To Catch a 'Bot
Transformers belongs to Hasbro. Venture Bros belongs to Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer.
Chapter 3
With Starscream far away on assignment, Megatron discovered The Cocoon could be pleasantly tranquil. He looked up and down the wide hallways with something just short of awe, and as he considered kicking up his pistons after the long day of scheming, his hydraulics let out a squeal of anticipation.
He ducked through the corridors and made his way farther from the cargo bay. Even halfway across The Cocoon, he could still hear the sounds of the henchmen and Decepticons carousing, and while the petty, malicious part of him wanted to burst in and yell until his 'cons peed coolant, the desire to sit down and switch off his auxiliary processors overrode all others.
He accessed The Cocoon's blueprints in his main processor and plotted a route to the prison cells. One of the few places on The Cocoon that could comfortably situate a mech of his size, this area was also located in a remote section that would ensure privacy. Thus it surprised him to find the area not entirely empty when he poked his head through the doorway.
No longer in her stewardess uniform, Dr. Girlfriend wore only her undergarments – a gauzy pink thing that marginally covered her skin and barely concealed the parts beneath it. The areas it did manage to hide were presumably her genitalia, the configuration of which baffled Megatron as to how reproduction occurred. Yet he lacked the morbid curiosity needed to figure it out.
"I'm sorry, do you need something?" The human lounged in one of the guard's chairs, and his processors recognized her reading material as an Earth romance novel.
Megatron coughed, "I wanted to get away from the noise those flesh-tubes dressed as butterflies are making."
Dr. Girlfriend straightened up and gestured to the vast empty space outside the cells, "Well, have a seat. I won't bother you; I'm actually doing the same thing."
Once he had taken in the room's specs, Megatron plunked down next to the organic female. Already she had returned to reading the paperback, and he studied her out of the corner of his optic.
He knew enough about humans to realize she was considered very attractive, even if her vocal processors had some kind of permanent malfunction, but neither appearance nor voice interested him. Megatron considered her the most competent flesh-creature his long exile on Earth had forced him to work with.
Megatron spoke before he realized what he asked, "Don't you and The Monarch have your own private chambers?"
An embarrassed smile curved her lips as she shrugged, "Yeah, it's just...it's lonely in there without him." She toyed with the corner of a page. "I know how silly that sounds."
It did sound silly, but Megatron only nodded. Sad to say, this little flesh-organism before him remained his best chance for intelligent conversation on this planet. Starscream did not believe it, but Megatron had the capacity for tact.
"I personally enjoy getting away from my subordinates." His tone took on a hard edge as he clarified, "Some of them have a tendency never to shut up."
Dr. Girlfriend let out a soft chuckle in her husky baritone before replacing the bookmark and setting aside the novel. She mentioned, "The Monarch is quite the talker as well, but I've found he tends to stop once I do the tongue trick on his –"
At once she clapped a hand over her mouth but relaxed when Megatron continued to regard her with an oblivious, only mildly interested stare. Anatomically speaking, robots and humans were worlds apart. Black curls bounced as she gave her head a rueful shake.
"Look, I'm sorry," she muttered. "You come here for peace and quiet and I keep yammering on."
"I do not mind," Megatron admitted. "Despite your species' obvious inferiority, I find humans of some interest."
Long years in the company of villains had taught Dr. Girlfriend not to take offense at blatant insults, and she took the comment in stride, "Yeah, you and the Cobras do some work together every now and then. Actually I was surprised when you came to us. Weren't you guys in the middle of a dastardly collaboration or something?"
"Yes, but Cobra Commander was being a prick."
"Oh," Dr. Girlfriend shrugged, "in any case, it's nice to have someone to talk to. I've really enjoyed working on Flutterwing with you. I know The Monarch has as well."
Although Megatron had no programming for guilt or regret, he did feel a tingle of discomfort at the villainess' candid tone. In most situations he considered treachery and deceit standard operating procedure, but after a pause he admitted, "You do know that I consider your species a pestilence upon the face of the planet and intend to betray and destroy you all when I harvest the Earth's energy to fuel my war for intergalactic domination?"
"Of course! I wouldn't consider you a professional if it were any other way. You know, the Guild of Calamitous Intent could learn a lot from you Decepticons. With us it's all business; no one has fun anymore or does anything truly ruthless. Even The Monarch doesn't –" Dr. Girlfriend stopped herself.
