Oh hey. This updated within one year. It's a miracle.
Disclaimer: Transformers belongs to Hasbro.
He got a job.
It wasn't a good job, he thought. But it was a job. A job that paid him Cybertronian Shanix. A job that let him get supplies, necessities. Weapons. Even the occasional parts he needed to renovate his home outside city limits.
He worked in one of the casinos in Center at Level 7. Which meant he also worked in one of the nightclubs, auction houses, gladiatorial arenas, bars, and weapon shops; casinos in Center did about everything. Most who worked with him knew it, even if no one said it.
The job Oppressor—the manager of the Nightblade Casino—gave him was that of a watcher. An enforcer of the casino's rules. A protector of performers, employees, and the casino guests themselves. This made him a target of the rowdy and intoxicated. As well as the more ill-intentioned guests, who had goals ranging from vile to needlessly violent. Sometimes both.
As a new watcher, he was not permitted to carry a weapon. Even a non-lethal. His job was to watch. Point out the rule breakers and chaos-seekers to the watchers with more experience and authority. Officially, this meant he was not even supposed to stop anyone he saw breaking the casino rules. In reality, he was expected to enforce the rules just like the senior watchers. In the time he had been with the Nightblade Casino, this expectation had resulted in nine junior watchers being offlined doing their job.
He would not be one of them.
"Eh, new mech."
He turned at the voice, halting his patrol of the edge of his assigned zone of the floor to face his approaching boss. Oppressor was significantly shorter than he was. Built slighter. He carried no weapon, but walked as if he were the most dangerous person in the room. His smile, wide and seemingly friendly, didn't reach his yellow optics.
"Been lookin' for ya," Oppressor said in his accented voice, stopping in front of him and drinking from the cube of high grade he always seemed to have in his servo. "I want ya covering the club."
"This is my assignment," he said.
"Yeah, it was," said Oppressor. "Now it ain't. You're on the club now, understand? I want you coverin' the club. Now, get movin', wiseaft; they're down three watchers."
He blinked, staring a moment more, then nodded and started for the club wing of the Casino.
"Weird aft Onyxian…" He heard behind him, and ignored it.
He made his way through the Casino gaming floor, blocking out the distractions all around him, and the sensory overload they threatened to bring. Music. Shouting. Games whistling, ringing, tinning with the sound of fake Shanix chits. Crowds of gamblers crying out in victory or despair. Well-armored game masters who knew how to play the players for their money. Scantily-clad femmes bearing trays of mixed cubes for the high-stakes tables, faceplates graced with well-practiced smiles that didn't reach their optics.
He hated it.
The watcher at the door to the Casino's club wing saw him approach, nodded, and used a security badge to buzz him in.
And he became lost.
Everything that the game floor had was amplified in the club two-fold. The gamblers both gamed and danced at the central portion of the wing, where multiple levels of seating, dancing, and drinking intersected in a shared chamber, and a pair of mechs in a booth controlled the club's offensively loud and frantic music and lighting systems. Bars were frequent, operated by more femmes wearing tactically unsound amounts of armor, and served cubes even stronger than those available on the gaming floor.
He hated the club, too.
He touched base with the other watchers on duty, and found there he would be most needed: second level balcony. Overlooking the main floor.
Worst spot in the entire club. He suspected the other watchers had left it specifically for him. Kind.
Regardless, he had a job. An assignment. He ascended one of the winding staircases leading to the second level, multiple times forced to move aside as club-goers both overcharged and of sound CPU moved down from the second level to the first. The stairs were already narrow, and he was definitely beyond average in height and build. He was certain he annoyed several people.
Finally, he reached the second level. It—and the other three levels above it—were much the same as the first. Drinks. Dancing. Gaming. Difference was each level had its own lighting theme. The second was an intimate red.
He walked to the balcony and looked down to the main dance floor. There were hundreds of club-goers down there. Dancing. Drinking. Laughing. Cheering as the loud music changed beats or dropped.
It was a watcher's nightmare.
