Chapter 11: Going Rogue

The transport pulled up to the gates to the Palace. Two enforcers stood in their path, "Halt! What's your business?

Tracer stopped just ahead of the nearest enforcer—one wearing a visor over his optics. "Parts delivery. Order number 94922, heading to storage bunker 7-B."

The enforcer barked, "No entry permitted. Just leave whatever it is here."

Tracer didn't miss a beat as he unleashed the next stage of his plan. "These parts are pretty heavy. We could drive them right into the depot and you wouldn't have to worry about it anymore."

The enforcer wasn't interested in negotiating. "Drop it and get lost."

Tracer realized he had one final play. He let himself look panicked "Right out here, are you damaged? These pseudopacks come pre-charged with over 7 megakilos of... power! This things like a bomb waiting to go off and you want me to just drop it here—out in the open? But hey, know what? It's you're problem, not mine." He turned to TL "Get your gear on and get ready to disengage all three safety measures. This guy's crazy, but we got other stops to make so—"

"Alright!" the enforcer looked aggravated. "Go ahead, take the damn thing in."

"Yeah, see? That's better." Tracer smiled, as he shifted it into gear. Then the enforcer stepped right up beside him.

"I have to send an escort with you."

TL spoke up, "Actually, you don't need to. We know where—"

"I wasn't asking, protoform. You will be escorted."

"Whatever you say, boss." Tracer looked outside and waved to the second enforcer, he now recognized it was Predator. Not the smartest enforcer, but probably the one of the strongest.

TL smiled at Tracer, relieved their insane plan was working. "You know nothing you said made any sense at all?"

"Yeah, that's the point." Tracer smiled back, "If there's no recorder standing nearby enforcers can't follow what your saying if you talk faster than they can think. Too many numbers or long words and they get flustered. They might get mad and try to break your head open, or they'll just give in and have done with it."

"But now we're being escorted. How are we going to sneak off now."

"Well... about that—" Tracer's tone said TL wasn't going to like what he was going to say.

"No!" She almost shouted. "We're doing this together! What am I supposed to do?"

"Unload the parts, drive out. Stay outa trouble."

"Gee, thanks." TL was furious. She tried to cover it up like she did before; to try and save face to make it through the day. But it wasn't working. Tracer could read every thought and emotion she had. There was hardly a point in saying it out loud. They both knew, and if not for the enforcer walking just outside the transport they might have bothered to act out the argument they both could hear in their heads.

After several moments Tracer sighed, "Look, I meant it when I said I'm nothing but trouble. If you want to keep off the Quintessons radar you need to stay as far from me as you can. Whatever happens here today you play dumb and say you don't know what happened to me."

"No. I'm not going without you!" TL cringed to hold her emotions back. "I'm on borrowed time anyways. You and me can take out this one enforcer, we can drop that roll of cable over him and crush him. No matter what you and me are in this together."

"They're waiting for us back at the gate. This enforcer is one of the crazy ones. Even if we could take him out, they'll come looking for him. They'll sound the alarm and look all over for two rogue protoforms. If I give them the slip and you drive back out, I might be able to get inside completely unnoticed."

"What about when you're done, how do you plan on getting out?"

"Let's face it, this wasn't a great plan to begin with. I honestly don't think my odds of making it that far are good."

"Then don't go!"

"I've made up my mind. This is where I need to be today. Tomorrow is a lifetime away."

"Do you push everyone away who tries to get close to you, or just me?" TL looked into his optics. She wanted him to know how much she cared. She needed him to say he had feelings for her. But she didn't see it in his optics. She'd fallen for him, but it didn't change anything between them. He made up his mind, and there wasn't room in it for her. 'Fine,' she thought. 'Just go then.' and she opened the door and hopped out without looking back. She heard Tracer's door softly open, and his footsteps vanish off towards the dark corner of the depot.

TL turned and saw the enforcer waiting at the back of the transport. He watched her open the cargo section. "Where's the other one?" he grunted.

Her thoughts were swirling with anger. She wanted to say 'he's running off 'cause he'd rather get himself killed than be with me.' But she caught herself and stammered to form a coherent answer. "He's... double checking the packing lists in the cab." TL went right to work dragging the giant spool of cable over to the edge. She realized she didn't actually know how she was going to get it onto the ground. Rolling it straight off would be the easiest, but something would easily get damaged. While she tried to think of the best way to approach her problem, Predator stomped over, grabbed the spool and tumbled it off the edge. It crashed onto the floor and put a large dent in both.

