And now that I've gotten some time to work on this story, we return to Beastverse Cybertron, where Archadis is determined to get some weapons for Killer Punch and crew, and where Arcee and Wheeljack - using his Maximal name, Snarl, to avoid suspicion - are searching for a way to get to Earth and rescue the kids.
(In the time since I last checked in with all of you, I've been working two jobs and sending my youngest sibling off to college. I feel so old.)
It must be admitted that there are downfalls to being a member of millenia-old robotic species that has been carrying on an obscenely long civil war.
Life expectancy is a little dodgy, for one thing, and while one certainly has the assurance of a job what with a constant need for soldiers, there really isn't much room for artists and writers and pool cleaners. The everyday trivialities of life tend to consist of things like "oh scrap, we've lost another energy stockpile to the enemy" and "drat it all, I've lost an arm again" rather than the considerably more mundane lives other species lead. And yet, somehow, the Cybertronian race keeps battering away at each other until they've driven themselves into the unenviable position of being an endangered species almost.
Naturally, this predicament can somewhat explain the overall confusion that Arcee and Wheeljack were experiencing at this particular moment.
You see, spending one's entire life fighting the Decepticons and attempting to survive in a relentlessly hostile environment really doesn't prepare one for surprise journeys through the multiverse or surprise landings in parallel universes that are simultaneously alternate futures full of faux-organic alt modes. And it really doesn't prepare one for universes where there is no civil war and one can look forward to the endless benefits of peace.
Like paperwork and immigration concerns.
Had Arcee been a human, she would have been repeatedly slamming her face into her palm in pure exasperation at the ridiculously convoluted process of getting her travelling "papers" so that she would be allowed to walk around this alternate Cybertron without being arrested as an illegal immigrant. The decision to pretend she was a visiting Velocitronian had come with the expectation of using a false name, as "Arcee" was a rather well-known historical character here. She now had four data-pad pages of names she had systematically scratched out.
Wheeljack was considerably better-off than Arcee. As a result of an angolmois infection that had ended in an emergency reformat, he could shift between a normal Autobot body and a beast-form with only a little difficulty. Nobody was quite sure if that made him a triple-changer or a quadruple-changer - which, while rare as they were often shy, was not unheard of -, and no one had the time to actually think about it, so for security and sanity purposes, the wolf-body was usually referred to as Snarl and the Autobot-body was still called Wheeljack. Wheeljack had the option of passing for Maximal rather than pretending to be Velocitronian, and he planned to do so as Snarl.
Solid Bullet eyed the two and decided that now was not the appropriate time the drop his head to the desk and groan. Everyone was a little tired, a little frustrated, and this was only delaying their chance of getting the pair of visitors to Earth - a tricky prospect in and of itself, given that the Anthropoid Statute was still in place. He finished crafting the identity chip that would fool any police scanners into believing that Arcee had come from Velocitron, and handed it to her.
"You'll want to secure that either to the underside of your left shoulder armor, or at the base of your helm. You can remove it with a medical-grade emp, just strong enough to kill pests, so be careful about that. If you've picked a name, I'll enter it in."
Arcee looked at her long list of names and groaned. "Y'know, I knew a bike about Bumblebee's age, right before the evacuation. Nice kid, if a bit too enthusiastic for her own good. Flareup is as good a name as any I guess."
"Flareup" was programmed into the chip, which Arcee then inserted it beneath her shoulder armor with an expression of distaste. This all seemed rather extraneous for a simple journey to Earth. There seemed to be some kind of political issue about the trip, but Arcee wasn't sure how to ask about it without the wartime bluntness she was accustomed to. The strange 'bots on this version of Cybertron were probably a bit more sensitive than the soldiers she knew.
"Snarl" groaned and dropped his helm as Solid Bullet started to talk about train schedules and how to get past customs. He was, after all, a mech of action. Quick, decisive, lacking-in-common-sense action. How could Arcee be content with standing still and listening to what was beginning to sound like a quest cutscene from one of Miko's videogames? The kids had been stranded for longer than they'd been with the Autobots, and Wheeljack found that to be entirely unacceptable. With a muttered excuse, he slipped out the door and found himself the target of several curious gazes.
