Transformers: This Is How It All Began - A Tragedy

Discussion in 'Transformers Fan Fiction' started by The Librarian, May 17, 2012.

  1. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Oh dang. I'm having withdrawl again.
     
  2. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    The suspense is killing me
     
  3. The Librarian

    The Librarian Well-Known Member

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    Thanks! I'm not a fan of the school of writing that has TFs just dive into battle and start hacking at one another without any real thought. And it occurs to me that a species that *is* technology and also uses it would find it much easier to see into each other's brain, so the bit with the hackers seemed a sensible extension.

    Sorry about that! Things kept coming up and I kept putting off posting the next bit! Hope the below eases the pain a bit!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    2.9: Public Image
    Main Conference Room
    The Palace of Law
    Vos
    Cybertron


    “Come now, surely it is but a small consideration given the benefits that Tagan will see?” Sarristec put on his most winning smile. “Benefits your citizens surely deserve.”

    And more importantly, he added silently, benefits your citizens are getting ready to rip from your rusting carcases, you bunch of slack-witted cretins. And if you’ve looked across at Simfur lately, you’ll know where that leads. Clearly thinking similar thoughts, the Tagan ambassador shifted uncomfortably on his perch and flicked at the air with crimson wings. “Small considerations have a habit of leading to large concessions, Lord Sarristec.” The avir angled his head sharply to the left. “We appreciate that your proposed conditions are relatively generous. We are not, however, willing to prejudice our city’s future security for the sake of the Conclave’s ambitions.”

    Sarristec lent back, expression cooling. “I’m sure your people will understand your reluctance to commit yourselves to a course of action you deem imprudent. I feel it only fair to warn you, however,” he went on before the ambassador had a chance to respond, “that while we would like to extend our help to all those suffering from the loss of Tarnian-sourced fuel supplies, we realise that this is not a realistic goal. At some point, we will simply be unable to assist any more cities. Given the vital role that Tagan plays in this region’s economic life, we would hate for it to fall the wrong side of that point.”
    “Lord Sarristec…” The ambassador drew his wings about him and looked down his beak. “You appear to be under the mistaken impression that Vos is the only state willing and able to replace our energy needs until Tarn is able to restore its export facilities. We have already received several offers, most of which do not involve any ‘considerations’, small or large.”

    Sarristec could have laughed in his face. “Ah yes,” he said, with a smaller, more knowing smile, “but Vos is the only state in a position to supply you immediately. The existing supply network between our two cities can handle the increased load with no difficulty. Can the same be said of the pipelines from Ankmor?”

    To which the answer was, no, it could not. Which the Tagan government knew all too well. Which was why they had come to Vos first.

    The ambassador fluttered, trying desperately to cover his embarrassment at having his bluff called. “Perhaps we might take a short recess, so that I might consult with my superiors?”
    “Of course, ambassador.” Sarristec rose from his seat. “Please take as long as you wish. We have several other representatives we need to meet with in any case.” He savoured the panic that crossed the ambassador’s face as he showed him remorselessly to the door.

    “Ember and Pit,” Vvnet muttered once the avir was gone, speaking for the first time since the conference had begun, “Why don’t you just out-right threaten him and be done with it?”
    “Come now, you of all people should know that’s not how the game is played,” Sarristec admonished her, returning to his seat.
    “You enjoy it too much,” she retorted bluntly.
    I’m not the one who mismanaged Tagan’s menial classes. They buy fuel from three different providers, handle enough freight that they have shannix to spare and they still manage to get themselves into this situation? Give me one reason why I shouldn’t enjoy this.”
    Vvnet’s armour flared slightly, blue fins parting to show more of the green beneath. “I said, you enjoy it too much. We need to look like we’re being reasonable about this, the heroes stepping in to save our neighbours from their mistaken faith in Tarn. You are coming damn close to making us look insufferably smug.”
    “My dear Lord Vvnet…” Sarristec rested his chin on folded hands. “Is this envy?”

    She looked at him in utter revulsion. “What in Primus’ name are you talking about?”
    “Oh, it’s all so obvious,” he said, smirking, “You spend stellar-cycles struggling along at the Commerce Ministry, making mundane deal after mundane deal with petty states not worthy to be Vos’ building materials, let alone its allies – and then someone with actual vision and charisma comes along and starts making all the important moves that you never could. I can understand why you might find that a little difficult to accept…”
    “You poisonous little –” Vvnet hissed and half-rose, her wings snapping up and out.
    “Temper, temper,” Sarristec admonished, “Let’s not fight when we have delicate negotiations to conduct. Besides, there’s no point getting angry.” He leant forward, pressing his fingertips together. “I have Lord Taynset’s confidence. He and I are in accord on these issues. If I were you, I’d accept that and move on. You’ll be much happier once you do.”

