Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction, meaning I only own OCs and plot - though not really, since the idea for this fic came from the Padded Cell message board. A totally random title thread, to be precise. I changed the title and part of the crew, but the main idea remained.

Thank you, D. Mischief, BlueBomberMobile, Meirelle, yohaidee, Vedda, Hemlock Dalise! Thank you so much for the reviews! They give me strength! :)

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Chapter 2
Commerce

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The second star to the right and straight on till four millions years ago...

Astrotrain brought the Constructicons to the estimated area of Ark's landing and opened the hatch almost before he stopped. The Constructicons piled out immediately, and it was obvious both parties were very glad to finally be away from each other. Hook looked around with disgust that bordered on dread, and declared that they'd better find Megatron fast, because he wanted OUT of this dirty mud ball as soon as possible.
However, that was much easier said than done. None of the missing Decepticons responded to radio hails, and any traces that a landing/crashing Ark might have left had been effectively erased by the planet itself - Constructicons very fast learned to hate the local weather with a passion. Having to track down one of your teammates by faint magnetic resonance only, and dig him out from under a dune after he'd been struck by a lightning can have that effect on a bot.
It was only the fact that Shockwave wouldn't let Astrotrain pick them up if they didn't find their missing leader first that kept them from giving up the search. They had long before come to a conclusion that Megatron and his crew was either dead, or otherwise incapacitated beyond the point of self-recovery. It wouldn't be an issue if they could find the slagmaker, but since they couldn't...
"What about repair beam?" Scrapper asked, absentmindedly sketching blueprints on the wall of a makeshift bunker and listening to the howls of wind.
"What about it?" Bonecrusher asked, twisting another nut in a neat 8.
"If we could amplify the power and adjust the beam to penetrate silicon layers, and made few sweeps over the presumed crash site..." The Constructicons raised their heads and shared a thoughtful look. And then they got up, and got to work.

The first of Mondern, end of second shift

"Would you believe that this was the cheapest energon the guy had in store?" Sideswipe said, sipping at a cube. "He was surprised I wanted to buy it at all." He took another swing of the shimmering liquid, which was about 5 percent more energy rich and with half as many impurities as what they produced on Earth. "Makes you wonder what the high quality is like. You wanna have the last grease treat, Pipes?"
The blue minibot cursed him to the Pit and back, and doubled over the waste bin to once again purge his empty tanks. Hound stroked his back soothingly, and shot a reproachful look at Sideswipe, who had the decency to look sheepish - for about one second. After all, Pipes pitiful condition was only indirectly his fault.
When he first entered the nourishment shop, the same whose owner was so concerned about his melting goods, he intended to grab just an energon cube per person. However, the moment he opened the door his olfactors were assaulted with the smell of hot, refined grease, and he went a little wild.
Grease treats, along with many other small pleasures of life, had gone extinct soon after the war started. There simply wasn't time and resources to make them, and everyone got used to getting their lubricants during medical check-ups. So, even though they were half melted and far from finely refined, the Autobots pounced on the treats like vultures. For Pipes it was something entirely new, since he'd been sparked during the war, and he reacted much like a human child to their first chocolate bar - with unrestrained enthusiasm. Too late he discovered that his systems weren't accustomed to assimilating solid lubricants in this manner. The subroutines responsible for sorting the consumed materials reacted with a short delay, and part of treats went were they shouldn't - straight to the fuel tanks. Pipes diagnostic computer interpreted the unusual substance as an influx of tainted energy - and reacted accordingly.

