Chapter Ten
War had given him the dubious honour of having seen far too many unpleasant things. It had considerably desensitised him. Heck, even his pre-war antics had occasionally thrown up a few distasteful events that seared themselves into his memory chips, ensuring that when war did come blasting into his life that he was more than capable of shrugging off
all but the most visually repugnant sights.
Adding to that, his time on Earth, witnessing the results a Transformer could unleash on organic life was somewhat now tolerable. Blood, bone, skin, all those squishy innards they had. The strange smells, at sometimes metallic, reaching out to him over what seemed like distance that should have diminish it. A smushed human wasn't all that exciting to look at, sure, his impressive sensors could easily determine what had been what, but ultimately it was just a red smear. A charred human, or one burnt to a crisp, that was always more intriguing to look at, especially if the heat source had stopped before reducing them to ash. A blackened skeleton was an interesting thing to behold, Spike had once called it "Nightmare fuel", especially with the way their jaws would slack, either from one final agonised scream or simply the destruction of the muscles and tendons and whatnot that held their jaw in place.
If he was honest though, there were still times when seeing the remains of a human who met their maker at the end of a Transformer's annoyance/wrath/malice/indifference was a tad confronting. Not often, but occasionally enough it would give him pause.
So now, looking down into his hands, at the comparatively tiny, grainy black and white camera stills, he was somewhat bothered.
The human, once a giant pain in their aft, Shawn Berger, lay splayed out on the floor of his prison cell. Where once his head had been, now just a smouldering, still glowing charred gap that intruded naturally into the flesh around his shoulders and chest.
Megatron had seen to this damage personally.
Berger's short-lived involvement with the Decepticons hadn't yielded any results for Megatron, but nor had it imposed any kind of significant set back or loss.
Whether odd, confusing or concerning, the antics had happened decades ago. Berger's incarceration and ill health should have seen to him fumbling off this mortal coil sooner rather than later had raised optic ridges that Megatron, supreme leader of the Decepticons, would descend from his Ivory tower to involve himself in something so trivial and ultimately unnecessary. Prison life had been kind to the human's once portly constitution, however. Ratchet had made a sideways comment upon hearing of the sentence, that with his health status, he'd be lucky to spend another five years this side of life, but as cliched as it was, Berger had found exercise, and the restricted diet was much beneficial to his physique. Still, he was an old man now, and humans had a brutally fast approaching expiry date.
Regardless, it did add another line of proof to the growing list that Megatron was losing his nut.
Jazz had been back all of five minutes after having visited the Australian when his internal comm had beeped. He hadn't even transformed yet. A friend of his, or rather simply a contact now, human, was giving him a heads up.
Shawn Berger was dead.
Murdered in his cell. By that Primus' damned woman.
Now, that hadn't really gotten him too interested beyond her adding another notch to her belt. However, the fact that the security footage showed her doing the deed with Megatron firmly in hand was enough that he waltzed straight to Prime. While there wasn't much info at the moment, the head of Autobot Black Ops didn't think it'd be a good look if the boss-bot found out about this from some rubbish meme on Facebook.
There was also video footage.
Of course, that was going to take time, and favours to obtain.
She hadn't said anything. She couldn't.
Megatron, on the other hand, the length of pause noted by the time stamps, the movement of Berger's mouth, he was talking to someone.
That bloody gun, obviously.
What had the two conversed about before she pulled the trigger, or had Megatron self-initiated?
The series of photos would never yield those secrets, they'd need the live action version, and Jazz knew damn well there'd be audio somewhere.
Berger had rotted in prison for years, he was nearing the end of his life, and from all contacts, reliable or otherwise, there was absolutely zero indication that he was having any interaction with the Cons. There was certainly no evidence that he was conversing with anyone from his old life, and most of that lot, who were of any interest, were either dead or running out the clock in their own cells.
His family had abandoned him, to the point they'd changed their names. His son was known to have involvement in anti-Transformer groups, but there was nothing to suggest he had any contact with his father. He hadn't even been present when Berger was on trial or sentenced. One could argue his youth had kept him away, but that was a hard sell, given he was in his late teens and had appeared in a few youth mags spouting off against "those soul-less robots".
The only contact he had with anyone, other than the surly guards, were a few members of the prison chaplaincy service.
