C-14 walked through the streets of Tarn shortly after getting Jinx to the unqualified medic in the mines, finally shaking the newspark after spending all solar cycle mining with him. His optics scanned the dwindling traffic in the streets, watching as bots in various alt modes whizzed by him in the streets, almost fast enough to be a blur. The gunmetal grey city towered above him, accented by purple lighting that painted the darkening streets in a faint purple.
Since it was late at night, there was barely any bots on the sidewalks, most being in their homes by now. The miner had gotten the late shift, unfortunately and was finally granted his limited downtime, after using the first thirty kliks of it to help Jinx. Most bots spent it unwinding at places like the bar he was headed to. C-14 was no exception.
His frame ached from the seemingly endless breems of drilling. Each step sent a dull throb through his joint cables, but he was used to it by now. It was just another part of life as a low caste. His optics caught on the neon sign above the bar flickering weakly as it clung to its last vestiges of life.
The Smelting Pit. It was a popular pub on level 9 of Tarn, mostly where his kind hung around after their work shifts, if they were even granted their downtime. Stepping inside, C-14 approached the counter and watched as the drone who served as the barkeep hand over his usual drink, Visco.
It was a popular drink that was pleasant to taste, but it wouldn't inebriate a bot. He would only drink low grade—the lesser version of high grade—after being beaten or after a match to drown out the guilt he felt for extinguishing another spark.
After paying for his drink, the miner scanned the room. He had heard from another miner that The Smelting Pit was Chainlink's favorite spot to hang around. And sure enough, here he was. C-14 spotted the gunmetal grey and red accented bot in a corner booth, and slipped into the seat across from him, placing his drink on the table with a quiet clink.
The older miner looked up and his optics widened in surprise, but he quickly covered it, staring at the datapad that C-14 was sliding over the mech. "You read it already?" Chainlink asked, lifting the datapad up and turning it over.
C-14 nodded. He'd devoured every line, every word, in the two cycles. He had sacrificed an entire recharge cycle just so he could finish the book. The klik he started to read it in the mines, he knew he couldn't stop reading until he finished it. Those words he read were in the back of his neural net all of his shift.
"Looks like we're even then," Chainlink murmured, setting the datapad back down with a tired vent. He leaned back, frame, optics dimming slightly as he stared at the worn device. There was a faraway look in his optics, as though he were gazing back through time itself.
"We fought and spilled energon to beat back our oppressors, only to let another take their place," he finally said, wearily. "We thought we'd won something when we took the old system down. But all we did was make room for another. Worse one, maybe."
C-14 leaned in, listening intently. He could tell that these words weighed heavily on Chainlink's spark, no doubt for longer than he had been alive.
The older mech vented. "Once, we were building Cybertron up, ushering in a golden age. That was until the Rust Plague hit, nearly wiping us out."
The gladiator remembered reading about it in the datapad. The Rust Plague had ravaged many of Cybertron's colonies, infecting everything in its path, turning once-thriving colonies to ruin. It was a silent, creeping death that had nearly destroyed their home planet.
Chainlink's optics darkened. "Energon stopped flowing. Supplies became scarce. What energon stores we did have were contaminated and the very lifeblood of our kind turned poisonous. There was nothing left.
"So, Sentinel Prime did what he thought was 'best,'" the miner spat the word bitterly, as if it tasted of rust. "Reinstated the caste system—the one that those tentacled horrors thought was right for us. The squid's system that divided our ancestors."
C-14 shifted uncomfortably, remembering the conversation they had in the mines a cycle back.
"Cold-constructed, 'not real Cybertronians'—that's what they call us. They shoved us into the mines, saying we were fit only for labor, because we 'built' by them for it. We had break our frames digging out Cybertron's core while they live comfortably above."
He knew the feeling of being treated like something less. Whenever he chosen to be the lucky bot to deliver energon to the surface, he saw the disgust in the optics of the high-caste bots who looked down on him for being both low caste and cold-constructed.