    Vvnet glared murderously – and then, abruptly and without warning, laughed. “Oh…you have Lord Taynset’s confidence, do you? Is that what you think? Hah!”
    Perplexed and angered by her reaction, Sarristec narrowed his optics. “What do you mean by that?”
    “Oh…oh nothing,” she replied, laughter fading away, “Nothing little shooting star, nothing at all.” She straightened. “I need some energon. Beam me when our friend from Tagan has finished his panic attack.”
    “But –”

    She swept out, completely ignoring him. Sarristec glowered after her, fuming with the certainty that he had just been insulted, and completely at a loss to explain how.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Planetary News Feed
    Qosho Region Local
    Cybertron


    “…which brings the total number of robberies to twenty-seven. The Civic Guard has warned all merchants to take extra care when travelling outside city boundaries and to join protected convoys wherever possible. Unofficial sources have confirmed that the on-going investigations are increasingly focusing on suspected members of the Black Shadow, particularly those in a position to access travel plans logged with border control offices.

    “Planetary defence forces have finally neutralised the feral trac that rampaged through the Simfur residential districts yesterday. The trac, believed to be the result of illegal hybridisation and modification experiments, was cornered within the North Axial Interchange having previously escaped from the troops sent to capture it and the cultists responsible for its creation. We understand that it was Field Commander Megatron – former athlete and hero of the Kolidahl, Verinan and Tominidiac campaigns – who subdued the monster with a courageous single-handed attack at close range. The trac is now being taken for analysis at the Civic Guard containment facility on the Primon Flats.

    “The capture of the Simfur cultists was only the final act in a Qosho-wide operation to root out and detain those responsible for the destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District in Tarn. At this time, neither the Defence Directorate nor the Civic Guard has confirmed whether the perpetrators have been found; however it is known that a significant number of dissidents have been arrested.

    “We have just received this urgent newsflash: there has been a series of large explosions in the Simfur governmental districts. The blasts are believed to have originated in the sub-levels beneath or adjacent to several key buildings. Reports are coming in of riots breaking out across the city and of labourers clashing with security forces outside a number of energon distribution nodes. Power to many municipal systems has been cut and the main transport hub is in lock-down.

    “So far, the Simfur government has issued no comment. In fact it has just been confirmed that several key government officials have been sighted fleeing toward neighbouring Prodium. However, at least one of the escaping transports has been brought down by rioters and its fate is, at present, unknown.

    “The local Civic Guard divisions are visible on the streets, attempting, it seems, to bring the situation back under control. Given the rapidly escalating violence, however, it does not appear that they will be able to do so. Emirate Aetalon has petitioned the High Council and the Defence Directorate for a direct intervention – there is no news yet on how this request is being received, but given the Council’s noted reluctance to use planetary defence forces at the state level –”

    #External Visual Override: Authorisation Code – Raindance – cron-typtic-prima#

    “Sorry to break in so abruptly everyone, but as you can see there has just been a startling development on the ground here in Simfur. Those aircraft you can see approaching the city-centre are heavy troop transports. And – yes, there! Those markings are the insignia of the Tarnian military elite, which haven’t been seen outside their borders since the Telonix Conflicts in the stellar-cycles immediately following the Logical Revolution. At first, everyone assumed they were here to aid the Simfur administration however – woah!

    “Sorry about that viewers, needed to move to safe flight path there. As you can see, rather than defending the current administration, the Tarnians actually seem to be firing on the Simfur security forces in defence of the rioters. This is an unprecedented development and will surely raise questions at the highest level – Primus jacked!

    #Main Feed Reinitiated#

    “Apologies for the break in transmission. We are working to re-establish our connection with the cameras in the vicinity. We will continue to broadcast reports from Simfur for as long as we are able, and our reporters in Iacon are currently attempting to get some indication of how the High Council is responding to the crisis.

    “Stay on this feed for all the latest developments.”


    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Rented Residential Pod
    Tagan
    Cybertron


    Once you connected Konntryn’s death to the destruction of the Mahlex district, everything began to make sense.

    Diatrion’s casework was thorough, precise and ultimately limited by the fact that he was a member of the Civic Guard. Take the mysterious package Konntryn had received immediately prior to his final, fatal journey. Aside from a rough upper limit on its size, Diatrion had been completely unable to work out just what had been delivered. None of the household servants seemed to know and the courier had vanished completely and utterly in the way that only those facing an imminent visit by the White n’ Blues could manage. Consequently, he had focused on the front companies, trying to find incriminating evidence someone might have been able to use as leverage, rather than trying to guess from which, if any, of the functional businesses the delivery might have come. And even if he had followed that line of investigation, it was a fairly safe bet that he would have been deflected by any number of privacy and commercial security laws designed to safeguard the private sector from the prying eyes of tax inspectors, ethical review committees, and people conducting murder investigations.

    But if Konntryn had been murdered by the same person who killed Vaseeltron, and Vaseeltron had been killed because of his connection to the Mahlex bombing, then it was likely Konntryn was dead for the same reason. If Konntryn was connected to the Mahlex bombing, the mysterious package was almost certainly connected to it as well. If the package had to be brought all the way from Praxus to Tagan, by soon-to-be-smashed hand, then it must have been a pretty important part of the plan. And if you were willing and able to hack into fifteen high technology research firms’ central computers, you would find that one of the more minor companies in Konntryn’s portfolio was in the process of developing sensor baffles for military use. Which was exactly what you would need to plant a bomb in the most surveillance happy city on the planet.

