Nature of the Beast

Chapter 44


"I profusely apologize for Tantō reaction to you. He was not aiming to damage you, mzvin'go, merely scare you off."

Sideswipe winced under the thief's rougher touch, "Could've fooled me," but even as he said that he couldn't help internally squealing at that infamous, spark-stopping smile the legendary thief directed his way. He'd heard all the stories about the Rapolitz's infectious charm through the news reports that came from a cluster of dedicated, rebellious reporters in Polyhex. To see it himself though! To have it given to him! And to have the thief treating his injuries! It made getting bucked by his horse partner and flipped like a pancake worth it. Sure, the thief was a little shorter than he'd thought, maybe a helm or two smaller than he was, and his needle-like hands weren't as gentle as Charity's when it came to medical care, but that hardly quieted the ravenous, shrieking fan in him. The Polyhexian thief was everything he had imagined, ever dreamed he would look like up close – suave, cool, dapper, charming, and if that smile of his were a weapon, it would kill anything within sight of him. Were he able to drool over his appearance (and his luck), vehicle or biped, he would have, he decided, then he thought better of it. He was barely keeping it together as it was; embarrassing himself in front of a legend, THE legend, with that pesky Avioid watching no less, he refused to let the critical mass hype escape. So he stayed silent. Calm and cool. Calm and cool.

Following his own advice took so much more effort than he thought it would. His hands trembled.

'Just play it cool, Sideswipe. Just play it cool. Zodiac will never live it down if you don't play it cool...'

He forced the hands to still. He still couldn't shake the feeling this whole thing was a dream, some wild fantasy playing out after a nightmare.

"There!" the thief declared through another of his smiles, smoothing out the dent in his cheek with one hand and patting the opposite cheek with the other hand. He rose, "Now, Tantō, apologize," he said in a gentle huff to his partner, "I know you are not a morning mech by any means but that is no excuse here. If you had bothered to examine him, you would have noticed he is no Polyhexian cop. None of them are. How can they be, when they work with your brothers and sisters?"

The horse grunted, dragged a hoof across the tarmac, and gave a bizarre reverse buck of a bow. For once in his life he wished he understood a Predacon language. But even without having the slightest idea of what Tantō had said, he saw the regret in the horse's optics. He tried to make optic contact with him but, in a surprisingly cute display more suited to a sparkling, Tantō shifted his gaze from him in a few abrupt jerks and gave a little grumble. Suddenly the monster horse was less intimidating. He tried to say thanks. He even tried to accept the apology, all in that same easy, confident manner Backdraft always did. That would impress the thief. All the stories said the Rapolitz appreciated courtesy for a good deed towards someone. But there was a difference in what he wanted to say and what actually came out: an incoherent stammer, a jumbled mix of Iaconian and English that sounded like total gibberish. He shut his mouth before it got any worse and averted his gaze, humiliated. Zodiac would never live that one down. He could already see the glimmer in her optics that warned of potential blackmail. He was happy the thief didn't seem to mind the slip up, giving him a friendly nudge and another smile dripping in friendly amusement.

"Now, what brings a diverse gathering such as yourselves out to Revelstoke, hm?" the thief wondered through another of his jaw-dropping smiles. "Two Elite Guards, I see – must be important, no?"

"Um, actually," Zodiac squeaked, "you're the important thing that brought us out here."

Surprised, the thief's ringed, bushy tail twitched. He pointed at himself, "Me? How intriguing! Are your friends here to arrest me, then, little one?"

"What?! NO! No!" gasped Bumblebee waving his arms in a crisscross. "Completely the other way around. We, um, this is gonna sound really strange coming out of a cop's mouth but...we need your help. Badly."

Out came the two-fanged, spark-stopping smile again. "Officers asking yours truly for help? Mm, well, if you were Polyhexian perhaps," he purred, "now that would be strange, most strange indeed! But since you are not, I will hear you out. What is it that implores you seek aid from me, hm? My reputation must precede me."

"We got robbed," Sideswipe managed to blurt out coherently.

