Indigo-ink, thanks for the review - and the show lost nearly all the interesting personalities when it neglected the Minicons. Which might be why they've invaded every fic of mine for the foreseeable future; looks like they know a soft touch when they see one…
Multiple thanks go, again, to ckret, for her help, timeline and the Spidertank Posse. Now the Diddlysquatists have a whole pantheon to work with!
And after months of rewriting the notes, cast and plot changes and caffeine consumption to rival Trypticon's fuel intake, (or perhaps even Diddlysquat's) part two is here, written slowly and posted in haste. Beware of bureaucrats, ambiguity, and disgruntled rescue workers. Silliness ahead.
Searching For The Search Party
Regalix by night wasn't very different from Regalix by day. The streets were the same, the people hardly changed, and there was little more to see. There wasn't quite as much construction work, as with most outdoor activities, but nearly everything else went on as usual. They just turned on the lights in one or two more places.
No more people were watching than there were at any otherthere ever were time as a slightly shabby hover-car led the way towards a particularly dense concentration of construction sites. There were parts of the city that were finished, and there were those that had yet to be designed, and then there were those still being built. There was plenty of work to be done, and plenty of people who wanted to do it (or at least get paid for doing it), so there was a good chance that if you were looking for someone, you'd find them on a construction site – in fact, the person they sought now was virtually guaranteed to be on one. Even so, Diddlysquat didn't have much faith in the administrator, and wasn't really expecting to get anything done fast.
As it happened, Hendiadys got lucky: the first person he was directed to find was someone he'd spoken to only the day before. Sometimes, signing payslips for government projects had its advantages. But like any wise civil servant, he never took risks where matters could be pre-arranged to his advantage.
So he called ahead. Just to be sure.
"Are you sure he's here?" Diddlysquat trudged after the nondescript hover-car in his own vehicle mode. He was half hoping that his guide would be wrong – then he'd have an excuse to ditch the annoying loser and find his friends himself.
"Positive," came the happy reply as Hendiadys came to a stop, prompting the spider tank, who'd been following a bit too closely, to stumble to an abrupt halt. Piles of equipment now, most of it still waiting to be assembled, surrounded them. Diddlysquat vaguely recognised some of the parts as belonging to terraforming machinery. Still wondering, he turned his sensors back in time to see Hendiadys transform and stride off through the heaps of… things. Grumbling a bit to himself, the caretaker did likewise and followed.
The first person they saw wasn't exactly a person, or at least they couldn't be seen behind the printout they were holding. A partially assembled module was on the ground; from the tilting motions of the printout sheet back and forth, it looked as though the 'bot was having some trouble with the instructions. The irritated muttering from behind the sheet was also a clue.
A snigger drew the visiting 'bots' attention; to their right a blue Decepticon was sitting on a pile of crates, a half-empty cube of Energon in his hands, and drawing great amusement from his co-worker's puzzlement. "Don't mind her," he said without looking over. "The others are on break over there," here he jerked a thumb to indicate the direction, but said others were obviously hidden by another pile of parts, "but she's still stuck with that."
"Heya, Primey," called Diddlysquat, grinning.
The blue Decepticon's smirk vanished faster then Mirage from a crime scene. His expression as he turned towards the newcomers was one of combined embarrassment and annoyance. "Hi, Diddlysquat," he groaned, his gaze shifting to the admin. "Hey, I thought you said you wanted to talk about something important."
"It is important," Hendiadys asserted. "But…" He trailed off, looking uneasily at the other 'bot, still hidden by the instructions she was examining. "But there are security implications. Perhaps we could discuss-"
He was interrupted by a snarl of frustration as the anonymous 'bot all but threw down the instructions, turned and stomped a few steps away to a gap in the piles of components, apparently glaring at the crew on break. "All right, who drew this slagging diagram?" she demanded.
"Er…" said someone, possibly while moving to put some cover between themselves and the angry Decepticon.
"YOU!" The infuriated construction worker – a green and grey Decepticon of roughly similar design to Diddlysquat – gave chase, demanding the other 'bot come over and explain what, exactly, his sorry excuse for a diagram was supposed to mean – and while she was distracted with her newfound scapegoat, Diddlysquat began explaining the problem to his friend.
"So you want me to come and help you find these Minicons."
"Well, yeah."
'Primey', whose mood seemed to have swung from cheerful to morose in the time it took him to react to Diddlysquat's nickname, gave the other Decepticon a flat stare, but didn't say anything further.
Hendiadys, in the grand tradition of people who are uncomfortable with long silences, cast about for something to say. That he didn't hit upon 'the weather' as a topic might only be put down to an act of Primus. "So, Primer Charge," he smiled, trying in vain to lighten the mood, "you didn't tell me on the comlink what you were doing here."
"Checking up on the terraforming progress," the engineer said dully. "They've only got about half the machinery working, you know. They've been ahead of schedule up to now, but if they don't keep it up, some of my resources are going to wind up being shunted into keeping them going."
"Yeah, yeah, but are you gonna come with me?" Diddlysquat wanted to know. Fast. This was taking far too long for his liking. Every second they delayed, the Emergency Team was doing who-knew-what, possibly while being stalked by terrorists. Terrorists, that is, who weren't the Night Attack Team. Or even the Havoc Team (for once).
Before Primer Charge could answer, however, the other spider tank came back, triumphantly wielding an edited set of instructions. "Thought he could get away with it, but I fixed his diagrams for him, all right," she crowed. "Oh, Diddlysquat. Hi."
An idea struck Diddlysquat. "Hey, Protowisp," he greeted, "do me a favour and keep a sensor contact on the Minicons, willya?"
Protowisp paused. "Will I get paid for this?"
The caretaker chuckled. "Nah. I'm just gonna be out for a bit, so someone oughta check on them."
"Oh, all right," she grumbled. "I suppose I might as well go hang around the corridors for a couple of hours or so. It's not like I've got anything else to do."
"Thanks," said Diddlysquat cheerfully. "Come on, Primey, we've still got another guy to find."
"I never said I was-"
"So? I'm saying you are. Now just transform and follow the ugly car-guy."
"Stupid cable. Stupid wall. Stupid…" Prowl's chant went on as the Emergency Team continued. They had transformed to their various vehicle modes in order to pick up speed, and it had been all his teammates could do to keep him from racing on ahead of them. Now he took the lead on the ground, occasionally forgetting himself and putting on a burst of speed, only to drop back beside Firebot's much slower fire engine form moments later.