    So – Konntryn had somehow been coerced into using his connections to procure the stealth technology and had then been silenced to stop him blowing the plan wide open, double-crossing his ‘partners’ or otherwise getting in their way. Or just because they didn’t like him much.

    Which led to two big questions.

    The first, obviously, was ‘who had been able to make a perfectly disreputable high-grade layabout get involved with mass murder and catastrophic property destruction?’ The second…well, the second was, ‘why leave the body where it fell rather than burying it or knocking it into a smelting pool?’

    Nightbeat had been trying to puzzle that one out since he had first learned of the case. With Vaseeltron, disposing of the body in any other way than leaving it to rust in a sensor blind-spot would have been nigh on impossible. But the Dead End in Tagan was so poorly monitored that you could have disassembled a dozen heavy haulers and built the remains into an attractive set of artistic chairs and no one would have noticed a thing. Therefore, there must have been another reason for not properly dealing with Konntryn. No time? A strong possibility. There were other pressures on a would-be bomber’s time than security sweeps. Carelessness? A useful possibility. And yet one that was at odds with the meticulous planning that must have gone into such a successful act of vandalism. Oh, yes, assuming excellent planning when something had actually relied on luck was a mistake, but fooling the Tarnian system was no easy task. It did not seem likely that mere fortune was responsible. Therefore, there must have been a valid reason for leaving the body in the Dead End.

    Several possibilities. Not enough information to narrow them down. Therefore, the focus had to be on the first question. Determine the identity of whoever had been influencing Konntryn and follow the causal chains that branched from there. That was the next step.

    And that meant a trip to Praxus.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Tarnian Governmental Feed
    Planet-wide Broadcast
    Cybertron


    Viilon’s image peered down, optic wide. The deep purple of his armour made the yellow light look even brighter. “It has been requested that an explanation be given for the on-going military operation in Simfur. This broadcast will serve as that explanation.

    “At plus six hecta-cycles yesterday morning, Qosho time zone, Tarnian troops entered Simfur in order to assist the people of Simfur in removing the current government from power. Representatives of the revolutionary movement have been in contact with Tarnian officials for the past one point seven six quartex, petitioning for aid in their attempts to force regime change in their city. Two solar-cycles ago, the Tarnian government officially agreed to give that aid.

    “In the past, Tarn has attempted to help the people of Simfur by supplying fuel and other resources on the understanding that the Simfur government would work to improve conditions for the general populace. These improvements were sporadic and it is widely known that Simfur officials hoarded fuel at the expense of large sections of the working community. I had intended to enact a plan whereby fuel was delivered directly to the people of Simfur via tanker convoy, strengthening their position and allowing them to organise a viable alternative to the current administration. The destruction of the Mahlex Industrial District and the resulting impact on Tarn’s fuel distribution network has rendered that plan inoperable.

    “With the loss of Tarnian fuel supplies, the Simfur government entered into talks with several cities willing to assist them. To the best of Tarn’s knowledge, these talks were successful and fuel supplies were restored on an emergency basis. However, rather than ease the restrictions imposed following the initial disruption, the Simfur government opted to keep menial-grade fuel rations at ten percent less than the statutory minimum as laid down by the inter-state accords. As a consequence of this irrational act, the people of Simfur have chosen to dissolve their government and take direct control of the running of their city.

    “As during previous anti-government demonstrations, the Simfur security forces have reacted with excessive and openly lethal force. An estimated sixteen percent of Simfur’s population has been killed or damaged to the point of stasis-lock. While the Civic Guard units currently on the ground have attempted to resolve the situation, they have proven unable to do so. For this reason, it has been concluded that the most appropriate course of action is for Tarn troops to protect the Simfur revolutionaries and neutralise those members of the security forces that chose to fire upon them.

    “The three divisions of Tarnian soldiers now in Simfur will remain at the disposal of the Simfur people for as long as they are required. The primary objective is the forestalling of any further violence and injury. The secondary objective is to assist in the removal of the current Simfur administration and the detention of their security forces. The tertiary objective is to prevent any hostile neighbouring state from attempting to take advantage of the situation to the detriment of the Simfur people.

    “Further statements will be given as the operation proceeds. It is requested that all discussion of this matter go through the High Council, as this is the most appropriate forum for the issue. No information will be given to the news feeds beyond that which is released in the official statements.”

    Viilon’s image vanished, swirling out of focus to be replaced by the Tarnian flag.
     
  4. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Thank you for another awe inspiring installment. You are becoming one of my fav authors. Right up there with Martin or Doyle.
     
  5. Acer

    Acer VisualAdlib Ex-Pat

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    I love how Star-- uhh I mean Sarristec toys with his opponents, it's fun to watch. ;D and the bit about shooting star'? Adorable. ;D

    Also, I want to thank you for sticking with 'Lord' as the default address without messing with gender-specifics. It's rather more equalizing I find, as well as using 'sir' for military types regardless if gender. Makes more sense to me. :D 

    Also, I'm totally appreciating the news feeds, I always like seeing the media view.