He'd developed some sort of friendship with a retired woman, Penny Rawly, but she'd died in the early 2010s. Since then, his communication with the chaplaincy seemed more professional than towards building any sort of platonic relationship. He was always polite to them. Never rebuffed them. Certainly, didn't mock them when they came with Bibles in hand to pray. There was definitely no conversion. He had no interest in religion. Raised by a non-practising Jewish mother and a Lukewarm Presbyterian father, he'd simply fallen into the more comfortable notions of secularism when he left home for university. Religion, regardless of the flavour, always seemed a complete antithesis to the way he wanted to live his life, and run his business. He had no care for the weak, the meek or anyone else that wasn't Shawn T. Berger.
Basically, there was no tangible link to the outside world.
No one that could enable any sort of criminal act.
No one that would help him escape, whether under the fence or through the front gate.
There was no activity in any of his bank accounts.
Certainly, no improvement to his prison commissary fund.
And there was absolutely nothing that suggested any communication with the Decepticons or anti-Transformer group.
So why now? Why would Megatron waste time and a phone call to his bloody assassin to deal to this pending cardiac event?
The media didn't even care.
The final burst of attention Berger got from the press was in early 2000 when his last well-paid lawyer tried to make the case that he was mentally unhinged thanks in part to a "hypno-chip". Those things had existed, of course they had, and while there were a few still out there on the black market, the general public didn't know about them. The decision was they didn't need to know. It was resided to the ramblings of conspiracy loons, easily discredited.
Of course, the information was quickly dismissed, Berger's funds finally exhausted, and he disappeared into obscurity, doomed to live the rest of his life in a cell, essentially forgotten.
There had been a quick mention of his laser driven demise on one of the later news shows, but it came after a story about a porn star being arrested after having a tantrum in a bottle store.
Regardless of public opinion or lack of media attention, it worried Optimus. With that said, there was obviously going to be a need for Jazz to dig deeper. The Autobot leader recognised this would likely take time and resources, and there was no point calling any kind of meeting to discuss the assassination. Let the gossip mongers wring this topic out for a few months, adding their own spin on the tale, but the spies would do their best hidden by false clues and general bullshit.
The other side of the coin, that Jazz had pointed out, was that nothing might come of this. Maybe Megatron woke up one morning, rolled out of the recharge berth and decided he did want to pop Berger off before nature got him. For beings that could live millions of years, what was a few decades? Megatron had a habit of biding his time before on things that aggrieved him. But one human? One annoyingly incompetent, arrogant and money-grubbing human? Would he really go out of his way to end him?
And what had been in that final exchange?
A simple explanation of Megatron's reasoning?
Or merely Berger begging for his life and Megatron being amused enough to give him a few extra minutes of life?
ooOOOoo
Jazz sat parked in what had once been a rather nice area of Central. Once home to a stunning few acres of green. Birds and squirrels and children played happily amongst the well painted playground. Now those wonderfully tall trees, neatly manicured flower beds and soft, bushy grasses had long died. The wide empty spaces where humans threw frisbee at each other or chased around after misbehaving dogs were now cluttered with shanties and burnt-out cars.
The woman opened the door of the multi coloured Nissan bluebird, circa 2004.
"Porsche is more you".
"Yup".
She locked the door. Habit.
"It was a right pain to get this. I'll lose my job if I'm busted. People don't want you guys seeing this, or rather, hearing it".
The woman removed the brown, shaggy, mostly recycled envelope from her heavy woollen coat. The ends of the sleeves frayed, the elbows patched with fake leather, the lining ripped and hanging from the back. She held it up for a few moments, a series of previous names on the faded paper having been crossed out.
"Oh, into the glove box, ma'am".
He popped it open, and she deposited it.
"You got anything else for me?"
Jazz was all business today. He wanted to get this sorted as quickly as possible. He really did have bigger fish to fry. Berger was old news. The prevailing opinion of Megatron descending into madness was common, but not something Jazz completely subscribed to. Of course, if he was being honest, black ops had taught him not to dismiss things so quickly. Sinister shenanigans were always just a trench coat away.
"There's an extra file, it's security footage of McGryin. Going to a café, popping into a library, giving a few bucks to a bum, all things she did before she hot-wired a random car and drove it to the jail. We're still not sure how she got through security, but there's a rumour she wasn't just carrying Megatron. If it was Soundwave sitting in her handbag, he would have easily gotten her by security".