A swift fellow by the name of Officer Roadburner strutted over on long legs, his avian head bobbing back and forth in amiable curiosity. He ruffled his bushy feathers and transformed into a surprisingly stocky mech with a bland, open face.
"Yo."
Wheeljack blinked. For law enforcement, these mechs and femmes were quite casual and unusually friendly. He had a feeling that the sentiment was probably limited to this particular station. He internally shrugged and returned the greeting.
"Hey. Name's Snarl."
Roadburner shook his hand with a rather weak grip, seeming a little distracted. He peered over "Snarl"'s shoulder. "Roadburner. Hey, you an' the Velocitronian are visiting, right? Don't let Sol intimidate ya. We've told him a million times to lay off on the tourists."
Sensing a story behind the words, Snarl decided to play along in hopes of garnering information that could prove useful. "Yeah, what's his deal anyway? I mean, I've run across plenty uptight authority types, but…"
"It's not you."
The new voice belonged to a bored-looking femme covered in muted green scales, which were slowly shifting to match her environment. "Solid Bullet just thinks every stranger he meets will have info on that cold case he's so obsessed with."
Roadburner nodded. "If he starts asking about pirates, cloaking fields, or artifacts, just tell him you wanna talk to the Chief. He's been told to leave the Finshot case alone, and another violation would mean a temporary suspension. That oughta make him back up a tad."
"Oh ho! You don't say!" Snarl cracked the joints of his servos in an eager manner, then feigned a dignified tone. "Would you think it terribly indelicate of me to ask for details?"
The sounds of a muted, but intense, conversation between Arcee and Solid Bullet floated out from behind the door as Roadburner beckoned Snarl closer.
"Y'see, it started with an Artifacts Preservation team, out in the asteroid fields near one of the colony worlds…"
Stomp was a little irritated.
No, scratch that. Stomp was dumbfounded with a side of irritation and a dash of exasperation.
Having been one of the crew that stayed aboard the Lucky Draw for security reasons during their little holiday in the alternate timeline world, Stomp hadn't been privy to some of the rather important events, such as the formation of the Mayhem Squad. As such, she didn't really have a clear idea of just how dependent on internal weapons systems Decepticons had been. It had been in the back of her mind that body-generated guns were more prevalent in the old Decepticon days than in the present, but it hadn't occurred to her that the new crew members would have a hard time adjusting. Until now.
"Are you kidding me with this?"
Killer Punch glared at the dimly lit hovel that hid Hellbat's secret (and formidable) weapons shop. His sour expression was mirrored by the other five members of his team, all of whom muttered similar disparaging comments.
"Why in the nine layers of the Pit would I want an external blaster? It's much more efficient to use the path-blaster in my arm!" Even Bazooka was showing a rare instance of temper.
"Ye-es," Stomp gritted her denta in a smile that lacked connotations of friendliness. "But you use up a lot of internal energon that way, and it'll start drawing it out of your bloodstream if you haven't refueled recently. And since we can't be assured of our next meal when we're in deep space, it's better to carry extra weaponry that doesn't put any strain on us. Right so?"
Ignoring all further arguments, the dinosaur femme shoved Killer Punch through the doorway, knowing his team would eventually follow.
Hellbat's shop was dark and musty, with lichen halfway up the back wall, on which a few tiny lights balanced. The other two walls in the triangular chamber were lined with expensive looking weapons - many of which had been outlawed in two different universes. Killer Punch planted his feet and crossed his arms, thoroughly intending to make his attitude felt by everyone. Reluctantly, his team shuffled in, skulking at the edges of the room and eyeing the weaponry suspiciously. Blackairachnid was the first one to take any notice of anything.
Her optics sparkled with interest as she plucked something from the wall. The box was small, crudely carved from sheet metal, but inside were four rows of needle-sharp darts. The corners of Backairachnid's mouth turned up in a cruel smirk as she contemplated the damage they could do.
"Are these cyber venom darts?" she called over to Hellbat, "I thought you couldn't find these anymore."
