming from Shi-Lai territory, the Beta-Tri Quadrant. Decepticon Seeker channels."

Beta-Tri Quadrant? Shi-Lai territory? I can feel the disks in my processor whirr as I try to make sense of it. Decepticons, off-world? The space bridges aren't functional, though, how could they have gotten to such a distant quadrant of the galaxy? It isn't even in the Alpha Centuari system… Not to mention, going off-world is strictly forbidden to Cybertronians, as if the High Council believes we can preserve our "culture and people" by staying locked inside.

I can't ask too many questions at once, else Grimlock might feel cornered. I start with the basics, "Why are the Decepticons going into Shi-Lai territory?"

"Looking for something, doing deals with Shi-Lai for mutual benefits."

"Why such a far away quadrant? Why did the Decepticons choose the Beta-Tri?"

The mech shakes his helm, "Not sure, but dealing with the Shi-Lai is no good for any of us. Shi-Lai are ruled by the Blood Tyrant, they divide and conquer, overpower neighboring systems. Cybertron's far enough from Shi-Lai territory, but now Decepticons have their attention, and Shi-Lai knows Cybertron is going towards civil war. Shi-Lai won't need to divide once that happens, they'll just come and conquer." With that, he drops his fist on the table, making me nearly lose my balance. We hold optic contact for a long moment as it all sinks in.

Cybertron may be in danger now, thanks to the Decepticon Seekers somehow making it out into Shi-Lai territory… where they're looking for something… and for whatever reason, the Sector Capri Detective's name has been floating around… how does it all connect? What is Megatron up to?

Before I can finish my thoughts, the door to the underground saloon is suddenly busted open, and I feel my energon go cold in my lines when I hear an angry voice shout, "Iacon Enforcer Department, no bot move! This is a sting!"

Frag. I can't be here. The moment the cop finishes his last sentence, the saloon goes straight down into chaos; bots running in all directions and taking all the doors save the front, where Enforcers are rushing in to pacify the situation, stern faces alit by their charged tazer staffs. I have plenty of cover to mask my own exit, but not without my evidence sample. Luckily, Grimlock is busy looking over the crowd to the cops with a churning growl as I dart forward, slipping my smaller hand inside his to steal back the dark stones. By the time he's looking my way to protest, I'm already in a back lounge room climbing up into the air ducts.


My processor throbs as I dart from one alley to the next, keeping close to the shadows as waves of Enforcers and fleeing thugs pass through the streets. Must be another one of Prowl's wide-scale sting operations, it looks like every club and bar that harbors the illegal narcotics deals is getting hit. I decide to take a break as I feel another sharp pang go through my neural circuitry, sitting on the doorstep of a warehouse's back entrance. Primus, I feel like I'm burning up, and I'm getting more nauseous by the klik. Maybe I inhaled too much of the smoke from the saloon earlier?

That fraggin' Dinobot, the idiot probably doesn't know what he's talking about, he's just trying to screw with me! Maybe I should've taken his head with that crane instead of his ped! Who the slag cares if Cybertron gets invaded by some intergalactic entity, it's not like there's anything worth saving on this dead rock! I'll kill the next bot who mentions the Capri Detective's name! Siren won't shut his mouth about him, keeps telling me I need to find out what happened—Siren…

Wait… what was that? Why do I feel so… angry? Something's not right, this is more than a bad case of smoke intake, something's… altering my state of mind, I can feel it, like there are two sides talking… So much rage, and against bots I give a scrap about—what is this? It's like something's suddenly snapped in my processor, like I almost lost it and went insane like—like the mine workers in Tarn.

Is it the stones? I've been holding onto them ever since I returned from Tarn, keeping them in my subspace compartment… is that why the miners were breaking out into random bouts of rage and tearing at each other? These stones, the do something to a bot's mind, even if they're not injected into the energon lines like Grimlock said…

I'm ripped from my thoughts as an Enforcer suddenly rounds the corner into the alleyway I'm in. Scrap, I've been seen! I don't even wait for the mech to call me out as I scramble onto my peds and begin running. Not now, I can't get into this kind of trouble now, Mom and Siren are depending on me to start going back to the Academy, Prowl will have my tailpipes if I get caught!

"You there! You're in violation of the curfew, stop!"

That's right, Iacon's set a bedtime for its citizens, thinking it can outsmart criminals during their ruling hours of the night. It's done quite the opposite, really, and has only made the criminals realize how much more they can get away with if they take more care when sneaking around the city slums. I grind my teeth as I sprint down the alleyway, noticing how much… stronger I feel. It's either adrenaline, or the stones. I'm starting to see what Megatron's going for, but it's a dangerous risk.

I ignore the Enforcer's shouted demands, quickly leaving him in my dust as I turn down an adjacent alleyway, thinking I'm home free. Fat chance. Just as I emerge from the alley, I'm startled by a second Enforcer waiting around the corner for me. I yell in protest as the officer seizes me by my arm—I can feel the anger coming back, it's overwhelming, I can't think straight!

"Kid, ya picked the worst time to do one of your night runs, Prowl's got this sector on lockdown, it ain't safe for a child t' be out!"

That voice, I know it—it's Jazz! I can't stop myself as I struggle violently against the mech's hold, and there's some horrible sound in the air—like a shredding plate of metal, what is that? Wait, it's me, screaming—Primus, it's like I'm possessed, I can't control myself!

"Nightbeat, kid—what's wrong with you? Ah ain't gonna get you in trouble, just lemme take you home, calm down!" Try as he might, Jazz can't seem to keep a hold on me for long wherever he grabs as I thrash and cry out.

My vision begins to black out, and that's when I see something horrid. As if watching myself from outside my own chassis, I see my hand go down to my subspace compartment as I fight against the Enforcer—against a mech who helped bring me home seven years ago. My hand emerges from the compartment, and I feel my spark shoot up through my throat as I see the switchblade—what am I doing! I want this to stop, this can't be happening, it's gotta be a bad line of code, I must be asleep!

I'm left in terrifying suspense as my vision goes entirely, some kind of primal programming or virus taking over as I feel my chassis continue to move, the sounds and cold air around me piercing through my sensory receptors. I feel my spark skip a beat when I hear Jazz release a pained shout.

Primus save me… what did I just do?