Above them, Makeshift flew through the darkness. While power still flowed to this section and they could have activated some lights if they wanted to, they did not, for three reasons: one, this area did not seem to have been in use for some time and they weren't sure whether it was in useable condition or not; two, they did not want to risk attracting undue attention to the area; three, the darkness lack of light wasn't really all that much of a problem for them anyway. Part of the medic's mind was running through that now, trying to distract himself from the line of thought that was occupying the rest of his awareness.
Cybertron had been a factory world and was therefore a maze of corridors in and of itself: he was used to the fact that his planet was effectively one giant building. And it wasn't the absence of light that bothered him: he had long since grown accustomed to working in darkness, and had had occasion to venture into the older, unused levels of the planet a few times before.
Makeshift liked to keep himself busy, as a rule. On the other hand, he no longer had his datapads and notes with which to occupy him, and so he thought instead.
Makeshift He'had never been a selfish person. It had taken Makeshift a very short time indeed to grasp the scale of his purpose and, to a degree, the futility of it. It was his mission, his function, the purpose around which he was built, to help others. As Dune Runner had pointed out once, he couldn't save everyone.
But as Makeshift knew, he couldn't stop trying, either. Which was why he devoted all his time to the purpose. There wasn't going to be enough time as it was, so who was he to idle when there were lives on the line?
On the rare occasions that he thought about it, Makeshift often reflected that he didn't think he knew how to stop. One of the others might tease him from time to time about not having a life of his own, but he did not mind in the least. Other people sometimes thought it strange to spend even one's spare time working, or to never lose one's temper, or to be eternally compassionate. His teammates, on the other hand, knew that Makeshift had simply chosen to live for others rather than himself.
Makeshift thought that it made things a great deal simpler. How dreary it would be, he thought, to spend your every waking moment thinking about yourself! To recharge yourself and clean your shell and complete your work and reap your benefits and to have your fun and enjoy yourself at times, to love things for what they gave to you and in short, to centre everything, sooner or later, around the way in which they related to yourself. And then when everything was done and you were, in theory, happy - well, Makeshift had certainly never seen it work for anyone else, had never considered it worthwhile to try it himself. In the long run, he had noticed, real happiness almost invariably came from interacting with others in one way or another. Fortunately, as far as the Minicon was concerned, selfishness was simply a trick that he had never gotten the hang of.
Makeshift had been delightedHe'd been thrilled, therefore, when the war had ended. Even the news of the Minicons' new position had failed to dismay him; he was so blinded with relief. And that had been enough, for a while. But discontent spread, and after some time even Makeshift had come to see that there were other problems, places where people needed both his skills and those of his teammates. Nor could he fail to acknowledge the misery among many of his fellow Minicons.
But given the alternatives, Makeshift hadn't really seen anything much he could do about it. He had had little choice but to make do with studying to ready himself for the day, which surely had to come, when he could return to practising his craft.
He hadn't known Laserbeak well: the little camera-bot had been present with the Autobots on Earth, but had usually been too busy with surveillance matters to associate with a Minicon team he hardly knew. In fact, the only time Makeshift remembered having anything to do with the camera bird was after Sideways had infiltrated – no, he decided, infected was probably a better word for it – infected the base's computer in an attack targeted at the human younglings. During his assault on the Autobots' communications, the shape-shifter had lashed out at Laserbeak via the latter's video-feed link with the computer. Laserbeak had been knocked offline by the mere shock of the disruption to his systems, and fell from the sky – only to be crushed underfoot by one of the much larger Decepticons.
Makeshift had been startled and shocked when the tiny 'bot had been brought in for repairs, pleased when his skills had been requested to help and dismayed when he saw the extent of the damage. Apart from the damage to Laserbeak's shell from both the fall and being trampled, the blast of feedback that Sideways had sent his way had scrambled most of his sensory and communications equipment. Despite having more than half his systems in disarray, Laserbeak had been fortunate in that his vital systems had not immediately or severely been affected.
Makeshift had helped to repair him, but he had not even been present when the camera bird had come back online. It was doubtful Laserbeak even knew about the medic's involvement in the matter, for which the latter was rather grateful. He didn't help people just so that they would know he had done it.
It rather seemed that they would have to know about it this time. Makeshift didn't mind that either. An unassuming nature was to be maintained at all times, but it was rarely a bad idea to also maintain a reputation for confidence and professionalism and so on. It reassured those around you, and being well known for hard work, highly skilled care and consistent reliability made it easier to get jobs in places where his function would be of some help to others, and this made him happier.
Professionalism, however… that, the medic sometimes had trouble with, if only because his understanding of the term was so different to that of most other people. On the whole, they took it to mean obeying the rules and behaving in a cool, calm fashion at all times. And as far as that went, Makeshift agreed with the concept. But when it came to mean refusing to get involved, shying away from personal attachments and acting like he possessed no emotions of his own… there, he would reject it. Makeshift had no inclination to meddle in other people's business as such, but he drew the line at behaving like an unfeeling drone. If you didn't feel for those in your charge, how could you be trusted with them?
Besides, his patients were quite clearly his business, and his task was to repair them, or rescue them, or even both, depending on the individual and the circumstances. Makeshift, needless to say, did not hold with or even really grasp the idea of emotional detachment. Professional detachment, yes, that he could and did. But asking him to maintain true emotional distance was like asking electricity to keep away from wires. Why, he wondered, and how?
Of course, it did make failure hurt all the more, but in Makeshift's opinion, a medic (or, indeed any person)nyone who was not bothered or upset by the death or death or pain of someone in their care was neither a medic nor any kind of person at all.
Below him, one of his teammates was also considering their position, though inn a slightly different manner...
He was on a mission. A person's life might well be at stake. He had to be professional, cool, calm, collected, vigilant, and serious.
He had no idea where he was. For all he knew, there was a group of desperate, bird-napping terrorists down here with him, in the tunnels of Cybertron. The area might well be dangerous. The only people who knew that he and his friends were gone from where they were supposed to be would not tell anyone, and he wasn't even here to play.
And yet, following the trail of an insanely long computer cable through a passageway he shouldn't be in, Prowl was feeling pretty good. This was normal, and normality was reassuring, no matter its form.
Besides, this was the sort of thing he'd fantasised about – a mysterious disappearance, an act of sabotage, and only one person daring enough to follow the lead and piece together apparently unrelated facts to find the truth…
Mostly, though, he was simply enjoying the sensation of speed, and of being back at work, and putting his tracking skills to good use. It wasn't much of a challenge, to be truthful, but he had no doubt things would get more complicated; they always did, after all.
Watch out, Cybertron: Prowl and co. are back in business!
If the investigator's audios picked up a faint dripping sound from behind him through the noise of engines and rotors, he didn't comment on it to his partners.