Hellbat chuckled in a deep, smooth voice, leaning over the counter. "It is not often I see a customer who understands the value of the antique weapons! Tell me, my dear lady, are you a follower of the old Decepticon ways?"
"Oh, I dabble," the femme cooed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but these are coated in a particularly potent nucleon-antielectron mixture, right? Ooh, that'll do a number on a bot...particularly if you put the dart in one of their optics." She fished out another of the missiles and gave a cheerful trill, wholly unusual for her. "Is this filled with glass gas?!"
Seeing that there was nothing for it, Killer Punch sighed and turned to the vendor. "How much for the box of darts?" he asked wearily.
Blackairachnid smirked and elbowed him. "Buying me presents, Muscles? And it's not even our anniversary."
Galvanised by their comrade's find, the others meandered around the room, trailing servos over everything despite Hellbat's stern warnings of "if you break it, you've bought it. And I don't mean you buy the weapon."
Sighing, Bazooka shifted down into his beastmode as a precaution. He was more thoroughly covered by armor this way, on the off chance that something exploded. The ankylosaur plodded along, studying each projectile weapon and melee weapon with a practiced, critical optic. He stopped near the corner nearest the door, at the lowest shelf. Well, here was something that didn't look like a complete waste of time. There was a dull bronze gun with a triangular muzzle. The long, thin barrel of the blaster ended in a round bulb with an extra-long grip.
It looked like a kind of handgun, but Bazooka knew better. He moved back into his robot mode and carefully lifted the weapon from its rack. As he approached the counter with it, he noticed Lazorbeak happily picking up a disruptor cannon and he shuddered. That was going to bode ill for the next person to irritate the odd flyer.
"Ah, the quasar rifle. Not my own preference as weapons go, but very reliable." Hellbat clucked his tongue thoughtfully as he accepted the orange mech's credits. "Mind the recoil, and be sure to clean out the magazine after every battle, or else it'll jam up on you."
Almost without waiting to hear Bazooka's reply, the salesmech moved swiftly on to the next customer. "The fusion rifle is a fine weapon on its own, but for two shanix more I can add in fusion grenades - for the days when you want to widen the killzone. What do you say?"
Crazybolt beamed and took from his subspace the fat purse he'd stolen during the barfight. "How many grenades and ammo clips will this get me?" he asked, raising both eye ridges cheerfully. Hellbat mirrored his expression.
"Oh, enough to last you a good six battles, I should say. Glad to be of service, sir."
Within ten minutes, most of the new crewmates had been armed. Fractyl, after much moping and dithering, had been convinced that a nice, simple fusion cannon would be best. It was, after all, similar enough to the path blaster he'd used in his home dimension. Saberback complained for thirty seconds straight that his "magic" was all he needed to fight, but after Blackairachnid threatened to cut out his voice box if she heard the same tirade one more time, he pouted and picked up a sonic emitter.
"Well this isn't too awful," he sighed. "Sonic pulses are rather amusing to watch."
Hellbat took his money with a decidedly sour expression.
Finally, after being stared at by his six teammates, Killer Punch groaned loudly and stomped to the walls. "Old-fashioned is the way to go," he growled. "Probably the only thing that's not going to break after one shootout!" Appropriately, the firearm he purchased was known as the "throwback blaster", and it was indeed very old-fashioned.
Now looking twice as dour, Hellbat roughly ran a scanner over the blaster to deactivate an anti-theft device and handed it over. "Yes yes, good for you. Now if you don't mind, I've other business to attend to."
Recognizing that they'd irritated the skulking fellow, Stomp made an attempt to shoo everyone out. Hellbat might look like a harmless - if somewhat creepy - merchant, but he would put his skills in hypnosis to work if he felt insulted, and Stomp had no desire to be on the receiving end.
Outside the hovel, Shokaract waited with Doom-lock and Blackout, who had been ordered to keep a close watch on him. Doom-lock curled his lip at the Mayhem Squad as they exited.
"Took your time, didn't ya?" he grumbled. "You leave anything for Crabby?"
"Shokaract, gentlemen, you know it's Shokaract." the larger mech interjected with a bored sigh. He was ignored.