The miner's recalled all the slurs and sneers that the high castes would direct at him. Sometimes they would force him to pay for their drinks when he "spilled" them. He still felt the sting of those words and actions toward him, a constant reminder of he was lower than them.
Chainlink let out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound bitter. "It was supposed to be temporary, just until things 'stabilized,' they said. But millions of stellar cycles later, here we are. And who benefits? Certainly not us. Not the miners, the laborers, the fighters…"
The mech's faceplate looked pained, as if some old wound had reopened, and one that C-14 knew no amount of time or energon could ever truly heal. He watched him intently, and for a klik, he saw the lingering scars of the past etched onto his frame.
Finally, C-14 asked, "Why did you really help me in the mines?"
Besides the fact that you needed "a favor." he thought.
Chainlink paused, looking down to stare at his empty energon cube. The silence that followed was long, stretching over several kliks as he wrestled with whatever emotions were simmering beneath the surface. For a klik, it seemed like he might answer.
His intake opened slightly, but just as quickly, Chainlink seemed to shove whatever he had been about to say back down. He nudged the datapad toward C-14 with a servo.
"Keep it," the older mech replied, ignoring the question entirely. "It's yours now."
His optics widened, surprised. "But… I thought—"
"I know what you thought," Chainlink cut him off. "Doesn't change anything. You've read it; that's all that matters now. Take it."
C-14 took the datapad hesitantly, digits curling around its worn edges. It was like a relic, and perhaps in a way, it was. Knowledge like this was rare, and it was dangerous. It was more than just a history book. It was a piece of their planet's soul, one that the Functionists would have rather kept buried and forgotten.
The miner leaned back in his seat, optics glancing around the dimly lit pub, scanning every surface and bot in the room. "I'm old, C-14. Too old to keep fighting battles that'll outlive me. But you… you're different. You still got time and strength. And maybe… maybe this time, someone like you can finally break the cycle."
C-14 frowned. How would he break the cycle? He was only one bot—one lowly miner whose voice wasn't even heard in the mines—against the entirety of Cybertron, of billions of bots. He was a nobody in the grand scheme of things, but…
He saw that hope in Chainlink's optics. It was hope for something bigger, something worth fighting for. It was hope for a better Cybertron, a hope that burned brighter than any sun. He realized this spark of hope could be the start of a roaring inferno that could spread through their planet like wildfire.
The younger mech nodded, suddenly understanding why Chainlink had helped him and shared this dangerous knowledge. It wasn't just about survival. It was about change, about freeing themselves from a system that had chained them for far too long.
"Now go on," he said gruffly. "Can't have you sitting here all night."
C-14 shook his helm, placing the datapad in his subspace. "No."
The older miner blinked in surprise, opening his intake to speak but the larger mech cut him off.
"I want you to tell me more about the past."
They watched their target C-14 interact with subject TSA-479D at the table in the corner, hidden from most optics in the bar. They saw the slave push a worn device to the old timer, which they suspected was one of the confiscated books that had been stolen stellar cycles ago.
They zoomed in on the device, scanning it and confirming that it was indeed the missing datapad, A Brief History of Cybertron. Clearly TSA-479D had given the miner bot the book to read and filled his helm with nonsense about freedom and a better Cybertron. It could perhaps ruin their handler's plans.
TSA-479D had a history, a bad, incriminating history that could easily get him thrown in jail forever. They could easily make him disappear, but they had allowed him loose for this long due to the fact he had a stash of other stolen datapads they needed to find. That, and he knew where some "stray slaves" were.
A soft chime in their com, followed by the low, distorted voice of their handler in their audios. "Well? Is the slave there?"
They kept their optics locked on C-14, suppressing a smirk. "'Course, sir. I can bring him in now if you want."
There was a long pause on the other end. Finally, their handler's voice crackled back. "Not yet. He still has some time before it runs out. But bring me the datapad."
