Onslaught had served in the military ever since he came online. The expectations of his station were simple and straightforward. When the commander told you to jump, you jumped. When the higher-ups gave you tactically unsound orders, you said, "yes sir," and did what was necessary for the mission objective. And when the old codger who outranked you by two tiers said he wanted to discuss a top secret mission, you followed him with no small amount of curiosity.
That was how Onslaught ended up sitting next to said old codger in the cockpit of an airbus exiting Cybertron's atmosphere. Kup had not seen fit to divulge their destination, and Onslaught had not asked. It was not the place of a lowly second lieutenant to question his captain's orders. Once they left the atmosphere, Kup switched the airbus over to autopilot and took a cygar out of his arm compartment.
"Sir," Onslaught said. It was against regulations to smoke aboard a government commissioned transport vehicle, insentient or otherwise. The label front and center on the control panel stated precisely this.
"Hmm? Did you want one?" Kup pulled out a second cygar and offered it to Onslaught.
"No, sir." Policy violations aside, he lacked the faceplate mods for it.
"Suit yourself." Kup stuck the first cygar in his intake and activated it. The cabin started to fill with noxious fumes. "So tell me, kid, how does it feel to be the poster mech of Kaon? You must be popular with the city folks."
"I wouldn't know." While in Kaon, Onslaught spent his off-duty hours studying for the officer exams and his on-duty hours on-duty. "The mission you wanted to discuss. What is it?"
Kup chuckled. "All work, no fun. How typical of you young bots. You ought to loosen up, Ons. Let some tension out of your struts. It'd be good for your joints."
"Sir." In Onslaught's experience, loosening up was how one ended up like Kup: stuck as a captain for longer than anyone could remember. Onslaught had climbed the ranks since the orn he activated as lowly cannon fodder. He had no intention of ending his ascent as a mere second lieutenant.
"Eh, you'll understand when you get older. Anyway, here's the mission rundown." Kup handed over a data chip. It had one blue stripe on the back.
"This chip requires first lieutenant clearance, sir. I can't access it." Onslaught kept his voice carefully level. If he were just one rank higher, acquiring the authorization codes to unlock the chip and read its contents via direct uplink would have been trivial.
Kup tapped on the airbus dashboard, where a data input jack sat. "Use this."
If Kup traveled in this airbus often, it likely had his personal command authorizations pre-programmed into the onboard computer. Plugging the data chip into the airbus could circumvent the intended encryption. In this manner, Onslaught would be able to see sensitive material not meant for those of his station.
Kup noticed the hesitation. "What's a little clearance between friends? I won't tell if you don't. But if you want to get formal about it..." Kup removed the cygar from his intake. "Activate the chip. That's an order, lieutenant."
Orders from a commanding officer demanded obedience. The airbus in-flight recorder had registered Kup's verbal command, thus absolving Onslaught of responsibility if the transference of sensitive information came under question later.
"Yes, sir." Onslaught plugged in the chip.
An unused monitor on the dashboard activated, and a file opened: a video recording of an interrogation. The cell contained a plain table, two chairs, and two mechs. Text overlays on the video denoted the small grounder suspect as "Hardtop." A larger rotary warframe interrogator, Vortex, sat on the table in front of Hardtop with a laser scalpel in hand. Both mechs were covered in Hardtop's energon.
"One more time, Hardtop. Tell me about that key you stole," Vortex said, voice soft and reasonable even through the distortion of the low-quality audio feed.
"It looked shiny, so I sent it up to Swindle. I didn't know it was important for—for planetary security or anything. We were only there for the Quint tech, honest!" Fluid streamed from multiple places on Hardtop's frame. His visor was cracked.
"Of course you were. To return it to your Quintesson masters, right?"
"No! We just wanted some quick credits. I'm not a Quint spy!"
"Quint spy, huh?" Vortex stood up, looming over Hardtop. His rotors shivered once, an oddly unprofessional motion in context. "You said it, not me. So, spy, where's your accomplice?"
"Uh." Hardtop's remaining optic paled behind the broken visor.
Vortex's next methods were of unquestionable legality. To be exact, his methods were utterly illegal by both military and civilian codes of conduct for treatment of Cybertronian prisoners. The recorded audio maxed out at volumes far lower than the peak output of a standard vocalizer, but Hardtop had clearly screamed for all he was worth throughout the interrogation.
