Disciple

Deadeye was having some difficulty getting to sleep, or as it was probably more accurately known, 'recharge'. Cybertronians dreamed much in the same way humans did, a means for their subconscious to make sense of the day's events in its own abstract way. Deadeye's most recent dreams had not been pleasant ones and so he sat on the edge of his oversized metal bunk, alone in the small but adequately sized room the Taskforce had given him. It was a mostly metal building, with a few windows near the ceiling and a sliding door large enough for him to walk through. There was room for him to transform and a rack nearby where he had placed his pistols, including the older one he had taken from Skystreaker. He did not trust that Decepticon, deserter or not. That, and he had seen right through her seductive facade. There was a frightened youngster underneath, no doubt left in a situation that was far beyond what she would normally be able to cope with.

Deadeye had his gaze set on the television set across the room from where he sat. He was flicking through channels, although the human-sized television remote was far from practical for his large metal hands. As a result, he had been able to key his comms systems into the antenna and could flick through channels by altering the tuning on his very own comms. It was not as if any other Cybertronian was going to contact him through them.

As the channels flicked on by, Deadeye's mind wandered.

"–secrets, cover-ups, corruption; you think you know the whole story, think again–"

He flicked to the next one, the images from his latest dream playing in his mind. He paid the television set only the barest amount of attention.

"–and in world news, the President of Carbombia survived an assassination attempt earlier today–"

Again, he flicked over to the next channel. He could see the ruins of Crystal City in his mind's eye, yet he could not see himself. He could not remember being there, yet at the same time, he had. What had happened to him to make him forget so much?

"–I don't deal with psychos, I put them away–"

There he was, in one of the seedier establishments in Kaon. A few very friendly Decepticon females were in close proximity. Why would he be there? He could not remember for the life of him what had brought him to that place. Yet he saw these things in his dreams, over and over again. He changed channels once more.

"–Coming up next, the classic eighties cult film 'Miami Connection'–"

Deadeye rose to his feet and walked over to the rack of weapons near his berth. He picked up Skystreaker's blaster, spinning it around in one hand, doing his best to distract himself from the uncertain thoughts that danced about in his mind. His dreams of late had left him with doubts he could not so easily shake, giving him more reason to immerse himself in human entertainment. He had always considered himself a loner, it came naturally to him. He had never played well with others.

He swivelled around then, stopping to face the door to the building whilst he raised the blaster. The door slid open and an Autobot about his height but with broad shoulders and a mostly white finish stepped inside. He eyed the blaster pointed his way carefully before looking towards Deadeye.

"You know, I don't like it when people point guns at me," the Autobot said. Deadeye noticed the Autobot logo on his chest, emblazoned there in bright red. He had narrow grey fins at his back and shorter ones either side of his head. The hilts of two swords jutted from his upper back, both weapons sheathed.

"Who the hell are you?" Deadeye lowered the blaster.

The Autobot slid the door closed behind him as he walked inside.

"I'm Wheeljack," he said. "You must be Deadeye." He took a look around the somewhat bare room, the only notable objects being the television, the gun rack and the computer terminal in the far corner.

"You're an Autobot."

"So are you." Wheeljack nodded towards the Autobot logo set in the centre of Deadeye's chest in a shiny blue colour. "I hear you've been doing work for these Taskforce people."

"Yeah. What's it to you?" Deadeye had not met another Autobot in person for a long time. For one to simply stroll into his home was not what he had been expecting. He wondered how closely connected Wheeljack was to the main Autobot group, the one that was currently on Cybertron attempting to rebuild the ruined world. He hoped this was not some attempt to convince him to go there.

"I'm just curious, is all," Wheeljack replied. He stopped a short distance in front of him. "You do a lot around here? Or do you just watch TV all day?"

"I do what I can," Deadeye said. "Again, Wheeljack, what's it to you? Why are you here?" He paused briefly, thinking over what to add. "I've no interest in going back to Cybertron. That place is dead. Here, I'm comfortable. The humans give me energon and they give me work to do."

"Sounds real nice," Wheeljack said, although he did not sound very convinced. However, what he said next did surprise Deadeye somewhat. "You're kind of right about Cybertron, you know. The chief's doing what he can to bring back order, but it's a lot of work. We even have some Decepticons helping us out."

"Really?" Deadeye frowned. "Who's the 'chief'?"

"Ultra Magnus."

"Huh." Deadeye knew of the Autobot Commander. He also had no desire to meet him, as past interactions with that particular Autobot had resulted in the pair not being on very good terms. "He's the big boss now, is he?"

