Chapter Two
Her things were stacked in neat order by the simple berth by the wall. Flamestrike was rather impressed: she'd been expecting a cubicle; apparently Autobot City was more generous in its sleeping arrangements than she previously thought. Besides the berth, there was a low couch, a viewer, a comm desk with Internet access (whatever that was), a small Energon dispenser and a shelf. Checking her chronometer, she found she had about two hours to arrange her belongings before catching a quick recharge.
As she was putting some datapads inside the desk's drawers, she noticed a thin 'pad already sitting in the bottom. Having found no mention of the promised catalogue of altmodes, she determined that this was it. Pulling out the chair, the brown and flame-colored femme settled herself and was unceremoniously launched into a massive commercial for human automotives of all shapes, sizes and colors. Each vehicle was punctuated by bold lettering on a black background: The New 2000 Chevrolet Cavalier! The Classic Ford Mustang – GT!
Disgusted, Flamestrike shut the datapad down and stuck it in the very back of the desk. If this is was all she had to choose from, she'd rather slip into a turbofox's hide than be a running advertisement. Re-checking her chronometer, the hour decided her next action: rest. Easing onto the bunk chestplate-first, Flamestrike grabbed the connecting cord, inserted it into her receiving port and slowly shut down.
The new hour arrived more quickly than she'd imagined. Rolling over, Flamestrike pulled the cord and hopped down, almost stumbling over a piece of gear she'd forgotten to stow on her way to the dispenser. Though she would be civil and polite in front of the comm officer, she knew that last night's moment of prejudice would be hard to shake. After she went over her armor with a clean rag and wiped her optics, Flamestrike checked her personal subspace for the pass-key and left the room.
Shift-changes were in full-swing, but Flamestrike was used to negotiating in difficult circumstances. Politely querying the location of the comm tower, she flowed with the tide until she reached the elevator and rode up with five mechs to the tenth floor. The comm room was at the end of the hallway; flashing her pass to the guard on duty, Flamestrike took a step back as the doors slid into their niches with a faint pneumatic hiss. Two rows of five mechs and femmes were lined up on either side of a wide hall, their digits flying over their keypads, deciphering, decoding, watching and listening.
Flamestrike paused, and the doors slid shut behind her. She could see nothing of the grey femme; upon her arrival, she'd seen the massive tower, but where was the entrance? A slim mech, his armor too light for active combat, approached her, a clipboard in one hand, a stylus tucked over one helm-horn. "Can I help you?"
She flicked over the key. "Yes, I'm to meet Comm Officer Solarflare."
The mech gave it the barest of glances. "The tube's over there," he said, gesturing to the bare wall over his shoulder. "Solarflare is expecting you – but just in case she's doing work, let me know. Don't pull anything," he added, pulling down his stylus and tapping it against his board.
Don't pull anything? Flamestrike cocked a brow ridge, but shrugged. She wasn't the kind to pull things out of sheer curiosity. "I don't mean to be rude, but how?"
The mech glanced over his shoulder. "There's a panel along the wall; press it and the ladder'll come down." He turned to look over the shoulder of an orange-tinted femme, writing things down. "Oh, and welcome to the City."
Flamestrike thanked him and edged around the chairs that were swiveling back and forth, avoiding the passage of datapads across the way. She located the panel easily enough; she should have seen it sooner. Maybe she was still tired from all the travel; she hadn't had more than one small cup of Energon. A faint whine, punctuated by a thin growl, heralded the ladder's descent. A rounded panel in the ceiling depended and retracted, followed shortly by the thick rungs of the ladder. Light blossomed above; setting hand and foot on the rungs, Flamestrike hauled herself topside.
The grey femme was framed by the early light streaming through the Plexiglas windows, her wings folded against her back. She turned as Flamestrike scrabbled over the edge. Despite those massive feet, she made the crossing towards the other femme quietly enough. "Hello! You must be Flamestrike. I'm Solarflare, senior femme."
For someone with a muted color-scheme, the senior femme was cheery enough, Flamestrike noted, looking down at the long onyx talons that protruded from Solarflare's digit-tips. Gingerly, she took the hand, preparing herself to leave with a few puncture wounds – and was surprised when the other femme's grip belied her worries.