Sideswipe popped the last treat in his mouth, and glanced at the door impatiently. They had found the motel without problem and, following Wrenchwretch's advise, let themselves in - in the patchwork building, and in the biggest room they could find that didn't have a 'TAKEN! KEEP OUT!" note on a door. They discovered that the link-up terminal wasn't working. They pilfered the adjoining room for additional recharge berths, which they fit together, creating one gigantic recharge plate that filled two thirds of the room. They caught three hours of recharge before Wheeljack and Company finally showed up, brining in the smell of overheated metal, and making a hellish commotion, settling on said plate (Sunstreaker woke up for long enough to growl and roll out of the way). Sideswipe made a shopping trip, Pipes got sick, and all the while they didn't see so much as a servo of the place's owner. Sideswipe was beginning to wonder if the mech hadn't died of boredom and lack of customers, when the door opened with a protesting screech of badly maintained rollers. A bulky, slightly taller than the twins mech stuck his head into the room. The smell of old oil, stale energon and rust drifted in with him. Very slowly, he looked around, taking in the crowded room, and apparently got lost in his thoughts. Or maybe lost his thoughts, if the unfocused gaze was any indicator.

"You must be Redcog," Sideswipe said, getting up and approaching the mech. The only response he got was twitching of newcomer's arm - but that, he could bet, had more to do with the worn-out, sparking download port there than anything else. Sideswipe scowled and snapped his fingers in front of the blank face. It did the trick - the bot's CPU came back from whatever heights it had wandered to.
"Five cre--ds for the roo--m for a shift," he said, extending his hand. His voice was filled with static, and his arm twitched again.
"You need a card, you know," Sideswipe reminded. Redcog looked at his own empty hand with a surprised look, and unsubspaced a battered trash card, along with few broken bolts that clattered to the floor. "Oh," he said, looking down. "I was loo--king for that..."
Sideswipe silently took the trash card out of the bot's hand, and tapped it with his own, transferring ten credits. Then he picked up the bolt pieces, and put them in bots twitching hand, along with the card - all in slow, deliberate movements. "Ten creds," he said in a loud, clear voice. "For two shifts. Now give me the key."
"Key," Redcog focused on the numbers displayed on his trash card. "Tw--o shifts. Key." He looked and the oblong chips attached to his shoulder, then at the door, then at the chips. And at the door, at the chips, at the door...
Still acting with uncharacteristic slowness, Sideswipe reached out and pulled at the chip with the glyph corresponding to the one painted inaptly on the door. Redcog looked at it critically, nodded uncertainly, and pressed a button on its side. Two little lights lit up. "Two shifts," he said, sounding pleased with the achievement, and left, leaving the key in Sideswipe hand.

"What was wrong with this guy?" Hound asked in bewilderment. Sideswipe just shrugged. He caught Beachcomber's and Hoist's sad, knowing gazes, before they looked away. None of them felt like explaining.
"What do we need the key for?" Mirage wanted to know. "There is not a single working lock in this place."
"It's in case the mech forgets we've already paid for the room," Sideswipe said. "Anyone knows how long the local shift is?" he asked.
"Approximately 10,175 Earth hours," Perceptor supplied. "That is, if my estimation of the planet rotary speed is accurate, and the 'shift' period is indeed one third of the rotary cycle as I concluded form the conversation with--"
"Ok, 10 hours, thanks," Sideswipe cut him off absently, looking out the door. Nope, his audio's weren't playing tricks on him - it was Wrenchwretch, talking to Redcog near the main entrance. As Sideswipe watched, the green CS shook his head disapprovingly at the hotelier's scorched arm. "...you should go to Fastlane to have it looked at. And for Primus sake, go get some fuel, you're three percents from off-lining on your feet." Redcog murmured something and shuffled away, towards, Sideswipe presumed, his private piece of living space.