    And one more thing! Thank you for taking us through Nightbeat's train of thought so succinctly, short but sweet. :D 
     
  6. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    OMG I may die without more reading!!! Lol
     
  7. The Librarian

    The Librarian Well-Known Member

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    Thanks for the comments - and sorry about the delay. I meant to get the next chapter up sooner but I've been sick recently and haven't been able to concentrate on editing!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    2.10: Foreign Affairs
    The Celestial Temple
    Iacon
    Cybertron


    The ring of Council seats felt uncomfortably empty with only the three of them sitting there. It was, Xaaron thought, uncomfortably close to being a private court, a triumvirate of self-appointed arbitrators ready to dispense arbitrary justice. Even the Prime was absent, his throne looming empty behind them. There was just the three of them – Iacon, Nova Cronum and Vos.

    And the one they were there to pass judgement upon.

    “I formally request asylum,” Aetalon said, a tremor in her voice, “on behalf of myself and the remaining members of the Simfur government.” She looked from Traachon to Xaaron to Graviitus, eye widening and narrowing. “We fear for our lives if we do not find some protection from the malcontents who have instigated mob rule in our city. They will kill us if they get their hands on us.”

    Silence. The sort of silence you get when no one wants to be the first to speak.

    Eventually, Traachon got to his feet. “You stand before us,” he proclaimed tremulously, exuding every shred of regal disdain at his disposal, “the representative of a government that has persecuted and neglected its people in equal measure, driving them over the brink of rebellion – and you would have the people of Iacon shelter you from the vengeance of those you oppressed? Your request is refused absolutely. Iacon will not protect those who have turned their backs on the very foundations of Cybertronian civilisation.”

    He turned his back on Aetalon and walked away, his dignified contempt only slightly undermined by having to make a long loop around the chamber to get to the doors. Aetalon followed him with her eye, which flashed a furious orange. It faded back to its usual pale red as she turned back to the remaining Emirates. She said nothing, most likely because there really was nothing to say.

    Xaaron glanced sideways to see whether Graviitus was going to speak. He was not entirely surprised to see the jet staring fixedly ahead, mouth set into a grim, determined line. Vos, it seemed, was determined to have the last word. What a surprise.

    “The parliament of Nova Cronum has already debated this issue,” Xaaron said, standing and looking resignedly back to Aetalon, “and while we have no wish to see any further violence, it would be a contravention of our laws and traditions to interfere in another state’s internal affairs. We are more than willing to help mediate discussions aimed at resolving the current situation peacefully – but we cannot and will not give implicit or explicit support to any of the parties involved. With regret, we decline your request.”

    Not that there really was that much real regret amongst the Nova Cronum parliament that the Simfur oligarchs were finally getting what many saw as their just comeuppance. What did exist was a political regret that things had gotten out of hand so quickly – and that Tarn had been the one to seize the initiative and take advantage of resulting chaos. And, for his own part, Xaaron did not bear Aetalon personally any ill-will. She may have been the voice of an utterly corrupt government, but she had never struck him as a corrupt person. Privileged and complacent, absolutely, but not actively immoral. Whatever price she might rightly have to pay for being Simfur’s spokesperson, she did not deserve to be ripped limb from limb by enraged workers.

    She reacted to Xaaron’s words with far less anger than she had to Traachon’s. She must have guessed Nova Cronum’s answer before she had asked the question, and even went so far as to murmur a polite acknowledgement of the refusal. In following the traditional practice of gathering together potential asylum providers and requesting their joint or individual protection, she would have given great thought to who was likely to accede to that request.

    And ultimately there was only one city that would have been willing to consider taking them.

    Graviitus stood up and opened his hands. “Vos deplores the cowardice displayed by Iacon and Nova Cronum on this matter. We may not agree with how Simfur has been run in the past but we will never condone violence and an abject disregard for the common laws that bind us all. If no one else will stand up for the rights afforded to all by the Inter-State Accords, it is left to Vos alone to do the right thing – the moral thing – and protect those fleeing from Simfur until such time that a properly recognised authority can correctly determine the guilt and innocence of those involved. I hereby extend Vos’ hospitality to those on whose behalf you make this perfectly reasonable request. While we can’t grant you the privileges of visiting dignitaries, we will nonetheless make your stay in our city as comfortable as is proper. And we will most certainly not be pressured into changing our position by any state that wishes to control Simfur for its own ends.”

    It seemed a shame that the speech had an audience of only two. Xaaron doubted Lord Taynset himself could have given it better.
    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Lord Taynset’s Chambers
    The Palace of Law
    Vos
    Cybertron


    The fine powder sunk slowly through the high-grade, trails of red and blue in pink liquid so pale it was the colour of captive sunlight. A constellation of miniature stars blossomed and sparkled as the almost legal chemicals dissolved into the fuel, filling it with illusory fires.