Stomp rattled the quills on her spine in irritation. "Aye, we got 'em armed. Like to near got us all hypnotized by Hellbat in the process, but they've got their guns, like. You mind that lab-mech o' yours keeps a watch on his tongue in there: Hellbat's in a temper, mark me?"
"Or we send him in alone and see who wins!" Blackout sniggered nastily. "Can't really play mad scientist if you're all hypnotized, now can ya?"
Shokaract would have rolled his optics if they'd been a little more mobile at the moment. For the duration of the time he'd spent waiting outside the hovel, Doom-lock and Blackout had been insulting him, swaggering about attempting to assert their dominance, and offering vague threats. The only warning that seemed like it had any weight behind it was when Blackout mentioned that he'd best keep his "science" to himself once they reached their destination, as the warlord they were evidently going to serve had a high regard for even the foot soldiers of his band. It would not do to anger a potential ally, especially since this one was rumored to be several times stronger than even Megatron. Shokaract was cruel, but not stupid. He had no desire to end up in the arena they kept mentioning.
He would watch his step for now, and wait to see if there were any forward-thinking mechs among this warband who, like him, were not held back by little things like ethics and risk.
The hangar was mostly empty, which was convenient. The air had a heavy quality, smelling both of copper and a flower that Arcee could not identify as she, Snarl, and Solid Bullet entered through a door hidden by the forest that bordered the village the cafe had been in. A long row of lights, half burned out, filled the structure with flickering shadows and a dull buzzing sound.
The ship sat near the center, a tan craft on the smallish side, shaped vaguely like a bird of prey. Arcee noted its overall Star Trek - like appearance and found herself suddenly sorry that June couldn't be here to see it and compare it to a Klingon bird-of-prey. This was, apparently, to be their ride to Earth.
They had decided to forego waiting to contact Earth, finally impressing upon the detective that time was of the essence. He had protested a little at first, complaining that his supervisors would find out if they left too soon, but Snarl shut down his protests quickly.
"Detective," he'd said, "We messed up. We couldn't protect those kids, and now they're stranded down there, and we will do anything to make it right again. If you had the chance to set things right about Finshot, would you?"
Arcee hadn't understood what he was talking about at the time, but Solid Bullet had gotten very angry at first. He almost punched Snarl, in fact, but thought better of it. After five minutes, he'd calmed down.
"Yeah. I would." he said through gritted denta. He sighed. "I know where there's a ship with sublight capabilites. It ain't a personal Space Bridge, but it'll get you to Earth in about four days. But don't you ever try to use Finshot against me again. Are we clear?"
And then Arcee understood. This was about Razorback's dead partner. She agreed that the need had been urgent enough to bring it up, but she also understood Solid Bullet's reaction.
"I'd have punched you," she remarked lightly as they crossed the hangar. Snarl didn't have to ask what she was talking about.
"Yeah yeah, desperate times, desperate measures and all that scrap." he muttered. "That the ship?"
Solid Bullet nodded. "That's the Chromia 10." he said, and made a rough motion towards it. His eyebrows raised slightly at the muffled snort that Arcee made. "Is something wrong?"
The Autobot shook her helm with a wry smile barely playing across her face. "No. It's fine."
In the privacy of her own mind, she found herself fairly amused to find that not only was there a ship named after her sister, there had been ten of them! And wouldn't Chromia have loved that? Well, actually she would have hated it. Chromia was a rough femme, and she was not the sort of Autobot who liked being memorialized with objects. "If I go out in a blaze of glory, fine. Remember me as a hero, blah-di-blah-blah, but keep fighting like I would've." She had been of the opinion that naming ships and parks after people was really more of a pre-war tradition, and one she didn't care for.
"So this is the supply-drop ship?" Arcee asked aloud, studying the line of Maximals shuffling back and forth. "I thought you said we would have to wait until the planets' orbits were closer together."
The detective shook his pebbly head. "No," he corrected her, "That's for communication. This is just a routine flyby and drop. They're not allowed to carry missives on drop-ships: wrong security clearance."
Snarl shrugged. "Okay, I can live with that. Now how do we get 'Cee on there without causing a stink?"