"Hey, mech!" Sideswipe called, drawing the CS's attention. "Is there a trick to our terminal, or is it just broken?"
"My vast experience with fixing up this place says: eeet's broken." Wrenchwretch made his way to their room and tapped the touch pad on the terminal, sending a small pulse of energy into it. A booting up failed to happen. "Broken it is". The mechanic knelt and peeked under the console. Sideswipe crouched at his side. "Cheap and crappy, just as promised," he murmured quietly. "But you could have mentioned the owner was a hype." Wrenchwretch snorted. "What, the word 'deepnet' wasn't clue enough?" He intensified the brightness of his optics and glared at the hidden wires.
"I must have missed it," Sideswipe lied smoothly, filing 'deepnet' under 'hack&crack'. "Any rage fits?"
"Nah." Few suspicious wires were tweaked, separated and reconnected. "He's only danger to himself. This should do it." Wrenchwretch stood up and tried the touch pad again. The screen flickered to life, and kept flickering. With a sigh, the CS clenched his fist and thumped the wall just above it. The flickering ceased. "There. Just needed some love." He tapped few keys and gasped in a mock-shock. "And lo and behold, the connection works! The download speed sucks though. Good luck with being patient." He patted Sideswipe on the shoulder, and left with a cheerful 'Thanks for the help, guys,' addressed to Wheeljack&Co.

Perhaps download speed indeed sucked by here-and-now standards. But it was about ten times faster than what the best of human technology could offer back on Earth, so Sideswipe wasn't about to complain. It took him a moment to figure out the operating system, and he happily browsed the net for few breems, until Beachcomber noticed what he was looking at and demanded that he either started searching for important information, or turned over the terminal. After a short and quiet (no-one wanted to wake up Sunstreaker) squabble Sideswipe grudgingly relented, but insisted that he wanted to save the articles he'd found. That led to a discovery that the datapads they had were somewhat out of date. Fortunately, Pipes produced a handful of various adapters from subspace. Combining three of them allowed connecting the pad to the terminal, and Mirage was able to write a small program which converted files to something that their software recognized. After that Sideswipe was unceremoniously shooed from the only chair, and Mirage took his place. Murmuring something about ungrateful bunch, the red warrior clambered on the plate and crawled to his brother's side. He propped the pad against the wall and his chin on his hands, and started reading.

The first of Mondern, one forth into the third shift

Skyfire ducked out of the motel and looked around worriedly. Almost two Earth hours ago Sideswipe declared that he 'needed to stretch his legs', and departed to parts unknown. It wasn't till just a moment earlier that the scientist realized that, A) Sideswipe had all the money they had with him, B) the last time they paid him attention he was looking up entertainment and gambling centers, and C) his comlink wasn't responding. If this didn't spell trouble, nothing did.
Not wanting to worry the others, Skyfire used the same excuse as the wayward warrior, and left the motel. Once outside, however, he was faced with a bit of a problem. How do you find a single mech in a Really Big City? The topmost level was all but deserted, but looking down over the banister he could see that just few levels down the city buzzed with life exactly the way it had when they arrived. Frowning softly, Skyfire strolled down the street, looking around in feeble hopes to catch a glimpse of the red paint. Instead he got a full view of something that for a long moment had him staring in wonder.

