Mechs would pay anything, any price,
Just to survive in the shadows.
"Halt!" A squad of enforcers stepped out of the shadows and circled around the two fliers with blasters raised. "Servos in the air."
After the mechs were surrounded, the leader pulled out a tablet from subspace.
"You…" The enforcer trailed off, unsure of how to address the dark red mech. "You on the right, you are wanted for the offlining of a city-mech and for crossing our most wealthy employer."
"Who, us? I think there's been a misunderstanding," the green flier said, his voice unusually steady. "Let's talk this through calmly, ok?"
One enforcer looked ready to accept the medic's offer, but the leader stopped him before he could speak.
"The Chief warned us of your tricks," the enforcer hissed at the medic. "He said to tell you that you are also wanted, and that he is gaining 20% interest per orn on your loaned energon."
The red mech suddenly noticed an encrypted signal pinged along his rarely-used comm frequency. After an initial moment of surprise, he decoded it.
"Here's my idea," the medic's voice whispered in his comm unit. "We fly to the overpass on your left, then we try to escape. I checked; we have more than enough fuel to spare."
"Worth a try," the dark red mech replied. He casually crouched, preparing to activate flight systems. One enforcer looked at him suspiciously before returning his attention to the chattering medic.
"Let's not be hasty, gentlemechs," the medic continued. "There's no need for threats—GO!"
The medic launched off the ground, easily gliding over to the overpass. The dark red mech followed, traveling more like a rocket than a plane, haphazardly dodging blaster shots as he tried to calibrate recently activated flight sensors. Both fliers landed on the crumbling bridge.
"What next? You better have a plan soon, or they'll shoot us!" The red mech crouched down behind the ancient, rusted-over frame of a deactivated four-wheeler.
"I, uh—"
Both mechs flinched as blaster fire caused the bridge to creak ominously.
"Um, this is about as far as my plan went. You?"
"If we can go down a few levels, I know of a mech who might be willing to protect us for a few orns... for a price, of course."
"Down? But, the only mechs below the surface are—oh." The medic abruptly looked wary. "I have a bad feeling about this. Who's the mech?"
"You've probably heard of him. He's a gladiator boss, controls a bunch of the rings below the city. Doesn't interact much with the surface. Calls himself Sharpspike. Rumor has it that he'll take in anyone willing to work for him or fight in his arenas." The dark red mech declined to mention that most of the bots who ventured into Sharpspike's domain were never heard from again.
"Sharpspike!? Chopper was always grumbling about that mech as his only real rival. He constantly talked about capturing the mech's energon store, but he never tried anything."
"We have to go." The dark red mech had finished calculating the fastest route to the arenas. "Are you coming?"
"I..." The medic looked hesitant, but he finally dipped his helm. "I suppose. I know some of Chopper's plans. Sharpspike might like the information."
"Arenamaster Sharpspike," a deep voice called out. The speaker, a blocky grey tank-former with heavily scarred armor, slowly limped towards a training ring where an enormous silver mech was fighting off three smaller opponents. Brilliant white floodlights gleamed harshly off the four fighters' garish armor plates.
"What do you want?" Despite his conversation, the huge silver mech's optics never strayed from his opponents' movements. He swung his mace at an orange mech, who dodged too late and lost half of an arm. "This better be important."
"You have two… guests. One resembles Chopper's pet medic. The other looks like an Empty. Both are fliers."
"So what?" Sharpspike effortlessly tossed an unfortunate cyan mech across the ring. The mech cried out sharply as his frame dented a wall before sliding to the ground. "Can they fight?"
"Seems like it."
"Good enough. Send 'em in—" the silver mech punched a deep purple opponent, sending him to the ground in a whimpering heap. "If they're any good, schedule 'em for a match next orn."
"Uh, sir," the grey tank interrupted, "If you remember, I'm scheduled to fight Stormclaw next orn—"
"Cancel it." Sharpspike charged at his last opponent with a roar. The smaller mech wisely took advantage of his smaller size and dove out of the way, clutching his wounded arm. "Crowd will pay extra to see fliers."
"Yessir," the tank acknowledged, turning and limping away.
"One more thing," Sharpspike shouted. His final opponent was sprawled across the ground, jerkily trying to punch the arena master's reinforced pede. Bright energon trickled from one severed limb, but the mech desperately continued his futile attacks.