"Er, half right," Smokescreen clarified. "Our medic, Charity, was assaulted and robbed by an Alchemor convict, Kickback, in the hire of –"

Lightning seemed to jolt through the Fauxline thief. He waved a hand and cut the Elite Guardsmech off. "A medic was robbed and assaulted you say?! Ton svacle!" he cried. "This is a calamity of the highest order! Take me to this Charity! At once! No distance will be too great! If I must trudge the bottom of the sea –!"

"Well, lucky for you, drama king, getting there will only take a few seconds!" laughed Smokescreen.

"Ah?" his tail twitched again. "You are based in the area?"

Bumblebee smirked, "Not quite." Deciding to be the showmech, and making him seethe in jealousy, the mech snapped two digits and a groundbridge swirled open to meet them. "After you."

Tantō was less than pleased to see the portal, snorting, bucking, stamping, and whinnying at it. The Rapolitz was at his side in an instant, settling him down first by pulling the rearing horse down to ground, then by caressing his muzzle and murmuring in broken Polyhexian to him. In his native language the Fauxline's voice sounded just that much more suave. It wasn't just words coming out but a low burble like hot, wet clay. Seeing the two interact, he was reminded of Counterforce's description of partners. How the thief was talking to him, touching him, maybe he'd missed some emphasis on the word back at the salvage yard. Partner didn't seem like it really matched with what he was seeing. This was deeper, maybe Sen and Counterforce deep, but definitely deep enough to have a real result. In less than a minute the monster horse was settled down. Laying the base of his muzzle on the Rapolitz's shoulder, they headed for the vortex, half-beast leading beast.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Now wait just a second here!" came the voice of the pick-up truck driver. "I don't claim to know the full extent of events and personalities here when it comes to ETs but at least one of you is a cop from what I gathered. You, the yellow fellow. How do I know you're not gonna lock them up? These boys have done nothing wrong here. Hearts of gold, these two. Or whatever it is you have in place of a heart."

He had no idea if the woman simply hadn't heard of Tantō's digital deeds or was defending him and the Rapolitz, fully aware of it.

The smile that was flashed down at the woman driver was reassuring in its dazzling sparkle. "These are decent souls, Rosalie. I can tell. Not the corrupted kind I told you about that infest my home city."

She eyed him, one brow up, then eyed the rest of them. He felt suddenly shy under the look. Together with the others he assured her they weren't going to lock either thief up. That would be counter-productive, Zodiac argued.

"And why lock up a freaking hero like this guy?!" he demanded. "This guy is a legend!"

"Legend am I?" chortled the Fauxline. "So my reputation does precede me!"

"Alright then," she surrendered hesitantly. "Then don't you go causing them any trouble, boys, eh? If they came all this way to get your help, then I expect you both to be on your best behavior."

Grumbling, the big white pick-up and its surprisingly good-tempered driver left them. His respect for her went up a few notches when she waved to the giant wolf that padded past her and cooed "Aw, who's a cute wolfy?" Frostbite gave her his best what-the-actual-frack look and passed her by. That woman was either so chill or so old that nothing phased her anymore, or was so open-minded it would take two Draconians tap-dancing and wearing jester caps to make her bat an eyelash.

"Such pleasant people in this region," the Rapolitz declared through a wistful smile. "I will miss them when I return home."

"Canadians," sighed Bumblebee in affectionate nostalgia. "Why couldn't the Alchemor crash in Canada...?"


Under any normal circumstance, the prospect of inviting, much less having two alien thieves waltzing around on Denny's property would have sent Fix-It into paranoid fits. Thieves were opportunists of the lowest kind. If something was valuable to the right buyer they would take it, no matter how long they had to hold onto to it to find that buyer. Thieves, too, could be violent when it came to acquiring their prize, like Kickback had been. The ragged, scarred, crouched figure of the Rapolitz in the database and his prodigious list of thefts helped to feed that idea. But the smooth voice over the open, idle lines certainly did not match that of the database's stored identification. It was no rag-tag criminal he was hearing but an extremely well mannered, intelligent individual, the kind to pleasantly insist someone go through the narrow doorway first while holding the door open. His real designation, Roadkill, seemed too grungy for such a voice.

An alarm started to buzz in the farthest recesses of his processor.

The figure that came through was the exact opposite in every way to that of the figure in the database.