    Lord Taynset took the two crystal goblets from the serving table and passed one to Sarristec, raising his own in salute. Sarristec responded in kind and together, they took their first sips. The fuel mix slipped down like molten light, leaving a pleasant tingle as it reacted with the lining of their feed-tubes and stirred their self-repair systems. The pattern of reactions criss-crossed and looped back on itself, a pleasant web of corrosion and replenishment that combined with the surge of fresh power to produce a most delectable sensation.

    Taynset smiled, and Sarristec dared to smile back. “An excellent distillation, my lord,” he hazarded.
    “I am glad to share it with you,” Taynset replied, taking another sip, “Thanks to your efforts, we have been able to take full advantage of Tarn’s most serendipitous misfortune.” He indicated the cityscape visible through the massive windows. “Vos owes you much, my lord Sarristec.”
    Sarristec gave a modest little nod. “I owe Vos everything.” He was careful to let some pride show, though, just enough that he need not fear looking ungrateful for the praise.

    They stood for a little while, admiring the view and appreciating the fuel. However, concerned a prolonged silence might make him appear too passive, Sarristec lowered his drink and spoke up. “Forgive me for saying so, my lord, but you do not appear especially concerned by events in Simfur…” He hesitated, unsure whether or not this could be taken as implying that the First Lord was reacting in the wrong way.
    “Should I be?” Taynset tilted his goblet slightly, stirring the liquid within. His optics flicked from the fuel to the skyline. “Tarn has sent troops to aid of a mob of violent malcontents who have succeeded only in dealing the death blow to a minor state’s antiquated infrastructure. Even if Tarn establishes a whole garrison in Simfur, they will be expending resources on a lost cause.” He made a little, on-the-other-hand gesture. “Meanwhile, thanks to your sterling efforts, we have established favourable energy contracts with Kalis, Dramor, Altihex, Prodium and most especially Tagan. We are in a position to move anything we like through the Tagan Heights, practically free of charge and with no questions asked. Viilon intends to outflank us. Let him try. We have already protected our supply lines and made good headway to cutting him off from every state misguided enough to come to his aid.”

    Taynset turned and smiled slightly. “You must understand, my Lord Sarristec, that not every action taken by the enemy needs to be countered on its own terms. Meeting like with like often plays straight into an opponents’ hands. Viilon expects us to protest and to try and have his troops evicted. We will. We will even give shelter to those in Simfur with the wit to flee the consequences of their ineptitude. But we will not make the mistake of concentrating on this situation to the exclusion of our own strategies. It has always been my policy to cut Viilon’s political support rather than his military backing. Tarn boasts the largest state-controlled army in the region, possibly on the planet. But without the support of neighbouring states, it can neither be supplied nor used to any great effect.”
    “And that is why we still have an Emirate on the High Council?” Sarristec suggested, thinking back to his early campaign platforms and the general anti-Council sentiment that always emerged at political rallies.
    “Among other reasons,” Taynset agreed, “The benefits of being able to stall other states’ plans ultimately outweigh the inconvenience of having our own agendas disrupted. Besides, we must never be seen to be showing disrespect to the Prime. Let that honour be reserved for Viilon.”

    They shared a chuckle at that, and Sarristec felt pride swell once more in his processors. To be standing at the very pinnacle of his beloved Vos and to be sharing a joke with one of the most powerful mechs on the planet…it was a bigger kick than anything the fuel could have delivered.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Medical Bay
    Civic Guard Containment Facility Dega Maxos
    Primon Flats
    Cybertron


    “You really shouldn’t have waited so long to get this seen to,” the med-tech admonished, carefully disconnecting Megatron’s left elbow, “You’ve only made the wound worse. It’ll have to be completely replaced.”
    Ravage smiled to himself as he watched Megatron twitch with irritation. His commander had never coped well with being out of action, no matter how temporarily. Being patronised by doctors would only increase his annoyance.
    “Just get on with it,” Megatron growled, flexing his remaining functional hand.
    The undertone of promised violence in the order wiped the disdainful look off the medic’s face and he hurriedly set about removing the shattered forearm.

    “Tell me – do you always have such reckless disregard for your own health?”

    The question came from a tall green and gold mech with wheels slung across his chest and the elegant poise of one used to high society. He walked over to Megatron’s repair bay and crossed his arms, gaze passing over the silver warrior’s injuries.
    “I do what needs to be done to win.” Megatron did not deign to look up at the newcomer. “That is what a field commander is supposed to do.”
    “I’m sure your troops will appreciate your self-sacrifice when you leave them without leadership in the middle of a battle.”
    Megatron’s right hand curled into a fist. “Do you want something? Or are you just here to question my tactical decisions.”

    “I would hardly consider deciding to launch oneself bodily at a monster capable of tearing an expressway apart with its bare hands, ‘tactical’,” the mech replied huffily, wheels shifting again.
    “Vieuxuun…” Megatron paused, visibly forcing his fist to unclench. “I would…advise you to get to the point.”