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"You will leave, now!"

"Yes..." she ran around to enter the driver's side of the cab. She began driving the transport out of the depot, resisting the urge to look back in case Tracer might still be there. As she pulled out, the enforcer glared at her.

"Where second protoform?"

"He's back with the cargo." She remembered Tracer saying: too many numbers... "My partner loves to tripple-check everything! There was one time we had to drop off fifty-eight pulse-modulating surge-resistant hypercranks. He spent seven cycles trying to count them in even groups, and I had to watch him make eleven piles of five with three left over, then he made nine groups of six with four left over, and THEN—"

"Shut up!" Predator yelled. And he slammed his hand into the side of the transport. Shaking his head with frustration as TL drove on. She soon reached the gates, with the waiting enforcer eager to see her off his long list of irritants. She drove away, but she didn't know where she ought to go. Part of her wanted to pull in the nearest alley and wait for Tracer; another part wanted to leave him with this mess he got himself into. She found herself driving off into nowhere.

"I have the authority to kill you. Do you know that?" Spander said, fists propped on his desk as he glared at the disgraced enforcer at the centre of his office.

Razor stood at perfect attention. "Yes, sir."

"You cost me the spark of one of my best today." Spander paced around his office. He looked out onto the factory floor—ground zero. "I bet you saw an opportunity, you certainly had the desire, but you did not have the authority." He turned to face the enforcer "That's the difference between you and me; I can see precisely when action is necessary, and you apparently cannot."

"I would never have tolerated one such as him when I was an enforcer, I won't tolerate it here." Razor's face showed no remorse.

Spander scoffed. "You must be the thickest, dumbest enforcer ever made! I just finished cleaning up the last incident you caused. We had to pull double-shifts, shut off the cooling fans to reduce energy consumption, the cost of operation here was almost balanced… and then you had to do this!" He pushed his desk softly to one side to step around to get up-close to Razor. "Hex is dead, the rail system is destroyed and I've got a lake of metal congealing onto the entire substructure! It all has to be chiselled off the floor and walls, and we're going to need all new dyes and a new elevator! At this point it's almost easier to demolish the whole lot and build it up again from scratch!" He turned and shoved his desk against the outside wall. Jostling all his cyberstationary and gifting the window with a fracture.

"I'm an enforcer, not a millwright."

"Your function is mine to decide! It was given to me by the Quintessons. I'm sure even an enforcer as dumb as you has at least some capacity to adapt! This farce has gone on for way too long! I wouldn't be doing my job if I let you keep on sabotaging everything you get your hands on. I also wouldn't be doing my job if I scrapped you before your work-day is over. You're not getting off that easy."

"I… ah! —AAAH!" Razor wanted to protest, but a sensation struck him. He couldn't help but to pull the stinging spike out of his chest. His hand rose up—but there was nothing to grab. Still he cringed trying to hold his composure.

Spander glared puzzled. "Mmm? Oh that's right… Pain. I always forget since you're the only one who feels it. It must be humiliating. It's like a systemic glitch that completely disables you, and yet the source of it seems so minor. Hard to believe a sensation in your arm could make you unable to stand; a sensation in your foot makes you unable to speak. An interesting choice of punishment, sometimes I wonder where they got the idea; what manner of being experiences pain?"

Razor tempered himself and stood again. "Oh. I could tell you…"

"I actually don't care. You've got one job before the work-day is over; one more job, then I'll take you off-line for good. Me and my crew missed out on the first matches in the tournament. But I bet you'd make good sport in a fight, then we'll melt you down and say it was an accident.

"You assume I'd loose to a bunch of protoforms?"

"I didn't get to where I am today by assuming anything. If I want something, I make it happen! Now... The support beams on the main level weren't damaged—thankfully. Right now they're being loaded onto the transport rig; they need to go to the crew at construction hangar upsilon-twenty-three—"

"—I'll hook the rig up to the omnihual." Razor interjected.

"No!" Spander snapped. "You're going to pull them there yourself."