There were patches of Cybertron's surface that were unusable and unsafe because they had been used as minefields during the war. In the interests of gaining building space and of stopping people from having their legs blown off on a daily basis, these areas had been marked out, and as many people as possible recruited into the mine-removal effort. It was not a safe task. Indeed, most of the people who did sign up were drawn in by the unusually high pay and nearly all of them were the kind of 'bots who could afford to risk an explosion at close range: the more armour, the better.
Of course, there were always a few fools who simply did it for the money, either from greed or desperation, though they knew it was danger money. And every so often, there were accidents. But that was life, and if someone was stupid enough to risk their shell like that, they were no loss to society as a whole. That was the Decepticon view, at least, and most of the people in charge of the project were Decepticons. If you asked, they'd say it was because they'd kept better records of where they left their mines (and you couldn't expect them to hand such records over to a chiefly Autobot crew).
It gave the impression, then, of being a rather dangerous place to venture into. Or it would have, except that Diddlysquat and Primer Charge knew perfectly well that it was just a place. Silly Autobots like Hendiadys got nervous and intimidated, but that was their problem.
Primer Charge had cheered up a fair bit by the time they ran across their other travelling companion. He'd been a bit disgruntled at having been dragged from his beloved projects, but after a few minutes was in pretty good form again.
"Eh, I could do with a break anyway," he told Diddlysquat. The engineer was bringing up the rear in pickup truck mode. "Just as long as this doesn't take too long."
"It better not," said Diddlysquat, who was increasingly anxious to get going. "So where is he?" he asked of Hendiadys, who was slowing to a halt again.
"Over there, I think," answered the admin, a tad uncertainly. "At least, I think… is that him?"
Diddlysquat couldn't actually tell where 'over there' was, since the hover-car hadn't thought to transform and point. "How should I know?" he snapped, shifting to robot mode and glancing around. "Oh. Him. Yeah. I thought he was still working on the minefield projects, all right."
"Who's 'he?" asked the pickup truck behind him; Primer Charge transformed so as to be able to see past the others, but looked around blankly, not recognising anyone there. Diddlysquat was already walking over to the 'bot in question, though, so his confusion didn't last long.
Diddlysquat could hear shrapnel crunching under his feet, and decided not to hang about, always a smart choice in a minefield. "Hey, Earthseeder?"
The muddy-coloured Decepticon turned, holo-map in hand, red optical visor brightening as he recognised a friend. "Diddlysquat! Nice to see you."
"Same here, but we haven't got time to talk," the caretaker said shortly. "Come with us. I'll explain on the way."
"Uh…" Earthseeder hesitated, but Diddlysquat was already in spider tank mode, and leaving; wanting to know what was going on, the ex-minelayer had no choice but to do the same. For all he knew, it might be important.
It was not until Prowl called their attention to it that the Emergency Team realised that they were about to run out of cable to follow.
The miniature pursuit car sped up when he found that it really was the end of the line that he saw, calling to the others to follow him. Neither Makeshift nor Firebot were gifted with Prowl's heightened sense of vision; not knowing what it was that his partner saw, Makeshift sped up in fear. Forgetting his rotors, he rotated the nacelles at the ends of his wings forward, using jets now, and breezed past his slower team leader as he went to catch up with the search specialist, who already had a good head start.
The sound of his engines rose until it was thunder in Makeshift's audios, his visual sensors training themselves out of habit on a sudden burst of light up ahead of him, as Prowl thoughtfully activated his headlights for them to trace him by. A minute later the medic saw the searchlights blink out: his team-mate had transformed, but by then the Osprey was already drawing close enough that it didn't matter any more.
Prowl was standing between his find and Makeshift as the silver aircraft transformed just above the ground and landed. Fearing the worst for Laserbeak, the medic hastily made to look over his partner's shoulder. "Is it bad?" he asked with a querulous look.
"That depends on how you look at it," Prowl answered, stepping aside to show him no more than the end of an unplugged computer cable. Crouching on the floor and picking it up, the investigator tapped it lightly, considering its condition. A few flakes of something fell away and floated to the floor. Automatically pulling a torch from a subspace pocket with which to get a clearer look at the cable, he examined the evidence further. "Huh. There're bits of ash on it. Looks like it's been burnt."
"Burnt?" asked Firebot, who had driven up and transformed in time to catch the last part of his sentence. "Has there been a fire?"
"I don't think so," said Prowl dryly, noting the conspicuous absence of scorch marks on both the walls and the floor as he passed the cable end to Makeshift.
The medic inspected it critically. "No, this just looks as though whatever it was plugged into got burned out or scorched.
"Whatever that was," Prowl shrugged unconcernedly. "I'd say that Laserbeak's been here, though."
"Why?" asked the others together.
The blue and white searcher crouched on the floor, and tapped to indicate where they should look. "These paint traces are the same colours as him," Prowl pointed out, showing them the ingrained streaks of blue and orange where their owner had scraped along the floor. "And if he disappeared around here," he continued proudly, "it would be a very strange coincidence if someone else with the same colours were also down here in an unused corridor."
"Good point," Firebot agreed. Prowl grinned delightedly. "But we've run out of cable length to follow, which means it's your call now. Lead on!" The two ground-based transformers shifted to vehicle mode and were about to move on when they noticed that Makeshift had not done likewise, had not, in fact, moved from staring thoughtfully at the flecks of paint. "Makeshift?" prompted the red fire engine.
"Hmm?" The silver medic started slightly. "Oh, yes. Go ahead. I'll catch up with you in a minute. I'm just… thinking."
"Right. You know the drill," his leader said, but it was a routine question, not one that sprung from any doubt that his teammate knew how to take care of himself. Firebot knew his friend too well for that, and appreciative of the very real need that Makeshift sometimes had for undisturbed time and space to think, whether it caught him while he was studying or in the middle of a delicate task or just while flying from one place to another, the two rescue workers complied without complaint for his request.
Fuelled by terror, Laserbeak had been flying for an hour or more when it really dawned upon him that he was lost. He slowed down and hovered doubtfully, unwilling to take the risk of landing.
The port into which the cable had been plugged was damaged, he noticed as warnings flashed on his vision. The surrounding circuits had been burnt out (and slot, but it hurt). According to his internal chronometer, this had taken place in an instant: no time had passed during which he could have gone from the roof of a warehouse to the lower levels of his planet, not to mention the business with the slotting cable… His paint was scraped and scratched in places, his armour battered in places that suggested he had crashed recently, but he didn't remember anything like that, either…
Laserbeak was, to say the least, confused.