    “The beast has been secured,” the green field commander said curtly, tapping his fingers against his arm.
    “I know,” Megatron snapped, “I made sure they did it properly.”
    “Indeed. Neglecting proper procedure concerning the treatment of your injuries in the process.”
    “Did you just come here to list my failings to adhere to precise protocol?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact.” The green soldier gave a dismissive wave. “Not your disregard for your own health. What concerns me is your conduct during the operation itself.”
    “My –” Megatron’s face twisted. “What exactly was wrong with my conduct?”
    Vieuxuun’s eyes narrowed. “Your choice of reinforcements. Rather than calling in all available combat units, you instead selected squads exclusively from within your battalion. You made the decision based not on sound tactical judgement but on a preferential attitude towards your troops.” He uncrossed his arms and pointed accusingly at Megatron. “This was supposed to be a joint operation, our two battalions acting as one. Instead, you restricted your options and, as a direct result, not enough troops were deployed, the situation spilled out of control and that creature was allowed to go on a rampage. A rampage that seems to have been the ignition point for a full scale uprising.”

    “Are you accusing me of starting the Simfur riots?” There was a very dangerous undertone in that oh-so-quietly asked question. Megatron was on the very edge of losing his temper and Ravage could guess how that would end, missing arm or no missing arm.
    “I am suggesting that your misjudgement was a contributing factor. You should have summoned squads from my battalion in addition to those from your own.”
    Megatron’s fingers were clacking against one another now, such was the force with which his hand clenched and unclenched. “I called in troops I knew could handle the situation. Bentwing’s aerial unit, Optrion’s squads, Turbo’s cavaliers – I know those soldiers, I knew they were who I needed to deploy.”

    Vieuxuun was completely undeterred. “You had access to the full tactical readouts on all members of both battalions. Both Temoraal and Hevacce’s squads would have been an asset to you in that situation and both were free to be redeployed. As was the unit of Air Guardians assigned to my forces. Ultimately, you didn’t choose the mechs best suited to the battle – you chose those you trusted to fight by your side.”
    Clack. Clack. Clack. Megatron’s optics flashed crimson.
    “I understand,” Vieuxuun went on, as if oblivious to the anger that threatened to consume him, “You are a warrior of the frontier. You are used to relying on your battalion alone, on your own, unreinforced initiative. As a consequence, you hold those of us who do not fight out on the edge of known space in contempt. And in spite of what you may think, we do fight, Megatron. My troops are as seasoned as yours. We have fought off raiders, pirates, even would-be invaders. More to the point, we have more experience fighting our own kind. That expertise was at your command and you chose to ignore it because you did not trust us. Given that, how am I supposed to trust you?”

    Clack. Clack. Clunk. Megatron said absolutely nothing. Forgotten by the two field commanders, the med-tech hovered nervously by the repair bay, a proto-matter dispenser held hesitantly at the ready.

    Ravage, meanwhile, had determined four different ways in which Vieuxuun could be fatally disabled. The young field commander was nowhere near as heavily armoured as Megatron and he possessed reasonably limited in-built armaments. It would be a simple matter to rip into his vital components and disrupt his core consciousness before he could shunt it to safety. A sufficient energy charge delivered through physical contact with his major systems would send him offline and melt enough neural pathways to render his body uninhabitable. What was left of his spark would be shattered into incoherent code, scattered throughout dead processors.

    Of course, they would have to kill the medic as well, but that would present no great difficulty. And Ravage was more than capable of hacking into the security systems – convince them that they had seen something else and there need be no evidence to suggest that either he or Megatron were involved. It could all be done quickly and cleanly, without fuss.

    Although if Megatron gave in to the urge to rip Vieuxuun’s chest open with his one remaining hand, it would be a lot harder to cover things up. Perhaps they could plead justified homicide…

    Vieuxuun’s posture shifted, just a little. Maybe he had finally realised how dangerously he was behaving. “I have the greatest respect for you as a soldier,” he said quickly, “That is why I am raising these points directly rather than going over your head to complain. I hope that we can function together effectively. I must insist, however, that you acknowledge and respond to the issues I have just laid out.”

    Silence.

    Then Megatron unclenched his fist. “You are partly correct,” he allowed, “In the heat of battle, I responded as I would have fighting on an alien world. I will not accept that my decision was wrong. The riots would have happened if that thing had rampaged or not. Yes, more troops would have ended the battle sooner. But your Air Guardians would have been unable to manoeuvre at such close quarters and Temoraal’s squad is composed almost exclusively of light artillery. I needed cavaliers, mechs used to fighting pitched battles on the move, and Bentwing’s flyers, who know how to fly in confined spaces. I made the call and we won. But...I…admit I did not properly consider your troops’ abilities at the time. I will not make that mistake again.”
    “Then I believe we can continue to work together,” Vieuxuun said magnanimously, “I look forward to our next strategy briefing. Good day.”