Razor snarled. "That's two sectors over!"

"If you leave now, you'll get there just before they close up. After you're done, you'll return here to get smashed to pieces. It goes without saying that the Quintessons have other ways of punishing you if anything should go wrong. Do you understand?"

"Yes… sir."

Razor strained to pull the trailer rig out into the streets. The old axle was grinding loudly. With every step he heard his own servos whining and stalling. Something was barely handling all this weight; whether it was the road beneath him, his damaged frame or the trailer itself was impossible to guess. Every step dissipated into the ground like mercury drops. The distant sun straddled the skyline of towers. A pointless cascade of the visible spectrum reflected off structures before converging into his optics. Razor longed for a sky of perpetual blackness.

His inner voice counted the gruelling steps inside his head. 'Eight… Nine… I did nothing to deserve this! I am Razor: an enforcer-elite! This is all because of Hex and his persistent chattering. My function is to punish disobedience. I cannot go against my programming at the whim of a protoform! Spander was correct: we can, indeed, expand our functions, but we cannot ignore our primary function.'

'Spander should know his position of authority is only temporary. Their lives are so short, these protoforms... they seek to prove their abilities too fast that their loyalty is never tested. Any protoform following orders only seeks their own glory, not the glory of the creators. Spander will be replaced by the next available protoform, but these replacements can only substitute their predecessors; they can never improve upon them.'

'Spander isn't the problem. I would never have been sent to the melting mill if Tracer hadn't survived. He was granted the masters' favour—how could they not see through the obvious charade? If I had the opportunity I would have buried him under a ton of molten metal. Tracer… you cost me all that gave my life meaning. I live to see you humiliated… I live only to see you killed! With your death I will regain my status and continue serving my masters. Twelve steps… Thirteen…'

'A protoform dared to exceed an enforcer-elite in loyalty? But even he could not hold that honour for long. I heard the rumours—it was the only piece of useful information Hex ever uttered—that Tracer interfered with an arrest. And his favour was stripped away as promptly as it had been given… but this should not have come as a surprise. This isn't how it should be. Earning their favour used to mean everything, but it seems times have changed. What will they honour next; a cleaning drone, a cooling fan?'

'The Quintessons… I have only ever followed the orders of my creators. Their will be done. I am their instrument; should that not mean that I must be used to the best of my abilities? My function is to punish disobedience. How could I perform any task more efficient than I perform my primary function? Every accident I caused since my expulsion, every delay of progress… how could it possibly be my fault? Seventeen steps… Eighteen…'

'What kind of leadership is this? Ordering me to perform labour was clearly a mistake. Did the Quintessons expect me to revert into a common drone? Without reprogramming me I could not disgrace the enforcer ranks in such a way. Did they, perhaps, want me to fail? If they did, why would they accept the damage to their valued production facility? Have they no concern for their property? There can be no logic in their choice. None whatsoever.'

'Twenty-four… Twenty-five… Can I allow myself to… disobey?' The very thought cascaded through every memory he had. Every slight moment of hesitation and doubt he ever had. The circuitry inside his head was a common design. Every transistor, resistor, capacitor and processor was precisely where they were in thousands of others. Each component performed its function without fail. But a defect: a single error existed in the underlying code. A transcription error: a simple message copied and copied again into thousands of drones until eventually suffering a single mistake: the line of code carrying the message '…in the Quintessons' absence' had become '… in the Quintessons' defeat' and thus it was that doubt was born in Razor's mind. To his conscious mind, he was totally committed to his creators. But he was gradually suspecting the masters he endured may not be the true masters his code sought praise from. He served their ideals, but in their defeat he knew he would carry on their orders until a more worthy leader emerged. He began to see flaws in their logic: flaws that could lead to an eventual defeat. He realized he was ready to correct those flaws, or betray these false masters.

"I am prepared to disobey..."

Razor dropped the coupler and left the transport rig deserted in the middle of the street. 'This delivery is beneath me, I am an enforcer-elite! I have taken my last order from a pathetic protoform. I must fulfill my function. Disobedience must be punished! My directives are absolute, the same should be said for the goals of the masters. These protoforms were nothing more than an experiment, and it is one that is growing out of control. Do the creators not see it must be brought to an end? I must follow my directives in spite of the Quintessons' diversions. And if the creators themselves cannot be consistent in their plans, they must be reminded of their values... or exterminated all the same! I know what they really are, and I can use that against them!'

