Stars can always fall to darkness,
But can the darkness ever again rise to be a star?
He poked his helm out of the shaft of an old, nonfunctional turbo-lift that had once connected the ground-level to the Market. After a quick sweep of the vicinity to ensure that there were no suspicious Enforcers looking his way, he pulled himself to his pedes. He warily made his way through the crowd, his one remaining wing tucked close to his frame to prevent it from sticking above the crowd and drawing unwanted attention. One flier in a city full of grounders could never be too careful, especially since Seeker parts were highly valued in the scrap market.
The mech avoided open spaces, carefully mingling with crowds as he took the scenic route to Chopper's shop. Enforcers normally overlooked shady business in the Market, but last orn's events meant at least one law-abiding bot lurked among the crowds of common criminals and ambitious entrepreneurs. He was close enough to Chopper's operation that, if the Enforcer from before tracked him to the shop, Chopper's business could be endangered. Then, the mech would lose his only connection to the scrap trade, and he would have no way of getting decent-quality energon.
He scurried past a group of glossy city-bots clustered around a local smuggler, painfully aware of his own scratched paint and constantly low fuel levels. How they could afford to waste precious energon on purchasing the dealer's circuit boosters was beyond him. Did they not understand the value of fuel? He was tempted to scrap them and put their energon to better use, but he refrained.
Every mech knew that attacking a smuggler's loyal customers was suicide; the dealers had enough connections in high places to tear down the entire Market searching for a single offender if they so desired. No, the mech would just continue walking, visor and wings angled downwards inconspicuously.
One orn, they will get what they deserve...
...but not this orn. Chopper's shop loomed just around the corner. The dark red mech edged along the wall, frequently stopping and glancing around. He would not make the same careless mistake as he had last time; he would not lead an Enforcer or informant to Chopper's front door.
After a brief pause, he walked up to the door. The large guard from last time was still standing there, though now he appeared to be recharging on his pedes. The mech expertly swiped the guard's key-card from an enormous half-curled servo and let himself into the shop. He was halfway down the entrance tunnel when the tank noticed the card was missing.
"Hey! Come back here, you little—"
The mech turned, tossing the small metal rectangle at the guard. The tank caught it with a furious snarl that quickly ebbed when he noticed the distinctive shape of the mech's functional wing. Though lopsided, there were few fliers in the Market, and the only two in the immediate vicinity were both authorized to visit Chopper's shop.
"Oh, you. Again." The guard activated his comms, tiredly grumbling, "hey, Chopper? It's me. Supplier's here again... yeah, just went in," before falling back into recharge.
When the mech entered Chopper's office, it was empty save for the rotary's apprentice, who was muttering inaudibly as he organized a large pile of datapads. When the mech scuffed his pede against the floor, the dark green flier jumped.
"Who—oh. Hi... can I help you?"
"Is Chopper here? I have some parts for him," the mech explained.
"No." The dark green flier gave him a wide smile while dragging over a table. "But I can take them! What do you have?"
"Some scavengers tried to scrap me." The mech dumped everything out of his subspace before reclaiming the single cube of energon that had tumbled out with the dead mech's parts. "This is what I got."
"Hmm... diamond visor? Nice, if it weren't cracked... t-cog, good, fuel pump... a bit rusty, but still functional," the green flier mused as he dug through the items. "Red optics... cracked, spark chamber... another for Chopper's set, I guess... a wingtip?" He looked up in confusion. "These are grounder parts. Where did you get a wingtip?"
"That's mine!" The dark red mech, who had been examining Chopper's wall-mounted collection of spark chambers, jolted when his wing was mentioned. He snatched the dented, rust-red trapezoid from the other flier's servos. "You can have everything else, but this is mine."
"Oh, that makes sense. I'll give you three cubes for the scrap," the dark green flier responded, poking at a patch of corrosion on one of the parts. Three glowing blue cubes joined the pile on the table. The dark red mech quickly subspaced them as Chopper's apprentice gathered up the dead scavenger's parts.
"One more thing. Could you... do me a favor?" The mech approached the dark green flier with uncharacteristic hesitation, holding out his wingtip and angling his frame slightly to display the broken stub on his back. "Could you help me reattach this? I can't reach far enough to set it properly, and I don't have a welder."
"Of course! I'm sure Chopper won't mind. He didn't even notice last time! Just let me finish putting these parts away."
"Thank you," the mech replied, feeling distinctly lopsided as his single intact wing twitched against his back. "I owe you one."
He regarded the dark green flier enviously. They were so alike, and yet so different. They were both Seekers from the same batch with similar frame types, alt-modes, and even processors. They had been forged for the same purpose: to heal the wounded. Yet the dark red flier's claws were blunted, his paint was scratched, and his wing was broken, while the dark green flier's claws were razor-sharp, his paint shimmered in the dim Market light, and his wings were perfectly-angled displays of aerial function.