Seeing no turn in the corridor ahead, no side passages or other alternatives, the orange camera bird hesitated, scanning the hallway through lenses designed to watch for danger, to pick up on anything out of the ordinary.
After some hurried deliberation, he came to a decision, and flew on.
The (other) search party was nowseveral levels under the base, and Diddlysquat was amazed by all the mess. It wasn't just that the place was being reconstructed still; it was also that he'd seen this level once, months ago, and it looked just as bad as it had then. Progress was the byword of late. It just wasn't the trend.
He paid no attention to the sounds from behind him as Earthseeder, large and ungainly as ever in robot mode, ran into difficulty navigating through the cables and occasional technician; Primer Charge was having much more success, which probably also had something to do with his working in these conditions half the time.
Hendiadys had abandoned them, much to his delight. Having directed them down here to meet with someone who'd show them where to start looking, the official had then slunk off to recover from the ordeal of leading three Decepticons around the city and through a minefield, along with the constant failure to observe protocol, and the numerous security breaches they'd committed along the way.
Diddlysquat was slightly proud of their efforts.
"So where's the guy who's supposed to show us the way now?" asked Primer Charge, coming alongside the caretaker.
"I'm here," said a tech, picking his way towards them. Not a tech, in fact: Diddlysquat was a little surprised to see who it was. Earthseeder, who had just managed to catch up, caught sight of their guide and groaned.
"I thought you were working on the minefields," said Diddlysquat, as Terrorsheen turned around and started leading them in the direction he'd come from.
"He was," muttered Earthseeder, but then he had to duck so as not to hit something that looked like a vital section of the base's wiring, and as his design made it impossible to bend his neck easily, this manoeuvre took up most of his attention.
"Eh, I'm better at admin stuff," shrugged Terrorsheen, warily avoiding some hazardous-looking equipment.
"Figures you'd run indoors first chance you got," snorted Primer Charge, who'd apparently met the green tank before. Terrorsheen chose not to answer.
"Is this it?" Diddlysquat peered down an opening to their left, where a darkened passageway led out, away from the base, a single computer cable trailing away into the darknessgloom.
"Yeah. Some of the others reckon the cable's a clue."
"Right. Let's go." Diddlysquat transformed, cuing the other two to do the same, and the search party was on the way at long last.
As Earthseeder passed in his oversized, vaguely spider-tank-like transform, Terrorsheen hesitated – but he said nothing, and the terrible three made their way into the darkness.
Until, that was, Primer Charge got fed up with nearly bumping into Diddlysquat's rear time and again, and switched on his headlights.
Retort stared across his desk, his elbows resting on the unusually datapad-free surface, chin on his hands. He was musing over people in general, and their attitudes in particular. Diddlysquat had accidentally reminded him of just how mistrustful most Decepticons of that rank were, both of desks and of the people who were behind them.
The red Transformer smiled almost fondly. In his day, when you needed a table to work on you took what you could get. An officer who had an actual desk (and sat behind it, even when they didn't have to) was to be viewed with suspicion. Sitting behind desks was not seen as getting anything worthwhile done; if something did require desk work, you delegated that part to your aides and left yourself free to deal with more important things.
Ah, yes, the aides… Retort remembered when ten or more had swarmed around him like satellites about a planet, querying and listening and informing and presenting and receiving, every now and then one or two breaking off to carry out his orders, to be replaced by as many as had left. In those days you moved throughout the base, supervising and watching and, importantly, keeping your underlings on the go. You didn't sit around in your office feeling useless; you went and actively did something. In this respect, he almost envied Hendiadys his job.
Retort did not really mind his lot; there was a certain delight, he had discovered, in being able to sit quietly and hear everything at once instead of running around searching it all out, in being able to control the threads of power with such ease as he did now. He simply wished that he knew which to do: to be a hands on, proactive looking supervisor, or a distant, quietly detached controller, gently pulling the strings behind the scenes. Either way, Retort very much intended to remain in control; it was simply a matter of finding out which approach it would be most advantageous to take, and as yet there was no clear favourite.
For now, however, he could, and would, be patient.
He was aware of his fellow administrator's entrance and looked up as the other bot approached his desk. "Yes, Hendiadys?"
"The team we dispatched upon your orders have left on their… assignment, Senior Secretary."
Retort nodded. He was relieved by the news: he'd been beginning to feel that the bots he was sending could never have left soon enough for his liking. "How many are going?"
"Three, Senior Secretary: Primer Charge and Earthseeder went with Diddlysquat."
Retort mentally sighed, vowing to see some changes made to the terms of his contract of employment. He was still settling into this post (he hadn't even tried out most of the associated 'perks') but already he could see some aspects of it that would be changed, and fast, if he had anything to do with it. "Hendiadys?"
His executive radiated an emanation of innocence. "Yes, Senior Secretary?"
"Am I alone in wishing that the titles borne by the more senior members of staff within the system of government under and in which we serve, had not been decided upon by certain of those people who, while being both our superiors in rank and as such, those whom for the time being we refer to as our leaders, have perhaps not the mastery of language and understanding of such matters as might be wished for, and possibly that it might have been more desirable to have referred such choices to someone with a more straightforward approach to such things?" Translated, he meant: We shouldn't have let Hot Shot amuse himself by choosing our titles, should we?
"It might have been preferable if we hadn't," Hendiadys agreed, noting that his efforts to teach Retort civil-servant-speak appeared to be paying off. "On the other hand, it did distract him while we slipped the security policies through."
"Yes," Retort mused. "I suppose it was worthwhile, all in all. Unfortunately that seems to be the trouble with bureaucracy: the only leader complacent enough to suit our purposes, should we opt to take that course, is also so laid back that he puts his personal entertainment before the good of the planet and doesn't seem to grasp the concept of propriety or following an appropriate course of action."
"Ah," Hendiadys smiled. "I take it that you are referring to the consequences of our issuing him with the password to access and alter the settings of every computer in the city."
"That incident had remembered itself to me."
"It was entirely correct protocol," Hendiadys reminded him. "He is one of the two rulers of the planet. How could we have possibly foreseen what would come of it?"
Retort shook his head ruefully. "The thought occurs to me that we should probably have expected something like that to happen. But the fact remains that he changed every screensaver in Regalix to the image of some bizarre alien idol."
"From what I gather, it wasn't a god, as such. Just an advertising image for the public viewing of an enactment of a fictional story." It need hardy be said that Hendiadys had never had much exposure to popular culture. "Some cultural legend, as I understand it. The 'John Wayne' creature mentioned among the markings seems to be some sort of mythological hero."
"Killed a monster, did he?"
"Some other aliens, I think."
"Ah. A soldier?"