Razor stepped away from the rig. His overworked servos wanted to run full-speed with the sudden loss of weight. Razor only dialed it down to a light jog, his primary function had gone unfulfilled for too long already. He anticipated being reinstated, and again living up to his true purpose. He felt so certain of it he would step on every drone and protofrom between him and his audience with the Quintessons. He will make them remember the name Razor!

'Not yet…'

Tracer counted this new enforcer's steps. He judged the distance to the next gap between the storage bunkers. The palace was beyond the far side, but the enforcers patrolling the high walls—although sparse—could still spot him easy, he needed to make it to the next gap to have cover. He was watching the only enforcer patrolling the grounds inside the walls. He was almost beyond the farthest bunker. By the time he hears Tracer's footsteps, he'll be safely out of sight. Tracer looked again at the enforcer atop the nearest wall.

'Not yet…' He remembered hiding from Rubbish in the pits. Fear now mixed with thrill—Tracer savoured the sensation. Heightened awareness and reckless abandon blended well. He watched the enforcer turn and step out of sight.

'NOW…' Tracer sprinted toward the gap. He passed a loading bay door that began to roll open just as he passed it. The sound of the door masked his footsteps as he turned sharply into the gap. Directly ahead of him was the palace. When he reached the end of the row he looked again for any enforcers. None. 'Good.'

Tracer took in the sight of the palace from this angle. He tried to see it as a spaceship. At first he had no clue how much was below the surface, he could just barely make out its overall profile. It was a streamlined design. What he thought were service hatchways were more likely airlocks, and certainly wouldn't open without triggering an alarm. What he thought were archways at the main entrance were the ends of two giant lance-like wings curving down and up to attach high up on the main body of the vessel. The vessel seemed to have an end-over-end symmetry. He noticed modules and components at the top of the near wall were mirrored at the bottom of the far wall. Tracer guessed the vessel to be one-third buried in the ground.

Tracer looked all over for the safest way inside. He noticed openings higher up that appeared to be exhaust ports. They were too high to climb, but if the ship was symmetrical there must be identical ports just around ground level toward the aft section. Tracer didn't wait to check for enforcers, and ran straight to the ship's hull. He reached the wall and followed it aft. He didn't have time to calculate how far to run, or how high he should be looking. It might be shoulder-level or even just below the— "U'agh!"

Tracer had looked up at the wrong time, and slipped into a tunnel. He felt a draft of warm air as he tumbled into a manufactured tube and the rhythmic humming of heavy fans. After several curves the tube levelled out and he could stand up. He found a passage out into the corridors and carefully made his way up through the levels to the Quintessons' throne room.

Inside the throne room, Tracer walked slowly. He stepped lightly, but he could still hear his footsteps echo through the great hall. He listened carefully for any signs he might yet be discovered.

'There must be an adjoining room.' Tracer thought. 'The Quintessons emerged from somewhere last time without being seen.' Tracer quickly walked up the shallow steps toward the throne. As he rose up the steps he turned back to count the tiny transport vehicles zipping across the cityscape. The sun was vanishing below the horizon. The open air behind him filled him with the undeniable sense he was being watched.

As he passed the throne he saw a doorway tucked in a back corner. The door wasn't at all camouflaged, but it held itself perfectly flush with the walls around it. Tracer found the door was not locked. So he opened it and stepped through. The door resisted with an air-tight seal.

The rest of the palace—the entire spaceship—was the embodiment of master engineering. This chamber was more the embodiment of 'a work in progress'. Workbenches had been left littered with parts; tools were either in between tasks or were themselves under maintenance. This place reminded Tracer of the assembler's garage. There was even a robotic form lying incomplete on one workbench. Tracer walked up to look the body over. Every component was pristine and unworn. The chest was opened and there was no spark containment chamber. This was a new drone of some kind.