"I don't think he likes the work." Wheeljack gave a half smirk. "Neither do I. That's kind of why I'm here."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

Deadeye narrowed his optics. First impressions counted for a lot and he was yet to be impressed by this Wheeljack character. He racked his memories for anything relating to him, as he was sure he had seen the Autobot's face somewhere before. It must have been a long time ago, since he could not place the face to any specific memory no matter how hard he thought about it. The name did seem vaguely familiar, if only to compound this issue.

"I might have heard of you," Deadeye said, uncertain.

"I'm a Wrecker." Wheeljack might have carried the slightest hint of pride in his voice, though it was gone very quickly. "Probably more like a 'Builder' now."

"You sound disappointed."

"It's been nine years since the fighting stopped. I thought the change would be a good one, but I just..." He trailed off, losing himself in thought. "I don't know."

"You feel like you don't belong," Deadeye said. He understood this sentiment all too well. "You feel like your talents would be put to better use on the battlefield, instead of on a construction site." Wheeljack's optics lightened up noticeably as he spoke. "That's how I felt, Wheeljack. That's part of why I came here."

"How did you get here, anyway?" Wheeljack sounded genuinely curious. "Didn't you get the call to go back to Cybertron?"

"I got it," Deadeye answered. "But I was already on my way here. My ship, an Autobot scouter, was having engine difficulty and I ended up crashing on Earth. I got some bad injuries, enough to put me in stasis lock for a while." He could remember the crash, but his memories beyond that were a bit jumbled. He had figured that this had been enough to mess up some of his older memories, probably even form part of the cause of the dreams he had been having lately. "Colonel Carver's people found me, helped get me back on my feet."

"And you work for them now?"

"Yeah."

"And it's nice work, huh?"

"Yeah." Deadeye knew that Wheeljack was looking for alternatives to his current lifestyle. "But I've always seen myself as more of a 'one-bot show'. I don't work too well with others."

"Humans?"

"Humans I have no problem with," Deadeye replied. "It's other Autobots I have difficulty with. I can understand how you feel, but I don't think the Taskforce needs another Autobot in its ranks. They get along fine as is. You should see some of the anti-Decepticon stuff they've been deploying out in the field."

Wheeljack nodded. He seemed to understand. His confident demeanour indicated some degree of cockiness, and judging from his sentiments it would appear that he shared a similar 'loner' attitude to Deadeye. However, Wheeljack beared some of the signs of having mellowed out from this attitude somewhat, likely through working with other Autobots on Cybertron. The fact that he had no snarky comments regarding Ultra Magnus was one implication.

"What's with the swords?" Deadeye asked, referring to the pair that Wheeljack carried at his back. The Autobot Wrecker pulled one out, holding it out so that the light from the ceiling glimmered along its length. "You seriously run into battle with something that archaic?"

Wheeljack looked insulted.

"This 'archaic' weapon could cleave you in two," he said. He spun the weapon about in his hand fluidly, his expertise apparent. "I've lost count of how many 'Cons I've brought down with this."

"The humans here have a saying," Deadeye countered. He held out the blaster and spun it around in one hand, back-and-forth. Wheeljack watched his movements closely, keeping a straight-face as he did. "Never bring a knife to a gunfight."

"You sure you can handle that piece, kid?" Wheeljack raised an optic ridge inquisitively. "Or you been watching too many of those human 'Westerns'?"

"I could shoot that blade out of your hands from a hundred metres," Deadeye said. "What would you do then, Wheeljack? When your weapon of choice is a melted puddle of steel?"

Wheeljack used his free-hand to pull out his other sword.

"I always carry another," he said.

Deadeye stepped over to his gun rack and put the blaster away before taking down both his personal side-arms. He turned to face Wheeljack again, spinning both around in his hands as he did so.

"You sure you could handle two?" Deadeye eyed Wheeljack carefully, awaiting the inevitable response.

"Can you?"

Both Autobots watched each other with narrowed gazes. Deadeye found himself enjoying this budding rivalry. Then again, it had been a while since he had interacted with another Autobot.

"Do you give any real thought to where you place yourself on the battlefield?" Deadeye asked. "Or do you just rush in? You don't seem the patient type."

"I like to get things done."

"If I were to place myself in the position with the least probability of receiving accurate weapons fire, do you think you would be able to get to me with those swords of yours?" The question was a serious one. Wheeljack looked a bit confused for a moment.

"What are you talking about?"

"I didn't get as I good as I am without doing a lot of research," Deadeye said. "I've studied fire-fights from the war and from the humans. In the end, it comes down to statistics. What positions are the least likely to receive accurate enemy fire? Where will the hostiles be located? I've got that shit all figured out, Wheeljack. You'd do well to do the same."

