Chapter 3: We Meet… Again!
Note: Defunctron's appearance is based on what he might have looked like when he was Damus (before the Empurata, which led to him using the name 'Glitch'). And yes, I prefer to think of him as having a purple and metallic black paintjob.
It was the ultimate face off. The Guiding Hand vs. the Destructive Fist. A pivotal moment in the history of the universe. As such, it took place around a table in Swerve's bar.
"Mortilus," Defunctron stated, smirking at crimson-faced mech.
"Defunctron. Or should I call you, 'Tarn?'" Mortilus grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. He glared at the purple-armored mech across from him.
"Either works. You're just mad because I finally killed you," Defunctron stated in amusement. He tapped his dark fingertips together on the tabletop, his red optics gleaming.
"You killed a LOT of people. Then you accosted me on my own planet, and murdered me!" Mortilus argued, his azure optics glinting in defiance.
"You saved and protected traitors of the Decepticon cause. As the leader of the DJD, I had no choice but to ensure you were adequately punished for your transgressions. I could not have kept my cover otherwise. To honor your passing, I made sure to grace your corpse with flowers made by your own hand," insisted the broader mech.
"Pretty words, for a creature bent on destruction. They will not sway me back into your berth this time," huffed the former necrobot, turning his head away to prove his point.
"Only time shall tell," the unicronian purred, letting his voice linger like a kiss in the air.
Next to Mortilus, Solomus could be seen glaring across the table at Fraudon, who was more widely known as Swindle. The other mech was leaning back in his chair, smirking nonchalantly. Resting his elbows on the tabletop, the former Chief Justice leaned forward, his golden gaze focused on his purple-opticed counterpart. "How many misdemeanors have you acquired since I lost my memory?"
"Tons," What you don't know won't hurt you," the blocky-framed unicronian chuckled, raising his glass as if to toast the other mech.
"I have no doubt about that," Solomus sighed, but unexpected amusement tilted the corners of his lips. Suddenly wary, Swindle's optics narrowed, his posture becoming more rigid. "I've been hearing… rumors of a bar you've been frequenting, Fraudon. It seems that a certain cybertronian speedster has stumbled his way into your web of lies and deception.
Gritting his dentia, Swindle hefted his glass and swallowed the high grade in one long swig. Slamming the now-empty container on the table, he paid little attention to the tiny fractures rapidly spiderwebbing through the clear glass. "Blurr means nothing to me. He's just a pretty frame, like any other cybertronian racer."
"Is that so? Now I am even more eager to meet him," Solomus all but purred, thoroughly entertained at having turned the tables on the god of lies and deception.
Surging up from his chair, the unicronian reached forward and grasped his counterpart's lengthy orange chin to yank him forward. Leaning in close to the taller mech's audio, Swindle hissed, "If you, or any of yours, lay so much as a servo on him, I will make sure you remember the agony I can inflict on your mortal species."
"I thought so. You do like him," Solomus confirmed, pulling away to reclaim his seat. The unicronian across from him sat down in a huff, crossing his arms over his chest as he glared back in sullen silence.
Next to them, two heavily-armored mechs were engaged in a silent contest of wills. Lockdown was the first to speak.
"Adaptus."
"Inmutron."
"You turned against your brothers. I'm impressed," Lockdown stated, resting his chin on his servo in amusement.
"It was necessary at the time," Adaptus insisted, unrepentantly.
"I'm not arguing with you," said the Decepticon. "We finally got a war that I was proud to be a part of. And the best part is that you, a member of the Guilding Hand, were the catalyst at the beginning of it all. Are you sure you're not a unicronian?"
"I am not, nor will I ever be one of Unicron's spawn," the blue-armored mech snapped roughly.
"Sure, sure. Keep telling yourself that. But seriously, if you did want to switch sides… I'm sure Miserion wouldn't be opposed. He's practically an Autobot," Lockdown stated, gesturing to the pair chatting next to them. Well, Misfire was chatting away, while Epistemus's single-opticed face couldn't hide the clear desire to be ANYWHERE else.
The god of knowledge would have been content to silently observe the interactions between the other members of the Guilding hand, and their opposites, the Destructive Fist, but it was only a matter of time before Miserion opened his mouth. And the moment he started to speak, Epistemus would be besieged with useless information that would clutter his databanks for cycles after.
"EPI! You're looking normal. You were literally just a head for the longest time. Nickel was wearing you around her neck for a while there. That was super weird," the magenta-armored unicronian said, his words nearly blurring together in his eagerness to speak.
"Hello, Miserion," Epistemus sighed, his single optic focused on the cheery flier.
"Actually, I go by the name 'Misfire' now. It's a funny story; I'll have to tell it to you sometime." The ivory-faced mech drew in a deep breath, nearly squealing in glee. "I can't wait to catch you up on all the gossip!"
The god of knowledge would have face-palmed if the vulgar act wasn't so drastically beneath him. "I really don't need to know…"
"Defunctron tried to kill me… No, wait! I should rewind a bit. We met this mech named Fulcrum, he's a real hottie… No, maybe I should go back even more. You missed a LOT of stuff," the flier babbled, his wings vibrating in his eagerness.
"Miserion!" Epistemus stated, raising his voice to a level he was unused to using. "Nothing you tell me is ever particularly important. At least, not to anyone but yourself."
The unicronian's crimson optics widened, and his visibly wilted under his counterpart's gaze. "Oh."
A single, orange servo came to rest on Epistemus' arm. "Epistemus, be nice to Misfire," Primus whispered calmly. "He missed you."
"Fine," the single-opticed mech grumbled, unable to refuse his elder brother's request. Focusing on the saddened flier, he gritted out the words, "Tell me about this… Fulcrum." The delight that began to radiate from his prettier counterpart's face was almost, but not quite, worth the endless drivel he began to spout. Honestly, if they were alone, Epistemus would have insisted on expending Miserion's exuberant energy in a more mutually-pleasant way. Namely putting his lovely mouth to good use.
Note: I have a plan for Fulcrum… and Ratchet, and Tailgate. You'll have to wait to see what happens next. Also, I can't be the only one that thinks Adaptus looks like Impactor (and Ironhide).
Relationships: Yes, all of the Guiding Hand have 'been' with each other, and the same with the Destructive Fist. On occasion, they would share pleasure with their counterparts, as well. They think of themselves as brothers, but not in the human sense of the term. After all, in the beginning, they were one being.