She took a long sigh, rubbed her hands to keep them warm.
"There's a few images of her wearing a guard's uniform, and walking down the corridors leading to Berger's cell like she belongs there. No one stopped her. No one checked her security pass. None of that. People have already lost their jobs. People are pissed. The president is furious. The Indos are spitting tacks. That woman really knows how to fuck a whole lot of very different people off".
"Us amongst them".
"But that's all I got. The footage ain't great, but Blaster could easily clean it up enough to hear what's being said. From what I heard; Berger just embarrassed himself".
"Standard procedure for that arsehat".
A quick moment of silence passed between them.
"Usual fee, usual account, usual details of payment".
"Thanks, Jazz".
The woman got out before he could say anything, not that he was going to. She walked off, disappearing into the cluster of human misery, shoddy construction and an assortment of vermin.
Jazz pulled out onto the road and started the rather sluggish and filthy drive back to base. He scanned the data stick as he pulled in behind a rickety looking bus waiting at a red.
The images of that woman weren't anything exciting, and to be frank, Berger had always been a thorn in the side of a lot of politicians, including the president. So why would she be furious that he was now dead? Did she want to do the deed? Was she mad at that quiet little assassin for taking the satisfaction of being partially responsible for Berger's death from her? Was she annoyed that it had been so easy for her to waltz in, kill the guy with the leader of the Deceptions then amble back out like she was taking a leisurely stroll on a pleasant Spring Saturday afternoon?
Of course, the president wasn't exactly playing with a full deck herself, as the human saying went, so her rage could be generally misplaced.
Or his contact was just spouting a bit of hyperbole?
She was right about the quality of the video footage, but he didn't need Blaster to clean it up. He had the software and the skill to do it himself, whilst driving, in this ugly and unassuming vehicle mode.
The woman had entered the cell.
Berger hadn't roused from his mid-morning slumber.
She prodded him with something.
Megatron.
The Autobot doubted that he appreciated that.
Berger grumbled incoherently in protest.
Another poke.
He rolled over, paused for a moment as his waking brain slowly took in and processed what he was seeing. His eyes clearly locked on the muzzle of the Decepticon leader's alt.
The man bolted upright, quicker than his years perhaps allowed to be done comfortably.
"Megatron!"
"I'm glad you remember my name, Shawn".
Megatron's tone oozed with disgust.
The woman simply held her master/employer at his head.
"What… what are you doing here? What do you want? I've done nothing! Said nothing! Nothing! I didn't betray you! It wasn't my fault, none of it! I've been here for years, said nothing. I could have said so many things, things that could have won me my freedom, fame, money, women, so many things, yet I didn't utter a word…"
"Be quiet, fool".
Berger slowly rose to a more level sitting position. She took a step back, the gun still aimed firmly at him. He'd never be able to outclass her if he tried something. He obviously knew it, so took careful motions that wouldn't be construed as a threat, or a feeble attempt to escape. But go where? The door behind her was shut, locked.
He realised he was being allowed to stand, so did so. He pivoted very gradually, with a lot more grace than expected in his current situation. His hands raised by his side, level with his shoulders. Breathing slowly, still obviously afraid, he'd be an idiot not to be, yet that initial panic was gone. Perhaps, perhaps now replaced with acceptance.
This would be the day he'd die.
And to be honest, it'd be quick, probably painless, better that wasting away in this roach infested shit hole. His every moment of declining life watched by uneducated idiots, far too many of them with mean streaks and an overactive sense of importance.
"My lovely friend here would like to know where he is".
"Who? I don't know who you mean?"
His eyes moved from the gun to the woman.
"You do know. Don't waste my time, or hers".
Megatron was level. His voice even. There was a hint of annoyance, but only those well accustomed to the despot's personality would have noticed it.
"Anything I tell you about him, it'd be decades old".
"No need to lie. I have it on good authority you spoke with him fairly recently".
Berger looked down at the floor. He sighed, it was long and slow, deep.
There was a look on his face, only there for a moment, there really was no point hiding whatever information the Decepticon was after. Clearly it was for Megatron's interest. He wouldn't go out of his way for a human female.