"No… I don't think so."
Retort nodded. "A murderer. I see. And they publicly denounced him and the tales of his dark misdeeds and eventual fate served as a warning to others? That seems to be the usual formula…"
"From what I heard, he was adored as a hero."
"Oh." The secretary was surprised. He hadn't heard that these humans were so Decepticon-like. It was puzzling. "A very popular celebrity, then? Or a politician, perhaps," Retort added thoughtfully.
"A politician?"
"What other kind of person can get away with murder, Hendiadys? I begin to see the connection with our beloved leader…"
"It might explain why Hot Shot behaves so outrageously, with such a role model," Hendiadys agreed. "But Retort, surely politicians could hardly really get away with murder, could they?"
The Decepticon paused, surprised to learn that his assistant was even more naïve than he'd thought. "Why not? They've been doing it for most of our history." Retort pulled a datapad from the pile on his desk, and began scanning the text on its screen. "Or were you perhaps not around for the past few million years?"
Hendiadys, for whom sarcasm had not been a compulsory part of training, couldn't think of a good answer to that.
After a few minutes of silence, he said, "It could have been worse, though, when you think about it."
"Could it not, Ministerial Executive Secretary of Public Construction and Conservation Projects?" Retort did not look up as he addressed Hendiadys with his full title, in all of its extreme silliness. He didn't have to see the grimace to know it was there. It was etched into the programming of every official high-ranking enough to have a decent salary. Most of them flinched out of reflex every time someone started to introduce them now.
"Well," Hendiadys suggested weakly, "at least we weren't encumbered with the title of 'Co-Commander of the Cybertronian Empire'. Or any title including the term 'Co-Commander'," he added after a moment's thought. "I felt rather sorry for Demolisher every time he had to introduce himself. Everyone thought he was stuttering, you know."
The senior of the two smiled to himself, his head bent over the datapads detailing supply contracts "And no pity for he who created the title?"
"Oh, he didn't notice. In any case, he thought it was, and I quote: "kind of cool"."
"We must be thankful for whoever talked him into changing it."
"Maybe," agreed Hendiadys, who knew a little more about that person than Retort did. "He does seem to enjoy using a certain pattern with them: 'Senior Secretary', 'Co-Commander'…"
"Yes, our beloved Co-Leader is a veritable fount of alliterative proficiency," Retort said sourly. "And in any case, Hendiadys, what was it that you were originally coming to see me about?"
Hendiadys started and glanced at the pad in his hand. "Oh, of course. Forgive me, Senior Secretary. I was coming to let you know that Hot Shot has just decided to pay an unannounced visit to the Minicons. He told me that he thought he should drop in and see how Jolt was getting along..."
Retort leapt from his seat so fast that the administrator jumped back out of instinct. "Primus have mercy on us! Why didn't you tell me? And he'll arrive to find the Minicon supervisor absent from his post? He'll want us to dismiss Diddlysquat! Complain that the service provided is inadequate! Kick up a fuss and set up a scandal the like of which our undeveloped government has yet to see and cannot handle at this delicate stage!" It was his first opportunity so far to try a dramatic outburst, and Retort found himself rather enjoying it.
The other bot looked fearful, much to his delight. "Are you sure?" Hendiadys asked nervously, feeling the panic rising within him. "Maybe he will just-"
The red one interrupted him, leaving his desk to pace fretfully up and down in front of the massive windows. "Hendiadys, there is no person who can throw a tantrum better than a puerile head of state! He- but wait." Retort hesitated in his stride, one foot hovering just above the floor. "I see a possibility. How skilful is the nation's favourite at distinguishing between Decepticons?"
"Not very good; he doesn't pay much attention to them and the spider tank models tend to be quite similar in appearance. But he's spoken to Diddlysquat once or twice before…"
Retort dismissed the problem with an unconcerned gesture. "No matter. Hendiadys, we need a stand-in! Triple their pay for the assignment and find me the best person for the job. Administrator, get me a spider tank!"
Much to their dismay, - or to Diddlysquat's, at least - the search team had encountered a problem. Having reached a junction, they now found themselves unsure which corridor to take.
Nothing was said for a minute; the three-vehicle convoy hesitated, and then Primer Charge spoke.
"Terrorsheen said the cable was a clue."
"They think it's a clue," corrected Diddlysquat, turret swivelling between the two options. "We haven't got time to get this wrong."
"So which way do you think we should go?" countered the engineer.
"Well, they did leave a trail," pointed out Earthseeder, who'd been watching where he walked out of habit. Diddlysquat swung his sensors down to see that, indeed, a trickle of something liquid and shiny was pooling in a line down the length of the cable; he thought he recognised a tyre mark here and there.
That didn't look good.
"Fine. This way," he said distractedly and moved on with increased speed. He knew that fragging paper-pusher had wasted too much time! Diddlysquat had been on the trail less than an hour and a half, and already, he feared, he had to face the possibility that one of his charges might be injured.
"Look, I can understand your wanting to spread the pain around, but this is really dumb."
Hendiadys didn't grimace, but his smile was fixed. Finding a substitute had been the easy part; as it happened, he'd found one lounging around the base corridors. Dealing with Decepticons wasn't so bad, considering: even now, he was remembering exactly why they valued Diddlysquat's services so much. Hypotenuse had not reacted well to news of Retort's plan, although the mention of Hot Shot coming might have had something to do with that.
"How's a substitute going to fill in? Or handle Seek Destroy? They'll be scrap in less than an hour! And furthermore…" the Minicon looked over as the door opened to admit a grey and green spider tank who edged into the room warily: guessing this was the temp, he turned back to Hendiadys and gestured towards the unwitting offender. "…She looks nothing like Diddlysquat!"
"You're not so bad-looking yourself, shorty," sneered the Decepticon in question, taking the room to be safe and transforming.
Hypotenuse ignored her. "Am I the only one who sees a problem? Nobody in their right mind would mistake the two!" The spider tank whom Hendiadys had found to act as Diddlysquat's stand-in was not only grey and green, but where the real person had blue shielding, hers was white, and of a different shape. And while she was about the same size as the Minicon caretaker himself, her robot form and even her vehicle alternate were riddled with a myriad of small differences that were obvious to anyone who knew the real Diddlysquat. Hypotenuse had no idea how such a creature could ever be mistaken for his friend.
"What about the colour?" he tried to object. The administrator grimaced.
"If Hot Shot does ask, simply inform him that Diddlysquat has recently acquired a new paint job, to get into the spirit of things, you know: a new dawn, a fresh start, and so on, etcetera…"
"He'll like that," the blue Minicon grumbled, not entirely sure in his own mind whether or not that was a complaint or just a fact of life. Regardless, he continued to stare at the new tank-bot; Protowisp stared right back, folding her arms and leaning against the counter behind her.