Not even an astro-klik after their handler spoke, the line was cut. They let out a puff of air, mildly irritated by the continual delays. It was always "not yet" or "soon." This assignment they been charged with had been nothing but following a stupid low-caste miner from the shadows for reasons they weren't paid to question.
What made this slave so important to their Functionists and handler was beyond them, but it was a mystery they would never question. This job is what was keeping them alt-mode exempt for over a million stellar cycles now. So they stayed in line, hidden and silent, watching the miner's every move.
Tonight, at least, they'd finally been given an order that broke the same monotonous routine. A panel on their arm slid back, revealing a tidy row of electro darts. They picked one up, placing it in the slot to fire it, calibrating the settings and took aim.
In an instant, the dart fired.
The device struck right between C-14's optics, and he let out a startled cry before the surge of electricity overloaded his systems, forcing them to shut down temporarily. The miner slumped, drink rolling out of his servo.
TSA-479D was on his pedes in an instant, looking alarmed. They didn't hesitate, firing another dart that embedded itself in the slave's chassis, sending him into stasis as well. The miner buckled and collapsed back onto the booth.
They got up, sauntering over to the miners, ignoring the glances from the couple of curious mechs who saw the scene. The bot knew that the bar didn't care what the pit happened to their patrons, as long as it didn't burn down the building. Fights were pretty common in this bar anyways, thus the lack of disturbance in the pub.
They pushed the slave's frame upright, ripping open his chassis compartment, revealing the hidden space where a bot's items could be stored. It was a pocket dimension close to a bot's most important asset—the spark. It was considered invasive, but they weren't doing this job to be polite.
They rummaged through the subspace, coming across an energon cube—a ration from the mines that he had probably saved for later use and a scalpel from Primus knew where. Their servo finally found the datapad and they pulled it out, tucking it in their own storage.
Looking at the miners, they knew it would be problematic if the pair woke up in the bar. It might make sense for TSA-479D, but not C-14 who was only drinking Visco. And the darts would give something away.
Plucking the devices off the bots, they placed them back beneath the panel and pressed a digit to their audial receptor. They searched through their contacts before finding the one they needed.
"Streamline, I have two miners here…"
C-14 groaned, stirring on the uncomfortable surface beneath him. He had a terrible processor ache. Did he drink low grade last night? He couldn't remember much after his talk with Chainlink. But he did know one thing: he didn't just want freedom for himself anymore. He wanted to every one of his Cybertronian sisters and brother to have freedom yet. It was just the matter of how.
He wouldn't be able to answer that question as a sharp voice cut through the haze. "C-14! On your pedes!"
He jolted upward, hitting his helm on the berth above, onlining his optics to see a taskmaster staring him down. Wait… how did he get here? He was in The Smelting Pit last night, drinking with Chainlink. How in Primus did he end up back in the mines? Did the older miner drag him back?
The miner managed to convince himself that it had to be Chainlink. His optics surveyed the room, seeing the other miners who had been in recharge were getting up, looking confused and murmuring. What was more unusual than how he was back in the mines; was why a taskmaster was here. The slavedrivers rarely singled anyone out unless there was trouble.
His kept his plating from bristling and his EM fields tight. Had he done something wrong? Did they find out about the datapad?
"Did you hear me?" the taskmaster barked, optics glinting dangerously.
C-14 realized he hadn't moved and quickly shoved himself up off the berth, stifling any outward signs of unease as followed the taskmaster through the tunnels. The walk was long and winding, leading upward to the surface, which was direction they rarely took in the mines unless a bot was chosen for delivery.
When they finally emerged on the surface, blinding light made C-14 squint as his optics tried to he could do anything, the taskmaster gave him a rough shove, guiding him toward a waiting transport vehicle. He climbed inside, hunching down to fit into the small interior that was for too small for his large frame.
It was the same kind of vehicle that was typically used for delivering energon to Iacon. Or worse…
His tanks churned as the thought that some bots went missing after being taken by these transports. From the stories he heard, there were two enforcers by these reinforced vehicles that would whisk the victim away to never be seen again.