That was why he was up on the second floor, away from the mess. The sheer density of people on the floor made ground observation a near-impossibility. Too many people to track. Too many servos to watch. Too much noise to listen to. The top-down overwatch helped reduce those factors to manageable levels. In theory. The number of moving bodies still made it extremely difficult for most people to notice rule-breakers, but he wasn't most people. He saw the way the dancers behaved, saw how drinkers acted, and he saw the ones who broke the pattern. Went against the crowd. He kept track of more than a dozen groups at a time. It was less than a klick before he saw one that broke the rules.
"Party of three, near western edge of the main floor," he said in the universal channel assigned to watchers in the club. "One of them just put stimulants in their cubes."
"Ours or not approved?" One of the other watchers asked.
"I see no marks."
"You're sure?"
"Nightblade-approved stimulants come in a white tube with a black sword on the side. Their tube is all white."
"Not approved. Good stuff. Moving."
"How'd you even see that?" Another watcher asked. "I can't even tell the difference between approved and not approved tubes when they're standing right in front of me!"
He didn't answer, opting instead to mute the channel and focus on the job. He did that more than most of his coworkers. They talked, chatted, made conversation. He kept words to a minimum. Didn't engage others unless necessary. Never went out after his shift, as some did.
Maybe that was the real reason why he got the position above the main floor so frequently.
He called out seven other rule-breaking offenders over the course of the next ten klicks, and his fellow watchers moved to speak to or remove them from the floor. After that, the message seemed to spread across the main floor. The rate of people breaking policy dropped dramatically, and their offenses lessened in severity. A few looked up at him, seeming to connect that no one on their floor could have seen them. They always looked away when he went to meet their gaze.
Except one.
There was a mech sitting in at the edge of the dance floor, in a booth. An elevated platform that allowed the patrons renting it a greater degree of privacy from both the ground floor and the one above; the booth was partially covered with a one-way energy field. Such booths were expensive to rent, and generally the top priority for servers.
But rules were rules.
He saw the mech take an unauthorized stimulant, just as his first rule-breakers had. He saw the mech offer the same stimulant to others within his booth—three other mechs and four femmes, all in armor that was both extremely well-maintained and of material he knew was associated with top-of-the-line, prohibitively expensive designs. He called out the violation, and one of his fellow watchers ascended up to the booth to deliver the request to obey the rules.
Only instead of doing that, he saw the other watcher freeze upon reaching the top step, nod to the mech, and depart, while the rule-breaker looked straight at him. Unblinking. Smiling a slight smile that didn't leave even when he met the mech's optics.
He looked to the retreating watcher and commed him directly. "Why are you falling back?"
"Hey, don't pay attention to that party," the watcher said, sounding strained. Tense. Afraid. "As far as we're concerned, they never break the rules."
He frowned. "They are—"
"They're not there, okay? No one is there. Shut up and get back to work."
The other watcher cut the link.
He stared after the other mech for another moment, then shifted his attention back to the booth. The rule-breaker had lost interest in him and returned to his party. He saw that another tube of non-approved stimulants had come out. Perhaps an intentional message to him. Perhaps not.
Who was the mech? A VIP, obviously. But why was he not informed? What behavior was he to ignore and where was the line? Was there a line?
No one is there. Shut up and get back to work.
He shook his helm and did just that.
Cybertronians were so strange.
The rest of his shift was as expected: filled with dealing with troublemakers and those who broke rules and policy. It had been an easy night, with minimal difficult patrons he was called in to sort out or remove from the building. In his limited experience, such shifts were a rarity within Nightblade.
But he was still bothered by the mech in the booth.
Once his shift came to an end and he logged himself out of the Nightblade work system, he sought out the watcher who had refused to confront the mech in the booth. He found who he was looking for sitting in one of the employee breakrooms, reading a data pad.
He approached the table. "Why was he exempt from the rules?"
The other watcher jumped and looked up, looking startled. "How the frag did you sneak up on me like that?!"
He sat down. "You're not situationally aware. Now why was the mech in the booth exempt?"
"Hi to you, too," the other mech said, sarcastically. He shook his helm, returning to his data pad. "I don't remember saying you could just intrude on my break."
He said nothing, staring.
The other watcher glanced up over the data pad. "That was me saying I want to be alone."
He waited.
"Fine, fine," the mech said, audibly groaning. "Look. There are just… Certain people you don't mess with, alright? The mech you called out for a violation? He's one of them."