Tracer was puzzled by the unique design. He tried to narrow down the intended purpose of this drone. The thin, light frame made him want to say recorder, but he couldn't stop looking at the exposed optic sensor. Tracer's first impression was the head was incomplete, but the more he looked at it he realized the large, singular optic was the entire head. It brought to mind a surveillance system on top of the drone's body. Strange, but Tracer pressed himself to move on. There were other chambers that branched off from this room. There were computer stations and workbenches around several support columns. There was plenty to take cover behind, for Tracer should he hear anyone coming.

In the first chamber, the wall closest to the door was inset with a grid of alcoves. Tracer saw an orange glow coming from many of the spaces. He dashed over and reached into one, pulling out a small cube the size of his fist. These were not sparks, these were something else. Each cube appeared to be a crystalline circuit board that would periodically blink. The blink occurred at the same rate for every cube, although they were not synchronized.

Tracer had never seen anything like this. His curiosity did not want him to move on until he figured something out from this room. It seemed the more he saw, the less he realized he truly understood. This could be his chance to learn more about the Quintessons' plans, perhaps even find a weakness.

'No.' he told himself. 'I came here for the sparks.' Thrusting the cube back into the alcove and continuing on to the next chamber.

Tracer stepped through the doorway into a world of obsessed sanitation. This room was clean in every possible meaning. The air itself was cleansed of contaminants. The very idea of dust seemed contraband. Although Tracer did not see sparks, the openness of this chamber beckoned him further. He dragged in plumes of faint dust afraid to stray from his wake. Tracer saw many tiny, strange tools resting in trays. Instruments Tracer couldn't identify.

Against one wall, Tracer saw vats of chemicals. Each one had several displays. Meaningless gibberish skipped across each monitor: 'Nucleotides... protein supplements… adrenaline… neurotransmitters… what is all this?' The crystalline circuits in the other chamber were something digital; the drone's function had something to do with its single, giant optic; but these… everything in this room gave not a single clue, but the manner in which it was kept told him this was one of their most important facilities.

A sense of time washed over Tracer. Tracer needed to return to the realm of familiar mechanics, and escape from… whatever this was. He expected to hear the sound of the Quintesson's clicking footsteps as he felt time slipping away; his opportunity almost wasted…

There was one chamber left.

Tracer turned the corner and stepped through the archway. 'That light!' He saw the glow of a hundred pulsing orbs. Each one was contained within a glass canister with a trigger mechanism on the top. Colours danced over floor and wall as the energies of one orb harmonized with each of its neighbours.

'They're here!'

A nearby workbench had a collection of empty canisters. He picked one up as he paced across the wall. Tracer fiddled with the empty canister in his hand. He tapped the trigger, remembering watching the anomalies change into true sparks. He looked again at the wall of sparks. "How will I get all of you out of here?" He had the thought to look around for a container, some kind of vessel to transport them. This chamber only had the sparks in alcoves set into the wall. Nothing else. He hadn't seen anything in any of the other rooms either.

He still had the holster to carry five securely on his hip, the rest would have to be whatever he could carry in his arms. Tracer knew he'll be seen escaping, any balanced stack might lead to one dropping in a moment of panic. If there was any hope of making it out alive he couldn't accept harming a single one. One free hand should be kept to open doors or climb. That means he can only carry six. He had hoped for a heist that'd embarrass his oppressors, now he felt he may have risked his life for a supply that a single collector drone will restock in a day. He had wasted enough time to make it here. "I'm such an idiot!" he sighed. "I can only take six of you with me. I'll probably be caught and it won't even matter at all." Tracer's neck suddenly weakened, he dropped his head and started to sulk.

In the silence of the laboratory, Tracer heard a sound. If it'd been footsteps he might've jumped. If it'd been an explosion he might've ducked down. The sound had a softness about it: there was a pop and a fizzle, then nothing. He opened his eyes to see if he should have been more alarmed.

He looked around the room for something that had fallen. He looked at the doorway for anyone standing there. He lifted his arms and looked over himself for any damage. Nothing had changed. From where, then, did the sound come from? The only thing Tracer noticed was a glowing light that kept moving out of his sight. It was hard to tell at first against the glow from the sparks. The light moved whenever he moved his right arm to see. The moment Tracer stopped moving he realized he was following the light of a single spark… inside the container in his hand.

