Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.
Guest - An interesting conclusion. That unfortunately requires a RAFO (Read And Find Out) answer. Thanks for the review.
Femmes and mechs and sparklings were moving along the street. Most were of mid-caste. Not homeless, or in danger of being homeless, but not rich. Their armor was not rusting, and they rarely went without energon or other supplies.
Shop owners were commonplace. Everything from cheaply-made replacement parts to mid-grade energon was being sold from dozens of small stands and shops. Most shop owners had kind faceplates and talked and laughed with their customers, even the new ones. However, some were unfriendly and blunt, and only got business due to how necessary their products were to daily life.
Occasionally, a pair of Enforcers walked through the street. With clean, high-quality blue armor and the star-and-shield emblem of the Enforcers blazoned on their chestplates, they stuck out even in the mostly-respectable crowd; they carried a great presence without trying. All of them were scanning the people around them, searching for threats, potential law-breakers…
And him.
He was watching from the roof of a building, hidden both by the darkness and the sheer distance between he and the street below. His optics saw every detail, missing nothing. He was tracking dozens of people—Enforcers and civilians alike—at once, waiting for the moment where no optics were looking at the sky.
He saw the moment arrive when the only pair of Enforcers who were watching the rooftops turned their attention to a shopkeeper who decided it was time to give the pair a sales pitch.
The mech moved as soon as they turned far enough that their peripheral vision would be useless. He ran along the rooftop, toward the next building, and jumped the gap.
He landed on the next rooftop without losing momentum and kept running. He jumped to the next building. And the next. And the next. It didn't matter if the next building was two floors taller or shorter, or several times further away than the first. Each and every time, he cleared the gap and landed on his pedes. Never rolling to lessen the impact of landing on a lower roof, and never losing his considerable momentum.
He eventually came to point where the line of skyscrapers came to an abrupt end. Below, there was a wide walkway that gave way to shorter, dirtier, and poorer buildings and streets. The gap between the rooftops he ran across and the short buildings below was greater than two hundred meters horizontally, and more than a kilometer vertically.
Due to its immense size and nature of being more than seventy-one percent metal by mass, gravity on Cybertron was extreme to any organic species—being 11.2 times stronger than the average garden world; scientists still puzzled over why Cybertron had not become a star early in its life. This tremendous gravity was so great, even Cybertronians themselves could sustain injury from a fall. The required height for such harm varied from fifty to two hundred meters, depending on a Cybertronian's build and technique when landing. Anything beyond that, and a fall almost always resulted in serious injury.
He jumped without hesitating.
Wind whipped at his enhanced audio receptors, gusting by faster and faster as he traveled both out and away from the skyscraper. The panic that most would feel falling from such a height without safety precautions did not flow through him.
The roof of the short building on the opposite side of the walkway rose up to greet the mech. He positioned himself to land on his two pedes, and braced.
The roof gave way under his weight, the ancient, stone-like material cracking and breaking apart on impact. The top floor of the building was made of the same material. The floor below it was metal, rusted and cracked, but strong enough. He landed in a crouch, knees bent. One servo braced on the floor he just landed on.
Slowly, he rose to his full height, debris from his entrance falling off his armor. The room he stood in had once been an apartment. It had fallen into disrepair long ago—its mixture of metal and exacrete construction proving to be a hazardous and unreliable method, even back when it was built in the Dawn of the Golden Age.
He caught sight of the apartment's door. He knew from its archaic design that it was not a powered sliding door like most of Cybertron used, but one that swung open and had a knob and manual locks.
He moved to the ancient door, grabbed its door knob, and pulled.
There was a crack, and the mech ended up a step backward with the door knob in his servo, and the door itself unmoved.
Typical.
Instead of trying another way of opening the door, he kicked the center of it. It broke apart on impact, his immense strength shattering it like it had been made of glass instead of metal.
The hallways outside were lined with doorways just like the apartment's. Some had doors, and some didn't. Most doors that were there had been so damaged by time that he could still see into the barren rooms beyond. Besides the occasional beam of faint light that came from holes in the roof, the hallways were all dark and motionless. Silent.
If he could feel fear, he would have found the entire building to be unnerving.
