This next one's been bouncing around in my head since before I wrote "Colony 21186D: Survival", and was actually the plot bunny that gave rise to the idea of Metamorphosis. EDIT: 2016 - this is one of some four or five chapters, scattered across Mirrors. One day I will take them all and put them together into one cohesive story.
Olympus
(Set during "Orion Pax parts 1 and 2)
"How goes Project Iacon?"
When he was met with silence, Megatron frowned and looked up. Orion Pax was slumped despondently against the wall, a datapad dangling from unresponsive servos. "Orion? Is something the matter?"
In the back of his processor, Megatron wondered if perhaps he was pushing the librarian too hard, too soon. He followed Orion's optics to one of the smaller screens set into the wall. Displayed on it was video footage of a bombing in the planet's eastern hemisphere. The humans were shouting and running from the flames, not all of them lucky enough to escape. Quite suddenly the feed switched to a live report of some terrible sickness ravaging a city, followed by harsh threats from militants demanding attention while murdering those who would not bow to them.
Orion lifted his helm and brushed coolant from the corners of his optics. "They're dying," he whispered.
"Yes." Megatron stated simply.
"Can we not save them?"
The Decepticon shook his helm decisively. "We cannot interfere. They are not yet ready to know of our existence, my friend. And they would not cooperate. In my limited experience with humans, I have found that they will go out of their way to do the opposite of what you tell them to do."
"Well," Orion muttered, "They are very young." He tightened his grip on the datapad. "Surely, with time, they would come to accept us. If we do not make the first overtures, how can they know to trust us?"
The two Decepticon guards at the door shifted uncomfortably as their leader asked sharply, "Why this sudden interest in humanity, Orion Pax? Is not the survival of your own race more pressing at the moment?"
"I am sorry, Megatron. I find it very difficult to concentrate just now. Surely, speaking to just one human couldn't-" he was cut off by a wave of Megatron's hand.
"Enough, Orion. It will wait for another day."
"But Megatron-"
"Leave it, Pax."
"But if you would just listen-"
"Enough! I have spoken." Megatron sighed and pulled a hand over his faceplate. "Return to your studies, Orion," he growled, "The World of Men is not our concern."
"The World of Men is our only concern!" Orion shouted back.
The guards gasped and edged towards the door as Megatron turned to face the archivist ever so slowly. "What did you say?" he hissed.
Orion trembled, but he had come too far to back down now. "The Autobots, Project Iacon, even Cybertron! None of it will matter in the grand scheme of history if we let this planet fall. If humanity dies, so do we!"
As the warlord descended like a thundercloud, the archivist retreated as far as the narrow room would allow him. Optics squeezed shut, he held the datapad out in front of him and braced himself for the ex-gladiator's legendary temper. The tablet was snatched from his servos, but neither blows nor tirade followed. Orion unshuttered one optic cautiously.
Megatron held the datapad and scanned it quickly, then a second time, slower. His brows lowered more by the second so that when he looked up suddenly, Orion flinched. "Tell me this isn't what I think it is," he sounded concerned, but not angry.
Orion remained at what he deemed to be a safe distance from Megatron, but he nodded his helm and answered softly, "The one on the left is the chemical and physiological makeup of a Cybertronian infant. The one on the right..." He watched as the Decepticon leader reeled slightly and leaned heavily against the console.
"This...changes everything," he rasped. "Do you understand what this means Orion?"
The red and blue mech nodded solemnly. "This is no longer a battle to settle old scores: we are fighting to protect our own race from self-annihilation."
Decisively, Megatron straightened his shoulders and crossed his arms behind his back. "Return to Project Iacon for now, Orion," he commanded, "But when I send for you, you will join Knock Out in a new endeavor: the preservation of our young brethren."
Pax bowed his helm gratefully. "Thank you, Megatron," he murmured.
The ex-gladiator left the database room quickly and commed both Soundwave and Knock Out. "It has come to my attention that the organic species upon this planet is more than it seems. Further study is required. Knock Out, you will coordinate with Orion Pax and review his notes. He will explain further."
The medic spluttered and stammered, of course, completely discombobulated. Megatron was not interested in excuses, he wanted results. Knock Out was given a deadline and the vain mech quickly realized that it was in his best interests to cooperate with Orion Pax.
"Soundwave," the warlord began again, "Human subjects are needed. I trust you know where to find, oh, say three young ones? Two males and a female, perhaps?" He might as well strike a blow against the Autobots while pursuing this line of inquiry. The spy knew what was being asked of him, and sent a submissive but inquisitive glyph in return. Megatron's optics hardened.
"We have seen humanity, Soundwave, and they are us."
A Place to sit and Ponder EDIT 2016: this evolved into the story "The Adventure of the Spider's Web
London, England. 1878
The door closed with a soft click as the young woman turned to lock it behind her. "Until tomorrow," she murmured with a soft smile.