The suns were setting. The bigger, darker reddish one had already dipped halfway behind the horizon. Skyfire watched it mesmerized. Around him, one by one the dark lamps paled and shut down. The smaller, pale yellow sun slowly sunk down, quietly following its companion.
One by one, the regular lamps switched on, powered by the energy that their dark counterparts absorbed during the day. The colors played on the sky.
"Freaking gorgeous, ain't it?"
Skyfire flinched and looked around. His obvious confusion was met with a quiet laugher.
"Up here."
Obligingly, the white Autobot looked up. On a haphazard, tall scaffolding someone had fastened a small platform, and on the platform an even smaller houseblock. Wrenchwretch was sitting at the edge of the platform, dangling his legs carelessly and sipping energon form a small cube. "Every century or so my bosses ask me if I don't want a transfer to a more 'civilized' district." He said amiably. "I tell them: no thanks, and they ask: are you sure?" He shook his head. "I live on the top of the city, and they're surprised I don't wanna go down. Just look at this." He waved a hand, and Skyfire instinctively looked at the rim of the setting sun and myriads of stars above. It took him a moment to realize that Wrenchwretch was rather looking at millions of lamps below.
"I've got the best view in the city. How many bots can see the Police Department HQ, High Office building and the Solar Tower from the same window? And sunsets are particularly spectacular in this sol system too. I rather like it, you know. Lord Protector has a good taste when it comes to stars. Except, of course, that one 'brilliant' executive decision to park a planet next to a supernova." A sudden bitterness colored the last phrase.
Skyfire's head jerked towards the mechanic sharply, as the bit about 'parking a planet' sank in. His startled reaction was obviously misread though, for Wrenchwretch raised his hands apologetically. "I know, I know. Tasteless and sparkless of me. Sorry about that. I just... get a bit edgy every time the anniversary comes around, you know what I mean?"
Skyfire was about to say that no, he had no idea, when the relative silence of the night was suddenly shattered.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa! WRENCHWRETCH!" Someone screeched in the distance, a bit of hysteria coloring his voice.
The mechanic raised his optics to the stars and reset his vocalizer.
"I'M OFF DUTY!" He roared to the world in general.
"But there are RETRO-RATS in my walls!" The distant voice wailed.
"Oh-ho. A big crisis. COMING!" Wrenchwretch made a backward somersault, rolled through open door into the small houseblock, and emerged seconds later, hefting an oversized rifle on his shoulder. "One extermination squad ready to go," he said cheerfully, sliding down to the street on a length of cable. "See you around, big guy!" He walked briskly down the street. Just before he rounded a corner, he bent to scoop up a crumpled bottle off the pavement, and chucked it in a recycle bin in passing.

Skyfire watched after him, small wistful smile playing on his lips. It was just so... normal. Normal people with their normal little problems. Broken lamps, melting goods, retro-rats under the floor. He had to fight a sudden, bizarre feeling that the last twenty years - the war, the hate, the devastated Cybertron - were all just a weird, stasis-induced dream. He sighed, almost wishing that it was true.
But then, there was the other side to the idyllic picture. Somewhere down the timeline the war that Autobots so desperately fought must have been lost, and their lives taken, for the Decepticons to triumph. Mirage was still digging through the info-net, searching for any historical files that would tell them exactly how the present situation came to be. The unspoken and foregone conclusion was that they needed this information to avert the presumed defeat when - or if - they got back home.
Although, if this was what Decepticon empire looked like, should they?
Skyfire shook the thought off. They didn't really see enough of this world to know if it was as good as it seemed at the first glance, and pondering such things was rather pointless anyway. So instead he took off, and started circling over the city in search of Sideswipe.

The bright neons shone brightly over a wasp-nest-shaped building, hanged in between the skyscrapers. It was relatively small establishment - it could hold perhaps fifteen thousands bots at best. Sideswipe was rather glad of the fact. It meant the tickets weren't too expensive.

He bounced in place slightly, observing the scene below with rapt attention. The quality of fighting pits had vastly improved since he and Sunstreaker were making their measly living through them, but the principle, the overall feeling, the rhythm remained the same.
The crowd roared as the fight on the arena progressed, part of it cheering, part of it furious, and part of it, including a noisy truck-former just one raw above Sideswipe, angrily demanding where the frell their high-grade was.
Down at the arena, the gigantic train-former fell under the joined efforts of three delicate bike-formers, who climbed at his hulk and crowed their victory, until the referee announced it officially, and shooed the team away.
The noise around Sideswipe changed its quality. The cheering bots typed at the small consoles in front of them to collect their winnings. The sulking/outraged bots thumped at the consoles, either complaining or placing bets for the next fight. Out of the small doors, scattered all over the stands, came the vendors, and the noisy truck-former finally got his high-grade, though not before throwing a fit over a steep price. And just to add the flavor to the racket, there was a constant buzz of static in the air - the result of private conversations, quarrels, and backstage information flying over the closed radio channels. It was that annoying buzz of breakthroughs that had made Sideswipe turn off his comlink. It was the first thing he did after entering the building. The second one was putting his sigil back in place, because, in the ultraviolet lighting of the stands, the not-faded patch of paint on his armor was sticking out like a sore thumb. He figured it was safer to walk around with a barely visible badging than a glowing mark in the shape of said badging.