In the end, the interrogation revealed nothing connecting Hardtop to any Quintesson plots. He was just a small-time thief who broke into that storage vault expecting to make money. This, Onslaught reflected, was a recurring theme with many of the suspected Quintesson sympathizers arrested in the vorns after the Occupation ended.
Amid the desperate cries and pleas, Hardtop revealed the identity of his accomplice. Vortex did not stop after learning this.
Three breems of gratuitous violence later, Kup reset his vocalizer. "There's your briefing. What do you think?"
The interrogation had indeed delivered results, even if Vortex did seem to be having a little too much fun in there. Hardtop spilled information in between screams. Still, unconventional but functional got the job done. That was good enough for Onslaught. Unfortunately, his immediate superiors did not always agree with this principle—and, indeed, had reprimanded him on multiple past occasions for his own unconventional solutions.
It was difficult to predict which answer Kup wanted to hear.
"Fifty-two violations of prisoner treatment protocol," Onslaught said at last.
Kup threw back his head and laughed uproariously. "Protocol, that's a good one. You sound just like this enforcer stiff I once knew. Protocol doesn't mean scrap when planetary security is at stake."
The rest of the recording was more of the same. Onslaught toggled the viewing controls: double speed, five times, ten times. The amount of energon in the interrogation room increased. Hardtop lost his visor—not just broken, but fully ripped out. Optical cables too. Seven of ten fingers. Four wheels. The list went on. Amazingly, he remained alive through it all. In the end, two guards in nondescript gray came by to drag his broken frame out of the interrogation room.
"That was two shifts ago," Kup said. "Hardtop and his accomplice Swindle stole a hardware key containing the activation sequence to the planetary defense grid. Funny story, actually—they stole the real key and left behind the much better-looking fake that we'd stored alongside it as a decoy. Thieves' luck, right? Not so lucky for us, though. Without that key, the grid is dead. Any Quintesson frigate could take us down from orbit. Our mechs captured Hardtop, but Swindle escaped off-world. Your mission is to find that key before the Quints figure out that we're an easy target."
Onslaught had considerable experience with off-world missions from his past deployments. That was probably why Kup had chosen Onslaught—a mere second lieutenant—for this mission. Nevertheless, finding one small hardware key amid the entire galaxy would be a daunting task. A critical task, too. That granted Onslaught considerable bargaining power.
"That you have chosen to brief me in-flight suggests this mission wasn't assigned through official channels, sir. Accepting a task given through word of mouth is a risk for me, and not one that I would undertake lightly."
"Oh?" Kup sounded amused.
"If I succeed, I want a promotion. One rank up. First lieutenant." Remembering himself, Onslaught tacked on the customary, "Sir."
"Well, aren't you bold? You have a quick processor, I'll give you that. It is a risky mission. It's also important. Like it or not, you're the most available mech for the job. Tell you what: if you find that key, we'll give you a pay raise. Seven percent starting next financial quarter."
If money had been the goal, Onslaught would have retired from the military after his mandatory kilovorn of service and taken up a nice cushy post as private security. Instead, Onslaught chose to remain in service while so many others of his production batch went on to earn twice or thrice his salary. The military was where his expertise resided. It was here that he could make the biggest impact. However, if he angled too hard for a promotion, Kup might assign this mission to someone less competent. The very thought of that was intolerable.
"It will suffice," Onslaught conceded.
"No need to thank me. You're overdue for a pay raise. Anyway, considering how all information related to the planetary defense grid is strictly classified, that makes this mission a Code Black. Word of mouth is the best you're going to get. This stuff is too important to have in the books. The enemy has spies everywhere. Now, you're low enough in the chain of command that it won't endanger the ceasefire if you're caught in interstellar space. Besides, as a currently enlisted officer, you contractually cannot decline a Code Black command."
There was indeed a provision stating such in the military codes of conduct. Onslaught simply had never heard of it being used. It had always seemed more of a hypothetical scenario than an actual possibility.
"I've taken the liberty of gathering a team for you," Kup went on. He pushed a button on the airbus console, and the video recording switched to a static screen with a list of three employment profiles.
"You replaced every single member of my old squad," Onslaught realized.
"Sure did."
"I don't understand. I've spent decavorns working with my squad, learning their specialties and adapting to their shortcomings. Replacing proven soldiers with three unknown newcomers introduces unnecessary complications to the mission." If Onslaught's voice held any tension at all, it was due to professional concern over Kup's obvious error in judgment. Nothing more.