"He does not what?" Megatron prompted with piqued interest.
After a moment of hesitation, she explained, "Well, let's just say for all his nefarious scheming, he tends to think small."
Megatron studied the woman with something just short of approval as he admitted, "Of all the carbon-based filth I've encountered on this planet, you are the most competent. Why not overthrow The Monarch and conquer this mud ball yourself? I would aid you for the time being, and might even let you know when I intend to betray you and destroy everything you have ever built."
Dr. Girlfriend reached over to pat the tip of his metallic finger. "Well that's very sweet of you, Megatron, but I'm sure you of all...robots can understand why that just isn't possible."
"I do not."
"You know how love makes us do crazy things." Since he continued to stare blankly at her, she added with an encouraging expression, "Just look at you and the red one!"
"What Optimus and I had ended a very long time ago. Even now I doubt he ever truly –" Dr. Girlfriend's expression turned to one of confusion, and Megatron trailed off, his regret souring into trepidation.
She clarified in an uncertain tone, "I meant the annoying red one. Your second-in-command."
Megatron hopped to his feet faster than if he had stumbled into electric waste.
"What? Starscream?! Of all the illogical human notions I have encountered –" Dr. Girlfriend gave him a look, but he sputtered on, "That I could even harbor anything but loathing for –" Another look. "Why would I –" Now an arched eyebrow. "Why would he –" Smirk.
Megatron's optics shifted as he concluded, "Our minions have become suspiciously quiet. I shall check on them."
The Decepticon leader tried to maintain as much dignity as possible making a hasty retreat into the hallway. Even with his back turned, he could feel Dr. Girlfriend's knowing eyes bore into him. If the robot had adrenalin and blood vessels, he would have blushed a deep red. As it was, his CPU whirred with excess processing and his hand itched to punch Starscream in the face.
This impulse so consumed his thoughts that Megatron did not become wary of the foreboding silence that practically emanated from the cargo bay. He did not consider the implications of the minions' sudden quiet, nor did he have time to prepare for the sight that greeted him when the door opened. He certainly could not help gaping for the few astroseconds it took his processors to return to the present and fully analyze the wreckage before him.
"What in the name of Cybertron is going on here?" He at last demanded in a voice of quaking fury.
Both the henchmen and the Decepticons were blitzed out of their minds and processors respectively. The hangar had moved so far past the realm of "trashed" and into "obliterated" that Megatron hardly recognized it.
Wires, still sparking, poked through large, newly-formed holes in the walls, and smoke leaked out of the dented and cracked pipes, giving the whole place a rather post-apocalyptic vibe. The large computers, brought in from the Decepticon base, lay shattered on their sides, and disco balls wobbled from frayed ropes above them. Orange wings, some whole and some in tattered ribbons, floated across the vast floor space like trash on a New York City street corner.
In the corner, a pile of empty Energon cubes served as cushions for a snoring Skywarp. Of the remaining Energon supply, the cubes still half-full now leaked badly, and in a good portion of those, Mixmaster had his face planted. Barely processing, Scavenger and Bonecrusher used each other as pillows.
Scattered amid the wreckage of their giant comrades, many of the henchmen were unconscious, but several had what appeared to be a dance party on Blitzwing, who remained conscious enough to tap his finger along to the non-existent music and mumble something incoherent about his lovely lady lumps.
When Megatron shouted, everyone who still functioned looked over at him, but no one possessed the sobriety to behave suitably frightened.
"It's a party in my chassis and everyone's invited!" Astrotrain called out from his place on the floor. His cargo door hung open, and Megatron heard a muffled "woo!" ringing within the inner compartment.
"Slagging fools!" The Decepticon commander roared, "Is this how you follow my orders to guard The Cocoon?"
Astrotrain and Blitzwing exchanged uncertain looks, but with a shrug, Blitzwing rose to his feet, dislodging a number of henchmen who toppled to their deaths.
In a voice slurred from over-energizing, Blitzwing reported, "Yes sir, Megatron sir! All Energon on the base has been accounted for and safely contained!" As he spoke, Blitzwing stumbled toward him.
This might have ended in wobbly success had he not also attempted to salute. His arm's arcing movement knocked the mech off balance, and he crashed down on several unfortunate henchmen. Despite the loud crash and several, slightly softer splurts, the triple-changer looked only mildly concerned as he scrapped at the squishy bits now clinging to his back armor.