His first thought on seeing the Rapolitz was that Puss in Boots had had a love child with Zorro, then had handed the love child off to be raised by one of the three Musketeers. The infinitely dapper yet roguish appearance, complete with feathered hat, rapier, and pistol, was far better suited to the smooth, languid voice than that of the unkempt wastrel logged into the Alchemor's database. His giant beast partner was intriguing in appearance in his own way, as if some mad geneticist had decided to hybridize a dragon with the lean muscular body of a thoroughbred, giving it a scaly, plated, exterior hide, then upscale the beast to the size of a shire horse and add some of the necessary girth and weight that came from such a huge horse into the limbs. Then the hybrid creature had been mechanized and whatever fibrous tail and mane had been there was replaced with a sharp mane ridge like a dulled razor's edge and a sword was put in to stand for the tail, gently bobbing as the horse's body swayed in movement. The ground trembled each time one of his giant hooves met the dirt, while the thin, slender trods of the Rapolitz barely left an indent in the dust.

"May I present to you," Sideswipe said grandly, "the Wily Wild Cat of Polyhex, the most amazing thief ever!" he bowed.

Russell's purely mesmerized look was matched only by his father's slap-to-the-face look of realization that a thief was on his property.

Tantō snorted at the red mech.

"Oh, and the Digital Devil, Tantō!" the red mech added in no less grand a tone.

Happy, the Equinine struck a dramatic post, head held high.

"Cozy place though a bit dusty," noted the Rapolitz through a smile. "I do hope your hosts do not mind our presence."

"You're fine!" Denny reassured. Then he pointed at him, "Just don't nick anything from me, putty-tat."

"So long as none of your goods were illegally acquired," the thief assured through another dashing smile, "I will have no need to. I only steal from other thieves. And the greedy. But you are neither of those, judging from your residence and attire, so there is no reason for your passive aggression."

Denny didn't seem to quite know to react to that last statement. He opened his mouth, put a finger forward like he was about to issue a hot retort, then lowered the hand, blinking. At least, Fix-It thought, the Rapolitz had offered that statement politely. He had a sense of etiquette in his interactions that he hadn't expected a thief would display. Pleasantries aside, the Fauxline thief got right down to business, changing from dapper rogue to earnest criminal investigator in such a sudden shift it left Fix-It baffled. The way he asked his questions really did remind him of Counterforce and Bumblebee: polite, gentle, but insistent. Details of the theft were given and the stolen property was described in full, including the recent modification done to it and an ensuing warning given to be careful in retrieving it. Counterforce and Sentenza being hurt, and Clampdown being killed, however, was not mentioned. He did not understand why not. But to his surprise, the thief was remarkably flippant about the danger and went on with his investigation as if the danger was merely an addendum. When the question was raised if he could speak to the victim, Charity was called in from her vigil in the medical bay, Frostbite and Zodiac leaving to take her place there.

Curious, Tantō tried to stomp after them, but a quick, low growl from Frostbite made him bow and keep where he was. He must have told him something; Tantō's expression altered visibly from curiosity to a strange contortion of rage and sadness, but he could find no words on any of the used channels, and Frostbite, he knew, didn't use personal comm's with strangers.

How much, he wondered in a sudden tangent, was it possible for a Canipid to convey through one growl?

He was surprised at the protective coding that surged in him when the thief's gaze instantly fixated on Charity upon her arrival, and when he approached her, bowed, took her hand and touched it to his helm bridge for a little longer than was strictly necessary. His tangent about the complexities of primal Predacon jumped off the nearest balcony. There was nothing inherently inappropriate about the gesture – Polyhexian greetings tended to be more intimate in appearance than an Iaconian one – but he seethed anyway. He'd always believed there was a certain barrier of respect that needed to be maintained when it came to medics, especially femme medics, and especially Charity. Apparently the Rapolitz didn't know what "personal boundary" meant for an Iaconian.

Poor Charity was taken aback, eyeing everyone in the commons with an expression that plainly screamed "Help!" but not the helpless sort of "Help!" more like the please-remove-this-complete-stranger-from-my-person kind of "Help!"

