It wasn't that intimidating a structure.

The Decepticon Detention Center looked like any other rank-and-file bureaucracy building. It was square-shaped and had exactly two guards who all but held the door open for her when she was able to throw a piece of junk to startle them enough to leave their posts.

Getting past the front desk and into an elevator, no problem.

"Does anyone actually CARE about this?" Lyra wondered.

She got her answer.

He sat at a desk in front of the area she wanted to go through. Another visor without appreciation. "I know you're there," he called. "We have every type of detection imaginable."

So being invisible was pointless. She reappeared and nodded to him. "Code Red."

"How've you been, Lee?" He sounded almost friendly. Yet he didn't invite her to sit down.

"I've been better." We all knew whose fault THAT was. Not right now, though.

His entire body posture seemed as though he were about to ask about her last vacation. "So what are you here for?"

"Prisoner W45P from Vault 217."

He shook his head and stood up, pressing a button at his desk. "Vault 217 was blown up a long time ago."

Code Red was lying. He HAD to be. "What did you just do?"

"Nothing. Now stay where you are and don't try anything you'd regret." He spoke in a smooth upbeat tone as he held up the blaster. There was no deeper emotion to him. Even calling her by her flash-in-the-pan nickname had no affection to it. Lyra went invisible, ducked right instead of left to confuse the mech who might know her fighting style, and shot his computer before he shot her hand.

"I've already warned you about what I can see," he said, still as smooth as an Adult-Contemporary FM disc jockey.

He didn't see her left hand shoot that hole in his head. He'd be fine; his central processing was in his chest anyway. The head was a mere decoration.

She had NO time. At all. Yet she had to find this personality component. He wasn't lying, though; Vault 217 had been broken into and destroyed by STARSCREAM!?

"Primus fraggit all to the pit!" NOW WHAT?

Wait...some were salvaged...no way...NO WAY...NO-

The silent alarm had been triggered and the same two idiot guards who'd been at the front were here. Looking around. To hope that they didn't have the same detection applications would be too much.

"He got him in the head!" one exclaimed. "Check the door!" He dashed to the one place Lyra still hadn't figured out how to gain access and HELD THE DOOR FOR HIS COMRADE.

She kept her steps in line with theirs as they ran ahead, going left instead of right, which is where she and they parted ways.

This was ridiculous. Something HAD to go wrong, or else-

Vault 192 was unlocked.

"You have to be kidding me," she breathed. Okay, so her luck had run out, the drawer itself was locked. No problem. Jimmy it open and get out the component and stash it and make your way out and this was too easy, when would the other wheel drop-

*pow*

Ah, there it was. Code Red, a new hole in the middle of his helmet, blocked her way to the elevator. He didn't say a word. He let her invisibility short out in her distress and kept the blaster to her face until the guards quit running in circles and answered his call.

Many called it The Ghetto Paradox.

Say you began to make enough superfluous capital that you would become prone to robbery or theft...you should put it in a bank-like structure, correct?

Well, for political reasons you are in a fenced-off area, and this area doesn't have banks. It is illegal to leave this area for any reason, once you have been thrown in there. Where to put your money?

The best place is to use it to fortify your armor. Buy more kibble!

Now you're strong AND your medium of exchange is no longer liquid!

YET...you are easily identified as 'rich' and your armor and extras are torn off of you by gangs, leaving you destitute again.

So you work hard and smart and earn a lot of money...

"Or you waste your money on stupid, vapid things," the mech in the gambling den declared. "That's where I come in."

Lyra was there to pick up new business leads. She was never in the 'successful' category, mostly due to this area not really needing a lot of revenge killing where racketeering and extortion were much preferred. She should move on again if this night proved to be a dud, which it was.

He was beautiful. Stunning, even. He took her concentration away. "Who is that?" she murmured to no one in particular.

The black mech with a slashed Decepticon logo felt the need to speak up. "That would be Arkvander. He specializes in 'rental equipment.' This is no place for a lady." He shoved her out of the way before she could protest.

Arkvander kept walking, with a parade of washed-out femmes, minis, and mechs in his wake. Nobody Lyra knew, though.

"My rentals do it all! Chores! Dirty work! Menial tasks! Companionship..." he patted a nearly-offline barfly on the shoulder as he went. "Whatever you need to raise your social status or temporarily inflate your revenue, Arkvander can provide!"

"Slave trade for the richest Neutrals dry up?" Someone shot out of a darkened corner. The voice commanded respect but the shadow revealed a surreptitious trade. The whole thing gave credence to this question coming from someone who would NOT be trifled with.

Arkvander's face reflected nothing. "Nah! Nah nah nah nah! Naht at all! " He sounded so slightly of Ironhide and Inferno...Lyra felt a huge pang of homesickness. If only to hear him speak more, but all he released was a proclamation that he was there to help his fellow 'bots and 'cons with great deals and fantastic service, guaranteed!

He moved so gallantly. Lyra was captivated. She was not the only one. Several were contributing to the que to follow him out of that den of iniquity, especially when the owner screamed about this being the fifth time he'd been told to leave and then threatened to melt him down to make a table if he ever showed up there again. That doubled Lyra's efforts to keep an optic on him.

"Hey," the owner called, clamping a large hand on her shoulder as the parade poured out the door. "What would it cost for you to get rid of that piece of slag for me?"

She eyed him up and down. He was serious. "Buy me a glass of oil and we'll talk," she replied.

He had heard her pitch being lobbed at a few people and one had complained. While he watched her work the room, he debated how to get her out of there, because if one thing made his life force boil, it was salesbots. Then Arkvander de-ranked her on his list of irritations.

"I want him gone and you out of here," he summarized. "In exchange..." He pulled out a small purple rod and her exclamation came out too late.

"Holy slag!"

The owner hid it quickly, even though they were in his office. "I thought so. I know you like half down and half later, but as you can see, that's not feasible."

Lyra crossed her arms and leaned back. "Those are time-released. I could take half now."

"Riiiiiight." The owner stood up. "I'm not watching that. You've got the wrong kind of pervert, glitch." As he opened the door, she heard the voice from the shadows rumble "TAP!" and saw the owner rushing out. As she waited, she glanced around the office. A desk. That was it. Oh, wait, there was a filing cabinet, with odd markings. Nothing special about that.

The owner came back. "I have good news. Mr. Big himself has decided to contribute to your fund by doubling it."

Her optics enlarged significantly. "I can do it tonight."

"I thought so." He tossed her the rod. "Do it somewhere else, though. Oh by the way...fail and you don't want to see his reaction. Just a warning." He held the door to allow her exit and watched her walk past the shadow, which was very quiet for some reason. As was the rest of the bar.