But Arcee was already on her way across the floor, striding along for all the world as if she owned the place. Despite her overall stature being smaller than many of the larger workers, she exuded an air of command that immediately got her noticed. The temporary red-tinting and black flame decals they'd applied to her armor had a similar effect. Reminding herself to channel her inner Ultra Magnus, Arcee put on the haughtiest face she could manage without cracking a smile at the ridiculousness of it all. Right away, someone hurried up to her with a conciliatory expression.
"Can I help you?" she asked, wringing her hands as if already expecting a difficult time.
"Well I certainly hope so!" Arcee sniffed, using a voice about two octaves higher than her normal tone, and with a slightly Scottish accent. "Because thus far my impressions of the transportation services on this side of the planet have not been stellar."
The fishlike femme wrung her hands a little more and shrunk slightly. "Oh dear, well I'm...sorry to hear that. May I ask your designation?"
Arcee held up a false badge that Solid Bullet had crafted, keeping her expression irate and slightly arrogant. "Flareup: Velocitronian Department of External Affairs. Haven't heard of it? Good, then we're doing our job right. I need transport to the Sol system - and before you ask me why, I'm afraid the answer is 'classified' - and I'm afraid the Maximals have made a very poor showing as far as interworld diplomacy goes."
She added a hint of disgust to her voice and changed her body language accordingly. "Really! Imagine trying to stall me with paperwork because I might - gasp! - meet an anthropoid! Need I remind the Maximals that Velocitron is not now, nor has it ever been, subject to the ruling body of Cybertron?"
"Yes miss, I mean no miss," the poor Maximal squeaked, shrinking a little more with every word of the tirade. Her security officer's scan said that the angry femme was, indeed, Velocitronian, which meant that her badge was probably legitimate as well. She knew as well as every other femme and mech in Stanix that the Maximal Council often got bogged down in ridiculous bureaucracy, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She was a supply-ship captain, not a senator!
"I - er - I suppose it wouldn't harm anything if you came along with us on the Chromia 10, miss," she offered. "We're actually headed for the Sol system within the hour, provided we pass the takeoff checklist. As long as all your papers are in order, we shouldn't have to make any stops at customs."
There, perhaps that would appease this strange femme. Anything to keep her from shouting more! Orcanoch gulped and clasped her hands behind her back, hoping the smaller bot did not see them shaking.
Arcee squinted at the black and white Maximal for a moment, then straightened, easing the tension out of her posture and face. "Really? Yes, I think that would be a satisfactory course of action. Thank you, captain, it's nice to see that there are at least some sensible people on this planet."
Orcanoch breathed a sigh of relief as "Flareup" and what was apparently her Maximal guide both walked up the ramp. "Customer service. So not worth it." she muttered under her breath.
Once seated in the cargo hold with the supplies, Arcee relaxed and rolled her optics at Snarl. "Thank Primus that's over! Another minute and I'd have started talking like Magnus. 'You mean yes ma'am, solider!' and all that."
Snarl shuddered in a greatly exaggerated fashion, but grinned all the same. "That was an award-winning performance, Flareup," he teased. "You ever consider taking up acting when the war's over? Where on Cybertron did that voice come from?!"
Arcee laughed and pulled her knees up to her chestplates, staring out the tiny viewport as the Chromia 10 eased its way out of the hangar. "Would you believe I picked it up from a human movie? It was Minerva McGonagall from the Harry Potter movies."
Snarl tipped his helm back with a rough bark of laughter, then they both fell silent. He looked down at his hands, rough and grey as always but attached to a body he knew Miko wouldn't recognize. He knew he could pull back to his "home" body if he needed to, but who could say if the "other" Earth would have the same energon-magnetite problems that made Beast Modes a necessity here? He would have to play it by ear, he decided.
Arcee frowned, lost in her own thoughts. This was it: she was finally going to see her partner again. She should have been relieved, excited, but Arcee was more worried than ever. Twice before she'd thought they had all made it home, only for that hope to be cruelly ripped away at the last second. What was to stop this time from being exactly the same?
Arcee wished humans were telepathic, because at that moment she found herself repeating over and over again in her processor: Stay there, Jack. Stay put. I'm coming, stay put. I'm on my way, partner.