Tantō snorted, stamped one great hoof into the dirt, and glowered at his Fauxline partner. If ever a giant dragon-horse looked ready to commit homicide in full view of a cop and two Elite Guards, this one definitely did.

"Um..." Charity managed, quickly taking her hand back on seeing that murder glare.

The Rapolitz didn't seem to notice the murderous glare of his partner. He sounded genuinely shocked when he wondered to her why anyone would attack such a lovely set of faceplates. But he didn't stop there. He gave Charity his most dazzling smile yet and, to his horror, proceeded to speak to her in the most impressively poetic manner he had ever heard come from anyone's mouth ever. "Her optics shone brighter than a Bottle-of-Dawn in the dead of night"; "the combined voices of the Xanxoran monks and Sky Painters in the winter was as nothing to her sweet ballad of a voice," and "the gentle sweeps of her frame rivaled that of Silver Age architecture." At that point, the protective coding bubbled over. Bristling, fuming, he abandoned his post at the command center in a burst of movement he rarely ever let happen, whirred over to the Rapolitz, planted himself between the two of them, and thrust his arms out, forcing the Fauxline to stumble back. Glaring at him, he whirred back to his post, silent, and resumed his watchful glare from there.

To his consternation, the thief did not appear perturbed or even upset; he smiled in his direction in an obnoxiously knowing way. Then he chuckled. He bowed to them both, "My sincerest apologies, tv'kche. I got, ah, carried away."

"So will you take the job?" Bumblebee wondered.

"But of course!" cried the thief. "Need you even ask? I will have this photoharp returned to its rightful owner by sundown on this very day or I shall hang up my rapier and pistol in shame!"

Tantō whinnied and bucked his agreement.

He couldn't decide whether the Rapolitz was foolhardy in his confidence or genuinely self-assured of his skills. By sundown was a tall order.

"But what about pay? We can't ask you to do this for free!" gasped the medic. "It's dangerous! My 'harp's been weaponized! Someone died because of it last night!"

"Pay, pay, pay!" sighed the Rapolitz, waving a hand at her like a flippant teenager. "Do I look like an uncouth mercenary to you, my sweet ballad? No," he waved a hand in dismissal, "doing a good deed should never necessitate pay. Whatever happened to an act of genuine good will?"

"But –"

"Ah, ah, ah!" the thief put a single digit over her mouth to silence her. "I will not hear it. It is final."

Charity was forced to admit defeat. The Rapolitz absolutely refused to hear any further arguments about payment. He had to admit surprise – and a healthy dose of suspicion. He made it sound like it was pure altruism that was motivating him, but was it? Thieves were probably the least altruistic people in the universe, right up there with drug dealers and mega corporations. But he sounded completely sincere in that promise, and appalled at the very notion of getting payed for this job. Maybe that woman on the tarmac had been in the right – maybe it was possible for a thief to have, as she had put it, "a heart of gold," though why exactly a heart of gold was considered a sign of good will on this planet was beyond him, the physical impossibility of it aside; gold was usually a sign of rampant wealth or greed. On top of that, his physical ID in the system was about as incorrect as conceivably possible (which seemed a little too emphatic in its reversal of traits) and his investigation into the crime had been professional. Too professional.

His optics narrowed. Something wasn't quite right about this "thief." Not in a sinister way; there was nothing remotely sinister about him. The information just wasn't adding up. An altruistic thief who acted like a cop was the biggest jumble of contradictory traits he'd yet come across, but the corruption of data in the Alchemor was his bigger concern. If two 'bots on his ship were dark convicts, the practice itself illegal, then who was to say there weren't more?

He may not have been captain of the vessel but he still had a responsibility towards it. This needed looking into. He wouldn't be able to power down knowing there might be 'bots on the Alchemor, a prison ship intended for some of the most violent offenders known to their species, who shouldn't be there.

"There has to be something we can offer in return," Smokescreen argued.

The thief sighed dramatically, "I have already made it clear –"

"I'm not talking credits," he interrupted. "You're doing us a favor, a huge favor. Can't we do something in return?"

"Other than update that monumentally offensive false identity logged into the ship's database?" laughed the thief. "For now, I would not ask more than that."

He didn't even bother to ask how he knew about the fake identity. He sounded almost familiar with it, like he knew it was there without having to get a peek.