"Yes, yes. A minor inconvenience for a bright young lad like you, I'm sure. After the success of your last assignment, it was only fair that your former subordinates get promoted to lead squads of their own. As for you—with your stellar service record and the impressive personnel management experience you've accumulated, I'm confident that you'll have no trouble at all getting used to a new team on the fly."
Onslaught flipped through the three profiles, committing each one to memory.
"It's feasible. Nontrivial, but feasible. I served with Brawl on the Cetarii campaign, and this Altihex Defense Corps navigator has an acceptable service record. Their skills are well suited to the mission objective. However, I must request that a qualified medic be added to the roster. The closest you've given me here is Vortex, and his expertise is better suited for disassembly than repair." The profiles indicated Vortex only had level four medtech certification, a major downgrade from the actual combat medic whom Onslaught had worked with previously.
"Out of the question. A Code Black mission is no place for a medic—not with all that morality programming they've got clogging up their processors. Nobody wants a repeat of what happened on Cetarii V. Besides, medtech level four ought to be good enough for most anything you'll run into." Kup shook his head wistfully. "Why, back in my day, we were lucky if we had anyone around who could use a spot-welder. You young folks have it lucky."
Onslaught did not feel very lucky, but he would take a solid plan over luck anytime. The Cetarii V debacle had already cost him one well-deserved promotion. He would not squander this opportunity as well.
"Where are these mechs now?"
"Our next stop." Kup waved at the front window of the airbus. While they had been perusing the contents of the data chip, the pale circle of the moon had grown to fill the window.
Luna Two. Of course. The protocol violations in the interrogation video suddenly made sense. Outside of Cybertron proper, the standard regulations for prisoner treatment no longer applied.
The airbus entered its final approach sequence, rumbling as it encountered minor turbulence from the thin lunar atmosphere. Kup switched the controls from autopilot to manual control. They touched down in an airfield just outside operations headquarters, landing neatly amid a row of identical airbuses. The cabin depressurized as Cybertron-atmosphere equalized with the relatively lower density outside air.
Kup stood and stretched, ancient gears realigning in a most disturbing series of clicks. He turned to Onslaught. "Good luck, Onslaught. All of Cybertron is counting on you. Oh, and keep the intel chip. The passcode is seven three three two."
Onslaught dutifully ejected the data chip from the airbus console and installed it in a chip reader in his wrist. Kup's passcode worked. A data registry appeared on his internal display, complete with raw video files, personnel records, and more.
"What of the thief?" His briefing listed only one mission-critical objective: key retrieval.
Kup considered this. "The higher-ups only care about the key, but we shouldn't leave loose ends. Better to arrest a hundred nobodies than let a single honest Quint sympathizer wreak havoc. Consider the thief a bonus rather than an objective. If you bring him in—alive and in fit state to stand trial, mind you—I'll put in a good word for your next progress review. Might even net you that promotion you've got your optics on."
Promotion: an effective motivator. The very best where Onslaught was concerned. He saluted. "Understood, sir."
After Kup left to do whatever Kups did on Luna Two, Onslaught went to track down his newest batch of subordinates. His first appointment was with Vortex at the Garrus-1 detention center—as expected, given Vortex's profession. Onslaught strode in with the unshakeable authority of a superior officer and transmitted his credentials to the guard on desk duty.
"Onslaught of Kaon. I'm here for Vortex. Show me to his office," Onslaught said.
The guard peered Onslaught with immeasurable pity and pointed him toward the solitary confinement cellblock.
The cellblock was arranged like any other prison Onslaught had seen on Cybertron: plain cells with soundproof walls and a one-way window on the cell entrance. The guard brought Onslaught past dozens of prisoners: grounders curled up on the ground or stewing in alt-mode, fliers with torn wings clawing at the walls, utility mechs with blank faceplates and crumpled armor. A mangled Hardtop laid in one cell, curled in upon himself with his back to the entrance. Many of the other prisoners bore injuries that looked strikingly similar to those inflicted during Hardtop's interrogation. A few prisoners also had the fresh metallic look of mechs repaired from the brink of death. Most of them slumped in corners or hunched on their recharge platforms, staring at the cell walls with the sullen glares of lost hope.
The guard led Onslaught to the furthest end of the cell block.
"Here's your mech."
Vortex sat inside that cell, mildly scratched and dinged from a recent scuffle. He curled up on the floor beside the recharge platform, head down, arms hugging his knees. All four of his back-mounted rotors slumped to the right, trailing against the recharge platform rather than standing upright. It gave him an oddly pitiful appearance despite the intrinsic intimidation factor of being a rotary warframe. He rocked back and forth, rotors scraping against the platform with every motion.
