Chapter 4: Inferno
By mid early morning the Cybertronian sun had turned its cruel gaze upon the land. Its eye bore down mercilessly upon any exposed metal, discoloring and peeling away the white-wash from the fences enclosing the slums of bygone Iacon. The ruins shimmered, distorted by the sea of invisible fire that stifled the city.
Yet to most of its inhabitants, this would have been a blessing.
Trapped, huddled within the scorching confines of the smelting factories, they could not find relief from the burning heat. The air was heavy and oppressive, thick with smoke and ash. It coated their ventilation filters, obstructing the passages of their airways. Those unclaimed by the fumes were usually taken by the mighty cogs that ran the clockwork. Too often limbs could be found among the gears, with the occasional broken body. And if one was not careful where to step, the molten flow from the smelting vats could become a fiery pyre.
Like drones they were divided, each according to their skill and efficiency. The smiths pounded out sheets of metal. Sparks of fire-red came with each blow, illuminating their gaunt faces. The ringing of their hammers punctuated the air. Nearby, the less skilled recyclers picked among the refuse, removing what could be used and casting out the rest. Their work was ever a hazard as hidden explosives and poisons hid among the debris. Only the most capable of them ran the dozers that added to the ever growing collection to be sorted. At the bottom rung, shovelers tended to the whims of the eternally hungry flames of the blast-iron furnace, exposing themselves to its radiation and heat.
Regardless of their positions within the hellish system, all bore the same ashy, ghostly appearance; the same vacant stare, as if they were no more sentient that the tools and machinery they operated.
Day in day out, in the raging inferno, nothing changes and time was endless. Yet no one spoke against it. Doing so would mean losing everything. For every worker fired, ten more would fight to replace him in the assembly line. Between poverty and unemployment, it was wise to take what one can get, even at the expense of one's dignity. Few ever aspired to become salvagers, sellers, scavengers, or any other member of the higher professions. They weren't skilled enough. But that was what the Chops wanted. Keep the masses stupid and they were easier to manipulate and control.
Roadtorque knew this and resented it with every circuit in her being. She swore one day that she'd break out of the system and become what she wanted, not allowing others to force her into a mold they could exploit. But with little chance of mobility, she knew it was hopeless…Until one day…
There was nothing that indicated that anything was out of the ordinary. It was just the same mindless work, moving junk from the landfill to the dock to have it processed. The dozer beneath her rumbled; billows of black smoke rising from its stack. Once she joked that the damn thing would probably outlive her. Unfortunately she was wrong.
It began with a whining sound that grew with intensity as she made her rounds, and suddenly the machine came to a grinding halt. Frustrated she jumped down and tried to "fix" it her way.
"Worthless piece of slag!" she yelled, kicking it with relish. "Good for nothing junk. Turn over, damn you."
At any rate, Roadtorque would be still in the same mess until she became aware that someone was watching her. "What are you gawkin' at, retro rat?" she demanded of the ebony armored femme.
A smile crossed the other's delicate features but she didn't seem to be laughing at the expense of the recycler. Rather, she was more amused than anything. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare, but I couldn't help notice your predicament." Her violet optics trailed to the offending dozer.
Roadtorque shrugged, kicking at a shard of scrap metal. "I ain't ever got much luck with these damn contraptions."
"Well, maybe I can be of use. I'm not a full fledged salvager like my brother Quickstealth, but I know a few things." At that the strange femme began to remove the panel at the dozer's side. A mess of tubing and wires crisscrossed everywhere that it made Roadtorque dizzy looking at it.
"Sure you know what ya doing?" the recycler drawled.
"I guess." Her slender fingers began to prod at the intricate parts. "My name is Shadowhydra by the way."
"I'm Roadtorque," the other replied, looking over the other femme's shoulder. "But the boys down in allocations call me the Terror. A title I think fits me jest fine."