    Ravage waited until the green mech was well and truly out of sight and the med-tech was busying himself with the reconstruction of Megatron’s forearm before rising to speak to his commander. “Even after all this time, you still find ways to surprise me.”
    Megatron looked down at him. “What did you expect? That I’d get in to a raging argument with a fellow officer?”
    “Frankly, yes. He insulted you.”
    The silver giant laughed, nearly causing the med-tech to lose control of the proto-matter feed. “He’s not worth the effort. And he was right. We aren’t on the frontier anymore.”
    “Perhaps not…” Ravage’s claws flicked from their housings. “But to imply that you neglected your duty and triggered an uprising through carelessness…”

    Just for a moment, Megatron’s anger returned, vengeful red rushing back into his optics. It cleared almost at once though and he shook his head. “Only a fool would believe collateral damage could be completely avoided or intelligence reports would be perfect. I did my duty to the best of my ability and I delivered a bunch of anarchists and their pet monstrosity into the holding cells.” He shrugged, making the med-tech start and scowl furiously. “What more should I have done?”

    Torn Vieuxuun’s insolent face free from its moorings, perhaps? Ravage gave a shrug of his own and settled back down on his haunches. “Your duty is all that anyone has the right to ask of you, commander.”

    Even if it was much more than many of them deserved.
     
  8. ARCTrooperAlpha

    ARCTrooperAlpha Well-Known Member

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    After so long, this riot arc is still great. And the interaction between Megatron, Ravage, and the green guy was great too !
     
  9. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    I really love the way you lace the politics in with the military strife and bots lives in their daily walk.
     
  10. Acer

    Acer VisualAdlib Ex-Pat

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    @batmanprime-- and the what??? XD

    @Librarian-- diggin it! I'm liking Megatron's 'tude, too.
     
  11. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Bumping this so others can have the chance to see it and enjoy as much as I have.
     
  12. The Librarian

    The Librarian Well-Known Member

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    Thanks for the comments, guys. Looks like I have to apologise for the delay again! Maybe I should just give up and have a monthly update schedule...

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    2.11: Night Scene
    Racetrack’s Precision Bodywork
    The East Merchant District
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    They always said rain was unlucky.

    It was very unusual for it to reach Praxus, or any of the northern Lakatera cities. Only once in a long while would the clouds rising above the Iron Sea travel so far. Most often, they would break over Polyhex or be driven west toward Kalis or Prodium. It was rare indeed for the wind to herd them up from the south and pile them menacingly in the sky over the East Ridge.

    When it did, anyone sensible huddled inside. Even if the rain was light, it still caused disruption and discomfort, leaving roads slick and joints sodden. When it was heavy, travel in the open became near impossible and it was not uncommon for people to wind up in need of a medic. Some lost control on the expressways and ended up with their bumpers bumped. Some had to deal with short-circuiting systems, rust-rashes and a dozen other maladies that got inside you and wrecked you from within. Some…well, the worst storms had left memorials in their wake.

    So rain was unlucky. Over time, that short hand for all the things it caused had mutated. It wasn’t just, ‘rain is unlucky because of the consequences,’ it was, ‘rain brings bad luck.’

    Rain brings bad luck.

    Aratron looked out at the clouds massing in the sky and quickly looked back at the fender he was supposed to be painting in lacquer. The feme on the work bench shifted on her axles, irritated at him for pausing, no matter how briefly. “Is this going to take much longer? I have things to do and I don’t want to get wet.”
    “Sorry,” he mumbled, twisting the applicator to the right setting for making the finishing touches, “I’m nearly done.”

    Completing the last layer, he switched off the spray and stepped back, giving his patient the space to transform. She stretched and lifted her arm, examining the rapidly drying fender. She hummed. “Well, it’ll do.” Then added, a little grudgingly, “Thanks.” And, hurriedly beaming payment to the shop’s account, she flipped back into car mode and rushed through the door, intent on beating the rain to the subways.

    Aratron raised the applicator in wry salute to her rapidly vanishing back. It wasn’t as if she was the first customer to barely acknowledge his existence. He busied himself cleaning the table and tools, clearing the decks for the next glitch with the money to waste on looking pretty. Which probably wasn’t entirely fair on all the people who came in wanting minor but necessary modifications or dents popped out after a really good night out, but slag it – he was feeling miserable, so why the Pit should he be fair?

    Raindrops started to ping off the ground outside. One of the nearest towers trembled, unfolding panels into giant fans to protect its access ways from the coming deluge. Passers-by sped up, glancing up nervously as they made for cover.

    “Yeh should get going, lad.” Racetrack came up to Aratron’s side, putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “Ye’ve already stayed longer than ah can pay yeh fer.”
    “Yeah…sorry…it’s just…” He trailed off uncomfortably.
    “Dun be. Ah’m the one who shud be apologisin’, not yuh.” The purple speedster waved his free hand in an irritated gesture. “Yeh a damn good worker. Yeh deserve better pay…”
    “But you can’t afford to give me it,” Aratron finished, “Look, I get it. I’ll…I’ll get by.”
    “An’ as soon as things pick up agin, ah’m gonna make sure yeh wages go back to what they were – better’n what they were,” Racetrack assured him emphatically, “Now get going a’fore the rain gets heavy!”