"Or perhaps you could say that he got an upgrade. I hear they're becoming very popular among the more politically correct officials. Look, everyone is changing their colours these days, in more ways than one, admittedly, but that doesn't alter
the fact that Hot Shot won't notice."
"Yes, he will. Even a blind-" Hypotenuse began to snap, and then stopped as he remembered just who it was that they were taking about. "All right, so maybe he won't, but what about her voice?"
"What about it? Our… adored Co-leader has, not to put too fine a point on it, roughly the same attention span as, as…"
"Three biro pens and a floppy disc?" Hypotenuse suggested.
"I suppose so. If I knew what you meant I would probably agree with you. But you understand my point; she will be fine."
"And what about her alternate mode? And her speech patterns?" snapped the Minicon in frustration. "Hendiadys, it's not Diddlysquat!"
The administrator gave him an odd look for that, but shrugged anyway. "It's only temporary, Hypotenuse. It's just for a few hours, at most. Diddlysquat himself will be back here, in person, very soon, and Protowisp knows him well enough to make her services useful to us for now, at any rate."
Behind the official, the Decepticon gave Hypotenuse a mock-friendly grin; he considered blowing a burst of static at her, but the admin was in the way, unaware of the silent contest between the other two.
"I suppose so," Hypotenuse agreed reluctantly. Hendiadys, wisely deciding that it was best for him to quit while he was ahead, left them to it. He had little stamina when it came to dealing with Hot Shot – not, of course, that he was alone in that respect…
The second he was out of the door, Hypotenuse did blow a static burst at Protowisp.
So it began…
The sound of jet engines alerted the rescue workers to Makeshift's return. The Osprey flew up behind them and assumed his customary position above his partners. Neither the fire engine nor the pursuit car asked what, if any, conclusions he had come to from his deliberations.
Thankful of the excuse of duty as a cover for concern, Firebot said quietly, "Report."
Makeshift did not seem surprised by this; but then, it was procedure too, like so many of the other small rituals that kept them going and gave them some reprieve at times when they had nothing else. Sometimes just going through the motions of something helped, at least a little. "No further evidence of anything unusual was observed," he supplied simply, equally as quiet as his team mate. Firebot let him be.
The red Minicon was uneasy with this mission. It wasn't logical that he should be: there was almost certainly (and it was almost, because he was too experienced to be sure of a situation he hadn't seen) only one life at stake, and they didn't have the patient just yet, so this was in some ways the easy part, and they'd been desperately keen for a chance like this. A small part of him felt guilty about wanting disaster to strike; another countered that disaster would happen anyway; he just wanted a chance to do something about it when it did.
But the whole business with the computer cable was… creepy. And that was itself worrying. Firebot and his partners were as old as the combiners; he'd seen many things the Autobots hadn't even heard of, and led his team into half of them (though he'd led his team, and others, out of all of them). The Emergency Team's leader was not an easy person to shake.
But something about this, especially that cable… he had the impression that it reminded him of something, and he couldn't quite grasp what. And it was immensely frustrating to suspect that there was a threat to your team, and to take them on anyway, because you couldn't even figure out why you had such a feeling. But the suspicion remained, and nagged at him as he drove.
On the other hand, he couldn't turn them back. Not now. For their own sake, as well as Laserbeak's.
He checked his teammates' positions. Makeshift was keeping pace above him; Prowl was gleefully speeding ahead, delighted to have a chance to test his skills after a period of time that was relatively insignificant… but still far, far too long. He was even happier when his keen sensors picked out a side corridor up ahead. Putting on a brief burst of speed, the Minicon skidded and spun slightly before coming to a decision and spinning back to follow the main hallway. Firebot sighed, a whistling sound that wasn't terribly different from the human version; it seemed his partner had moved on to the films now.
Makeshift dropped down to fly beside him, rotors back in use. "If he keeps trying to mimic that sort of stunt, we're going to end up with a patient sooner than we were expecting."
The fire engine made a noise that suggested he was in danger of exploding; the Osprey flicked his sensors towards Firebot sharply, scanning him contemplatively until he clarified his meaning. "He's excited. You know how much Prowl enjoys his job."
"Just like the rest of us," the silver one observed dryly. "On the other hand, possibly once he remembers what the day-to-day practicalities are, perhaps his enthusiasm will wear off a little."
Firebot laughed out loud at that; Makeshift wondered what he'd said that was so funny. "Or if he does smear himself across a wall or two, he might be a bit less keen about cheap entertainment."
"Yes…" The Osprey hesitated: they had reached another junction. "Where's Prowl gone?"
"I'm right here." Prowl flashed his headlights at them from the passage to their left. "Now, if you're done talking about me…"
"Oh, we are," Firebot assured him blithely "Not much to say, really. You haven't changed much over the last two hours."
"As I was saying," the investigator said grumpily, "Laserbeak's down this way. Unless you two have some more gossiping to do, you might want to follow me." Without waiting for an answer, he executed a neat three-point turn and raced on again.
"Hmph," snorted Firebot, driving after Prowl. "Try and keep up with him, more like."
Makeshift, who had remained hovering beside him and was well aware that he himself could in fact quite easily keep up with their unruly teammate, made a sympathetic noise. "Well, I suppose we could, but it depends, really."
The red Minicon gave his teammate a sidelong glance. "On what?"
"Well," said Makeshift innocently, "do we have any more gossiping to do?"
"Not likely!" called Prowl from somewhere up ahead of them. Firebot cursed investigators and their finely tuned sensors. Makeshift merely radiated faint amusement and an emanation that suggested that, were he in robot mode, he would be staring impassively at the ceiling.
"Why th- why not?" he snapped, choosing his words carefully out of deference to Makeshift's being there at his side.
"Because," said Prowl, and his voice was close by now, "I've found the person we're looking for. Well," he amended, "I've found his shell, at least."
It was not often that Hot Shot ventured into the block wherein the Minicons were, theoretically, housed and looked after and so on. In fact, when he thought about it, he hadn't actually ever been invited there. Come to think of it, he'd never been inside this part of the building at all before. Not that he had failed to speak to the Minicons over the last two years. As a matter of fact, Jolt had visited him a number of times, and on occasion he'd encountered some of the others on their way somewhere, usually with Diddlysquat, or at least with the spider tank in hot pursuit.