It was almost funny how one tiny action—daring to defend an injured soldier on some battlefield eons ago—had exiled him into the darkness for countless vorns, all because medics didn't kill: it wasn't in their programming. Thus, he must be glitched, and no employer would have a "glitched" field medic when a "normal" one with the same model and basic skill set could be found just as easily.
One little mistake, and he was condemned to the shadows in a city of grounders, forever barred from an honest career on the surface above. Now all he had were a pair of wings for emergency use only, a battle computer that would not activate, and two impractically tiny laser-cutters that were fortunately well-suited to his only skill set.
Oh yes, it could be worse. Far, far worse. He had his lasers; that was more than most Empties could say for themselves.
"All done," the dark green flier cheerfully announced, gently patting the re-attached wing. "Be sure not to put any stress on the wing for a few orns. After that, you can fly all you want."
The dark red mech nodded, biting down a scoff. Sure, like he would be flying anytime soon. Even if he did, his wing would probably be the least of his concerns. Nevertheless... he flicked both wings, relishing the feeling of symmetry. As oblivious as Chopper's apprentice was, he was definitely a competent medic—especially when it came to repairing hard-to-reach areas that were impossible for the mech to fix on his own.
"Oh, and do try to avoid drinking pre-processed energon." The dark green flier's wings twitched in a small shudder of disgust. "Do you have any idea what that stuff does to your self-repair speed? Not to mention your energon filters!"
"Yes," the mech muttered, barely managing to mute his vocalizer before he said something he would regret. It wasn't like he just drank the substance for fun; he knew full well the potential dangers of consuming pre-processed energon from random street-mechs' systems. He had simply decided that, when his only options were to drink pre-processed energon or deactivate from fuel deprivation, he much preferred to stay online by whatever means possible. "Yes, doc, I know."
"Good. In that case, you're all set."
"Hang on a moment," a new voice drawled from behind. Both fliers spun around to find Chopper leaning against the doorway, toying with the assorted surgical tools on one shelf. One enormous guard stood behind him. He looked pointedly at the dark green flier. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"What do you mean—oh!" Chopper's apprentice looked horrified. "You want me to charge him for the repairs? I've never done that before."
"I'm running a business here, not a charity," Chopper announced, turning towards the dark red mech. "Businesses require profits. So, you'll be owing me four cubes."
"What? I can't afford four cubes," the mech cried. He only had four cubes in his subspace! He desperately looked to Chopper's apprentice for help. Oblivious to reality though the green flier might be, the mech much preferred his cheerful naïveté to Chopper's extortion. "Wait! I don't have—I can't afford—"
Chopper raised an optic ridge. "Of course you can. Otherwise, you can pay me in another way..." the rotary trailed off, greedy optics flickering over the mech's recently-repaired wing. "One of my loyal customers is interested in buying a few... hard-to-find parts, if you get my meaning."
"...fine." The mech sighed in resignation, unsubspacing the requested cubes. It was unwise to argue with the boss of the only trustworthy medic he knew, especially since that same boss was his only somewhat-reliable source of energon cubes. There was also the slight issue of Chopper's guard, who was at least three times as big as the mech, blocking the only exit. "Thank you for your... generosity."
"Yes, yes." Chopper flicked his well-polished rotors impatiently. "Oh, and you owe me twenty-eight more cubes for the other seven times you came here for repairs, plus interest... that's thirty-nine cubes. You have five orns to bring them here or I send my mechs to collect payment."
The burly guard gave an unpleasant chuckle.
"Thirty... nine... cubes...?" That was far more than the mech had ever seen in a single place at any given time, and to have only five orns to get them... the mech glanced at Chopper's apprentice, optics wide and pleading.
"I'm sorry," the dark green flier whispered softly. He made no move to help the mech. "I'm so sorry."
Sorry? He didn't need sorry, he needed energon!
"Doc, please—"
"Don't bother," Chopper drawled, signaling his guard to escort the mech out. "He won't help you. We're done here."
Five orns. When the mech made no motion towards the door, the guard grunted and gave him a rough shove. Pain flashed through his wing as the new welds were strained, but he barely noticed it. He stumbled forward, still stunned, and turned back just in time to see Chopper pat the dark green flier on one glossy wing.
"Now you, my dear apprentice, have some learning to do. For starters, I want you to polish all of the spare parts in the basement."
The dark red mech would have given anything to be in the dark green flier's place right now. He stumbled out into the Market, frantically adjusting his visor to counteract the miniscule increase in light. Where on Cybertron was he supposed to get thirty-nine cubes of energon when getting one was already difficult?
With a last despairing glance at the shop and the grinning guards near the door, the mech resigned himself to finding Chopper's payment. Yes, thirty-nine cubes sounded like a lot, but panicking would not help him now. He needed to calm down and think about this rationally.
Five orns. That was more than enough time... right?
Some units:
orn - day
decaorn - 10 orns / 1 week
vorn - year
megavorn - 1,000,000 years
I will be following a more regular schedule with future updates. (at least 1 per week, maybe more.)
~VoidStarFire