Then again, the reliability of these stories were questionable, considering their sources. But there was always a quartex of truth in every tale.
The transport jerked forward suddenly, signaling that they were moving. The ride constantly rattled and groaned as it rode on what he knew were uneven roads. These were the backroads that they would use to get to monorail stations, or—
No.
C-14 kept his optics on the floor, feeling his frame tense with every klik that passed. He tried not to think about the dark rumors, forcing himself to believe this was just another delivery.
Finally, the transport ground to a halt. All was silent for a long klik before there was a click and the doors to the vehicle were thrown open. His olfactory sensors picked up the scent of rust and oil in the air. It was the monorail station. Out of the transport, he saw the well-worn cargo train sitting on the tracks, waiting for its next delivery of precious energon bound for Iacon.
Before C-14 could ask a single question, the taskmaster shoved a datapad into his servos. "You'll be delivering this energon to Iacon," he ordered. "The other bot's been… reassigned."
The gladiator nodded, gripping the datapad tighter. He had a terrible feeling that this bot who was 'reassigned' had met a terrible fate, but he knew better than to ask about them. Instead, he stepped toward the waiting train.
The klik he stepped inside the monorail transport, the doors slammed shut, locking with a loud click. C 14 let out air through his vents, looking at copper-colored crates that contained the energon they mined. These containers were magnetically sealed to the ground to prevent them from moving and spilling their contents on the ground.
He made his way through the compartment, scanning the datapads contents as he took stock of the shipment. It listed crates by quality. The finer grades of energon, made for the high castes, were at the front of the train, along with rarified energon that was used to create the well-known high grade.
The low grade, fuel they were forced to use in the mines, were stacked in the back half. He read and reread the shipments again to make sure that he wasn't missing any instructions that they may have put in the datapad.
Finding nothing, he lowered himself onto one of the crates, hearing the quiet groan from it as it supported his weight. His optics were drawn to the small, white security camera that sat in the corner, almost invisible. He was being watched. No doubt they thought he might try to make a run for it or steal something. He wasn't stupid enough to try anything—no one in the lower castes ever did, not without a purpose and a death wish.
Still, he couldn't help but feel that this "security" was more about reminding bots like him of their place than it was about preventing anything. Leaning back, he let the cool air seep into his systems, cooling down the warm circuitry beneath the plating.
This delivery wasn't all bad, he supposed. He'd get a few breems of free time in Iacon while they unloaded and processed the raw energon. He'd learned that during these brief stops, he was left to his own devices, free to roam—well, relatively speaking—until it was time to make the return journey.
It was perhaps the only time he could catch a glimpse of a life outside the constant grind of the mines. The arena didn't count because he was stuck in a building, albeit a large one. It was a reprieve for many, but he wasn't sure if he shared the sentiment. It was just a place of death, and he was only there because he had to be.
C-14 shook off the line of thoughts, scrolling through more entries detailing the distribution. A full share of low-grade energon for the miners, enough to last the next couple of megacycles. And, of course, a generous portion of higher-grade energon reserved for the taskmasters that could last half a stellar cycle, if not longer.
The monorail transport hummed to life, lights brightening and energon running through the lines that were visible through the floor of the train. It cast a soft blue hue in the compartment, almost reminding him of the sky. C-14 stared up at the compartment ceiling. In less than a breem, he'd be in Iacon. And he'd use every breem he had there to enjoy himself in the golden city.
One solar cycle, he promised himself, he would walk free like one of them. He and his brothers would walk as equals through the streets of Iacon, and not some low caste, dispensable scrap.
He vented softly, looking at the camera again. He got up, moving toward a crate in a corner and turned his back to the device monitoring him. He opened his subspace, reaching down to find a datapad. He could read it to pass the time until he arrived at Iacon.
The energon in his fuel lines suddenly ran cold.
The datapad wasn't in his subspace.