The grey tank halted in his tracks, turning his helm slightly towards his huge silver boss.
"Call a medic, will you?" Sharpspike roughly prodded the struggling orange mech at his pedes. "This one has potential. I want him in the match next orn."
"Sir." The grey tank reappeared, followed by the two fliers. The dark red mech immediately shielded his optics from the bright lights, dark visor snapping into place.
Sharpspike approached, looming over the three mechs. "Where's the medic?"
"Ours was busy," the tank rumbled, "but the green one's probably good for something, if he worked for Chopper."
"I see," Sharpspike muttered. "Get to work, medic. Fix Orange first. Now you, on the other servo—"
The dark red mech squinted at Sharpspike through his visor, unused to the harsh lighting.
"Why are you here? It's rare to find fliers in Iacon, much less underground."
"We're hiding from Chopper. This mech," the dark red mech pointed at the green medic, "has info on Chopper's plans and supplies."
Sharpspike's optic ridges rose at this.
"Chopper's plans? Those could be useful. Unfortunately, I don't run a charity. One mech can't pay for another, as I always say." Sharpspike's cruel yellow optics focused upon the dark red flier, expertly assessing every movement. "What use are you to me?"
"I know how to take a mech apart," the red mech replied, after a short pause. "I'll fight in exchange for shelter and energon."
"Good, there's the spirit," the silver gladiator replied, pleased. "Let's spar. If you can stay on your pedes for a breem, you can fight in the next match."
The dark red flier warily stepped into the ring.
"The rules are simple. You just have to stay online for a breem." Sharpspike pulled out his mace and twirled it expertly.
"Wait a moment," the medic cried out from where he was repairing the orange mech. "What if he loses?"
"We'll deal with that when it happens," Sharpspike assured him. The massive gladiator slowly advanced, looming impressively over the smaller flier despite the distance between the two mechs.
The dark red mech refused to quail before Sharpspike's menacing approach. His practiced optics scanned over Sharpspike's enormous frame, comparing it to those of other war-builds he had encountered and dismantled. His processor helpfully augmented his optical feed with a predicted map of weak points, motor relays, cost analysis—
The mech deactivated the program, shaking his helm ever so slightly. He needed to focus on fighting Sharpspike, not selling parts. Besides, it seemed that most of the arenamaster's wiring and energon lines were protected by thick sheets of near-impenetrable armor.
The gladiator grinned triumphantly, interpreting the mech's stillness as fear, not the silent calculation it truly signified.
One breem, the dark red flier reminded himself, I don't need to deactivate him, just stay online for one breem.
His lasers activated with a soft hum. The damaged one on his right arm rapidly began to overheat, but he swiftly corrected his mistake by cutting power to it and transforming his right servo into the sonic blade in one smooth motion.
Sharpspike's trained optics instantly spied the mech's nonfunctional laser, categorizing it as a weakness. He charged the flier with a mighty roar, swinging out his mace.
The dark red mech barely avoided being flattened as he dove sideways. After checking that he still had plenty of fuel, he activated his flight systems. He launched himself upward to escape another blow, twisting in midair to avoid scraping his wings against the low ceiling.
"HEY!" Sharpspike roared. "Get down here and fight like a mech!"
"You said no rules," the mech replied, alighting on the other side of the ring. "I'm still onlin—ACK!"
A dark crater marked the spot where the mech had stood just moments before.
Sharpspike grunted in satisfaction as a cloud of thick, dark smoke wafted up from the crater.
The mech picked himself up. It seemed that the blast had reactivated his scavenging protocols. His processor helpfully placed the cost of the cannon at 12 energon cubes. It was rare to even get a tenth of that from any one part.
...Focus! Just 183 nanokliks... now 182...
While Sharpspike's cannon charged up for another devastating blast, the mech decided to go on the offensive. He reactivated his primary thrusters and shot towards the mace-wielding silver gladiator. At the last moment, he fired long-dormant secondary thrusters, located in his wings, and twisted to the side. His laser slashed along Sharpspike's side, doing little to the thick armor aside from darkening the paint, but he had accomplished his goal.
Sharpspike looked faintly surprised that the dark red mech managed to get past his guard. The short burst of light would have cut through his t-cog if the flier's lasers were more powerful or his own armor was thinner; the mech's choice of targets spoke of either great experience or blind luck.