"Why?"
"How should I know?! We're watchers, not real players in anything."
"I do not recall believing this a game."
"Oh, Primus." The other watcher ran a servo over his faceplate, rolling his optics. "Alright, since you can't get a hint: he's the son of a crime lord. A very scary crime lord that's even scarier than Oppressor's boss. The kind that can shoot you in the middle of the street up on the surface and get off with a ticket. The kind that doesn't like it when someone interrupts their good time, even when it's not their territory. You understand that?"
He did. The mech had power. Power attained through fear and brutality unrivaled even among the city's kingpins. Much like Overlord. "Yes," he said.
"Good. Don't ever ask me, or any of us, to interrupt that mech again. Got it?" The other watcher raised his data pad again. "Now if you'll excuse me, I want to get back to my break. Leave me be."
He stood up and walked away, pretending not to hear the other watcher's whispered words, not meant for his audio receptors, "Damned Onyxian."
He made his way out of the staff only area and began his trek out of the Nightblade. The streets just outside were crowded. Far too crowded for his liking. Too open. Too flashy. Meant to hide the nature of Level 7 behind lights and smiles and luxury.
Much like the rest of Cybertron, he supposed.
He got through the crowd without trying; most made room for him to pass. In other cities, that would have made him visible. Vulnerable. In Level 7, that was how the crowd treated everyone. The local kingpins—the crime bosses—kept the streets clean by implementing rules he'd been quick to pick up. Rule one was to respect everyone you saw in the street. If they didn't, they learned to. Bumping into someone working for a crime boss earned harsh repercussions unless the lesser party showed regret.
Sometimes, it earned harsh repercussions even with regret.
That was why, when someone deliberately bumped into him, he didn't react, save stop and turn.
The mech from the booth was in front of him. The son of the crime lord.
And he had friends. Six of them.
"What do you think you're doing, Onyxian?" The crime boss' son asked. He sounded exactly as he looked: slick, brash. Entitled. "Don't ya see I'm walking here?"
He knew then what was happening. That the son was looking for energon. An excuse to extract retaliation for his attempt to reinforce the Nightblade's policies.
"I'm talking to you, Onyxian."
The mech's friends shifted at those words, began to slowly surround him. He saw the subtle weaponry they held. The hardened rings on their digits. Knives disguised on their foreservos. The block-like appearance of undeployed pistols at their waists.
This was the last thing he needed.
"I meant no offense to you," he said, flatly.
"Yeah?" The crime boss' son advanced, getting into his personal space and forcing him to look down; the son barely reached his chestplates. "Well, I think I might've taken offense."
One of the mechs hit him from behind.
He'd known it was coming, but didn't brace; it would be worse if he resisted. He felt the fist clearly as it impacted the back of his helm, where the skull was more vulnerable. He collapsed, and more blows rained down on him. No knives or pistol grips, just fist, servo, and pede. Punching. Kicking.
"You think you're still tough?" One of them mocked, then kicked him right in the faceplate. Energon soon flowed from his nasal.
"Our stims registered now?" Another said, and slammed a pede down on one of his wings and pulled on it with both servos. He felt it break.
"We following your nice little club's rules?" Asked another, right before straightening out his servo and bringing an elbow down on it at the joint. He felt it disconnect.
It went on for klicks, and he lost count of the number of times he was hit. After a certain amount, he didn't care.
He didn't feel pain, anyway.
Eventually, they stopped and stepped back, letting the crime boss' get in close again. The son leaned down toward him, smiling in a way that told him the other mech enjoyed these moments. Relished them. Sought them out whenever he could.
A sadist with power. Another similarity to Overlord.
"Let this be a lesson," the son said. "Next time we head over to your lame-aft club, don't interrupt our good time. You understand?"
He nodded once, carefully.
Apparently, that was the wrong move.
The son kicked him in the faceplate. Once. Then again. He felt the delicate armor around his optics bend. Felt something break in his left optic just before his vision fractured, showing him the same image in various sizes and shapes. The acidic taste in his mouth told him he had torn his cheek or glossa.
"I said," growled the son, lowering his voice. Likely an effort to make himself sound more intimidating. "Do you. Understand?"