"That's it?" Strongarm demanded incredulously. "You're willing to put your spark on the line for us and all you want us to do is update your file?!" Then realization seemed to hit her. "Wait...your file isn't –?"

"I said for now," the thief reminded her as he put a hand up to placate her. "There is something more important you could do for me, but let us handle this arrangement one problem at a time, yes? While this other matter is important, it is not as pressing as the retrieval of stolen property."

"I can do the file update right now," Fix-It offered. "If you would hold still for a scan, please."

He flashed him another smile, "With pleasure."

Bringing out a personal scanner, he swept the beam over the Rapolitz a few times before uploading the updated image into his file. He thought for a moment to do the same to Tantō but decided against it. The Predacus Council could try him for his "crimes" when he returned to Cybertron. At least that way he'd get a fair trial and sentence. When he asked about his name, the Rapolitz bowed in his most ostentatious manner yet. "Ranseur," he clarified. There wasn't an elaborate roll of either R but there was just enough in the first one to make his audials giddy in delight. The name itself was musical, like the twang of a guitar string combined with the low rumble of a sports engine, and a far more Polyhexian sounding name than Roadkill he had to confess, infinitely more reflective of the charmingly wily, perplexingly altruistic figure it belonged to. Sideswipe emitted a delighted little squeak of a noise on hearing the name. That sound, he decided, was the sound of someone about to collapse into a singularity under the pressure of being exposed to another singularity who happened to be an idol. When the thief flashed him another of his infamous smiles, the squeak got a little louder.

"Now," prompted the Fauxline in a burst of professionalism, "where might these wastrels be based?"


There always came a point where you wound up with two choices to make about a life-changing decision: do the sensible, rational thing or do the crazy, stupid, awesome thing. Virtually every 'bot currently stuck on this planet with him would probably the first option since there was no risk involved. No one would get hurt, nothing bad would happen, and they could go about their day like normal, boring 'bots. Maybe they would have done the crazy, stupid awesome choice before last night, but after last night – nope, sensibility came first. At least for them. Sideswipe wasn't the kind to pass up the crazy, stupid, awesome decisions in life. Besides, he wanted the opportunity to punch Steeljaw in his stupid faceplates. It was petty, he'd probably get an audial-ful from Charity over it when she found out (she would), but it would be worth it. Getting punched in the faceplates was the least that walking scapheap deserved.

He kept his distance from the Fauxline as he ducked and wove through the branches of oaks, birches, and aspens, keeping him right on the edges of his scanners' range. Following Ranseur was easy at first, he didn't appear to be in a huge rush, moving more like an oil spill than a Harian as he leapt from branch to branch. But after a about twenty klicks, he got just out of range and didn't re-appear on scanners no matter which way he rolled towards. So he went in the direction his signal had last been, swiveling his neck around in every direction for the tell-tale flash of smokey obsidian and magma against the thousand shades of green, grey, and brown. There was no way the Fauxline could have gotten very far ahead. Not enough time had passed, and he wasn't that fast.

Those stories of the Fauxline abruptly vanishing from pursuing cops just a few blocks from them, even vanishing from pursuing rust hounds, didn't seem so insane now.

Hearing a rustle, he turned to the right, then jumped when smokey obsidian dropped down in front of him from above.

"Uh...I was just, um..." he stammered, pointing left and right randomly while trying to think of a good excuse, but his processor blanked.

"If you are going to shadow me," the thief smirked, "the least you could do is try to be inconspicuous."

His arms fell, "You...you knew I was following you?"'

"Please," he snorted. "You are redder than a hot ingot just pulled from a foundry and your steps are like the beat of a metal press."

He probably could've been a lot ruder about the insult but this was the Rapolitz he was getting dissed by. The guy had standards when being mean to someone. A little disappointing but another thing the stories had been right about.

"But...why are you letting me shadow you then?"

"I was going to alert the others and send you back," he admitted nonchalantly, "but I wanted to see how determined you were. I admire such a trait."

It was all he could do not to squeak again. He shoved the giddiness down. "I, uh, just, uh, wanted to make sure you didn't get, um, side-tracked?" he managed.

The smile Ranseur gave him screamed that he knew he was lying.