He came to a stairwell. It was open and led straight to the ground floor with sets of stairs that went around and around each floor in a circular pattern. More apartment doors were on each level. He saw immediately that the stairs were out in multiple levels, and chose to go the direct route.
The mech landed in a smaller crouch than before, impact breaking the old and brittle flooring of the ground level. The booming sound of his landing echoed in the large empty room—what had once been a common room, he realized.
He moved out of the common room and through another series of hallways. He passed vagrant Cybertronians almost at every turn, all of them looking at him in shock or suspicion. All of them were in some state of disrepair. Some had chipped paint or excessive grime build-up. Others had scars from injuries sustained from living on the screets. A few were even missing entire limbs or optics. Unlike the mid-caste he'd seen before, very few of these Cybertronians had money or energon to spare; and those that did horded it there was nothing else like it on Cybertron. If given the opportunity, they would take from others, if only to survive the cycle.
Given his location in Kaon, the mech expected about half of those he saw were criminals at one point or another. None thought it a good idea to see if he—with his towering height, thick armor and solid build—had money for them to take.
He continued making his way through the building, passing numerous other Cybertronians squatting in the ancient structure. Like the others, not one tried to rob him. At last he found his way out of the old apartment building and into the street.
The difference between the street in front of him and the street he'd seen earlier was as great as night and day. Instead of a well-maintained walkway filled with shops and energon stands, the street was virtually empty and silent. Few walked along its broken, rusting sidewalks or drove through its rough and junk-riddled road.
And to think that just behind him, on the opposite side of the ancient apartments, there was a clean street with people laughing and enjoying life.
Cybertron was unlike any other place he'd been before. And not in a good way.
He moved along the street, heading away from the mid-caste zone and ignoring the odd looks he got from the few others who were on the street with him. Unlike the Cybertronians inside the old apartment building, these people probably had homes to go to. Or what they could get to pass off as homes. Either way, they were just a step above the homeless, and would be hard-pressed just to keep off the streets. Anyone they hadn't seen before would be an unusual sight, but they wouldn't be outwardly suspicious of him.
He had not been walking long before his enhanced optics caught sight of an immense column of red smoke in the distance. He knew—both from news reports and from snippets of conversation he's overheard as he fled from one place to the next—that the smoke was coming from a shaft leading down to the Mines of Kaon.
There had been some sort of accident two mega-cycles ago, an explosion large enough to register as a planetquake. The smoke still poured forth from the depths. People had been living in the smoke's shadow in fear—some fearing for any Miners caught in the accident, others fearing it could lead to massive cave-ins. The Rulers had made live addresses through the Datanet to assure the public the fire had been out since the cycle it started, and that the smoke would dissipate eventually.
No statement regarding the Miners was made.
He expected nothing less from Rulers.
There was an old transportation terminal ahead, long out of use save for the long sets of stairs next to it. He exited the main road and started descending the first set of stairs, the first of two sets that would go to the level below. He'd researched Kaon, and knew that anyone who truly mattered in the city were on the lower levels—Level 7, to be exact. It was the richest and the poorest section of the entire city, and was packed densely with people who didn't ask or answer the wrong questions.
Exactly what he needed.
"You hear about Honix?"
The mech became one with the shadows before the voice finished its question. From its depth and pitch, the voice belonged to a mech. One who had the ability to take better care of himself than most in the area. It came from below, down two of the long sets of the stairs in the staircase. Level 2, another slum like Level 1.
"You mean the riots?" Another voice, again a mech's, asked in turn. "Yeah I heard. Over ten thousand offline already, another million forced out at gunpoint."
"I didn't hear it was that many."
"Sol Industries recently sent in their drones to another pocket of people resisting their takeover of the city."
"Any survivors?"
"Just the drones."
He heard the first mech growl. The mech carried anger through the sound. "Damn Swindle and his company. That bastard thinks it's his right to play with the lives of others. Honix is the third minor city his company's taken over to improve. What I wouldn't give for a good rifle and a clear shot…"
By now he could see the two mechs on the landing just one set of stairs down. The first mech was blue and black, and—from the presence of door-wings—a Praxian. The other mech was black and white, and notably taller than the short Praxian. Both had the Enforcer emblem on their chestplates.