Once or twice, it was true, he had thought that he heard explosions from the direction of this area, and had been universally assured that, no, everything was fine. Diddlysquat tended to get a lot of support from the staff, which was one of the few areas in which old loyalties were swept aside by the knowledge that, were he to lose his job, somebody else would need to do it. Most importantly, as far as the individual members of staff were concerned, it might be one of them.
Although Diddlysquat generally didn't notice it, people in the base were often fairly willing to do him a good turn, in the interest of not being the next person to have Seek Destroy on their tail. His was far from an easy role to end up in.
Protowisp had already made up her mind not to let herself be shoved into it again.
"Jolt should be here soon," she said. Hot Shot nodded.
"There sure are a lot of Minicons around here," he observed, waving to a small group of them who had chosen to hang out nearby. One of them waved back; he grinned. "So, uh, do you let them go wherever they want?"
"No," replied Protowisp bluntly.
Hypotenuse pitched in from her shoulder. "That would be much too dangerous," he lied. "Diddlysquat escorts those of us who leave the block for whatever reason, and our movements are restricted in accordance with the relevant clauses of the treaty you yourself helped draw up. For our own safety, of course."
The trace of bitterness in the blue Minicon's tone went unnoticed by Hot Shot. "Gotcha." He frowned. "What about that other guy?"
"Other guy?" echoed Protowisp and Hypotenuse together.
"Yeah." Hot Shot looked between the two and met blank stares. "The orange guy who's always running around the corridors. Can't remember his name… I asked him once, and he said he'd an important meeting with Retort. Dunno if you know him, but Retort's kind of a funny guy, so I didn't spend too long talking. It wouldn't be fair to get your friend into trouble with Retort." The yellow Autobot thought for a minute, while the other two exchanged confused looks. "Oh, I remember: he said his name was Tangent."
"Ah," said Hypotenuse very quietly. "Well, he has his business to see to, so we leave him to it, you know. Just as long as he doesn't leave the building."
"Sure," Hot Shot agreed. He looked past them, back to the four Minicons lounging in the far corner of the room, and waved again. "Hi, guys," he called.
The three who hadn't seen him the first time looked up in surprise (and some shock); the other, Jetstorm, grinned at their expressions. Runway called a greeting in return, but the group were conversing in their native language, and Hot Shot only guessed the meaning.
Even if he heard the dialogue that followed, he certainly didn't understand it.
"That kid? Ugh. Where's that Autobot of Rollbar's when you need him?" muttered Spiral, slouching further down the wall.
"I'd volunteer us to do the aft-whacking honours in his place, but our third isn't here," Runway told her.
"What're they saying?" Hot Shot asked curiously.
"Just how nice it is to have a visitor for once." Hypotenuse wasn't sure how he was controlling his expression.
"Visitor?" Jetstorm beeped mournfully. "And here I thought he was lunch."
"Still could be," Terradive grinned. Jetstorm chuckled and started humming a tune the other fliers apparently knew: they both let out quiet sniggers. Runway murmured about being low on energy, at which the trio gave the Autobot Co-leader a considering look.
"Nah, visitors are off-limits. No attacking 'em. Diddlysquat's orders. And don't think I won't enforce 'em," Spiral folded her arms and fixed the Air Military Minicon in particular with a stern gaze.
"Oh, we know you will. And I'm sure none of those here would ever dream of harming a… a guest. In the meantime… I, for one, need to refuel. See you later." Runway nodded to the earthbound warrior and walked off, fellow fliers in tow. Jetstorm was still humming cheerfully; as they made for the door, Runway started singing along softly, just loud enough for Hypotenuse to catch a bit.
"Be our guest, be our guest…"He ignored them, trying to focus on what Hot Shot was saying to Protowisp. But they carried on into the hallway, Terradive coming in for one, enthusiastically sung line that was clearly audible to Hypotenuse even over the sound of Hot Shot's voice.
"…We've had nobody for years and we're obsessed!…"
They were far underground, and in the dark, and they might be lost. They were more afraid of losing someone else.
Makeshift transformed and crouched by the apparently lifeless shell. "Oh, no…" he murmured softly.
"If you tell me he's going to die, I'll kill him myself," said Prowl.
"Why?" Firebot frowned, wondering if all the Earth culture had been affecting his partner more deeply than he had known.
"I've only just found him! What kind of a time is that to depart this life?" Prowl folded his arms. If looks could kill, Firebot would have been most interested to see what effect the one his teammate was wearing now might have on a corpse.
"Well, he could be badly damaged and who knows how long he's been out here…" Firebot paused to assess the reaction he was getting.
"Are you implying that I'm too slow?" Prowl demanded. Firebot mentally crossed out 'cultural contamination' on the foreseeable report and ticked the box marked 'pride'. Outwardly, he shook his head. The investigator's indignation faded somewhat. "Good." Prowl turned and looked down at the medic. "So what do you think's up with him?"
"No doubt he saw you coming," remarked Makeshift, extracting a couple of tools. Prowl gaped as only a mouthless 'bot could; Firebot managed a stunned laugh. "Excuse me; I need to work here."
The other Minicons backed away obediently, still giving their partner a pair of dumbfounded looks. Once they were out of hearing range, at least of Makeshift when he was trying to concentrate, Prowl looked at the red one. "I don't believe he just did that."
"Neither do I." Firebot couldn't suppress a chuckle at his partner's expression.
Beside him, the blue and white bot was shaking his head. "I mean, I didn't even know Makeshift could do that."
"He had the advantage of surprise, all right."
"From Dune Runner, yeah, I'd expect that. Or Iceberg. Or us. But Makeshift?"
His leader shrugged cheerfully. "It must be a sign of the times, when Makeshift is snide."
"Next will come the agoraphobia of Dune Runner and Thunderclash's altruism," agreed Prowl, brightening up. "Then will the people staple cheque books to their javelins and Unicron will dance the Hokey-Pokey." The blue and white Minicon spread his hands and cackled. "The Apocalypse is nigh!" he cried, and then stopped when he saw the way Firebot was looking at him. "What?"
The red Minicon shook his head. "Forget Makeshift; it's you I have to worry about, isn't it?"
"Yep," his partner agreed cheerfully.
"Oh, for…"
…And it was over.
The whole ordeal had lasted less than an hour, but to Hypotenuse it felt like an eternity had passed before the door closed behind Hot Shot. Jolt, ever a martyr for the cause, had gone with him. Someone had suggested such valour deserved a fitting tribute. Hypotenuse saw nothing wrong with that, and left them to it. He himself had more important things to do.
Specifically, he was slumped over a table, head in his arms, and wondering what could be taking Diddlysquat so long. That terrorists might be involved did not console him any.
"We need a new plan," said someone to his left. The blue Minicon felt a poke. "Hello?"