"Shadow me if you like," Ranseur continued as leapt back into the branches, "but do please keep your distance. I do not want you alerting the targets."

He winced and nodded, "Sure." Tipping his hat, Ranseur went on his way again, hopping and swinging from tree to tree, a little faster than before. Keeping up and being quiet about it was a challenge. The sticks and leaves on the ground crunching under his trods made too much noise, and he was too still too heavy. He thought for a moment to try his route, up in the branches, but after grabbing hold of one branch and having it snap under his weight in humiliating fashion he decided against it. Maybe some would hold him, but he couldn't count on every single one. As the thief surged ahead of him, lost to his sight, he was forced to slow to a fast creep, hunched over, regretting he couldn't revert to vehicle form and regretting more that he couldn't revert to an animal mode. But regret wasn't a trait the Fauxline liked. Determination was. So he stopped regretting and started thinking of Ranseur's admiration for being a help to him, and the sweet, sweet moment he would punch Steeljaw right in faceplates. He deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it he chanted in his helm. That chant kept him going through the klicks upon klicks of forested mountains in that less-than-comfortable crouch, long after the Fauxline had gotten out of visible range. He would not give in. To have the Wily Wild Cat disappointed in him – the thought alone made him shudder. No. He'd impress Ranseur. And punch Steeljaw. Double win.

He slowed when he reached a thinning in the trees. Ranseur had gone this way, he sensed he had, but he wasn't on scanners no matter which way he walked.

A frustrated growl escaped. His sight darted from tree to tree. "Come on, come on," he hissed. "Where'd you go? I'm gonna miss my chance!"

His optics stopped on something. Multiple somethings. On a series of trees laid out in the direction Ranseur had last headed was a series of scratches in the bark. He remembered seeing more of them on his way to this spot. Maybe it was just unavoidable left-overs of the Fauxline's claws and trods, maybe it wasn't. He couldn't care less.

Giving a victory smirk, he resumed his crouch and slunk ahead.

The scratches went on for klicks. After ten more he thought Ranseur was toying with him, trying to lose him on purpose to test him, until up on a peak he caught something flash in the sunlight. He thought it was the Fauxline at first, but after watching it for a few minutes he realized it was too still to be him. He was pretty sure he caught the dull red-orange of old rust in certain places, too. That was the only source of it. In every other direction he didn't catch that metallic glint. That had to be where Steeljaw was, and where Ranseur was headed if he wasn't already there. Ducking low, he crept down into the valley between the peaks. The closer he got to the structure, the louder his chant of revenge became. He could practically hear the clang of his fist meeting that jerk's faceplates already. He got as close to the structure as he dared. Not a very impressive place either – thing was pretty much falling apart at the seams; windows boarded up by planks, main door was too; there was a gravel path that fed from around the other side, out of what had to be an old depot or loading dock judging by the rusted out pick-up that sat off to the side; the roof of the building was in a slightly better state. Had to be for Ranseur to be perched on it without it giving way. Inside, he picked up three signals. He crept forward one half-step. Ranseur's helm jerked up. He looked his way, put a single digit to his mouth, and held a palm up in his direction. Sideswipe gave him an exasperated look, pointed at the structure, and mimed pounding a fist into an open hand without actually hitting the limb. But again Ranseur held his palm up, then pointed at himself, then pointed back down. Fuming inside, Sideswipe crept back into cover. Ranseur nodded at him and began to slink around on the roof heading for the back side of the building. He dropped. His signal moved inside. No rush, just a calm stroll. There was no way he was getting the drop on three signals so close together and he knew that. A direct approach when dealing with a weaponized photoharp, a city-eater, and a crime boss all in one space seemed like a really stupid idea though. Would Ranseur be able to pull this heist off?

'What the what am I thinking? Of course he will! Duh! He's the Wily Wild Cat!'

"Don't move!"

"Hands where I can sees 'em, cat!"

"Who are you?" Steeljaw wondered in a leveler tone. "How did you find this place?"

Ranseur chuckled, "Let's just say: your secret's out."

"Who are you?" repeated Steeljaw in a louder growl.

"Someone come to right a heinous wrong you committed, you cowardly degenerate!" spat Ranseur. "En guard!"