"Yes…" He said, quietly. Weakly.
"Good." The son straightened. Then he spit on him. "You have yourself a wonderful evening."
The son walked away, giving him one last kick before he did. His posse followed him.
He remained on the ground until he was certain they'd left, then he slowly picked himself up, mindful that, even though he couldn't feel pain, it didn't mean he could ignore injury; he'd damaged himself in the past by doing just that.
It hadn't mattered, of course—but no one else needed to know that.
The crowd—having backed off while the son and his thugs attacked—returned to their usual indifference by the time he stood up. No one looked at him, talked to him. Acknowledged him. The only indicator they even noticed he was clearly roughed up and hobbling was that they gave him an extra half-step of space.
That was just fine by him.
He reached an alley to the side of the street and sought refuge there, away from the optics of the crowd. He looked for any would-be muggers in hiding. Found none. Then he settled in the corner of the alley and let another of his gifts do its work.
His frame healed. Rapidly. Unnaturally. With a series of snaps and sicking cracks as his broken parts broke themselves again to repair properly. His armor bent itself back into shape. The web of cracks in his fractured optic slowly receded, followed by a pop sound in the same optic. His segmented vision unified after that.
He stood up, no longer limping. No longer forced to abide by injuries. He used a servo to wipe some energon off his armor, lest people get the wrong idea, and moved to the opposite side of the alley—where no one would have seen him as a bleeding, beaten mess. People would ask questions if they saw anyone heal that fast. He couldn't have anyone do that.
If they did, he'd have to kill them.
He called in his next three shifts.
He didn't want to. Couldn't afford to. But it was necessary. There were too many witnesses to the beating he'd been given; some of them he'd recognized as regulars of Nightblade. Too many people who could say, definitively, that he shouldn't have been able to walk unaided just a solar-cycle later. He had to lay low. Let those witnesses think he was letting his system heal him up just enough so that he could get back to work.
When he finally returned to work five cycles later—he didn't work endcycles—he made sure he did it with a slight limp. A hobble, meant to show he still hadn't healed. A few cheats would take advantage of that, try and steal and leave while they thought the watcher nearby was distracted with his unhealed injuries. He'd make sure one or two would succeed. Oppressor would be furious, and he'd get his pay docked further. But it was necessary.
Let them think him vulnerable. It made him less memorable.
On the second half of his first shift back at work, while watching for cheats at the card tables, Oppressor sought him out. "New mech."
He turned to the smaller mech. "Sir?"
"I want you on the club again. They down two watchers."
He knew better than to argue. He gave Oppressor a single nod, then limped away.
"One more thing."
He looked back.
"Havoc and his crew are here tonight. Don' mess with their good time again. Got it?"
He now had a name to place on the son. "Understood."
"Go do ya job."
He left Oppressor behind and went to the club. As he had in his last shift, he touched base with the other watchers to understand where he would be best placed.
He was given the second level balcony again.
Unsurprising.
He went back up to the balcony, to the best location to watch the dance floor. He began to watch the hundreds of people below him, oblivious to his watchful optics. In moments, he saw the first rule-breaker. Moments later, his second. Then his third.
Four, if he counted the party he was supposed to ignore.
He couldn't help it. Couldn't avoid it. He saw everything on the floor below, and Havoc was down there, with his crew and femme company. The crime lord's son was far more brazen than he had been before. More obvious. Instead of keeping violations to the private booth his crew occupied, Havoc was using unapproved stimulants out in the open—in full view of half a dozen watchers. He openingly hacked the holographic entertainment system in his booth instead of paying the modest fee for its use. When finished with a cube, he didn't leave it on the table in the booth, but threw it right down at his pedes, where the cube would shatter. From the amount of debris within the booth, his group had followed his example.
Any single one of the acts were grounds to be banned from Nightblade. At least thrown out for the evening.
Havoc and his crew received complimentary drinks instead.
He did his best to filter out the behavior he saw from that side of the dance floor. He focused on his job. On the instructions he had been given, in no uncertain terms: leave Havoc alone. Let him have his fun. Let him break every rule the Casino had. He was not to be touched.
No matter how much he touched others.