The black and white mech grabbed the shoulder-joint of the Praxian. "Keep your voice down! You're talking about a Noble from House Commerce—a Noble who has the audio receptors of the Council and the Rulers!"
"That's just my point!" The Praxian growled, quieter than before. "They have so much power, wealth and influence, and they're all corrupt. Everyone knows it!"
"Precisely why you shouldn't start shouting things like that! Think of who could be hearing you right now. Who might pass that opinion along to certain people."
The Praxian seemed confused.
"Look, certain people collect information. Whether it's a casual conversation between friends or sensitive talks between the Council and the leaders of one of the Moons, they will find out what was said in that time. It's what they do. The reason they do it is because everything is valuable to someone. What do you think the Council and the Rulers value more than anything else?"
The Praxian was silent for a long time. Then at last, he said, "Keeping their lives in order."
The other Enforcer nodded. "Right. How would they like it if they found out an Enforcer had bad things to say about them? An Enforcer stationed in one of the morst crime-ridden areas on all of Cybertron?"
"They wouldn't."
"Right again. And how far do you think they would go to keep that Enforcer from saying similar things in high-caste zones?"
This time, the Praxian said nothing. His optics said he knew.
The other Enforcer let the Praxian go. "That was the wisest thing you've done all night, Rookie. Never forget where you are, and who might be listening. It helps to keep you alive."
The Enforcers continued up the stairs and stepped onto the set where the mech was hiding in the shadows. The black and white Enforcer walked right by the mech's hiding spot, but the Praxian lingered. He was looking right at the mech, but he was squinting at him. Like he was trying to see something else besides the mech.
The mech didn't move a millimeter. Not even his optics shifted. He was now the exact same shade of darkness as the shadows, his armor using the light and objects behind him to produce the same look. It was a gift, and it made him invisible when he desired. So long as he didn't move.
"That's weird…" The Praxian reached out and touched the wall next to the mech's side, brushing some rust with a digit.
The mech knew the Praxian was inches away from his side, but he could do nothing about it. If he moved, the Enforcer would attack. Either with the stunner or the pistol at his sides.
The Praxian would be okay if the stunner came out.
As for the pistol…
"You coming, Rookie?" The black and white Enforcer appeared at the top of the stairs, looking down at the Praxian.
The Praxian hadn't heard the other mech coming, and jumped in surprised. As he did, his servo banged against the mech's side. The sound echoed loudly around the stairwell.
Now both Enforcers were looking his way. One of them with suspicion instead of confusion. The one at the top of the stairs placed a servo on his pistol, but kept it holstered. "Rookie..."
The Praxian was flabbergasted, and didn't seem to hear his partner. "The Pit?" He narrowed his optics at the mech's camouflaged side. Then his optics went wide, and he went for the stunner at his hip.
The mech's servos moved faster than the average Cybertronian could see. Before his active camo had time to fade, he had slammed a fist into the side of the Praxian's helm, taken his pistol and stunner, and tossed the smaller mech up the stairs and into the black and white Enforcer before he could pull out his pistol.
The mech vaulted over the railing as the black and white Enforcer started pushing the unconscious Praxian off him. He fell all the way down to Level 7 far, far below and landed on his pedes, impact creating a loud clang as he landed on the metal ground. Then he moved away from the stairs at a casual pace, knowing it would take the Enforcer's a significant amount of time to travel down to Level 7 from the surface. He placed the pistol and stunner at both his sides and scanned his new surroundings.
The buildings at Level 7 were shorter than the surface, but of far better build and quality. He recognized the style as belonging to Center, the largest section of Level 7 and its only true city. The ceiling was far above his helm, more than high enough to fit a thirty-story building without scraping the top. The foundations of towers and other large buildings from the surface or Levels above 7 occasionally pierced through both the ground above and below, giving them the appearance of massive pillars that kept Level 7 from being crushed. The entire Level was lit with dull orange and red lighting from massive lamps hanging from the ground above, giving it the look of a place in a constant dusk or twilight.