If anyone had the presence of mind to wonder what Megatron thought about this display, the Decepticon leader screaming "aargh!" answered the question. He clutched at his helmet and took the three steps needed to kick Blitzwing in the face. The mech fell over again, and finished off the few surviving henchmen behind him.
The random act of violence and unnecessary deaths seemed to calm Megatron, who consoled himself, "At least I have one dependable underling, who has yet to fail." He pointed an accusing finger at both Decepticons and henchmen and snarled, "You could all benefit by modeling your behavior on Soundwave's."
If Megatron had been a connoisseur of situational irony, he might have more appreciated the events occurring in the Decepticon prison even as he spoke.
"Hank, I-I'm scared." Rumble pushed Dean forward when he tried to turn toward his brother.
"Don't worry, Dean, I've got a plan," Hank murmured back.
It was more of a stage whisper than anything secretive, but Soundwave, having seized their wristwatch communicators, seemed content to walk ahead and ignore any antics. He had deployed Rumble and Ravage to act as the rearguard, so Hank and Dean required no shackles.
Hank gave Dean hurried instructions, "You distract them long enough for me to forge weapons made from the very objects in our surroundings."
"Like what?" His younger twin did not appear convinced.
"Like...um...that pointy rock over there," Hank pointed at a lumpy rock that could, by a generous definition, be considered pointy. "And that one over there. If I tie them together with my shoelace, they'll be, like, a rock spear."
"Aren't two rocks tied together called a bola?"
With a condescending smile, Hank patted Dean on the shoulder. "Just leave the fighting to me, Eisenstein, and we'll be fine."
"I don't know," Dean gnawed on his lower lip and glanced back at Rumble from the corner of his eye. "I mean these are giant robots. Evil giant robots. Maybe we should just wait for Brock."
"What?" Hank almost stopped in his tracks, but Rumble jammed the barrel of his gun into the boy's back until he started walking again. The blonde twin spared the mech a glance before he continued in a softer voice, "And let him have all the glory? How can you look Brock in the face after he's saved you all those times?"
"Um, easily?"
"No, Dean, it's time that we stepped up; it's time that we became men." He nodded at his brother, "So on the count of three..."
Hank began to count.
"One."
Uncertainty blossomed on Dean's face, "Wait, what are we doing on three?"
"Two."
"No, seriously, Hank, I forgot!" Uncertainty quickly grew into panic.
"Three. Yaargh!" Hank twisted around to tackle Rumble. And he would have tackled Rumble had his foot not caught on one of the rock spear's halves. As he tumbled forward, his elbow clipped Dean across the face and sent the younger twin backpedaling against the cavernous wall.
Several things happened in that moment. Hank missed Rumble entirely but succeeded in tripping on Ravage – boy and cat-mech falling into an uncomfortable heap of limbs and plate-metal. Soundwave's processors switched to battle-mode as he spun around and leveled his gun at the blond boy, but he wavered, unable to get a clear shot with his subunits' proximity.
Meanwhile Dean fell on his ass and said, "Ow!"
Something metallic in his pocket dug deep into his hip, and the pain lanced through his side sharp enough to outweigh the tingling across his face and the soreness down his back. With a minimum of fumbling, Dean reached in and pulled out the offending object, pressing its button in the process.
A burst of energy shot out. To the boys, it felt like nothing more than an unexpected brush of wind, but it hit the Decepticons as a wave of searing pain that raced through their circuitry, overriding the subroutines currently in execution and rerouting instructions with the ease of a stack overflow script.
With a squeal somewhere between a broken gearbox and a scream, Soundwave's considerable bulk smashed to the ground. The impact kicked up enough dust to send the Venture boys into fits of coughing.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut, a desperate hand unsuccessfully protecting his nose and mouth. The very air stung, and he could only wait till some of the dust settled before cracking open his swollen eyes. Tears immediately formed a thin layer of protection but he still observed his brother, blurry and coughing, on the other side of the tunnel.
They were alone.
"What...what happened?" Dean asked.
Hank pushed himself up to his feet but swayed unsteadily. He still coughed behind the cuff of his sweater.
"I don't know," he admitted with a faint wheeze. "Maybe they went for backup?"
As hopeful as Hank sounded, Dean felt less sure, only conceding, "Well in any case, they left some of their equipment behind." He tottered over and picked up a blue tape deck nestled in the dirt.