He heard the thief draw his famous rapier. He dared creep a little closer now that the focus was all on Ranseur. The pluck of a few strings warned him the 'harp was out. But he turned the volume reception of his audials down just in case. He couldn't count on the fact Steeljaw wouldn't use it around his Pack, not anymore.

"An assassin?" Steeljaw guessed, idly plucking a low note on the 'harp. "I admit I'm surprised they would go that far. How did they convince you? Credits? An offer of freedom for this service?"

"Assassin?" laughed Ranseur. "Ton svacle! If your mind is truly so clouded, permit me to cloud to your vision to match!"

He was almost to where he could peek through one of the boards over a window when suddenly FOOF! Black dust billowed out of the cracks in the boards. He barely moved back in time to avoid it. Steeljaw, Thunderhoof, and Underbite all began violently trying to clear their vents while shouting curses at the thief. His blade rang out in the murk Ching! Shrang! More shouting. He tried to be clever and follow Ranseur's signal but was startled and a little irritated to find that black dust must've done something to his scanners; he couldn't get a clear reading. He kept listening. The fight shifted from place to place, Ranseur yielding no ground, the ring of his rapier music in its own way to his audials and the smoke swaying and wafting from his movements. It wasn't the same as actually seeing him in action but it was still so cool, and enough for him to form sort of an idea of what was happening. He bounced eagerly on his trods, barely able to keep his delighted squeaking down. Not once did he hear the thief get hit. After a rapid series of strikes from the rapier there was a strange clanging noise, a pause, and another clang, tighter in sound that didn't have that same echoing ring, and the smoke wafted in a weird arc. Steeljaw swore.

At last the thief offered a victorious laugh. "I will take that, thank you!" he exclaimed.

"You little get back here!" growled Steeljaw.

"I think not! Avcds'xen!"

That phrase brought to mind that hat-tip he had done from earlier. All the stories about him said that phrase and that hat-tip, or a sassy salute, went hand in hand.

The sound of the ringing rapier ended just like that. He jumped back when the thief himself dropped down from the roof, smirking so broadly he thought the sides of his mouth might fly off. Winking at him, he bounded into the forests again. He chased after him. After a few klicks of snickering, laughing, and generally feeling great about such an easy victory, they slowed to a stop to let that victory sink in.

"Did you get it?" he asked.

Smirking, the thief held up his prize. There wasn't a single scratch on it.

"You really are the Prince of Pilfering!"

"Thank you. Now let's get back to your friends. That smoke bomb won't last forever!"

Ranseur made to jump but winced suddenly, his hand going for his right leg. He followed it and gasped. Tearing across the limb were four vicious wounds, crying blue stains down the smokey obsidian plating. He stared, shocked that the legendary Prince of Pilfering had gotten hurt, but that passed in favor of a rapid gesture and a demand to give him his right arm. He looped the mech's arm over his shoulder, sorely wishing he had basic medical training or just some ani-mesh.

"Thank you, my friend," the thief murmured through a strained chuckle, "but I do have some ani-mesh stored in my subspace. If you would help me down I can dress them."

He did. The thief sat with the one leg out and began to press ani-mesh against the plating. He couldn't help but get queasy at the sight of the injuries as they continued to ooze. His color and the blue reminded him a little too much of last night, and it made the anger he thought he'd let go of come back to continue biting at his spark, reminding him he hadn't punched Steeljaw yet and he better damn well do it. Steeljaw wasn't going to punch himself.

"...You are not just following me out of admiration," he said slowly. "You have a personal stake in this, no?"

"Wha–how did you –?"

"You were glowering at my wounds. More than a little odd, I admit. I saw anger there, anger at the one who made them, if I had to guess. Did he do something to you as well?'

He looked back. He didn't want to look into Ranseur's optics but his sight was drawn there anyway without so much as a kick in protest.

"He hurt one of my friends," he muttered.

"And I'm sorry I didn't finish the job."

He spun. Steeljaw came towards them, somehow snarling and smiling crookedly at once.

"I may not have been able to finish her," he said, "but two scrawny thrill-seeking ne'er-do-wells out in the woods, no help for miles around and an unreliable groundbridge?" he chuckled. "Easy pickings."