He noticed it first when a serving femme brought the group their next round of drinks. Havoc—in full view of his own, femme company—grabbed the server inappropriately, causing her to nearly drop the tray. She went to make a hasty retreat, but Havoc blocked her path. Touched her again. Smiled and said something to his crew, which made the mechs—and half the femmes with them—laugh.
Havoc let her go after another, inappropriate touch and another round of laughter. She descended the stairs two at a time, looking visibly upset. She approached one of his fellow watchers and spoke quickly, but he shook his helm after following her gesture to Havoc's booth. She approached another, and got the same result. And the one after that. She looked broken after the last. Betrayed as she walked back to one of the bars, where another femme had already prepared another tray of drinks for a different table.
He looked away when he noticed the beginnings of tears in her optics. And he hated himself for it.
In the list of a watcher's responsibilities, the Nightblade's instructions clearly stated that they were in charge of the protection of all Nightblade employees. If there was a problem guest, they handled it. If an employee felt unsafe, they handled it. If an employee was the problem, they handled it.
What was the point of the job if certain people were allowed to ignore them?
Survival.
To survive, he needed to be no one. Just another faceless goon, living one pay cycle to another. Notable in no way beyond being Onyxian. As powerless to challenge wrong doing as anyone else.
His enhanced hearing caught the sound of the summons bell at the bar. The femme he'd seen before, fresh from delievering the last tray and now alone behind the bar, looked at the chart behind the bar—where employees could see who had summoned a round of drinks—and he saw her tense.
His optics flicked to Havoc.
The mech had his digit on the button that summoned a server. He was laughing with his crew, as he always had. But this time, he caught a different look in Havoc's optics. A look he'd seen before, in Overlord.
It was the look of a mech who was about to inflict pain. And would enjoy it.
This is not my concern, he thought, immediately. Instinctively. Before traitorous ideas of putting Havoc's plans down could enter his mind. It was not his concern. He needed to survive. He needed to be invisible.
Out of the corner of his optic, he saw the serving femme put together a tray of drinks and leave the bar unattended.
It was not his concern. He wasn't responsible for what others did. He needed to be invisible.
The serving femme reached the dance floor below. The dancers—well used to serving femmes—gave her space to move. She turned toward Havoc's booth.
Havoc noticed, and shouted out a greeting that belonged in a different kind of club. One he would never be part of.
A few of his fellow watchers turned away, looking torn.
It wasn't his concern.
The serving femme began to climb up the steps. Havoc called out to her again, using even worse language.
It wasn't his concern…
… But what was the point of leaving Onyx if he was going to have to deal with another Overlord?
He made a decision.
He left his post. Two of his fellow watchers immediately called out to him in the watcher's shared channel. He disconnected himself from it.
He went down the steps, quickly but with purpose. When he reached the first floor, those same watchers were moving to intercept him. "Listen, Onyxian!" One of them said. "I can see what you're thinking, and you can't do it!"
"The Nightblade has rules."
"And he's exempt from them. It's out of our control."
"Because we let it be."
He walked by them, tuning out their protests. He reached the crowd, who were quick to part for his size, as the femme finished climbing up the steps. He climbed them himself moments later.
Havoc—servos already where they were not permitted—turned to him as he stopped in the booth entrance. His optics blazed with a furious fire that quickly turned to a flash of amusement. "Well look here, friends. It's that Onyxian again." He pulled the serving femme close to his chestplate even as she struggled against his grip. "Leave us be, Onyxian."
"There are rules. Release the Nightblade employee."
Havoc laughed, as did the mechs with him. Their femme company did not. He caught the nervousness in their optics. The detection that their fun had just turned dangerous.
It had.
"What?" Havoc asked, still laughing. "Did our lesson not take? Walk away, before I just kill you."
"Final warning," he said. "Release the Nightblade employee."
Havoc scoffed, looked back to his goons, who were shaking their helms. "Can you believe this idiot? Think we beat him too hard last time?"
He advanced.
"Oh, look at him. He thinks he's—"
Then he grabbed Havoc's servo and snapped it at the elbow-joint.
Havoc's taunt turned into a scream. A loud, guttural scream reserved for true pain. Agony.
The mood in the booth changed.