"Eh, c'mon Mirage, we've a race to… hey, what's with all the burn marks? Seek Destroy again or what? What the frell was he shooting at? Diddlysquat's out, isn't he?"
"See, Downshift, you're always last on the scene. Some of us," came Incinerator's proud tones, "were doing distraction duty while you were lazing."
"Yeah, yeah," said Downshift unconcernedly, "but what were you doing it for?"
"Keeping Seek Destroy off the temp's back. Playing Hide and Seek."
There was a pause, as if the others were viewing the damage.
"With missiles?" asked Mirage.
"Among other things."
"Ergh," mumbled Hypotenuse, stirring on the bench. The other three turned to stare as the blue heap propped itself up on its elbows and gave them a slightly unbalanced look. "We need a new plan," he said.
"Well, good morning, sunshine," grinned Incinerator, notwithstanding that it was another few hours until dawn.
"Go talk to the Night Attack Team," groaned Hypotenuse, though whether it was a curse or a real order remained ambiguous. He paused, reorganised his thoughts, and clarified. "You three go round up some of the others. Especially Cosine."
Incinerator grinned, shooting a look at Downshift that might be instantly translated to: Race you. The pair transformed and sped off in the same direction. Mirage lingered for a second, debating whether to send for a medic: Hypotenuse looked a little like he was on the verge of a mental breakdown. After a second or two, he, too, left, reflecting that madn- eccentricity in some way or another was perfectly normal.
Almost immediately after he had gone, the door opened yet again. This time, it was an all-too-familiar orange statistician who made the mistake of walking in. He stopped when he spotted his blue colleague, assessing for a moment…
"Tangent." Hypotenuse had never growled before, and to listen to him was to understand why: he was terrible at it. "I want a word with you."
Diddlysquat's search party had reached the end, so to speak, of the line: they'd run out of cable.
To the caretaker's simultaneous relief and horror, this was not a problem because the trail of fluid was now thick and clear enough to follow, even just by the sound of splashing.
"Something wrong?" Primer Charge knew him well enough to pick up on the spider tank's increasingly erratic movements, caught in the beams of the dump truck's headlights.
"Yeah," said Diddlysquat, "I might lose my job 'cause I got a Minicon killed. That sounds pretty wrong to me." But he sounded distracted.
The truck behind him flicked headlights down slightly, shining onto the gleaming liquid below. It didn't look like any kind of internal fluid he knew, but then Primer Charge had never gone poking around Minicons' insides. "Could be a trail left on purpose. They might want us to follow it."
"I pity the guy who has to clean it up, though," said Earthseeder, from the back.
"If you're gonna go so slowly, why don't you get started on the wipe-up?" suggested Diddlysquat in annoyance, quickening his pace slightly to emphasise his point. Primer Charge followed suit, leaving the minelayer struggling to keep up.
"You really like those little guys," observed the engineer as Earthseeder cursed behind them.
"Yeah, I guess." Diddlysquat wasn't in the mood to talk; he was barely holding in panic as it was, though Primer Charge's theory had helped.
The latter probed further. "So if, say, I got killed saving these Minicons…"
"Added bonus," grunted Earthseeder, managing to catch up for a second before dropping behind again. Primer Charge responded by speeding up a little more; after that, the minelayer had no energy for talking.
Protowisp, meanwhile, was determined never to have anything to do with Autobots again. It was bad enough they couldn't even draw their diagrams properly; being forced to listen to them chattering non-stop was making her CPU hurt. Far better to just shoot them.
The tour over, she'd been left to show Hot Shot out. She was glad that the Co-Leader was more interested in talking to his Minicon friend than to her, especially since that spared her from at least one half of the conversation. Even if it left her listening to the worse half.
They reached a large hall joining the block to the rest of the base, and Protowisp gratefully took it as her cue to leave. "We're here," she said, interrupting their conversation.
"Oh, right." Hot Shot glanced around, then returned his gaze to the Decepticon. "So if I give you a call later…"
"I'll come and pick him up," agreed Protowisp. "Sure." Anything to get him going. If he'd asked for a return ticket to Malaysia, Protowisp at this point would be dashing to consult an atlas.
"Right." The Autobot nodded and turned to go. "Hey, wait a second…"
"What?" She was experiencing a sinking feeling.
"What's going on over there?" The Co-Leader pointed to a group of people clustered to one side of the room. Jolt took off from his shoulder and went to look. A minute later he flew back, beeping something intelligible only to Hot Shot.
"What'd he say?"
"It's some kind of drinking contest." Hot Shot frowned. "Only…" All three turned to stare at the competition area, Protowisp considering whether to ask for the rest of the sentence. There was a momentary gap in the crowd as someone realised they had business elsewhere and pushed their way out: it was very brief, but enough for the outsiders to see that one of the teams (as well as what looked like the referee) was composed of Minicons.
Hot Shot stared. "Uh… what…" He glanced at the Decepticon beside him.
Protowisp turned to him and said seriously, "We also encourage the Minicons to participate in community activities and forge links with the rest of the base. Through… shared cultural activities."
It didn't have a mind of its own. That was important. It had no mind, and no spark. It had a personality, of a kind – at least, it had a particular way of thinking, but that wasn't exactly its own, either.
Its host had no idea it existed, of course: it left little in the way of memories, and those were inaccessible to the host. In any case, they would have been confusing: its perception of the world was vague and lacked understanding.
It understood some things, without knowing why; indeed, it didn't know anything, merely felt and responded on instinct. For the most part, it was unable to access the host's memory, though it had remembered thoughts not long ago…
And there was a problem.
It had no mind of its own, but there was another one at its disposal: through its host's mind, it thought.
There was a vague impression of having been mobile, that once it could have left the host without such hassle. But this was impossible now; it was static. It was still separate, for the time being, at least, but it was running out of time.
It understood, without knowing, that it was running out of time. Its own programming was binding the two beings together. It would survive, after a fashion, but somehow, this was not enough.
A wing twitched weakly as panic rose to spur on single-minded purpose. It had no experience, and it was severely weakened, but that didn't matter.
It had to get away, lest it be trapped with its host. And the outcome of that was precisely what its instincts protested against.
Pain. Confusion. Insanity.
Death.
…nor do I own those flaming lyrics. That's what happens when the choir lessons practice in the hall of a very small school where everyone can hear them every day for a few months. The Minicons start singing.
Just on a further note, I actually wrote out part of a drinking contest scene for this, and later discovered it was on the back of the homework I was handing in. I have no idea what my Physics teacher thought. I didn't ask for crits. (Any offered now, however, are more than welcome. Reviews are fun.)