Ranseur thrust the 'harp at him, "Go!"

"What?!" he shrieked. "I'm not leaving you here with a psychopath!"

"Go!"

Steeljaw kept coming towards them. He took a step away. "Oh, don't bother running," he purred. "You smell of his fuel. Yes, that's right," he went on when he noticed him jolt. "That wound is nothing more than a few bad paper cuts. More flash than bang I think is the phrase here. But a flash is easy to follow to the source."

Horror set in. "You followed his Energon signature. The same way a Pred does. You don't need scanners to find someone."

"Pseudo-beasts really do have it all," the Lupioid agreed. "All the sensory ups of a beast but still able to take a vehicle form. Now," he extended a hand, "hand it over, and I'll let you go."

He stared at the instrument in his hands, then at Ranseur, then at Steeljaw. And then it clicked. He knew what to do.

"No."

"No?" Steeljaw repeated, incredulous. "My, you really do enjoy tempting fate, don't you?"

"Back off!" he warned in a low snarl he was proud of. "Or I play you a little song."

Steeljaw laughed, "You don't even know how to play!"

*Rans, turn your audials off.*

*Already done.*

Steeljaw lunged. He ducked and dodged out of the way. Ranseur lifted his good leg up and tripped Steeljaw for good measure. By the time Steeljaw turned to face him again it was too late for him to react. He howled silently at the sonic attack a single pluck of a string created, writhing on the ground like a hoard of scraplets were all over him. He wasn't happy to leave it there though. Handing the 'harp back to Ranseur with a casual "Hold this," he planted one trod on Steeljaw and pulled his upper half off the ground by his neck. One fist clenched.

"This is for Sen!" he screamed into the silence.

CHANG!

Steeljaw reeled from the blow. He kept hitting, hitting, hitting. The desire to hurt him as badly as he'd hurt Sentenza soon became the only thought running through his processor. He deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved it.

"Sideswipe! Sideswipe!" Ranseur gasped. "That's enough!"

His voice pulled him back. Steeljaw was limp in his grasp, helm lolled back. He let go of him. Shaking inside, he rose and joined Ranseur on the ground. He sat there with him in the silence, his backstrut up against the thick trunk of an old sequoia. When he glanced in the thief's direction he was looking at him so intently he felt he was looking into him. He looked down at the ground to avoid it.

"Did that help?" he wondered quietly.

He looked back at Steeljaw. "No," he mumbled. "Not really..."

There was an awkward pause. He couldn't meet the thief's gaze. He rose without a word and requested a groundbridge. It came. He stooped down to arc Ranseur's right arm over his shoulders again and led him into the portal.


The mixed gasps and cheers sounded muffled after he come out the other side. Without a word he handed Ranseur over to Charity, and he in turn handed her the photoharp like he was handing her an Acousta award. Not even her delighted squeak of a gasp and her rabid bear hug of joy to both of them made him feel better. He was starting to wonder if anything would. Helm down, he ducked further into the salvage yard where one pod stood all alone, close to the medical bay. He didn't even look into the glass, he just sank down and sat there, ignoring the other mech who had been parked there non-stop since last night. He didn't want to talk to him. Counterforce seemed to understand but he wouldn't leave like he wished he would. In the end he decided that was okay. He didn't want to talk to him but he did appreciate him being there. He stayed like that for nearly two hours, liking the quiet but also hating it. And then they got company. He sensed the crackling field before he looked up to see who it was.

"Windy?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

"Maintenance, of course," he said, and began to tinker with the pod. "It is vital to keep all systems functioning perfectly when it holds a patient in critical medical condition."

He went mostly quiet as he continued to work, every so often muttering rapid-fire statements to himself. Somehow the sound of his nerd-speak was comforting.

He rose halfway, "Hey, um, can I – can I help?"

Windstorm turned a surprised set of optics to him, "I am not sure if that –"

"Please?"

He yielded. He motioned him over and began to explain in simple terms what to do, guiding his digits to the right place if they went to the wrong spot. When he looked to the side, there was the ghost of a smile, a real one, on Counterforce's lip-plates.

It hurt to look at.


#Ransity xD