Shadowhydra gave a light chuckle at that. "Well Miss Terror, it seems you've broke a cylinder. It would need some extensive repairs to get the dozer running again."
"Aw slag it. Now I'll be stuck doing the sorting work till it's fixed."
"I could refer you to my brother if you'd like. I'm sure he'll get it done, that's if he isn't out collecting more junk from the landfill again. But I'm sure Kup and I could give it a try."
Roadtorque's optic ridge rose. "Sounds good. Except who's Kup?"
A loud crash followed by a yelp drew their attention as a blue-green elderly mech stumbled towards them, a bucket stuck to his foot. "Hey there, 'hydra," he greeted. "They have our order ready. Just let me finish the paperwork and we'll be off."
"Kup, this is Roadtorque. She kinda needs our help." Shadowhydra explained the situation.
Glancing at the machine himself, Kup whistled. "Well, Roadtrip. The only way we can get a full diagnosis is to bring it back to the Shack."
"It's Roadtorque," the femme replied, unimpressed. "As for the transport of this thing, leave it to me."
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In all his years Kup had never saw any femme strong enough to push a dozer from one end of Iacon to the other by herself. Primus, she must have one heck of a built in hydraulic system. As he began to run the analysis scans, he eyed out of the corner of his optics that Shadowhydra was conversing with Roadtorque over one of the data pads he'd given to his pupil to read.
What a contrast they were. Whereas Shadowhydra was slender, black, and feminine in appearance, Roadtorque looked built to carry heavy loads and was more durable to face any condition. Bulkier, sturdy, and strong, she defined the common smelter. Through the layer of ash coating her, Kup was almost certain that at one point her body armor was a bright fiery orange.
Afar the two femmes watched Kup as they gazed over the data pad.
"If my suspicions are correct," Shadowhydra whispered. "I would assume Kup is checking you over as much as he is for the dozer."
A snort came from the other. "Hell, I hope not. Nothing is more disturbing than having a pervy old codger checking my aft out. If he so much as put a finger on me, I'd show him why they call me the Terror."
Shadow stifled back a chuckle. "I didn't mean it that way, Roadtorque. It's just that he never seen a femme quite like yourself. But he's harmless really."
"Well, you're pretty strange yourself to be reading these scratches. What's this about again?" Roadtorque's yellow optics narrowed at the writing on the data pad.
"It's a narrative about the battle of Sherman Dam on a planet called Earth." Shadow explained with rising excitement in her voice. After all it was one of her favorite passages. "It's where Optimus Prime and Megatron faced off after reawakening from a 4 million year old sleep."
Roadtorque whistled. "Now that's what I call taking an energon leak."
For a few cycles, Shadow was free to discuss her passion with someone other than Kup. In Roadtorque, she found a desire to learn of things beyond the typical smelter experience. Her curiosity seemed boundless, almost matching in Shadow's enthusiasm. Many times the recycler would beg the salvager to read many of the passages out loud rather than summarize them. As for Shadow, it was like re-looking at the story with new eyes, like rediscovering a new secret within the text she had read but missed. In the end, Shadowhydra was convinced by Roadtorque to give her reading lessons. The black femme could not be any happier.
Kup did not bother them; instead he did the work by himself. It was not that he minded. As long as he had gained a new follower, he was content. Instilling a love for the past and reading was sacred to him. And damn him if he would take it from them.
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It was a few days after when Roadtorque was able to get away from the smelting work. She had already used up all her sick days and it took much persuasion to get her supervisor to let her off. Although she told him that she needed to stop by the salvagers' villa and pick up the dozer, he resentfully gave her leave, granted that she return in the next shift. From her lockers Roadtorque shoved the thin data pad into her sub dimensional pocket, watching for straying optics. There was no telling what they'd do to her if she was caught with it.
Stepping into the Cybertronian sun, she breathed easily in the fumes-free air. There was never enough time to enjoy it.