"Uh-huh." Wheeljack sheathed both his swords, his face a sceptical one. "You know, you're really full of shit."

"Not at all. I just do what I have to do to survive. I'm sure you can understand."

Wheeljack remained unconvinced of Deadeye's combat skills. The feeling was mutual, as Deadeye found it hard to believe that a sword-wielding Autobot would be any good on the modern battlefield. Archaic weapons might have had some degree of style to them, but no amount of style would enhance their effectiveness.

"If you're serious about working for the Taskforce, you would have to speak with Colonel Carver," Deadeye said. "And like I said, I'm more of a 'one-bot show'. I don't need help from you, of all Autobots, to do my job here." He thought he might have spoken a bit harshly, but if so, Wheeljack did not appear bothered by it.

"I'll think about it," the Wrecker replied. "Anyway, it was, uh, nice meeting you. I guess." He did not sound entirely serious about this last sentence. He turned around and walked for the door, pulling it open before stepping outside. Deadeye watched him leave, noting that he did not slide the door shut behind him, as he apparently lacked the common courtesy to do so. The younger Autobot stepped forwards and did this himself, glimpsing Wheeljack as he crossed the narrow road outside and headed for one of the larger hangar structures.

He'll be back, Deadeye thought. With that, he slid the door shut and turned his attention towards the television set.

"I just got a call from one of the President's aides," Fowler said. He stood on the ledge outside his office, looking over to Ultra Magnus who had been standing nearby. "He wants to renew the treaty as soon as possible. It's a formality, but the bureaucrats who run this country like to make things official through paperwork."

The hangar that served as Unit-E headquarters was quiet. Knock Out had fallen asleep in the far corner, spread out on a bench with his arms either side and one leg dangling off of the edge. As for Ultra Magnus, he had been waiting for Bumblebee's return. The Autobot Commander had found himself worried when Bumblebee's signal had dropped off of the monitors here, only for that worry to dissipate when that signal returned a short while later.

"Does that mean your President will be paying us a visit?" Ultra Magnus asked.

"At about one o'clock in the afternoon," Fowler said. He sounded tired, understandable given the early hour. It was still dark outside and Fowler, from what Ultra Magnus could tell, had fallen asleep in his office before the phone call had woke him up. "They want this matter wrapped up discreetly, as you can understand. We can't have you going to the White House. That'd probably cause a panic."

Ultra Magnus found the need for secrecy that these humans had oddly amusing, but understandable. The general human population did not need to know about the existence of the Autobots and their enemies. It seemed like it was for the best

"I'd like to get it out of the way myself," Ultra Magnus said. "With it done, we can focus properly on Cyclonus. I'd like to know what he's up to, if anything."

"So do I," Fowler added. "I'd like him to get the hell off of Earth in the meantime. But something tells me that's not going to happen."

The hangar doors partially slid open then, groaning audibly as they moved. Both Fowler and Ultra Magnus looked towards them, laying eyes upon Bumblebee who worked his way through the narrow gap he had pushed open. He strolled into the hangar, business as usual. Ultra Magnus stepped towards him.

"Bumblebee, you've returned," Ultra Magnus said. "Your signal dropped off our monitors for a while. What happened?"

Bumblebee stopped before the Autobot Commander, looking up at him from his relatively smaller statue.

"Cyclonus' ship vanished off my scanners," he said. "I followed it halfway across Nevada before it must have activated some kind of dark matter drive. It might have shot itself into orbit, I couldn't get a good look. Whatever it did, it scrambled my sensors in the process. That's probably why my signal dropped off the monitors here." He shrugged then, his optics moving to glance over at Fowler, who watched the pair from his ledge nearby. He then looked over to Knock Out, who had rolled over on the bench he had taken to resting on, his optics closed tightly.

"Where's Wheeljack?" Bumblebee asked.

"He's gone off to do his own thing, apparently," Ultra Magnus answered. He did not bother to hide the disdain in his voice. "He even shut off his comms. I was beginning to think you'd done something similar."

"Me? Huh. I always do as I'm told, sir." Bumblebee smiled broadly. It was an oddly unnerving smile, Ultra Magnus found. "If there's nothing else for me to do, sir, I'd like to get some rest. The drive was a long one and I could do with a recharge."

"Go ahead. You'll have to find somewhere else to sleep, since Knock Out's already claimed the only berth in the building." He nodded in the direction of the dozing former Decepticon. Bumblebee rolled his large optics and walked by, going for one of the far corners of the hangar.