On the arena, the defeated train-former scrambled to his feet and limped toward the medical, growling at the few bots who boo-ed at him. Sideswipe smirked, and for a moment watched the big screen displaying the fluctuating stakes for upcoming fights. If he read the sings right, there was no favorite for the next fight, which meant the gladiators were evenly matched, and the round would be long. Perfect. Sideswipe turned, and almost bumped into a vendor who was shaking his head at someone calling for him. "Sorry, I'm out!" the bot called, waving the empty tray as a proof.
"Oy, watch it!" Sideswipe groused, ducking under the utensil, and made his way to the exit. Once outside, he stood still for a moment, remembering and comparing various places he'd passed by today. Then he quickly plotted the fastest and most efficient rout, fired up his jetpack and shot into the thicket of walkways.

Several breems later he was back, the subspace pockets almost overflowing. He sacrificed another five credits to get back in the building, and looked around. As he predicted, the fight was still on. At the far end of stand, there was a lone vendor, selling the last of goods off his tray, but in Sideswipe's immediate vicinity there was a visible lack of spectator service. A group of slightly tipsy bots nearby were already tossing empty cubes around, and asking were had the vendors gone to. Putting on his most charming smile, Sideswipe made his way toward them.
"Low grade, mid grade, high grade?" he offered, whipping out the tray, which was filled with just enough items to draw customers' interest. Sure enough, the thirsty bunch pounced on him like vultures, and he remorselessly charged almost trice higher price than he paid for the goods himself. The funny part was, no one even flickered an optic. It was easy, really. All Sideswipe had had to do was watch the vendors for duration of few fights, getting the feel of the prices, and then make a trip to several stores few levels up, where the prices were lowest.

That was easy too. Sunstreaker walked through the streets memorizing what color people's detailing was without even trying. Sideswipe walked through the streets memorizing at what prices the merchants he passed sold their goods. Quite a pair they were, his brother and he, Sideswipe mused, meandering through the crowd. Two built gladiator-types, who couldn't care less for gladiator fights.
"Got any coolant?" "At your service, sir! Credit per bottle." "That's a steal," the buyer grumbled, but pulled out his credit card nonetheless. He was kind of right, considering that at the store coolant cost credit a ten-pack, but hey, that's how the trade works! And Sideswipe knew his trade, down to the lowest dirty tricks.
He refrained from producing eleven cubes out of ten, but had no qualms about selling mid-grade at the price of high-grade to bots who were already too sloshed to notice. He talked very fast, singing prizes to his rather mediocre stock, offering bonuses that were only profitable for himself. He even took a small torch to the tray, and the delicious smell of heated grease treats attacked people's olfactors, making them buy things they wouldn't even looked at at the store. And after they gobbled the treats, they quickly got very thirsty, and may, wasn't it a lucky coincident Sideswipe was there with a small supply of low-grade and coolant?

He would gladly admit it - this was Fun. And to make it even better, it was completely, one hundred percent legal. He'd checked, double-checked and then checked again, but all info-net sources were adamant. There was free commerce in Vos. Barring few specific goods, like weapons, hacks, ultra-grade and, strangely enough, carbonated hydrogen dioxide, you could sell or buy pretty much everything. At whatever public place you happened to be, at whatever price you could get, by whatever smooth lies you could come up with. There was no authority to stop you - on the contrary, the authority would encourage the initiative, because trade was what City of Vos lived on. There were no taxes, at least in the traditional form. Instead, equivalent of half a percent of every single transaction went from the buyer's account to the city's Treasury. The credit cards were hooked directly into the system, and the cash was transferred immediately, while the trash cards were programmed to stash the due amount until they were used on any kind of in-system vending machine, or exchanged in a bank for a new one. People were constantly feeding the big financial machine, and Sideswipe could bet that most of the time they weren't even thinking about it. Simply ingenious.