"I'm sorry I can't offer you a seat," Solarflare continued, releasing Flamestrike's hand. "But, as you can see, it's a two-mech operation up here." She gestured to the huge orange chair that hung in the center of the room, suspended by a crane-like arm that was bolted to the floor. Flamestrike followed the sweep of her arm as it went around the room; there was one other piece of equipment here: a small workstation off to her left, with a large poster taped next to it. Curious, she peered at it, and then jerked back. Solarflare gave a short laugh. "You'd be surprised at how many people neglect to honor those rules," and she ruefully rubbed her neck.
"Anyway! What I have to say is pretty simple – not really necessary, but Optimus feels that additional support should come from me, so it's what I do. You should have received the ground rules before you left; orientation will be at ten-hundred, where you'll receive a short course in human interaction. After that, you're to report to Prowl for your assignments."
Flamestrike looked down at the sheaf of paper Solarflare passed over, outlining the very things she was speaking of.
"Also," the joyful femme continued, "I was told that you were marked for reformatting. If I can help with your choice, feel free to ask. Prowl will be your commanding officer, but I do encourage you to come to me with any problems that you might have. Any questions?" And she cocked her head to the side in a gesture that was so familiar to Flamestrike.
The look on Solarflare's face slowly began to dissolve the dislike the brown and flame-colored femme had managed to build up. Privately, she wondered if the green mech, Hound, had passed along her criticisms.
Looking down at the paper, Flamestrike made up her mind. "Actually … I didn't like any of the modes offered in the catalogue."
The black, tri-fold crest on the femme's brow quirked at the same time her charcoal lip components did. "Unfortunately, the motor companies pay us a bundle to include those outrageous ads. Believe me, I wouldn't touch them with a ten-foot pole, but it helps defer a lot of the costs of maintaining the City." Her wings flicked. "Might I see your altmode?"
Stuffing the paper into subspace, Flamestrike complied, settling on all three of her wheels and peering up at Solarflare from her window sensors.
"Yes, that would be a little difficult getting through the brush," Solarflare murmured, completing her walk-around. Flamestrike transformed, settling her spoiler. The grey femme walked over to her comm station and brought up the image of a stout automotive. "The SUV is probably your best bet," she mused, half to herself, "but I just can't see you as this."
Walking over, Flamestrike had to agree. She couldn't keep her Cybertron altmode, but she'd be damned if she had to go through the war as one of those! "Is there anything else?" she asked, trying to lean over Solarflare's shoulder, but getting held back by those large wings. "I'm sorry," she interrupted as Solarflare's mouth opened, "but I have to inquire – what are you?"
The grey femme stepped back and transformed; a pair of bright, diamond-shaped golden optics peered up at her from her lower position. "An eagle," came the words from a black beak. "Harpy, to be precise – but I can see that means nothing to you." And the beak's malleable edges quirked before sweeping back into its normal position between the femme's shoulder struts. A thoughtful look came over her white facial planes, and she pulled out her chair. "Here, sit."
Confused, Flamestrike did as she was bid; Solarflare leaned across her and tapped out a sequence of commands. Instantly, the screen was filled with a list of Earth fauna. "Why don't you look through these?" the other femme offered. "The build team might not be happy with the complexity, but you might find something that suits you better than a promotional vehicle. No decals!" And she laughed before turning away and going back to the front (or back, Flamestrike couldn't really tell – the room was vaguely hexagonal and completely paneled by windows).
As Flamestrike sifted through the various species, she could hear Solarflare in the background, talking, it seemed, to herself. Pushing the femme's voice to the back of her awareness, Flamestrike concentrated on the animals. She found the Harpy Eagle and was silently impressed with its magnificence. But a bird would be of no use to her – she, who spent most of her time creeping through alleyways, slinking through tight holes no mech on four wheels could manage to squeak past.
Most creatures failed to hold her interest, and she passed them by until she found herself lingering on the lion. It was a powerful-looking predator, with the size, shape and build that would work well in her field. Keeping that in its own window, Flamestrike reached the bottom: MISC MYTHICAL read the heading; GREEK ROMAN EGYPTIAN MAYAN … were the subgroups. "Mythical", huh? she thought and clicked the first creature under those headings that caught her optic, a "gryphon".