"That reminds me," Fowler said. "I think I'll try to get back to sleep myself. Tomorrow, well..." He checked the watch he wore at his left wrist and frowned. "Well, it's technically 'tomorrow' already, but that means it'll be an even longer day than I thought it would be." He glanced over to Ultra Magnus. "You must be tired of all the waiting around."

"It's part of the job, Agent Fowler," Ultra Magnus said. "It took a lot of patience to get to where I am now."

"Do they have government bureaucrats back on Cybertron?"

"Yes, they do. And they're just as irritating there as the human ones you've got here." Ultra Magnus said this drily, getting a short chuckle out of Fowler in response.

"Some things are universal," Fowler commented.

Ultra Magnus nodded in agreement. Their two species did have plenty in common, despite their obvious differences.

Bumblebee had been alone in a darkened room for some time. That is, the real Bumblebee and not the Decepticon who had taken his form. The real Bumblebee had woken up a short while ago, finding himself in a dimly lit chamber with grey metal walls that carried distinctly Decepticon architecture, with the angled curves and pylons that had been an aspect of the interior aboard the Nemesis.

He was strapped upon a metal rack, his arms and legs bound in place by energon-powered restraints. The bloodied stump where his right forearm had been ached tremendously, although someone had sealed off the energon leak there. They had done it crudely, cauterising it closed somehow. Still, it ensured that the young Autobot would not pass out anytime soon. It also indicated that his captives wanted him to remain alive, something that Bumblebee found disconcerting at best. What would they want him for, beyond the obvious torture he knew would come? What did he know that they wanted from him?

It did not take long to realise just how much he could tell them. A pack of Decepticons, lead by someone like Cyclonus, could do an awful lot of damage if they wanted to. Bumblebee knew of Cybertron's defences, for one. If they forced that out of him they could strike against that planet with a very thorough knowledge of what they would be up against. There were a number of things that they could do to him. They would not even need to interrogate him, he realised; a cortical psychic patch would give them everything they wanted.

There was a door across the room from him. To his left, there was a monitor that displayed his vital signs. To his right, a metal bench with a variety of surgical implements spread across it. All shined in the dim light emanating from the fixture above, all of them carrying the sheen of a recently sterilised implement. To say Bumblebee did not like the look of his predicament was an understatement. Even so, fear was something he had been trained to control. Fear was a necessity for any sentient being, an element important to survival. That did not make it any more pleasant.

He lay his head back on the metal headrest behind him. Interrogation was another thing he had been trained to withstand. Of course, no amount of training could properly prepare someone for the real thing. He took a breath and gritted his metal teeth, teasing the energon bindings at his legs and his one good arm. They were tight, perhaps more so than was necessary, pressing him firmly against the rack. His captors did not want him getting out. They knew better than to underestimate him.

At that moment, the door ahead slid open with a hiss. Bumblebee looked towards the two figures who entered, both Cybertronians. One was short and thin, mostly purple in colour like most Decepticons. He carried a black trim and had a pair of bright red optics set upon an almost emotionless face. His mouth was concealed underneath a steel plate. Despite his lanky appearance, he had a fairly large chest, one that was spattered with dried energon stains. One of his legs appeared stiff, giving him an uneven, limping gait. Bumblebee glanced down to see a very poorly patched over wound at his left shin, a gaping hole that had been torn in at some point in the past before having a steel plate literally nailed over it. He looked back up at the Decepticon's face and realised, whilst doing his best to contain his horror, that this particular Decepticon was the resident 'doctor'.

I didn't think I'd ever wish for Knock Out to be here, Bumblebee thought, absently. His attention went to the second figure who had strode inside, the larger and far more imposing Cybertronian who had stopped a few metres ahead of him. This one was tall and broad-shouldered, carrying a similar build to Ultra Magnus. His head even carried a similar crest. His finish was a deep reddish-brown, mingled with silver at his less protected joints and he carried a red trim at his arms and legs. Bumblebee had to do a double-take, for his optics fell upon the Autobot insignia in the centre of his chest, its orange colour standing out starkly against the deep-red of finish. The blue optics of this Autobot were narrow, almost leering at him with what Bumblebee could only assume was hatred. His mouth was concealed under a metal battle-plate. His general demeanour, stoic yet exuding confidence, indicated that he held some amount of power here. Bumblebee had been expecting Cyclonus to walk in.

"Doctor," the Autobot said, looking over to the slim Decepticon. The 'doctor' in question turned to face him. "I do not want you to do anything drastic with our prisoner, regardless of what the General may have said." The Autobot spoke in a level tone, with very careful and precise enunciation.