The sudden change in volume of the constant roar drew his attention to the arena. The green helo-former had his orange adversary pinned to the ground, and the referee just made the verdict. The victorious bot grinned widely, helped his ex-opponent to his feet and they hobbled to the medical, leaning against each other companionably.
Sideswipe looked around quickly, to make sure no-one paid him attention. He shoved what was left on a tray into subspace, hid the tray under nearby sit and leaned against the wall nonchalantly. Selling anything? Me? What a wild idea. I'm just a sour spectator, here sulking because the orange wassaname lost.

The authorities wouldn't bother him. The competition was another story. Normally he wouldn't be bothered, being more than capable of explaining his point of view with few punches, but at the present situation drawing attention to himself was the last thing he wanted. After all, someone had to be the responsible one in the group of scientists, aristocrats and artists. (And Pipes, but he was excused on account of never knowing a life outside the war). They had not an ounce of common sense among them. Education, yes. Intelligence, yes. Good taste, arguably. Common sense, no. They could think circles around Sideswipe when it came to sciences. But it wouldn't even occur to them to think things like, hey, we're in an unknown city with no supplies and no place to go, how about we try and make some money to get us by? So it was down to good old Sideswipe to keep the bunch safe and warm.
Heh, he was so going to rub it in the months to follow!

Down at the arena another fight started. About halfway into it, Sideswipe discreetly picked up the tray, and filled it with the amount of goods small enough to suggest that he'd been selling for a while, but not small enough for people to think he was selling off the leftovers.
"A nickel bar, sir? It comes with a free coolant!"

Skyfire wasn't a city-lover by nature, but he had to admit that the City of Vos looked magnificent from the air. The main body of skyscrapers formed a semicircle, and nestled against its chord was a gigantic, though small by comparison, flat octagon on the planet surface level. Going by the City Guide, this had to be Main Plaza. Around the Plaza, low buildings of several universities crawled, and among them stood the solar tower. Or rather, the Solar Tower. It certainly deserved capital letters. It was easily the tallest building in the city, and that's saying something. Skyfire circled the dark solar panels, drawn in for the night, and glowing with the aircraft warning lights. Truly magnificent. It surpassed anything he remembered from the past, so fresh in his memory yet so faraway in reality.

A small patrol jet approached him and sent a hail, breaking his reverie. He was informed that he was nearing the security air space, and he should either lower the altitude, or ask for clearance to cross said space and leave the city. Having no intentions of leaving, Skyfire dived and the jet resumed his earlier route.
If this was the rein of terror the Decepticons were bound to bring...

"Yo, Skyfire, are you there?" The shuttle started at the voice, only after a moment realizing it came from his comlink.
"Skyfire here. What is it, Beachcomber?"
"Hey, good to hear you. Where are you?"
"Um... I passed the solar tower just a moment ago."
"Ah. Night flying, I see. You didn't happen to see Sideswipe on the way, did you?" the geologist voice wasn't particularly concerned, but it wasn't very happy either. "He isn't answering his comlink."
Skyfire sighed. "I know, I've been looking for him for some time now." Although I got a bit distracted by sightseeing.
"Eh, he's probably just wandered somewhere downtown, the radio interference was pretty bad there," Beachcomber said reassuringly. "I'll keep the hail on; hopefully he'll call when he's back in range. You're coming back?"
Skyfire hesitated. "I'll make few more rounds, maybe I'll run into him."
"All right, enjoy your flight. And stay in touch, 'kay?"
"Of course. Skyfire out."