"And lookee here! Even more tapes!" Hank enthusiastically waved at the two extra tapes he had discovered.
Exuberance replaced tentative caution at the discovery of more Clues, and Dean broke into a grin.
"Wow, Hank, we must really be onto something! Quick, let's get out of here before those robots come back." He hefted their newly discovered tape deck as they stumbled out of the cave and down the rocky path. "I bet this thing is just chalk-full of clues!"
"You're right about that, Dean!" Hank agreed. Soundwave probably did not.
Brock found the Doc back in the hangar. They were alone except for the inactive Duskbird, who remained statue-still in the corner. Venture pondered the breaker box inset into a small utility closet.
"Doc, the boys are missing," the bodyguard began without preamble.
"Oh? Where are they?" Rather than look at Brock, Venture continued his inspection of the box.
"That's the point. They're missing. I don't know where they are."
Venture considered this as he flipped a switch, causing the lights above them to flick off. "Can't you find them through their wristwatch communicators?" Another flip and the lights turned back on.
Brock ground his teeth as he silently counted to ten. Contrary to popular belief, Brock Sampson did have the patience of a saint. It was just that, after years of babysitting the Venture family, he reserved it entirely for the Doc.
"Look, Doc, if they were wearing their communicators, this wouldn't be a problem. Something's happened. Maybe some kind of...jamming frequency or something. Anyway, the point is that I'm gonna need H.E.L.P.e.R if we want to find them."
Now Dr. Venture did look over with mild surprise, "What can H.E.L.P.e.R do?"
"He's a fully equipped forensic laboratory. Between his infrared sensors and particle analysis program, he'll be able to track them."
"Oh, hmm," Venture scratched his goatee as he turned back to the breaker box. "There may be a problem."
"What?"
"Well, you see, I took those components out of H.E.L.P.e.R so Duskbird could have them." With tentative fingers, Venture tried another switch and one of the Compound generators – its constant hum little more than white noise – whirred to a halt.
"Oops." Venture flicked the switch back on.
Brock ignored this mistake and asked with reproach, "You scavenged H.E.L.P.e.R for parts?" Although not the first time his employer had done so, nor probably the last, Venture's stinginess managed to shock Samson on occasion.
"Those parts were on backorder, and I didn't want to wait," Venture explained in a near whine. "I figured when the parts do come in, I'd reconfigure H.E.L.P.e.R."
"Reconfigure him now," Brock ordered in an insistent tone. "I need H.E.L.P.e.R."
Venture eyed his bodyguard with disbelief. "This close to the Symposium? Are you kidding?"
"Then let me borrow Duskbird. It might come in handy if there's a fight."
Brock thought it a reasonable compromise, but Venture arched an eyebrow in the way that meant "no."
In case Brock did not get it, Venture said aloud, "Um, no? He still has some tuning issues, and I'm not about to let the Symposium's grand prize slip through my fingers this year." As he spoke, Venture flipped the switch from earlier. The main lights went off again.
"There is no grand prize at the Symposium!" Brock's fist slammed into the wall next to the breaker box, but Venture did not look the least bit concerned.
In a reasonable tone, as if explaining something to a very small child, Venture rejoined, "But if there were, it wouldn't slip through my fingers." The lights came back on.
"Doc..." Brock spoke his employer's nickname as a threat.
"Sorry, Brock. This is too important," the scientist snapped. He added under his breath, "I just want to turn on the frickin' hose. Why is this so difficult?"
Brock flipped the correct switch then slammed the breaker box shut. He positioned himself so Venture had no choice but to look him in the eye, then said, "We're talking about your kids."
"And I'm sure they're fine!" Venture threw up his hands as he explained, "They're probably..."
Eyebrows narrowed, Brock supplied, "Somewhere on the compound?"
"Yes, they're somewhere on the compound," Venture nodded. "No one's trying to jam their wristwatch communicators or anything, it's just..." the scientist trailed off, fishing for the reasonable explanation that would get Brock to leave him alone.
Voice flat, Brock helped out, "Someone is sending out a jamming signal for something else, but it just happens to be on the same frequency that the communicators use?"
"Yes! Exactly!"
"Doc –"
"The answer is no, Brock." As he pushed forward, Venture's voice became a clipped dismissal, and the bodyguard had no choice but to let him pass.
