For all the light this universe contains, there are also shadows cast from the path, forever to stand as an opposite to their creator. Lockdown had once learned that lesson, millennia ago, and he remembered it, standing upon the bridge of his personal, albeit commandeered, ship.
Being a bounty hunter was in no way motivated by principles, however. Lockdown had never joined in a fight out of a sense of justice or revenge, because belief did not suit his calculating exterior. No, he was always involved for the reward, and the higher it was, the greater his dedication. Whoever worked the hardest got what they deserved, including his crew. It was justice of a sort, a cold blade that cut the weak down to make room for the strong, and which Lockdown wielded against his prey.
Such as now, the engines of the Knight's Temenos rumbling as the onset of a storm bearing down upon the smaller, angular Cybertronian vessel, lurching forward like a spear at the end of its momentum. All around the latticed framework of Lockdown's cockpit, flak and debris blew apart in a deadly display of warfare, and then clustered together to drift eternally. Cannons soundlessly thundered back and forth, the vibrations jolting every mech on the ship down to the bolt and screws.
The battle had taken place for four hours, an impressive display given the target's deteriorating condition. In all honesty, the only reason the ship had gotten this far was due to its maneuverability, as it dodged and evaded every capture attempt. Once it realized there was no losing the mercenary, however, its pitiful attempt at a fight was short-lived. Following proper protocol, which had been developed throughout their careers, the crew had targeted the engines first, stranding the ship - and its captain. Next to go was the communication antenna, situated near the rear per design.
Now they were targeting the hull, each missile burning through the meters-thick metal as if it was aluminum foil. Gradually, a warm, orange glow spread as thick globules of molten slag rose into the void, each one spinning like a miniature sun. For a moment, Lockdown wondered if this was how his employers saw the universe, small and insignificant compared to them.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a mercenary, a sword sheathed within a tank barrel on his back, his gaze focused on his captain. Serrated armor covered the being from processor to toe, protruding outwards in razor-sharp thorns. His faceplate resembled a knight's, with a visor through which two red dots peeked forth. The rest of the facial features were shrouded in shadow, shedding little light on the mech's identity.
"Gunnery station reports: the hull has lost all integrity. We're free to head in."
Lockdown turned towards the stranger, with a skeletal grin that would have made Megatron shudder.
"Send them in, Bludgeon."
The screams of the wounded and dying greeted Wreck-Gar as he sat up, dizzy and disoriented by the wreckage surrounding him. Sparks fizzed and flashed over burning flames, the only illumination within the twisted and shattered metal that had caved in the bridge. The junk warrior was little better off; his armor, which was normally a rusty mismatch of multiple shoulder blades, a metal grille covering his truck torso, and various other tidbits, had fused together in the extreme heat until each piece was indistinguishable from one another. Scorch marks and dents marred his chassis, and – worst of all – his trademark moustache had been singed off.
The battle was not going well.
The Junkion leader grunted as he got to his feet, shoving off a fragment of a metal plate in the process. Suddenly, he felt pain pierce his side. Glancing down, he beheld a metal shard, which had lodged itself in his abdomen. Metallic-blue Energon dripped from the wound, each drop reflecting the orange glow of the devastation around Wreck-Gar.
How punctual, he though as he rummaged through the ship's remains – it was always junk, anyways – and felt the hilt of a weapon. One hard yank produced a wicked war axe, gunmetal grey, with blades serrated and sharp.
It was hard not to smile at his sudden turn of fortune.
The lifeless frames of friend and foe alike littered the corridor ahead of Lockdown, yet he never paid any heed to the surrounding carnage. The real battle had long ago moved on, leaving devastation in its wake. Scorch marks along the walls and on the floor indicated a quick advance from the boarding parties, which had gotten in close enough for hand-to-hand combat.
Only a few looters drifted amongst the dead, picking their chassis slots clean of any weapons or items still of value. Striding over towards the stragglers, Lockdown spotted a certain red and orange mech, still in an alt form that resembled a cross between a bipedal dragon and a deranged praying mantis.
"Did the battle disgust you, Repugnus, or are you actually cleaning up your mess for once?"
Two green optics, glowing with an unquenchable wrath, looked up from their fixation upon the scraps. "Look around you. They were pushovers, all right. I had to persuade a few of them to stay before I had any fun." A sadistic smile, edged with razor-sharp teeth, played at his faceplate. "Their enthusiasm was infectious."
"So I see," remarked Lockdown dryly. "Now, are you going to do your job? Or shall I cancel your contract?"
"Looks like another opportunity I can't pass up."
"You continue to find these opportunities, and you'll have earned a place in my prisons."