The first of Mondern, nearing the end of third shift

"Hey kid, over here!"
Sideswipe made his way to the calling bot, fighting the urge to laugh out loud. If he'd added all the millions of years he'd lived before and during the war, plus the period of stasis on Earth, plus however long it was they skipped to land here, he was probably much older than the majority of bots in the building - and he still got to be called a kid. Funny, in a twisted kind of way. And quite useful, too. People usually underestimated young bots.
Sideswipe grinned disarmingly at the gray bot. "How can I be of service," he asked, and, noticing a discreet red blotch on the other's shoulder he hazarded adding "brother?"
The bot scowled lightly. "Go on and shout it through the speakers, why don't you." He waved away the sheepish apology. "Never mind. You're new around here, I can tell. So, as one brother to another..." he leaned and started rummaging on the tray, "don't look now, but there's a mech standing near Exit Nine--"
"Tall, red and black, dump truck of some kind?" Sideswipe interrupted in an undertone. "The one who's been staring at me for the last few breems?"
"You've noticed?" A bottle of coolant was picked up, inspected and put back.
"Yep. Who is he?"
"Haulpack. Stands' owner. You should either go and talk to him right now, or vanish before he decides you've earned too much on his territory."
"Ah." Sideswipe rotated the tray, offering the bot an energon cube. "And if I talk to him, how much of my profit he'll take?"
"Last time I checked, he was taking twenty percent from the regulars. Form a newbie like you - donno, forty, maybe?" He picked up the cube and squinted at it critically. "What grade is it and how much?" "Twice filtered mid-grade, and on the house." Sideswipe took a step back and made a discreet wave with his hand. No-one but his interlocutor noticed that he pressed tips of first and fifth fingers together. The bot smirked and responded in kind. "Peace, kid. Now scram, before you get in trouble." Sideswipe snickered, making a mental note to check what was with that whole 'peace' business.
"Sure, pops. And thanks for the warning."
He made his way toward the exit, selling the rest of the stash as he went, not really caring if he made profit on that last transactions or not. He was already eighty credits ahead - and that's without the hundred he intended to pay back to the workers. There was no point pushing his luck. Eighty credits should be enough to see them all through for a few days, and if Wheeljack the boom-maker didn't figure out how to get them home by then... Well, he would worry about it in few days. For now, he reveled in the sense of a job well done.

Skyfire landed on a platform, very grateful that the City Guide was so well marked and easy to spot. As impossible as it seemed, he got lost. It was something that didn't happen, not to him at any rate, but here he was. It was a bit embarrassing. He'd gotten the coordinates when he left the motel. It was a habit so old he didn't even have to think about it. When in a strange place, he'd automatically try to retrieve coordinates from the local navigation system. If that failed, he'd then set his own grid and start recording his every move, as well as a visual input, so that he could always find the starting point, by backtracking if necessary.
This time however, he received a set of numbers, and contented himself with that. Only when he tried to use the coordinates to return to the motel he discovered a small setback.
He knew where he was. He knew where he wanted to go. But, not being familiar with the system by which the grid was organized, he had no idea how to connect the two.
Fortunately, the City Guides were easy to find.
Skyfire tapped the touch pad, and searched for the city grid system, blissfully unaware that by activating the machine with a small energy burst, he sent his energy signature in the net.
After few minutes he found the information he was looking for. He also located the motel on the map and memorized the layout of its surroundings - just to be sure - and shut down the Guide.

The next events happened so fast, he barely had time to react.
Three massive mechs approached him from different directions. They stopped few paces away, radiating a polite threat. "Officer Backlog of Vos Police Force," one of them introduced himself, simultaneously projecting a small hologram that held the same information. "I must ask what your designation is, sir."
"It's Skyfire," Skyfire said, glancing at the pair of cops behind him. "Is something wro--"
There was swift movement and a soft click, and suddenly he found himself cut off from his own subspace pockets and unable to raise the radio. He gaped at the set of cuffs magnetized to his wrists. Through the shocked haze, he barely heard the next words the police-bot said.
"You're under arrest."

A/N: Once again, concrit and grammar advices are welcomed and deeply loved.
And any indication that you've read it will bring joy to my spark. (Doubly so if you liked it).