The Decepticon 'doctor' shrugged.

"Don't you want to find out what he's thinking?" The doctor held up one end of the cortical psychic patch cable.

"We can do that anytime," the Autobot replied. He did not take his optics away from Bumblebee. Stepping forwards, he tilted his head slightly as he regarded the Autobot. "You must be wondering who I am."

"Yeah," Bumblebee said. He realised his voice sounded alarmingly weak, a fact that was probably not helping his case much. "Didn't think I'd see an Autobot in with these Decepticons."

"As the times change, one must adapt," the Autobot said. "I am not surprised that you are unfamiliar with me. Most of you degenerate young ones care not for the past. This much is clear."

Bumblebee was a bit confused by the statement but said nothing.

"My name is Star Saber. I am, or more precisely, was a pontiff of the Church of the Thirteen. Long before the war began, the Cybertronian people were guided by faith, their society a moral and ordered one. I was studying the works of the first thirteen Primes long before you were ever born." Though he did not spell it out, his disdain for the young Autobot was very much obvious. Bumblebee had not heard of this 'Church', nor had he ever heard of Star Saber. What troubled him in particular was how an Autobot was willingly working with the Decepticons. Traitors had been uncommon during the war and were usually despised by both sides, regardless of what their original allegiance had been.

"And then the decay set in. The amount of those who followed the faith waned over time. Our society became decadent, immoral, degenerate. It was no surprise, to me at least, that the war broke out. In fact, I had been expecting it to happen sooner. The humans of this world, they have had similar things happen throughout their history. Great civilisations that fell apart, not because of outside forces, but through suicide. And in many cases, the lack of faith, and the order it brings, has been the cause." He paused for a moment, letting his words sink in. "Now our civilisation is all but gone. There are certainly pathetic attempts being made to reconstruct it now, on Cybertron, but that would do us no good without the moral guidance that the Church would bring. History will repeat itself. I intend to prevent that."

"By working with Cyclonus?"

"We have a mutual agreement," Star Saber replied. He glanced at Bumblebee's stump of a right arm. "Cyclonus wanted you dead, but I persuaded him otherwise. You are, in my eyes, part of the problem with our species now. Young, impressionable, yet without faith. Prone to partaking in degenerate actions."

"I have faith," Bumblebee countered. "Faith in my friends. Faith in Optimus..."

"Optimus Prime is dead. The age of the Primes is over. And that is a tragedy in itself. The Church of the Thirteen would have sung that Prime's praises for generations to come, were it not for the fact that he started the war and ruined Cybertron by sending the Allspark into space. Optimus Prime was no better than the rulers who plunged our society into decadence, he simply brought about the end through a far more blunt fashion."

"That's all fixed now-"

"You are mistaken. The lack of faith is the largest issue here. The Church brought order, a moral foundation for Cybertronian society. One that was eaten away by the selfish, greedy rulers who sent our world to destruction. And the same will happen again, even more quickly this time since virtually none of those who are currently residing on Cybertron follow the true faith. Without a Prime to guide us, a true Prime, one who would spread the teachings of the Church like it was in the old times, our entire civilisation will fall apart and will likely remain a ruin."

It had not taken long for Bumblebee to realise he was speaking to a religious zealot. It's no wonder no one follows their Church anymore.

"What do you want from me?" Bumblebee asked. He did not allow his fear to seep into his voice, even if it had been building up significantly during the last few minutes.

"Everything." There was a sinister look in his optics, although the rest of his face remained stoic. "Nothing. I wish for you to see the error of your ways. To embrace the true faith and to renounce these 'friends' of yours as the atheist degenerates they are. They are part of the problem."

"And the Decepticons here? Do they follow your 'faith'?" Bumblebee managed a look over at the doctor. He had picked up one of the nastier looking implements, a pair of razor sharp clamps that he was currently giving a once-over. He tested them, clicking them open-and-shut a few times, apparently satisfied with their performance.

"Some do. Some do not. At this point, it does not matter. Soon, the reckoning will come. You should pity your friends, for they do not have the opportunity you do to repent." Star Saber put a hand to Bumblebee's stump of a right arm. "And maybe I may even have the doctor here build you a new arm."

"You really think I'll do everything you say?" Bumblebee looked at Star Saber in disbelief.

"No, I expect the opposite." He nodded over to the Decepticon doctor, who moved closer to Bumblebee and set the clamps upon one of the plates at his chest.

"And, honestly, I want you to resist," Star Saber added. "It makes for far greater entertainment."