Even so, Brock seethed; his teeth made an audible grinding noise as he used up the last bit of this month's patience and part of next month's as well. Doing his best to contain the growing frustration, he scanned the hangar with narrowed eyes.
Here lay boxes and boxes of equipment that the scientist robot had brought with him, Duskbird inactive by the corner, and even more supplies in the underground facility, but nothing Brock could use to find the boys. Samson did not have to imagine the boys dead or worse; over the span of nineteen years he had seen it all, and the memories returned to him unfaded by time and distance.
Dean decapitated, Hank's neck snapped, acid eating through their limbs, mutant eggs laid in their stomachs, fire, mummies, gas, blades, guns, rocks, flesh-eating bacteria, krakens. Brock had seen every imaginable variation, and it did not help that they were replaceable, that Venture could push a button and they would return alive and unharmed and only slightly amnesiac.
They didn't deserve death in the first place. They didn't deserve that sort of life.
Rage joined frustration as he considered his own helplessness, and his fingers quaked then curled into white-knuckled fists. Only a squeaky voice jolted him back to reality.
"Anybody near? Wheelie is here!"
A small orange mech poked his head into the hangar. The bot looked around the hangar, but seeing none of his Autobot companions, turned to Brock with a cheerful wave, his robotic sensors able to detect everything except murderous rage.
"You need help maybe, so Optimus send me!" Wheelie explained in a charming rhyme.
A red mist spread across Brock's eyes and obscured his vision. He could not see what happened next, but he could hear just fine, and the sounds of tearing metal, shattering gearboxes and a high-pitched metallic keen registered loud and clear.
Thunkcrash.
Brock smelled scorched metal as the haze slowly dissipated and he returned to reality.
"Ooh, you did a number on it," Dr. Venture spoke from directly behind Brock's shoulder and Brock's breath hitched in surprise. He fought every soldier's instinct to whirl around and rip out his ambusher's throat, and with supreme effort, Brock turned around very slowly and faced his employer without causing bodily harm.
Not realizing how close he had come to death, Venture remarked, "Guess that answers the question about who would win in a fight, huh?"
"Doc, I –"
"Primus! What happened in here?!" Wheeljack had returned to the hangar, and upon seeing the carnage, dropped the equipment he carried and rushed to side of the dismembered bot.
Following close on the other's heels, Ironhide let out a cry of rage, "Slag it! Who could'a done such a thing? I'll turn him into scrap! I'll rip out his transistors and –"
"It's only Wheelie," Wheeljack interrupted once he'd located the mech's head unit and could properly identify him.
"Oh," Ironhide paused to process this information then deflated. "Meh."
"Um, yeah," Brock scratched the back of his mullet in embarrassment. "Sorry about dismembering your comrade. I got some, er, rage issues."
Wheeljack shrugged, "These things happen." The scientist bot rose and dusted off his hands. "Well, might as well cart this scrap out to the dumpster; it's taking up valuable space as is. Get the wheelbarrow, Ironhide."
"'Kay."
Venture and Brock regarded each other with uncertainty. After a moment, they too shrugged. The killing had calmed down Brock considerably, but he refused to drop the issue.
"Doc, the boys."
Venture gave up with a wave of his hand, "Okay, fine. Since you feel so strongly about it, I'll lend you the Walking Eye."
"The Walking Eye has infrared sensors and a particle analysis program?"
"Of course."
"Why?"
"Because...because it's a Walking Eye! It does Walking Eye stuff, a large portion of which consists of sensing infrared waves and analyzing particles."
Brock merely stared until Venture turned away with a huff.
"What would you know?" He snapped. "I'm the super scientist, if you've forgotten, and that makes me automatically more qualified in the study of Walking Eyes. Do you want it or not?"
The bodyguard nodded but waited with skepticism. Venture reached into his pocket to pull out a remote control and lowered the winch holding the Eye. Once its spindly legs touched the ground, its single red optic glowed to life.
Brock looked suspicious, "So does it, like, transform or something?"
The Walking Eye helpfully transformed – legs rotating and coming together to form a single pole beneath it, while its optic slid shut and three blades budded from its spherical head. They began to spin.
Brock did not look impressed. "Oh good. A windmill. That'll come in handy if we encounter any strong gusts of wind or delusional knights."
Venture gestured to the hangar door with a jab of his finger.
"Get out of my lab."