Crowds even larger than the ones the mech had seen at the mid-caste zones filled Level 7's spacious, well-kept streets. No one in the crowd was unarmed or without guards who were armed. The mech suspected everyone he saw were mercenaries, thugs, smugglers, mob enforcers, or owners of unsavory businesses. Most were going to or from the many establishments scattered across Center—ranging from racing tracks, bars, and nightclubs, to illegal weapons shops, slave auction houses, and gladiatorial arenas, where most who were bought from the auction houses ended up.
It made him sick.
He made his way through the crowds, ignoring the suspicious or curious looks he received. He could have avoided the crowds, but that would be a bad idea. Very few people from Onyx visited Cybertron, and anyone who noted his height, build, and nature as a Triple-Changer would know immediately he was Onyxian. That alone drew attention to him. Being an Onyxian and trying to avoid a crowd would draw far more attention.
Possibly enough for even people of Level 7 to talk to an Enforcer.
The crowds eventually thinned, most people sticking near the center of town—where all the wealth, illegal goods, and security provided by the local kingpins was centered. The Onyxian, however, was just looking for a good corner to hide in. Once he had more space to move freely, he transformed into one of his alternate forms—a high-tech, streamlined, heavy combat vehicle with eight wheels—and drove away from Center.
Just outside Center was Forgotten. It was a part of Level 7 where most of its buildings were damaged, and many of its streets were filled craters. Results of a long-forgotten war between criminal organizations. The only people who frequented the street as he passed through were stim addicts who twitched constantly or ranted at walls, stim dealers who narrowed their optics at him, and vagrants who had nowhere else to go. Despite appearing to be destroyed, the Onyxian had read that Forgotten was just as densely populated as Center, and was home to just as many criminal organizations and mercenaries. Just ones that weren't as successful.
The Onyxian drove through it.
The next area he came to was what the locals called Empty: the section of town that had been forgotten entirely. Here, it was a ghost town where few bothered to tread. Empty, like almost all of Cybertron, had buildings everywhere, but not a single one of them was occupied. The Empty had once been what Center was now: where everything happened on Level 7 and beyond.
But that was a long time ago, before Center had been built. Before even the Golden Age. Now, Empty was just a name on old, useless maps, with its only occupants the cyberhounds who scavenged for food around an old ore pipeline above Empty that hadn't seen use since the ore transportation system was modernized at the Dawn of the Golden Age. Its ancient buildings were all vacant, and most had been salvaged to build Center. Little of worth remained.
The Onyxian drove through the streets slowly, carefully analyzing each building he passed. He was looking for flaws.
Too tall. Too degraded. Too many windows. Too small. Most had more that he could fix. The few that had more benefits than flaws were in strategically poor locations, or would need cables from Center to create power. The search was near hopeless.
He continued evaluating buildings for half a breem until he finally found a building that fit his needs and standards.
It was the ore pipeline management station. Six full stories tall and longer and wider than most warehouses, the management station was a very large and heavily built structure. Even countless centi-vorns since it had last been in use, its walls still showed no signs of rust or deconstruction; they likely were too thick and heavy to be salvaged.
The pipeline the station once managed ran through the facility on both sides, starting and ending at locations forgotten ages ago. A now-drained energon lake surrounded the management station on all sides, creating a deep chasm that could only be conquered from the air. The remains of a security checkpoint were at the edge of the drained lake, where a bridge had once stood. What was left of that bridge rested in the chasm, far below the Onyxian's pedes.
He had found it.
It needed a new bridge, security systems—that meant he needed to build a power station—but it was the best place he could think of for a hideout. This is where he had been running for so long.
He would start over here. Start over free of Onyx. Free of the Knights and their expectations. Free of training. Free of augments. Free of… Him.
This was where he gave his life a second beginning.
This originally was meant to be a short story written for a contest on DeviantArt. I didn't make the deadline for the contest, and instead reworked a lot of it into this chapter. I also cheated a little bit on this one, as technically what inspired me were the words "new life." As it turns out, writing something from those words is difficult when I can't reuse a character until I've introduced everyone.
Let me know what you thought of this one. Thanks for reading.
See you soon.