Overall, Vortex looked like a mech having a mental break. Onslaught was not impressed.
"Vortex is a prisoner? I was informed that he worked here."
"Yeah, it's on and off. Last shift, 'Tex shoved Warden Overwatch into an incinerator feed. Luckily, we only light the incinerator every third shift, so the ol' warden isn't too melted—but we couldn't just let him walk free after that." The guard tapped a control panel on the side of the cell, depolarizing the one-way window for two-way viewing.
Vortex perked up. His rotors shuffled and snapped upright. The edges gleamed, bare alloys filed down to razor-sharp cutting blades. The corner of the recharge platform glittered with metallic powder.
The rocking, the awkward slump of those rotors: those were not signs of defeat after all, but a ruse to fool the casual viewer while Vortex honed his built-in weapons. A most productive use of idle time. Onslaught approved.
The guard entered a passcode into the control panel. Transparent aluminum doors unlocked and slid aside. Inside the cell, Vortex tilted his head, rotors swaying in lazy arcs over his shoulders. He looked Onslaught over. When he spoke, his voice was smooth and indolent.
"A blue, hmm? They sent up a fancy blue-rank officer like you to deal with little old me. How flattering."
The guard stepped forward, armor flaring out in indignation. "Don't you know who this is? He's one of those frontline officers from planetside. He fought the Quints. Show some respect."
Vortex's visor brightened. "Or what? You'll throw me in solitary? Oh, wait. You already did."
The guard clenched his fists. Onslaught intervened.
"Vortex, duty calls. You've been assigned to my team for a Code Black mission. The choice is yours: work for me and leave this dreary cell, or stay here and rust for... how long was it? Two vorns in lockup for assaulting a superior officer?" Onslaught estimated this based on the disciplinary policies of Kaon headquarters. "Your skills are wasted here, Vortex. Solitary is no place for a specialist of your caliber."
"Well said. You sure know how to recruit a mech." Vortex hopped to his feet and spun his freshly sharpened rotors. The breeze kicked up a cloud of glittering metal dust. "Count me in, boss. What's the plan?"
Onslaught and Vortex found their third back at the airfield. Brawl sat in the shadow of a large cargo jet, flicking energon crystals at the native pigeonoids. Those raw crystals were clearly a favorite fuel, judging by how the pigeonoids swarmed every time Brawl tossed another handful of shards into their midst.
Vortex sauntered up behind him. "Heya, Brawl. How's it going?"
"Hey yourself—oh!" Brawl spotted Onslaught and jumped up, visor flashing in surprise. The pigeonoids scattered. Brawl saluted. "SIR, ONSLAUGHT, SIR! Brawl reporting for duty, SIR!"
Onslaught belatedly dialed down his audial sensitivity. "At ease, Brawl."
"Yes, sir!" Brawl dropped the salute and pulled another box of energon crystals from subspace. "Want to feed the birds?"
Onslaught glanced skeptically at the area where the pigeonoids had been. They had all left, scared away by the noise of Brawl's greeting. "Perhaps another time. We have work to do."
Brawl wilted a bit. "Yeah. I saw Kup's message. It looked urgent. So is this everyone? Ready to smash… whatever it is we're smashing?"
"No." Onslaught looked up. Cybertron filled half the sky, but the other half was dark and clear. After spending vorns planetside, the starry night was a refreshing sight. Luna Two lacked the perpetual smog that hung over Kaon. One of the orbital sentry stations was just visible over the horizon, a glittering tetrahedron suspended in the dark expanse between here and Cybertron. "Our navigator is en route with the ship. He's scheduled to arrive at thirteen-thirty joors."
"Ship? We have ships right here." Vortex gestured at the airbus lot only a few steps away, where dozens of short-range dropships were parked in orderly rows. "Plenty to go around. Take your pick, and I'll fly you anywhere you want to go. Luna One, Kaon, the Rust Sea—anywhere you like, I'm your mech. Starship operator level five here. You won't find a better pilot around these parts."
Onslaught had indeed seen this qualification in Vortex's personnel files. Level five certification was an impressive achievement, given that Vortex's primary occupation was not as a starship pilot. However, the files also contained a more recent note stating that Vortex's starship operating license had been revoked for unsafe flight maneuvers.
"This is an off-world task. We'll need better range than these puddle jumpers." Onslaught elected not to mention Vortex's small licensing issue.
