I thought of my own splintered chest panel.
Well, maybe not.
At any rate, his injuries looked non-terminal. It looked like he had gone offline due to a simple . . . lack of energy?
"I'm going to make sure the same thing doesn't happen to me," I growled, spotting the thrusters partially encased in the front part of the bot's legs. The silver casing hinged at his knees; it wasn't easy wrenching them open, but finally I had enough room to get a clear view of them. I tossed the laser scalpel aside with a snort. His jumpjets weren't just attached to his legs . . . They were embedded in his legs. Maybe if I were a doctor or a mechanic (and there's not much difference between the two in our race) I could have detached them safely, but as it was . . .
"Well, I'll take the whole leg, then," I muttered. I raised the atom-thin blade of the energy scalpel . . .
. . . which flickered and died.
I suppose I should have been surprised.
I snorted in disgust and tossed the laser scalpel to one side. "Looks like it's time to gamble."
Just under his neck nestled a silver compartment marked with a strange insignia, a circle split down the middle with three wedges cut from it. I pried open the compartment, examining the complex pattern of circuitry within. Yep, he was from my era; in the dead center was a curved indentation, the standard design. It wouldn't be difficult to pop the emergency power cell in there.
My last power cell.
That would teach me to travel light.
I snapped the cylindrical power cell into place, rolled back, and pulled out my guns. The change was immediate. The bot twitched spasmodically as its red optics flickered to life. My grip on my guns tightened as he pushed himself up with him arms and slowly rose to his feet, but the bot didn't seem to notice me. His optics swept the room, searching for something.
"Maximal or Predacon?" I demanded. He looked toward me when I spoke, raised his arms--should've disabled those lasers before reactivating him--then paused as if unsure of his target. It was hard to read his exact emotions with that silver mask covering most of his face, but when his optics began searching the room again, I was one hundred percent sure he was ignoring me. I scowled.
"Are you Maximal or Predacon?" I repeated, wondering if it would even matter. His head jerked up at the word "Maximal" and he stared at me blankly. Strange . . . I would've pegged him for a Pred for sure. Then again, I didn't see a symbol for either faction on him. One more try. "Who do you work for? Who are you?"
His stare grew in intensity and I stared right back. Finally he gestured towards the wing angling up from his right arm. I edged closer. There was that strange circular symbol again . . . and something else. Writing.
"Aero . . . Areodro . . ." Laser burns obscured the letters. I squinted. "Areodrome?" It was followed by a long sequence of numbers. Maybe he was from the army after all.
"Areodrome. Okay." I shrugged. "What faction are you?"
No response.
"Answer me, slag it! Are you a Maximal?"
His head jerked again, this time from side to side, as he raised his weapons--not at me, but at the shadowed recesses of the room. An automatic reaction, it looked like. Interesting.
"Well, Areodrome," I said, carefully holstering my guns--reluctantly--"If you're not a Maxi, you've gotta be a Pred. That's lucky for both of us, 'cause I'm a Pred too." I gestured towards the insect-head insignia on my left shoulder, though it had almost been scratched and battered beyond recognition. The flyer looked at it with interest and something that resembled confusion.
"So since we're on the same side . . . turn on your thrusters or jets or whatever those things are and let's get to the surface of this scrapheap," I said. He just stared at me blankly. That was getting old real fast. "By the fires of the Inferno, what are you waiting for? Get us topside, slag it!" I snarled.
Instant response. His legs swivelled inward and locked together while the thrusters pulled from their casings and fired up.
I caught his leg as he sped towards the hole in the ceiling. We burst through the ragged gap; the stars wheeled above us, and below . . .
"Great Primus."
We were on the back of Unicron's helmet . . . and as far as I could see, the ground was strewn solid with corpses. Mostly blue corpses. Jets. I cast a glance upward, but Areodrome hadn't reacted at all, as far as I could tell.
"You are one cold 'bot," I said as the flier slowed down for a landing. I began kicking through the remains. "What happened? Cybertron was at peace when I left . . ."
But that was a long time ago. And even in "peace", the Maximals and Predacons were always at each others throats. Oh, they didn't toss around nuclear weapons or sent out assault forces any more . . . but there were alleys where Maximals didn't walk at night, streets that Predacons left alone if they knew what was good for them . . .
I was glad to leave it behind me. I didn't give a damn about Maximals as long as they left me alone and kept out of my way.
Reptrilion, though . . . he believed. Take the Great War. My take on it would be that our ancestors, the Decepticons, lost it because they were a bunch of bungling morons. (You should read the datatracks about the time they tried to take over this human city . . . pathetic. Just sad.) But Reptrilion, he didn't see it that way. He saw our "glorious predecessors" fighting nobly against all odds to beat Unicron, only to have the Autobots steal Cybertron away from them afterwards while the 'Cons were recovering. Rep would use words like "usurped" and "ignoble" and slag like that.
He'd hated Maximals.
He'd hated them a little too much, in fact.
Smelting idiot.
I scowled as I realized I'd been staring at the same pile of blue and silver carcasses for several cycles.
"We're wasting valuable energy gaping at this scrap," I snapped. "Transform to your jet mode--you are a jet, right?--and let's get out of here."
He stood there--hovered there--and looked at me.
Yeah, I saw it coming too.
"By the Pit! When I tell you to do something, you do it! Now transform before I blow your slagging head off!"
He obediently transformed into a sleek blue jet. Apparently it didn't occur to him that if I actually shot him, I'd be back where I began--stuck on Unicron's head. Or maybe he just didn't react at all unless someone was barking orders. He was some kind of military bot, after all.
Even though he had enlarged several times as he transformed into vehicle mode, he was still pretty small, definitely a one bot jet in terms of passenger space. Not that I was going to wait for something better to come along. I popped open the cockpit and climbed in. "Kind of a tight fit, but okay." I twirled a gun. "Cybertron, here I come."