"It would be nice," she heard Solarflare comment, "to have another winged femme to keep me company." Flamestrike turned in her chair, looking up at the other femme. "The jets and planes don't have the same mentality as I do," she added a bit wistfully, looking at the image on the screen. "Do you like it?"
Turning back around, Flamestrike considered the implications. "Not really. It's not even a real creature. And I'm used to rolling on wheels."
"You get the hang of it pretty quickly," the other femme told her, patting her on the spoiler. "I can help you."
"But the practicality …"
Solarflare leaned on the console, looking thoughtful and, if Flamestrike was any judge of expression, a little crafty. "You know, there's no reason why we shouldn't have more animal-based 'bots around here. That would certainly give the Predacons and Terrorcons a run for their money!" She gave a little whoot and rubbed her taloned hands together at the very thought.
Mentally, Flamestrike shook her head; Solarflare wasn't getting it. She had little concern for how many of what each side had – her issue was the usefulness of the form, how well it would serve her in the war. Sure, it was pretty and unique, but what good would it do? "I'll think about it," she told Solarflare, pushing the chair back and getting up. "I think I need to attend orientation now?"
Solarflare glanced up at a clock set above her console and nodded. "It'll be in the gym; I think you know how to get there?"
Flamestrike nodded; she wasn't above asking for directions, either. "Thank you for your time," she told Solarflare, and began to walk back towards the tube when the femme's voice called out:
"I hope my actions last night didn't mar your opinion of me."
Startled, Flamestrike wheeled about. "I –"
Soft sympathy was etched onto the femme's facial planes. "Don't worry about it. I'm not much into female companionship myself …" She gave a wry quirk of her lips.
She could either be genuine or very sly, Flamestrike considered, using reverse psychology to get her to like the grey femme. In the end, the same quick thinking that had saved her tailpipe in the field made up her mind, once and for all, about the senior femme. "No, I'm sorry," she said at last, "I shouldn't have judged you so quickly. I guess the war did it to me; I immediately look for strong authority."
"The war has changed us all," Solarflare murmured, her brow ridge low and the set of her optics reflecting an old sadness Flamestrike would never know about. "Take care, and call me if you need me." She turned her back, her wings metal pinions rustling gently at her hips.
Arriving early, Flamestrike took a seat nearest the front. The stage that had been used for dancing just last night had been converted: three easels and a projection screen were being set up by a yellow Minibot and a human male who was wearing a curious suit of Autobot armor. The Minibot nodded in her direction before easing a large poster onto the stand in the center.
In a matter of moments, Flamestrike's shuttle companions filed in, taking seats further from the front and organizing themselves into tiny cliques.
"Good morning!" the male in the exosuit exclaimed cheerfully. "My name is Spike Witwicky, and this is Bumblebee."
Flamestrike straightened her spoiler; the espionage agent Hound had mentioned was this very fellow?
"We're going to keep this as short and concise as possible, so if you could direct your attention to the screen?"
Settling herself, Flamestrike found herself launched into a quick history of the City and the Autobots' relationship with humanity. Tied into the film were a strand of news clips and related media, outlining the graciousness the humans had for the Autobots; but intermixed were pictures of dead bodies and terror, clips where the sounds of screams echoed in the background as Autobots raced to their allies' rescue. On that sobering note, Bumblebee raised the lights and the screen was pulled back into its recess in the ceiling.
"You'll all be exposed to things like this, both good and bad," the yellow Minibot informed them. "Around me, you can see the outlines of the ground rules. Any questions? We'll answer what we can."
"Fraternizing!" a mech in the very back called out with a hoot.
Flamestrike stuck her arm over the back of her chair and leveled a most astounded glare at the offending mech. How in Primus' name had this one gotten the green light to come here?
On-stage, Bumblebee and Spike exchanged a look; the Minibot folded his arms and opened his mouth to speak when an authoritative voice cut through the sparkling mech's giggle: "We've no objections if you wish to find a companion, but it's not to interfere with your work."
From the gym door, a tall figure in black and white was striding towards them, his chevron as red as the blood Flamestrike had seen pouring from the humans' veins. He stopped at the mech's row and favored him with a tight-lipped stare. "If this is the first thing I am to hear from you, Engineer Turnout, then perhaps I will inform Optimus Prime that he should seek another."