Taking care to pin her fashionable blue hat more firmly to her dark, upswept hair, the secretary pulled her tailored coat a little tighter over her riding habit and unfastened the tired old bicycle from the iron railing. Her departure did not go unnoticed. Several pairs of unfriendly eyes watched from the rooftops in the rows of fine houses. Then, quick as a thought, they were gone.
The woman coasted easily along the roads, and the mansions gave way to humbler buildings. She did not try to avoid the puddles and the slush. What good would that have done in February? Mud splashed up onto the cobalt hem of her dress.
The houses became more run down as she reached the part of her journey where she would unfortunately have to cut through the edges of London's East End. Standing at a corner in the waning light, a young man attempted to sell newspapers.
The secretary felt a stab of pity for the boy in ragged clothing: business was evidently not good today, and his thin shoes offered him no protection from the freezing conditions. Miss d'Iacon had encountered few problems that day, and was feeling charitable, so she stopped the bicycle and leaned over.
"I'll take one, boy," she said coolly. The young man in question jumped, having not heard her approach. Pushing his floppy hat back from his blue eyes, the blushing boy handed her a paper.
"Two for a pence, ma'am, if you like," he gulped.
If the woman was startled by his upper class accent, she did not show it. "Yes, thank you," she took a pence from her coin purse and placed it in the tattered glove. "You'll freeze out here," she observed, a compassionate look in her eyes, "And I doubt that anyone else will be out looking for news this evening. Why don't you go home, young man?"
He shook his head, and pushed shaggy black bangs out of his eyes. "I wish I could, ma'am." He stopped and squinted over her shoulder. Vapor clouded between their faces as his breath hissed from between his teeth. The woman raised an eyebrow, silently demanding an explanation.
"Miss, don't turn around," the paperboy spoke in a low voice, "There's three men as have been following you since you turned onto this street. They haven't gone away this whole time you've been here. Forgive my forwardness, Ma'am, but I don't like the looks of them at all. I think you'd better clear out of here."
In the frosty shop windowpane behind the young man, the secretary caught the reflection of the men in question. Broad shoulders, athletic build, and all three wore deep purple scarves covering their mouths and noses.
"Oh, brilliant," she growled. She calculated her options. She could get back on the bicycle and ride like her life depended on it—which it did—but there was no guarantee that she would outdistance them in a part of London she was unfamiliar with. Her second option would have been to enter one of the shabby-looking establishments on the street to hide, but they would likely be waiting when she left. Her third option was to stand and fight, and she hoped it would not come to that.
Belatedly, the woman realized that the boy was speaking to her. "I beg your pardon?"
Patiently, he repeated his offer. "I can get you back to the West End, ma'am. I know all the streets between."
"In return for what?" she asked sharply.
Blue eyes darkened. "In return for you being safe, ma'am," the boy looked offended that she would question his motives.
Miss d'Iacon glanced back at the three men in the alley, who were beginning to edge closer. "Oh, very well," she sighed, "But so help me, if you get us lost..." she let the threat hang in the air.
That was all the paperboy needed. "Right, come on." Ignoring outraged protests, he seized her hand and took off at a run. Pausing in what appeared to be a dead-end street, the skinny figure stacked two empty crates on each other at a low brick wall.
"Over you go," he directed breathlessly, "I'll be right behind."
The pounding of feet on the cobblestones warned them both that their shadows were close behind as well. Miss d'Iacon never once lost composure as she slipped over the wall. The boy followed, pausing to kick the boxes down on his way. Then he had her hand and they were running again.
The light had disappeared into the fog as they made it to wealthier parts of the city. Their pursuers had not relented. "You realize, of course," the secretary panted, "That if those men are after me, you've just made yourself a target?"
"That I have, Miss," her newfound ally replied raggedly, "But those fellows cause trouble on my street often enough, I don't see how it can get much worse."
Miss d'Iacon scoffed at the boy's naivete. Their breaths came in gasps and their steps slowed as they wound through a maze of alleys and hidden gates towards the place of the woman's employment.
"Now you follow me," she hissed, ducking into the shadows as one masked man got a little too close for comfort. The two crouched behind a corner as the sinister shape drew nearer. Suddenly, a thick brogue cut through the foggy night.
"Well, would ye look there, Raphael m'lad? They do say as rats come out at night, don't they?"
Standing at the end of the alley, highlighted by the gaslights, was a well-built young Irishman with a shock of dark blonde hair tied back with a string. Beside him stood a small boy, well-dressed and wide-eyed.
"And is he a rat then, Brendan?"
The older boy winked broadly. "Oh, aye. That he is, boyo. An' ye know what we do about rats out here, don't ye?"