Repugnus raised a claw in exasperation, his mandibles grinding in anticipation. "Fine, fine, I'll do it." His maw swung towards the dark-plated mercenary. "The bridge has been blocked off, however. There's no getting in."
Lockdown smirked as his faceguard swung down to reveal a schematic of the ship.
"You leave that to me."
For once, Wreck-Gar allowed himself to believe that he could win. The remains of his enemies lay strewn about him, a gruesome spectacle to which his stained axe attested. His grim expression of triumph had filled the mercenary army with doubt and uncertainty, which the Junkions took advantage of to drive home a counter-offensive. The bridge was fully secure, as was the level surrounding it, and the weapons systems were back online, firing at the Knight's Temenos in a barrage of plasma and kinetic fire.
That was before his opponents started to retreat, fleeing down the corridors and intersections. His army celebrated, erupting in a war cry that froze their enemies' hearts in terror. Let them come, they boasted amongst one another. No one can stand against our indomitable courage. Their leader, meanwhile, contemplated this new series of events, and grew ever more worried.
For a relentless mech as Lockdown to suddenly drop his offense meant that he had another trick up his sleeve. As to what exactly this was, Wreck-Gar couldn't tell yet, but it was nothing good. He had his tech team trying to reboot the internal scans, in the effort of finding his enemy, but there wouldn't be enough time. So he went old-fashioned, sending out search parties to comb the ship.
Minutes later, one party reported a brief skirmish with a small group of mercenaries, which they finished off. There were also several casualties, all of them critical. Wreck-Gar wasted no time in setting up a triage center at the bridge, since the guns of the Temenos destroyed the Med-bay, and instructed them to return immediately. Another search party took their place, combing for survivors.
As soon as they arrived, the severity of their injuries was evident. Scorch marks covered most of the wounded; the worst off was actively leaking Energon from various open wounds. Several medics rushed over to the patients, each one barking orders to make space and prepare accommodations. Mechs bustled back and forth, carrying supplies and gear for treatment.
Wreck-Gar kept an optic on them for a while, ensuring that each step was followed to the letter. When he was satisfied with his crewmembers' safety, the Junkion turned to his tech team. He noticed that they were chattering amongst themselves and pointing towards the monitor, apparently excited about something.
"What is it?" he asked. They looked up, each mismatched faceplate expressing a clear, complete dread of their captain.
"What is it?" he repeated, bracing for the answer.
"We've fixed the motion trackers, and they seem to be working fine."
"Oh." Wreck-Gar wasn't sure what the problem was, but he realized that wasn't the answer. "And?"
"We only had a crew of 80, and lost about 43 during the battle. This shows 95 onboard."
Too late, Wreck-Gar realized that he had left himself vulnerable. He turned just as various crewmembers around the bridge brought their weapons up, gunning down the rest before they could react. Suddenly, the Junkion found himself staring down the barrel of a black pistol, the plasma payload within emitting a green glow as it heated up. The being aiming the weapon itself raised his faceguard, a victorious smirk evident on his skeletal features.
"Lockdown," hissed the Junkion. He remained where he was, one hand on the monitor, defenseless and wholly unprepared. At this moment, his fate rested in the hands of the mercenary.
"Do you really have anything better to say?" the Neutral remarked casually.
Around the bridge, the remaining Junkions removed their holographic projectors, revealing themselves as Lockdown's crew. Wreck-Gar's gaze shifted back to the captain, who cupped a servo over his auditory processor and leaned in, his expression one of extraordinary bemusement.
"I said, do you really have anything better to say?"
"Drop the act," said the scavenger. "You've won. Take what you need."
Lockdown's chuckle chilled his prey down to the protoform frame. "Yes, but there's that small matter of what I want. Besides, my contract informs me that there is a certain package on your ship. Something to do with a casket, I believe."
Wreck-Gar stared deep into the depths of his opponent's green optics, disbelief sketched upon his metallic faceplate. For a moment, fear – actual fear – was reflected in his expression.
"Why are you interested in that thing? It brings nothing but death."
Lockdown sighed, a portrait of exasperation. "You all never learn. So content to cling to your symbols, forever shielding yourself from the truth."
Shlink. His hook shot out from his servo, its blade curved in a metallic sneer of wickedness.
"But you can't hide forever," finished the mercenary. "Eventually, you'll have to open your eyes… to find the real prison within."
With one clean stroke, Lockdown struck the downed mech in his chassis, tearing out his spark. It glowed defiantly one last time, and then died down to a dull metallic grey, all life drained from its vessel.
"No one ever escapes their sins," remarked the Neutral, his optics fixed on the carcass of his once-formidable opponent.