"Where did you come from?" Tracer asked out loud. He mused as he looked over the wall of sparks. Amidst a cluster of sparks was a single container that he swore held a spark a moment before… It had somehow jumped from it's container on the wall to the container in his hand. "I didn't know sparks could do that." He tried to think of another time he saw any spark do anything this strange. "Maybe no other spark can…"

Whatever the reason behind this trick, Tracer took it as a sign that at least this spark was willing to leave with him. It filled Tracer with a renewed determination, but all that slipped away when Tracer heard a thick, stern voice behind him.

"Don't move! What are you doing here!?"

Razor approached the gates leading to sector one: the Quintesssons' vessel: Honor's Claim. Two guards obstructed him. One, he recognized as his old comrade, Predator. He still looked as dim as ever, but Razor found himself hating him more because of how blindly obedient he was. Every enforcer; the Quintessons don't deserve their loyalty. This has to change...

"Razor the wasted…" Said the strange, visored guard. "You will depart immediately!"

Razor glared at the two enforcers. The one who spoke had a chain-whip coiled around his torso and gripped the handle ready to strike. A confident Razor instead, let his guard down to peek up at the walls of the perimeter. "Where is the rest of the garrison?"

The visored guard stared through Razor. "That information is classified."

"The palace walls must be properly patrolled at all times!"

"These are special circumstances."

"Explain!" Demanded Razor.

"That information is classified."

"I must speak with the Quintessons, many mistakes are being made."

"They aren't here."

"Why would they leave the safety of the palace?"

"That information is classified."

"Argh…" Razor was frustrated. He saw the probability of him reaching his masters diminishing with every further query. His processors calculated the benefits of deception. "Has your superior failed to inform you of my… covert assignment?"

The guards glared at each other, "There are no covert assignments…"

"You idiots! I was not really discharged… I am undercover to watch protoforms! I have vital information to deliver to the Quintessons!"

The guards looked at each other. "Give it to me, I'll make sure they get it."

"I can't… it's classified." Razor endured an extended pause.

The visored guard groaned, "Very well, but you will be escorted until we can corroborate your story with the Quintessons."

"Of course." Razor proceeded through the gates toward the palace, followed closely by the visored enforcer. Predator remained at the gates, frantically scanning everything within sight. The pair marched through the halls until they came to the gold doors to the Quintessons' throne room. They entered.

Razor listened to the echoes through the empty hall. "Will they be here soon?"

"The creators will come and go as they wish. It is not our place to expect anything from them. We will wait here indefinitely if we must."

Razor grunted. "You lack focus. While you're here, the main entrance is guarded by one enforcer. We may have superior strength, but we can still be overwhelmed. You're suspicions of a fellow enforcer are leaving the palace vulnerable to a real threat. I know now loyalty does not always mean unwavering obedience; it means to always serve the glory of the masters, and sometimes that means re-assessing their instructions."

"You speak of… autonomy—"

"—Do you not see the logic behind it?"

"Every drone ever has been programmed to always—"

"—Always follow orders? Perhaps consistency is a weakness. If I can see it, I know the Quintessons must as well." Razor felt the pain again. He was grateful the enforcer was not looking at him. He felt a crushing around his neck—he feared the Quintessons had him again in their grasp. To his relief there was nothing truly there, but the pain caused him to take a knee as he cringed waiting for it to pass. Regaining his composure he looked to see his escort wandering behind the Quintessons throne. "Is something wrong?"

"There's a passage here."

"Yes, and it's off-limits to all constructs."

"It has been left open. The Quintessons do not leave doors carelessly open. The current security measures might have let in an intruder. Like you said: I must re-assess their directives… to better serve our masters."

Razor felt the slightest shot of vindication in his logic circuits, "Then you're no longer suspicious?"

The enforcer spoke softer as he closed in to the door. "You claim to be a trusted agent of the Quintessons. The data I have indicates you would have been destroyed if the Quintessons did not trust you. All the knowledge of our security in your data tracks would need to be purged in order to safeguard the masters... Someone's in there, I can hear them!"

"I can hear them too."

"Cover the exit, I'll search these chambers." The enforcer stepped lightly to find the source of the noise. He heard a soft voice from the last chamber.

"Where did you come from?"

The enforcer knew enough to know the question wasn't directed at him. He closed in stealthily.