From the seaside wharf, she walked into the heart of the Market, the center where thousands bustled and haggled among the clutter of stalls and shops. Merchants displayed their wares at their storefronts, which ranged from the common goods like oil and gasoline to the more rare luxury items like energon crystals and propulsion thrusters.
The Market comprised of villas where those of similar trade or craft dwelled together, the most common ones being the grottos of salvagers, scavengers, healers, and forgers. Sprinkled among them in ample supply were the bars and brothels, the bane of smelters who squandered what little they earn for shameful pleasures.
As she passed the smoking fires of the forgers, Roadtorque felt a twinge of envy. For though the smelters and the forgers were akin to working conditions, the products of their labor greatly differed. Whereas the former merely melted down junk to make slabs of metal for ship hulls and building materials, forgers crafted the same refuse into a variety of wonderful items. Intricate jewelry, ornate vases, and even weapons are some of the many items they produce with such skill and precision. From the trash heaps of Cybertron they forged beauty. Roadtorque smiled, realizing that her dream of becoming one of these artisans was becoming a reality as she felt her reading skills improve. Someday…
She had just turned the corner to enter the salvagers' villa when she saw it. Two strange mechs were ambling about the Shack. Their dress was foreign and their accent was not of the Remnant. Their armor had neither a speck of filth nor their cloaks were faded and tattered. Rather the fabric shone with radiance and was pressed. The oddest thing about them was not their appearance however, but their awkward behavior as they looked unsure of entering the Shack. They hung back, trying to look oblivious.
Roadtorque knew trouble when she saw it and these mechs clearly looked every bit of it. Slipping into a side alley, she came up to the back door of the tiny shop. Grasping the tassel she tugged it until the sound of heavy footfalls approached from within. With a hiss, the double metal doors parted and a haggard mech's face poked out. The light in his violet optics seemed dull as if he had awakened from a charging cycle.
"Are you Shadowhydra's brother? Quickstealth?"
"Yeah. What do you want?" he slurred. "Can't you see the sign on the door? We're closed."
"In the middle of the day?" Roadtorque asked incredulously. "This is the busiest time."
The jet shrugged and stifled a yawn. "Kup and Shadow are out in the Market buying replacement parts. And I'm not in the mood of working till they get back."
"Well you may not know it but you gotta couple guests at your door."
At that he stiffened and looked suddenly wide awake. "What do they look like? Are they Skulls?" Clearly he had a bad run-in with them, Roadtorque realized. He gestured her to enter quickly. Only until the doors were tightly shut did he continue their conversation.
"Nah, it ain't them rough necks," Roadtorque said, answering his question. "They look from outta town, maybe from one of them space colonies like Colonus Twelve or the Sigma Settlement. But they're dressed real decent, not at all from the slums like us." She gave him her account.
A swirl of possibilities circled in the mech's mind. What would two Outsiders want? Who were they looking for? What brought them to this backwater planet?
Striding over to the steel cabinet, he withdrew his Twindicer, his must trusted gun. The double barreled weapon hummed as he clicked in a clip. If hell came, he was prepared. But there was no telling what kind of firearms these mechs had.
"Listen, um…"
"Roadtorque."
"Roadtorque, do you have something to defend yourself with?" Though he did not know her, he'd rather trust a fellow junker than any Outsider.
Roadtorque nodded. "Course." She took out her Shiner blade, which Quickstealth eyed skeptically. The knife looked puny in her hands. "I'd rather fight barehanded, mind you. Weapons take the fun out of fair play and fisticuffs."
If the situation wasn't so dire, Quickstealth would have laughed. Instead, he slipped his gun into its shoulder holster under his cloak. His time in the junkyard had taught him to be ready for anything.
"So do you always make it a habit to threaten potential customers? Shoot first, ask questions later?" she joked, easing the tension a bit.
"Sometimes, only if they're those Sacred Text-thumpers who say I'm going to hell for using Primus' name in vain."
The front doors opened and they went out to meet whatever their visitors brought in their wake.