The two cracked their knuckles and grinned savagely. A matching smile graced the lips of Miss d'Iacon. "Well at last we have some good luck!" she whispered to the paperboy. "Those men will handle our little problem. You run off home."
The boy wrinkled his brow. "Men? I only see one man and one boy." His companion let out a rather unladylike snort.
"Wherever Brendan Foiche goes, his Bull's Horn Band are sure to follow."
The dark haired boy set his jaw. "Be that as it may, ma'am, I'll not leave until I've seen you safely to your destination." It was not often one ran across such an offer of chivalry from the younger generation, Miss d'Iacon reflected, and so she reluctantly agreed that he would accompany her a few minutes longer.
As she had predicted, Brogan O'Garvie and William "Wheels" Jerome soon turned up, eager for a brawl. Contrary to her predictions, however, one of the purple-scarved men managed to slip past them. He caught up to the fugitives in front of a beautiful marble house supported at the front by thirteen white pillars.
"Thirteen, eh? Bad luck for them," the assassin thought. He smirked behind the cloth over his face as the ragged boy clenched his fists and stood in front of the woman, ready to fight. The boy was not his target, but no one said he couldn't have a little fun while he was on duty. In the scuffle that ensued, the boy managed to blacken the thug's eye and land a few good punches on him, but for the most part, he came out the worst.
Miss d'Iacon had not been idle during this time. As the young man bought her time, she whipped out a tiny pistol from her handbag and brought it to bear on their pursuer. The distinctive click of the hammer being drawn back froze the criminal in his tracks.
"Truly, sir, you are an imbecile," Mis d'Iacon snapped. "Not only did you follow me all the way to East End, but you dared assault innocent citizens in front of his home!"
With an inarticulate sound of dismay, the assassin leapt to his feet from where he had been holding a knife to the paperboy's throat.
Light spilled from the doorway and an authoritative voice rang out, "What is the meaning of this?"
The would-be killer showed a wonderfully clean pair of heels as he fled into the night.
"Miss d'Iacon, are you well?" the voice from the door asked.
"Yes sir, quite well indeed," she replied calmly, "But I'm afraid our rash young friend here took a beating on my behalf."
A tall man with a regal disposition hurried down the steps carrying a lantern. He tapped his squared jaw with one finger in thought. "I believe you had best come inside, the pair of you," he said. "I shall send for my physician at once."
The young man began to protest as he was helped to his feet. "That's not necessary sir, I wouldn't want to trouble anyone."
"Nonsense, young man. You'll come inside at once!" the older man's tone brooked no argument.
Once inside, the boy found himself staring at what was quite possibly the largest collection of books he had ever seen in his life.
Dark eyes twinkled in a stern face. "Do you like books?" the man asked quietly, "I spent a great deal of my youth collecting them." He took the young man by the elbow and directed him to a chair as Miss d'Iacon explained their predicament.
"Well, I should hope you know better than to cut through a part of town you are unfamiliar with," the deep voice interjected, one part scolding, one part amusement.
A servant brought a basin of water and, thanking him, the master of the house dipped a handkerchief into the bowl and tried to clean some of the blood from the boy's face. "What's your name, lad?" he asked kindly.
The answer was quiet and slightly strained as the cold water touched a cut. "Jack, sir. Jack Darby." The handkerchief came away stained red and was rinsed in the basin again.
"Well, Master Darby, you are either very brave, or very rash. That was no common thief you fought with tonight, that was a trained assassin, sent to murder Miss d'Iacon."
Jack blanched. "Murder her? But why would anyone wish such a thing?"
The older man's eyes were tinged with sorrow. "Because of me. I am a man with enemies, my young friend, and all those who associate with me find themselves with enemies of their own."
He cast a glance over his shoulder. "Don't think I won't be tending to that scrape on your arm, Miss Arcee. Yes, I saw that, stop hiding it."
The secretary flushed and dutifully rolled the sleeve back to show the angry red welt. The noble looking gentleman shook out a second handkerchief and dipped it into the water, tying it around the woman's forearm. "That should do until Doctor Rach arrives."
Jack watched the strange man with awe, heightened by the sheer magnificence of the home in which he now sat. Who was this man? As if he had read his thoughts, their benefactor turned and smiled down at him.
"Ah, where are my manners tonight? I asked for your name and never gave my own!" He offered a friendly hand to the stunned boy. "I am Lord Optimus of the house of Prime, and you are always welcome here."
This was inspired by a series of drawings I found once. Look up "Transformers Prime Victorian" in Google images, and look for the black and white drawings of the characters as humans. The Wreckers are Irish, Miko is Chinese (because of the opium trade at the time period), Airachnid is a lady version of Jack the Ripper, and Starscream is Lord Megatron of Kaon's terrifying housekeeper. (Yes, female. And did I mention terrifying? She's terrifying.)