Eh-heh…oops. Let the record show, I was not intending to stick another chapter onto this. But then an evil little creep with a mustard-yellow colour scheme appeared in my head and demanded ficcage. So. Meet Squint. (Whatever you do, don't breath in next to him.) See the sort of trouble Jetfire gets himself into when Optimus isn't around…(set shortly after/before Chapter 1.)

Hell's Gatekeeper

Charr…

If all that was bad about the universe could be condensed and bottled and then splashed over ten and a half miles of stinking, choking, tainted-air terrain, if someone then decided to give it a name, it would be Charr.

Squint was very certain about this.

Idly he wondered why anyone had bothered to colonialise it in the first place. The entire planet was desert terrain, with only one huge, filthy city. The entire city drew its energy supplies from thin underground streams of energon, so thin that most optimists in the city were predicting them to run out in the next year or so. That said, the pessimists expected them to run out last week, and had been doing so for fifty years now, so perhaps there was hope.

Squint blew smoke from his mouth, his interior cooling systems acting as a filter for the impure smog he was busy inhaling.

Were the Great Destroyer himself, he mused, to appear hovering in the dry atmosphere above Charr, odds were good he (or possibly He, though Squint, to whom capitalization had always remained something of a tricky area) would sooner eat his own arms than start into the sprawling mass of poverty and stench below.

Wisps of acid green slunk into the air before dispersing, helping in their own little way to make the atmosphere a tad more toxic. He removed the purifier from his mouth, and looked at it reflectively.

Squint was one of those individuals who, if asked about his career prospects, would have smiled shyly and declared himself a 'humble neutral dealer of spices'. Whilst this may have been a lie filthy enough to darken even Charr's formidable skies, it was not, in fact, entirely untrue. The entire translation hung on your definition of 'humble', and, more importantly, of 'spices'.

For there were, in the universe, species who were fully capable of using chemicals so potent they could bring a city-con to his knees to add a touch of flavor to their rations. There were, in the universe, people who would think nothing of throwing back unstable fuel cells laced with radium in between lunch breaks. And, if your definition of 'spices' included energon so highly-refined, so carefully tainted and so skillfully laden with intoxicants that only with years of training could you even touch it without special equipment, then…in that case, Squint was definitely a dealer of spices.

If you tended slightly further towards the truth, however, you could also say that he was a small-time high-grade merchant with the moral fortitude of a cockroach. It all, really, depended on definition.

The small metal purifier chinked against his chin as he jammed it back between his lips and took in its fumes.

One thing you could say about him was that he was completely unbiased. Autobot or Decepticon, faction was of no importance. Things were far more profitable that way.

Currently, Squint was waiting. Were one to look at matters on a larger scale, he was also on the verge of striking gold via a new and potent creation of his own-'Surge', he called it, a nasty little number with the ability to send any mechanism's mainframe straight into the Inferno and out again.

On a small scale, however, he was waiting.

He heard the shuffling of feet, and smiled. He would not have to wait much longer.

Flying in Charr was not so much illegal as impossible. If you were very, very good-good enough to avoid the smoke, the fumes, the high and unpredictable architecture-…if you were that good, you could do it. But it you had to land, sooner or later, then you could pretty much depend on finding a whole host of smiling faces waiting for you on the round. Smiling faces, with large, unpleasantly sharp instruments in their hands.

And your death wouldn't be recorded as cannibalism. There weren't any authorities around to record it. Instead, you would be…recycled. Merchants were very neat that way.

The entire city, Squint thought, had had time to go a little bit mad. One of the signs of its madness was the development of strange and lucrative superstitions. Obviously, you couldn't hunt down everyone with a set of wings attached to them. But visitors who came in flying…well, who knew what they were up to? They could be dropping bombs. Or acids. Whatever they were doing, it probably wouldn't be good. And besides, wings were far easier to pull off than any other limb, and they fetched such a high price in certain markets…

No, Squint could understand why his…friend had chosen to walk.