Green and white Turnout's brow ridge danced smartly above his optics and he slowly shook his head in the negative. "'No', what?" the black and white pressed, reaching out and gripping the back of the mech's chair with his right hand.
"No, sir," Turnout muttered.
"Then apologize to Agent Flamestrike for your salacious remark," the officer ordered, pointing in Flamestrike's direction.
Optics burning with fury, Turnout's apology was almost inaudible, but apparently the officer was satisfied. "You're dismissed to your duty officers – except for you, agent." But Flamestrike wasn't rising as fast as her servos could manage, as the others were doing; rather, she remained seated, still half-turned.
"Thanks, Prowl," Bumblebee called down from the stage.
The black and white gave a curt nod before walking to the front. Immediately, Flamestrike got to her feet as the officer approached. This close, he really wasn't that tall – only a few marks above her; looking at him, his facial planes seemed to be set in a permanent, stoic mien. "Sir," she saluted. Prowl nodded, hands behind his back.
"If you'll come with me, agent?" He gestured for her to follow as they walked across the gym floor. Prowl paused at a door and opened it, indicating that she enter first. He flicked a light on as she crossed the threshold, revealing a rather musty office with a desk and two chairs. Prowl sniffed and took the chair on the far side of the desk; without asking, she seated herself on the other. "Not exactly my office, but it'll do," the officer murmured, setting a thick finger to the desk's dusty surface, his professional mien broken by a grimace of disgust. When he looked up at her, the old expression was back. "I hear you have the best record in your sector, is that correct, Agent Flamestrike?"
"Yes, sir." Elaboration would come as requested, not before. Officers didn't like to be preempted in their queries, nor did this one seem to like braggarts.
"That is good to hear. While Megatron has moved most of his troops to the outer reaches, he's left two subgroups here to terrorize the humans – and us – regularly. They are not of the usual breed, these Predacons and Terrorcons," Prowl mused, rocking slightly back in his chair, his optics never leaving hers. "They slink and crawl as no Decepticon I have ever seen. They have burrowed deep into the woods, foothills and mountains of this world, particularly this continent, primarily because it is where we are located. But we have found them elsewhere. No matter," he continued, waving his hand. "Solarflare has let me know that you were considering an animal-based altmode?"
That this bit of information reached Prowl's audios so quickly failed to surprise Flamestrike. However, she was a little annoyed that the eagle-femme was trying to press her into sprouting feathers. "Actually, sir, I'm not quite certain that animal is the way I wish to go."
"Yet the vehicles provided did not meet your satisfaction?" There was no mockery or accusation in the mech's tone. It was rather neutral.
Mentally, Flamestrike groaned. Was she going to be pressed into a form she would grow to hate? "No, sir. I found them … gaudy."
"As do I," he conceded. "But, I have to agree with Solarflare's comment about the usefulness of an animal form for ground-work. However," he added, "the choice is yours. But it must be made quickly." Digging into a subspace pocket, he pulled forth a datapad. "This is your schedule for the next two Earth-weeks. We have no need for a mission at the moment; consider this time to ease into life in the City. But, if the need arises, I will call for you. You'll report to the training room tomorrow morning for your first sparring session." He held out the pad, which Flamestrike took, trying not to admire the shape of his digits. Now that she was truly face-to-face, he was rather pleasant to look at. "Tell me your impression of our senior."
Flamestrike's optics snapped up from her perusal. "Sir?" His nod was all he would give her; he knew she had heard him. "Odd, at first," she allowed, "but she likes me – I think."
"Glad to hear it," he replied, stretching his frame against the chair before getting up. "By 23:00, I need to know your choice of form," he told her over his shoulder, exiting.
Flamestrike studied the pad all the way up to her berthing level, trying not to be drawn into conceding to the senior femme's wishes. But the more she thought about it, the less she could deny the senior's common sense … that, and she was growing increasingly used to the concept. 23:00? she murmured to herself, powering up her comm unit. Almost a whole day …
But she knew any further pondering was futile; her mind was made up, albeit encouraged by two other people. A gryphon …