"Time," the gladiator boss called out, startling the dark red mech with his sudden announcement.
"I have twenty one nanokliks left—"
"Congratulations, you passed," Sharpspike rumbled, returning his weapons to subspace. He headed out of the ring, beckoning the dark red mech to follow him. "You're either incredibly lucky or very skillful… for an Empty, of course. But next orn is the real test. Greyspring!"
"Sir!" The grey tank, who had previously been watching the medic's progress in reattaching the orange fighter's arm, instantly snapped to attention.
"Prepare this mech for the fights. Weapons, paint, everything. You know the drill."
"Yessir," Greyspring rumbled. "Right this way, uh… what did you say your designation was?"
"I didn't," the dark red mech replied tersely, ignoring the worried glance the medic shot his way.
Greyspring heaved the cover off a case of slightly battered—but still functional—weaponry and placed it to the side. "See anything you can use?"
"Is there anything better I can try? These weapons are...uh—"
The mech carefully lifted an energon saw, wincing when the energy pack fell out the side.
"Sorry, no can do. Boss gives better weapons to the mechs who win a couple matches. You gotta use these or anything you've got with you."
"I think I'll just use my—wait. Is that a…?" The mech spied the faintly corroded—but still unmistakable—form of an ancient laser pulse rifle. It was the very same model that he had once wielded in the final battles of the Quintesson War, before—
"Hey, you got a designation? Crowd's gotta have someone to cheer for, ya know?"
Greyspring's question interrupted the mech's train of thought. He shook his helm, clearing the memories from his processor. It would not do to dwell on the past when the present situation was far more urgent.
"Not one any mech would cheer for." The mech vaguely remembered his numeric designation, but he knew that to survive he would have to become a crowd favorite. A number would not do the job.
"Well, let's just figure that out later. You look like you've been through the Sea of Rust and back! Let's get you some paint. And pick a weapon already. We can't be standin' here all orn."
The dark red mech pulled the laser pulse rifle out of the weapon crate.
"Heh, that's some ancient tech. I reckon it'd work better than everything else though, because nomech wants an outdated weapon."
"You said I need paint." The dark red mech's abrupt change of topic left no room for argument.
Greyspring, sensing the mech's sudden hostility, led the way to a storeroom.
"What kinda paints do ya want? I'm thinkin' you would look good in a bright yellow and black coat, or maybe a—"
"Just keep my original colors."
"Ya sure? Your colors are kinda… drab… if ya get my meaning?"
"Just put on the same color scheme."
"Fine, fine." Greyspring walked to a console and started inputting colors and schematics. "Step in. Put your servos and pedes on the glowing areas. You might want to shutter your optics. We haven't got the latest tech on these yet."
Paint stripper shot from the walls, followed by a colorful spray. The mech was tempted to open his optics and watch as his colors were reapplied, but he wisely decided to heed Greyspring's warning.
The formerly dull red mech stepped out of the paint machine when it paused momentarily.
"Hey! Woah woah woah! It's not done yet! Ah, too late."
Looking down at himself, the red mech could see a few spots that had been missed, but overall the new paint was a richer red with black highlights. It was far better than he could ever remember having. On his wingtips, the once-white stripes of the medical profession, which long since faded to grey from soot, were now as black as a stealth jet. Satisfied, the mech glanced down. To his dismay, the servo he had borrowed from Chopper's spare parts vault was, if anything, even bluer than before.
"Well, you can't go back in. The boss doesn't want us wasting paint."
"It's fine, there are only a few gray spots, but... why the blue servo!?"
"Ya said to go with your old color scheme, so I told the machine to just touch up whatever you had… mind, I had to enhance the color hues quite a bit!" Greyspring looked quite proud, and he clearly believed the mech should also be impressed by his skill in using the paint machine.
"It will do," the mech finally replied. He wished that he had remembered to tell Greyspring that his servo was not originally blue—really, he would have been happier if it were any color but blue—but he supposed that it was tolerable.
"Alright then. Quarters are this way," Greyspring informed the mech. "You're fightin' next orn, so I suggest you get some recharge."
"
Some units:
nanoklik - second
breem - minute
joor - hour
orn - day
decaorn - 10 orns / 1 week
vorn - year
megavorn - 1,000,000 years
Sorry for not posting sooner, but the chapter's a bit longer this time. Also, stay tuned. More coming on Saturday.
~The Voids