"I can fly starships too, no problem. It's easy."
"No."
Vortex looked disappointed.
They waited.
After a while, Brawl wandered off in search of more pigeonoids.
Vortex kicked at the pavement, bored enough to attempt smalltalk. "Well, well. Onslaught of Kaon. Knew I recognized you from somewhere. So, oh poster mech of Kaon, who'd you cross to get stuck with me on your team?"
"Stuck? Nonsense. I chose you for your relevant expertise in data extraction," Onslaught lied. "Though I must admit, I presumed you'd be the jailor, not the jailee."
Vortex's rotors flicked. "You thought I did data extraction? Data extraction?" He giggled. "Hehehe, heh, yeah, I do data extraction. Mostly extraction of the hardware with the data inside, if you get my meaning."
"As I said, relevant expertise." Onslaught turned away. Vortex was clearly searching for a reaction, but he could not provoke Onslaught with such an obvious approach. Onslaught had already seen Vortex's service records. The most concerning takeaway was his apparent propensity for picking fights with his colleagues.
The pigeonoid search led Brawl to the Garrus-1 armory. He soon returned with three photon rifles and associated charge packs, distributing the weapons among their group. Onslaught performed a cursory check of his rifle. It was a standard issue model for off-world missions with low to medium threat rating. The charge packs were fully energized, and the firing apparatus was in good condition. Satisfied, he stashed the plasma rifle in his subspace compartment.
At thirteen-thirty joors precisely, a dark speck in the sky resolved into a shuttle quickly approaching the airfield. The shuttle bypassed the landing strip entirely and swept around to a vertical descent in front of Onslaught. At the last moment, the shuttle transformed, folding inward upon itself layer by layer. In an impressive display of mass shifting technology, the shuttle that had been large enough to hold ten passengers—or five comfortably—shrank into a mech who would not have stood out among the average Kaon crowd.
Onslaught gave the customary salute of superior to subordinate. "Welcome, Blast Off of Altihex Defense Corps."
"Simply 'Blast Off of Altihex' will suffice," Blast Off said in a very posh Altihexian accent, failing to salute at all. "My resignation was approved this past shift. I shall retire from the Defense Corps upon completion of this task."
"Retire. I see." Onslaught did not see. Kup's team profiles had mentioned nothing about retirement. He double-checked his information against the online Altihex Defense Corps personnel registry. Blast Off's deep-space security clearances were still valid for another decaorn. That was longer than seventy percent of Onslaught's mission timeframe projections. Acceptable.
Brawl sized Blast Off up. "You're a big one."
"How observant for a tank. You're a smart one." Blast Off tapped Brawl on the head.
Brawl jerked away and raised a fist. "YOU TRY THAT AGAIN—"
"Brawl, stand down." Onslaught reset his vocalizer with a sharp click, activating vocal subroutines to infuse his speech with a refined accent of his own. "Blast Off, Brawl, Vortex. Now that we are all assembled, let us proceed with the mission. Each of you has received a briefing packet from Kup detailing the parameters and objectives."
"Yeah. It had a whole lot of words." Brawl's tone implied that he had not particularly cared to read those words.
"What packet? Last briefing I had was a rant from the disciplinary board about incinerator safety protocol. Here I thought you broke me out of solitary for the laughs," Vortex said, crossing his arms.
"Kup's documents were most uninformative." Blast Off shared his packet over a quick databurst. "I presume this invokes Code Black?"
The databurst was much smaller than expected. Blast Off's version of the briefing packet was outwardly similar to the contents of the data chip Kup had given Onslaught: team profiles, the mission objective, and the citizen record of the key thief. However, almost all of the useful information was redacted in Blast Off's copy—everything except for one line. Destination: Gylon star system. That was apparently all the information that the higher-ups thought a navigator needed to know.
Unacceptable. Classified or not, Blast Off's redacted briefing was insufficient for a mission of this importance. As team leader, Onslaught had the authority to exercise his own judgment in sharing necessary intelligence with his subordinates. The subjective nature of defining necessary information granted a team leader considerable leeway in the distribution of classified intelligence.
"You presume correctly, Blast Off." Onslaught sent his more complete version of the briefing packet to his new team. "Here's what you need to know. Two orns ago, a thief by the alias 'Swindle' stole the activation key for the planetary defense grid. If the Quintessons get ahold of that key, Cybertron loses its most effective deterrent against another invasion. We have two objectives: capture Swindle and recover that key."