Away went the laughter of the other mechs. They at him—now holding up Havoc by his broken servo—and looked at each other like they couldn't believe what was happening. He had seen such looks before, in those who had assumed themselves untouchable. Invincible. Protected by the belief that no one would dare go against their wishes.
He let Havoc drop, and the mech began to push himself away from him, crawling on the floor, leaving behind a trail of energon as it spurted from his servo, where a strut had ripped through his armor and was visible in the open air. Mixed with his cries, he heard weeping. That would call others to action.
As he expected, it did. One by one, the other mechs of Havoc's gang stood up. Their stances indicated preparation for a fight. Their optics betrayed uncertainty. A pack of animals without their alpha. They would chose a new one momentarily.
He cracked his neck one way, then the other. Then glanced at the serving femme. "Go."
She went. The gang's femme company followed her.
Then it was just him and them.
They hadn't chosen their new alpha, electing to continue looking between him and each other, as if expecting one of them to act. Silently, he added numbers to each of their faceplates. As much of a designation as he cared to give them.
Through tears, Havoc finally inspired them to act, "KILL HIM!"
They looked at each other one last time.
He watched.
They deployed knives.
He waited.
They charged.
He struck.
One went down screaming, as Havoc had, with his own knife sticking out of his chestplates. Two was redirected out of the booth entirely, where he tripped on the stairs outside, out of the fight for the moment. Three and Four attacked one after another, and he cut between them, avoiding the stab at his tank and the wild slash for his throat. Five went to grab him, only to take one, then two, quick strikes to his unprotected faceplate. He stumbled away, disoriented by two fractured optics, then fell and didn't move.
Six and Seven attacked at the same time. Showed coordination. One went high with a straight stab. The other went low, intending on cutting his pedes out from under him.
He ducked, avoiding the high strike, while simultaneously backing up, spoiling one, two, and three wild slashes directed at his knees. A knee to that mech's faceplate ensured there would not be a fourth. An elbow-joint to the back of the helm put the high attacker down. He fell to the floor, limp.
Three and Four finally regrouped and joined forces with Two, who—also—had at last recovered from being sent out of the booth. The three of them gathered together, looking far more hesitant than before.
He ran at them.
Two once more left the booth, this time to a heel kick that bent the mech's tank armor inward and sent him clean over the stairs and into the dancing crowd below.
Three, stunned from him rushing them, didn't even react as he grabbed the back of the mech's neck and threw him into the back of the booth helm first, where he collided with the booth wall and slumped to the floor, barely moving.
Four dropped his knife.
He stopped immediately. Stared at Four. Waiting to see if Four went for another weapon.
He didn't.
"P-please…" Four said, quietly. Shakedly. Tone filled with what he identified as fear.
He wondered what it felt like.
His gaze went to the others. One was still screaming. Two was unaccounted for, though the parted crowd of shocked, concerned people below indicated he hadn't gotten up. Three appeared to be fading in and out of consciousness. Likely suffering from mild CPU damage. Five, Six, and Seven were unconscious. A visit to a physician was recommended.
And Four was still standing there.
"Please…"
He stared a moment more, hesitant, then finally lowered his stance. He looked to the still-screaming One, then back to Four.
Four got the message and went to One's side, where the floor had grown slick with the fallen's mech's energon.
He reconnected to the watcher's channel. "Requesting backup in Booth 17. Patrons are to be discharged from Nightblade."
He muted the explosion of shocked, angry, or incredulous voices that erupted with his announcement and approached the still-fallen Havoc—who had crawled his way into a corner. The smaller mech's leaking servo had grown worse, with energon now covering his fancy, polished armor and the floor beneath him.
He grabbed a few gel towels and began to wrap the exposed strut in Havoc's servo, immobilizing the limb with quick, if rough, efficiency. It elicited screaming from Havoc, and more tears, but the mech didn't protest. Didn't speak. He did try to squirm away once, but a quick look put a stop to that.
"We… we… beat the slag out of you… How…?"
The whisper was quiet, even to him. Likely, Havoc hadn't meant for him to hear.
As he heard—and felt, through the faint vibrations of the floor—his fellow watchers finally arrive, he answered anyway, "Because I let you."
He lost his job.