"I didn't know sparks could do that…"

There were no other sounds. It would appear there is only one intruder.

"Maybe no other spark can…"

The enforcer stepped in the open doorway to see a protoform standing rather casually. He was turned away from the entrance, looking at something in his right hand. The enforcer confronted the lone intruder.

"Don't move! What are you doing here!?"

Tracer spun around. 'I've been found, I should have known better! I am an idiot!' He tucked his arm with the canister behind his back. 'I must not let it go.'

The enforcer uncoiled the whip from his torso. "What do you have in your hand?" shouted the enforcer as he stood poised ready to strike. Tracer thought about running. He might even try to fight the enforcer. His thoughts were running wild. 'Put it down and fight… no I should hold on and run. I… I should—' [Shkezrit] his hand folded and collapsed into his forearm, concealing the spark canister along with it.

"Show me your hands, both of them. Right now!"

Tracer raised his arms high. "There." He glanced up to make sure the spark was well hidden. "I only have one hand."

"How many are with you?"

"I'm alone." [KASPRAAAK] The whip cracked and chipped a rift in Tracers thigh. He dropped down.

"You will be taken to the brig, to be interrogated by the Quitnessons." The enforcer then yelled out. "Razor, see there are no other intruders. We'll have to alert all the sentries—Razor? RAZOR!" The enforcer shoved Tracer out into the main chamber. "Keep walking, protoform."

Razor heard his comrade clearly—Tracer will be taken to the brig; interrogated by the Quitnessons—this cannot happen. Razor quietly stepped away and slipped out of the throne room. The enforcer must fail to bring Tracer to the brig. In order to be reinstated by his masters, Razor had to prove himself at any cost, short of making the Quintessons beg for him to take action. 'There's a satisfying thought…'

The brig was one level below. Razor knew the shortest path the enforcer would take. He ran through the corridors toward the armoury. He'll need to hurry to make it in time.

"You look familiar." The enforcer mused.

"I hear that a lot." muttered Tracer. "I was built from a previous protoform named Armaetrus."

The enforcer chuckled. "Actually, I was looking at the heavy plating on your limbs. I recognize them... Impaler, that was his name!"

Tracer looked down at his forearms. "Nobody ever said who those parts came from. I always assumed they were just leftovers."

"You have parts from an enforcer, and I knew Impaler well enough to know he wasn't killed by any protoform. No, I think the Quitnessons finally had enou—"

The enforcer stalled mid-sentence to cope with a sudden explosion in his chest. A trail of energy streaked from the exit-wound to ricochet down the corridor. Tracer flinched and stumbled from the shock of the blast.

"Tracer, run!" An obscure voice echoed from behind a column. Razor contorted his vocal processor to sound like someone else. "Head for the front gate!" Tracer didn't stop to question any rescue. He dashed over the fallen enforcer to a service shaft that will take him to the ground level.

He reached the main floor and sprinted as fast as he could for the gate. He saw the remaining guard standing watch—predator. Predator was looking inward after hearing projectile-weapons. He saw Tracer. Tracer knew this single guard was the last thing standing between him and escape. He pushed himself and ran as fast as he could—ready to dodge, leap or even charge right into the waiting enforcer.

The enforcer took his optics off Tracer—there was something else higher up. Tracer closed the distance and watch the enforcer's expression change from puzzled, to surprise and finally to rage before another blast of light carved a hole clean through his head. The bulky frame collapsed to the ground as Tracer ran past and out the front gate. 'Freedom!'

As he ran, Tracer wanted to turn back to see who had helped him escape. Alpha Trion? The resistance? There were openings where the shot could easily have been fired from, but no figure was in sight. He looked ahead again and ran on to find sanctuary with the lone, liberated spark still hidden in his forearm. 'Hang in there, friend. Let's find you a body.'

Razor slid down the front wall of the palace, and strolled up to the remains of Predator. The pulse launcher hummed in his grip as it cooled.

"This is perfect." Razor chuckled to himself. "A mob of rogue protoforms overwhelmed the guards and raided their stronghold, and I am the only surviving witness… The time has come for me to resume my primary function." Razor punched the nearest security alarm. "The Quintessons will be here any moment, and I will be set out to hunt and destroy the protoforms responsible… starting with that insufferable Tracer!"