The shuffling stopped, and there was a soft grunt-the kind made by people who are trying to be unnoticeable, despite the fact that there was no one else in the alley to notice them.

"Hello, Jetfire", said Squint in a loud, friendly voice that echoed faintly off the walls. He smiled again at the way his…friend's optics flared in panic.

Meetings with Jetfire were always interesting. Profitable, too.

"Hey", muttered the taller mech.

Interesting, perhaps, because it was hard to imagine that anyone could look more out of place. On starving, murderous Charr, Jetfire looked as inconspicuous as a rat in butter.

Squint nodded, and said, "Now take off the stupid coat, please. You look like hired thug. Really, people will think I don't run an honest business."

Or perhaps, he mused as the shuttle unwillingly took off the large brown cloak, not like a rat. Perhaps more like an angel fallen on hard times. An angel who'd been made one entirely by accident, and would have felt a great deal more comfortable if he'd been outfitted with horns and a pitchfork.

He could also understand Jetfire's dislike of removing his tragic attempt at a disguise. Despite his size and seeming strength, there were plenty of watchful individuals in the city who were fully aware that, whilst wings were a profitable trophy, pretty wings were worth even more.

Squint looked him up and down with approval, moving from the wall to stand with his arms folded, a dust-coloured cowboy in a shootout.

Because it was fun, because he was a bit of a bastard and because Jetfire was so much more manageable when he was uncomfortable, Squint said, "The mask too, please."

Jetfire blanched.

"No. Forget it."

"Really, Jetfire-…"

"Can we just get this over with?"

"Come now-…"

"Please!"

The shuttle's voice had risen high, agitation-come-fear. He was obviously more desperate than Squint had thought. He paused, let Jetfire calm down, and asked again, in a gentler tone.

"Jetfire, you do understand I've got a business to run here?"

The white transformer nodded, slowly.

"Of course you do. And you know how long I've worked to build up my image?"

Nod. Nod.

"And you must, surely, know how bad it would look if I were seen on corners talking to shady individuals in masks? Why, my business would never recover! You know that?"

Nod. Nod.

"Take off the mask, please." And he added, merriment mixed with a touch of reproach, "We're all friends here."

Reluctantly, as if he was doing something slightly repulsive, Jetfire pulled the gold triangle from his face.

Still that scar, Squint noted. He didn't wonder as to its origins-he had put it there. Once again, he wondered why the shuttle hadn't had it filled in yet.

"Much better", he beamed, and exhaled poison.

"Can we get this over with?" Jetfire asked again, this time in a mumble.

"Of course."

The transaction went smoothly, as it always did. They were unbothered by thieves. Those living on Charr knew far easier and cheaper ways of laying their hands on high-grade than consulting Squint. Jetfire, whose addiction made him blind and whose naiveté made him profitable, did not.

A not-unimpressive number of credit disks in his hand, Squint smiled again, and handed over a glowing canister. To most, it would have looked like an unremarkable container of energon. Unless they looked carefully, and saw that the pink liquid was just brighter than it should have been, just a shade lighter than normal. And that, thought Squint, was one of the beauties of his little creation. It was new on the market, and not easy to obtain, but it was unremarkable and cheap. Well. Cheap from some of the others, perhaps.

And after all, thought Squint, giving Jetfire a friendly farewell pat on his pretty wings, cheap was what you made it. It all depended on definition. By the standards of Jetfire, who wouldn't recognize extortion if it bit his head off, Squint was cheap.

A few minutes and a few innocent questions later-asked because Squint liked watching clients squirm as they were asked innocent questions, and because he was, at spark, a bit of a bastard-and it was over. Jetfire gave a muffled 'Thanks', and snatched up his ridiculous cloak once more. Tucking his newly-purchased canister away, the Autobot slunk off into the yellow smog of the city.

Exhaling smoke, Squint watched him go with a faint, permanent smile on his face, still trying to decide whether he looked more like an angel or a rat. Then he sighed, placed his payment safely into subspace and moved away from the wall.

A nondescript neutral figure strode out into the city-hell, humming a tune under his breath.