He had anticipated it. Prepared for it. And indeed, it happened. He was unemployed the moment he and the rest of the watchers finished kicking Havoc and his crew out to the curb.
"You're done," Oppressor had told him, his optics enraged but his voice grave. "In more ways than one, you're done."
He'd gone to clear his locker after that, which, truly, hadn't been necessary; he only had a few, cheap energon rations inside.
He closed the locker and went to put his key and employee ID chip on Oppressor's desk, but the mech's office was closed. Likely making a call to the owner of Nightblade. He placed them on the chair outside. Then he left.
Or tried to.
The serving femme met him at the employee entrance, out behind the Nightblade. Unlike before, she wore all of her armor instead of the sparse number of plates all serving femmes were granted to while working in the casino.
"Hey," she said, her voice sounding uncertain. Perhaps cautious. He didn't know.
"Hello," he said.
She didn't say anything back.
He blinked, waiting, while she wrapped her servos around herself. Shifted her weight from one pede to the other. She shouldn't have done that; it made her easier to be knocked to the ground, if she were caught off-guard.
He continued waiting.
"I just…" The femme said, eventually, then shifted again, looking away from his optics. "Thanks. For what you did."
He frowned. "That was my job."
"Was being a keyword. Heard you got kicked out."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I did not listen to orders—"
"No, I mean. Gah. Primus, why is this difficult?" She shook her helm, then met his optics again. "I mean why did you do it? Discard your policy for me?"
"He went against the rules," he said, easily. Convincingly, he thought.
She shook her helm again. "That's not it. You didn't do anything your last shift before they attacked you."
"I did my job."
"Why?"
This femme was confusing. "Why are you asking?"
"I'm just…" She trailed off, shaking her helm again. "You barely talk or spend time with any of us. Why lose your job over me?"
Because he didn't want to live in a cage. Not again. And Oppressor put him in a cage.
"He went against the rules," he said, finally.
She gave him a look. He identified confusion and disappointment in her optics. For the third time, she shook her helm. "Whatever. You're a weird Onyxian, you know that?"
So he kept hearing. "Yes."
"Can I get your name at least."
"Don't have one."
The words were out before he could stop them, and he berated himself for the lapse. The femme looked at him with open shock. A measure of pity. "I… Wow. I'm sorry, I didn't—"
"I believe Oppressor is intending on throwing me out if I stay any longer." His words were true, for he had noticed three of his now-former co-watchers shadowing him, standing far enough away that they thought he wouldn't see them and close enough that they could keep optics on him.
"Right. Right…" She stepped out of the doorway, clearing his path.
He stepped out.
The femme followed, letting the door shut behind her.
He paused. "Why are you…?"
"If you need work, head to Shot's Point," she said, quickly. Her tone suggesting caution. "It's a little dive near the transition point between Center and Forgotten, east side of town."
"What?"
"Just talk to the owner, femme by the name of Longshot. Tell her Vibes sent you."
She tapped her wrist against the scanner by the door, letting it read her ID chip, and stepped back inside.
"W—wait."
The femme—Vibes—leaned back into view. "Yeah?"
"Are you… Getting me a job?"
"Yeah, since you lost this one."
"Why?"
She smiled at him, the expression almost mischievous. "Why did you help me?"
She left without waiting for his answer.
He frowned at the locked door, puzzled. "Thank you. Vibes," he said to himself, then continued down the ally.
Confusing femme, Vibes. If that was her name. Wanted to know why he stepped in when she was in trouble, then let it go. Then offers to get him work. Why not skip to the last part? Confusing, indeed.
At least he got another job.
"Job" was the word that inspired this one. Like the last chapter, I was eager to get back to this, of-yet unnamed character. He's a fun one to get into the head of. Plus there's a lot to him that I know, and no one else knows. Someday, I'll reveal it.
Update on my mental state: doing better than when I last update this story, but still not all good. It's a battle, which shouldn't be a surprise since it's one that only I can fight. But I am improving, and writing is coming more naturally again. Most of my attention is focused on original projects, of course, but I feel like I am consistently improving my productivity. Someday, I'll get to everything I want to.
At this point, that day is in 2055, but hey: it's a day.
Thank you for reading and may you stay safe, healthy, and happy.
See you soon.