"Tokyo. He's in Tokyo. His nephew's son works for the university there. Or you can find him at that Catholic church in Nagasaki, I don't know the name, but the famous one, with the bombed statue".
"Heh. Fitting".
Megatron chortled.
"I talked to him, via Amanda, a few weeks ago. I don't imagine he's had time to move on from those places. I don't have addresses though, just those two bits of info".
"And what of the cache?"
"They know about the big one she knows about".
He motioned to the woman.
"That's not the one I mean, don't frustrate me with your attempts to veil the truth. Believe it or not, I have a low setting. It burns more slowly".
Obvious fear etched across the old man's features.
"I'm not. I'm just…"
"Where's the cache?"
"I don't know, but there's a man, a general, retired, Steven Young. I'm not sure if it's Steven with a -ven or a -phen".
"We'll figure it out. We're clever like that".
"He knows about it. He had it moved, in 2018, maybe 2019. I'm not sure where".
Megatron didn't respond for a noticeable moment.
She fired.
She was quicker than Berger. He died not even knowing it was happening. Yeah, he knew it was coming, but when it came, he was unprepared.
The blast struck him in the nose. The heat moved with such speed it was over in a fraction of a second. His body slumped, smouldering, splayed out.
She regarded him, but not long enough to impact their escape, which was done all too easily given the way she simply retreated the cell and walked back the way she came.
Wow.
A lot of people were going to lose their jobs over that.
ooOOOoo
"General Young was responsible for America's response to ANZIN. Due to the political shit show and hand sitting by the Western nations, his antics were mostly relegated to black ops level stuff, and nothing you could argue was ultimately effective or helpful".
Prime looked over the data pad that sat in front of him.
"He retired officially a few years after, once his name was released in the press. That Wikileaks nonsense. He made for an effective scape goat. For the next ten years he simply operated in the private sector as a consultant, but still had a lot of connections with the US".
"Any information about what this cache could be?"
"Nothing, as of yet. Obviously, the money's on it being some nasty weapon. Shit, there were certainly a lot of them in that war, but you can bet your diodes that if Megatron is asking about it, it's gotta be something big".
"Do you think the woman might know?"
"I dunno, I wouldn't put it past her, but honestly, she was just there to walk him in and pull the trigger".
"And this other man mentioned, the one in Tokyo or Nagasaki?"
"Nothing yet, boss. I'm going to have to do some real fancy-pants sleuthing. This is something that needs to be slightly elevated up our ladder of concern".
"I'm worried you're correct".
He rubbed his fingers into the corners of his faceplate.
"Amanda?"
"Another prison chaplain. She'd come every first Tuesday in the month, spend an hour with him in the visitor's room. Mostly pray and chat stuff. Everything is recorded, but nothing that would ring alarm bells. She's a retired engineer. Worked for Blackwell, if you can believe that. Got a decent enough pension. Lives in a one bedroom flat with her husband in Bluedale, west side of Central. Funny thing is, she doesn't go to church. Occasionally a bible study, but that seems more like an excuse for them to get together for a stiff drink. I'm going to go pay her a visit".
"Good".
Optimus lent back in the chair. He picked up the pad and scrolled mindlessly down the screen.
"I don't think I need to express to you how important it is we get to the bottom of this. If it was simply a matter of Megatron having a slow burn for revenge, well, that's predictable if not slightly strange, but not concerning. If there's a weapon cache out there, if the humans are involved, if it has anything to do with that wretched war, then we need to know. We do not need a repeat of New Delphi. Jazz, I say this too often, but I'll say it again, whatever you need, whomever you need, it's yours. Any trouble you send them straight to me".
"Right boss".
"And we need to try and keep the humans out of this as long as possible. There's too many links to them now, so operate with absolute caution".
Prime realised quickly what he said.
"I'm certainly not telling you how to do your job, and I know you know that. I'm just, well, frustrated. The situation on Earth has been untenable for some time, and this is just another, to use the human saying, straw on the camel's back".
"Agreed, Prime, and understood. I'll be extra careful like".
He gave his trademark cheeky grin, one of many. Prime gave a curt nod of his head, a sign that the saboteur could leave.
Jazz walked slowly down the corridor leading to his quarters. Something was eating away at his circuits; it was that nuisance feeling that pinged his sensors. Something was really, really wrong, and he had that irritatingly unfortunate feeling that they were driving right into it.