    Aratron smiled ruefully and nodded. Rapping Racetrack's knuckles with his fist, he pulled free and transformed. Waiting only to flash his lights in response to his boss's half-cheery wave, he drove out into the deepening gloom.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Inner City
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    The city hunkered down to protect itself from the weather. Buildings reconfigured to create better drains. Expressways grew opalescent covers, tunnels of flexible glass many hix in length that came spiralling out of the lighting rings. The open-air plazas hurriedly stopped being open-air and withdrew underground.

    The smart set began to move their parties indoors and everyone else was quick to follow their example.

    Fat raindrops splatted unpleasantly against Aratron's hood as he accelerated, leaving behind oily smudges that quickly evaporated in the heat from his engine. He angled for the welcome cover of the underground streets, following a slip road that curved suddenly as it reshaped itself around the buildings shifting above and, just for a moment, he imagined he might be racing for the entranceway forever, the beckoning tunnel always just out of reach.

    But then the road caught up with the subway and he shot inside without so much as a bump. Behind him, the drumbeat of the raindrops grew more and more insistent. The noise chased him in, only to become lost beneath the local din.

    The underground rang with a thousand sets of wheels and another thousand sets of feet. The whine of hover-drives, the howl of thrusters and the background roar of dumb machinery fought to be heard over the simple thunder of bodies in motion. The air was thick with fumes and the stink of friction. People jostled against each other, everyone determined that their journey was the most important. Aratron was forced to constantly manoeuvre, weaving this way and that to keep from being batted into the walls.

    Things were no better when he jumped to his feet and climbed up to the pedestrian level above. A burly heavy-loader nearly flattened him within the first few steps and he caught several dozen more dents and dings before he found the side-street he was looking for. It was that kind of place. You kept moving or you learned what it was like to be a road bump.

    The side-street was thankfully clear of crowds, walking or otherwise. Light from a train rumbling overhead briefly showed a once-colourful set of shop fronts, their signs flickering infra-red messages at shoppers who weren't there. The ground was littered with cans and fragments of metal, and worryingly unidentifiable objects that could have been broken machines and could have been broken people. Aratron caught a quick movement at the far end, something small and panicked retreating deeper into the shadows. He didn't look too closely.

    Only one of the doorways showed signs of recent use. There was less garbage in front of it and the signs around it were just that bit more vibrant. In letters that were just the wrong side of visible light, they proclaimed that this was the Helix Oilhouse, a licensed place of entertainment open throughout the night and serving a wide range of select fuel distillations and quality oils from across Cybertron.

    Having seen them all before, Aratron barely glanced at the words and went straight inside. The oilhouse had low-level visible lights, just enough to show up the customer's colours and, perhaps more importantly, the colour of the what they were buying. The usual crowd weren't the flashy decal type, but they weren't about to spend hard-earned pay on second-rate fuel. It wasn't just the high-grades who liked to see a bit of sparkle in their beakers.

    Shoving his way through the mass of labourers and technicians – and round the legs of a couple of haulers – Aratron made his way to the bar, signalling for attention from the nearest dispenser. It craned over and beamed him the night's menu. The stock changed daily now, mostly because of increasingly shaky supply lines. He picked out a quart of Detra-Morllon and a tube of Black Metix. The price made him hesitate for half a mirco-cycle but he paid anyway. It wasn't as if saving the money would make him feel any better.

    Walking away from the bar, shoving the tube into his shoulder, he looked around for somewhere to drink his fuel in peace. The oil slowly flooded his joints as he moved, pulsing through his body, pleasantly thick. It flushed away the grit and grime of everyday exertion and by the time he spotted Gauun waving enthusiastically at him from a corner, he was feeling freer and more relaxed, if not exactly more cheerful.

    “Wheels!” Gauun grabbed his free arm and practically dragged him down onto the bench. “What kept you? I've been sitting here for ages!” He lifted his arms, hunching his shoulders forward to show off the blue markings that had been plastered across them. “What d'you think of these? Pretty cool, huh? It's real cyrianate too! Got it done –”
    Aratron slammed his fuel can onto the table between them. “Look, just...don't start, OK? Not tonight.”
    “Don't start what? Wheels?” Looking abruptly concerned, Gauun leant forward. “Hey, Wheels, what's wrong?”

    He almost said nothing. Almost got up and left, right then and there. It was a stupid, angry impulse that he knew would have felt extremely good to give in to. But he didn't. He was tired and depressed and needed to whine to someone. Perhaps Gauun would even cheer him up. It wouldn't be the first time.
    “Racetrack cut my pay again,” he said gloomily, opening his fuel inlet and tipping in a couple of measures of the Detra-Morllon, “Had to. Power rates are up, metal costs are up, customers are down. Again.”
    “Mate...” Gauun clapped him on the shoulder. “Can't you find something else?”
    “Like what? It's not as if any other bodyshop job would pay any better. And do I look like I'd make a good dock worker? Anyway, I'm not just going to walk out on Racetrack. He's been good to me.”
    “Yeah, but...look, if you need help, you come to me, OK? I've got another deal going through with a race team – proper athletes this time – they're budgets gone down too, but that's still mega-shanix for the likes of us, so I got in there as the cheap-but-brilliant alternative and, yeah, they think they're getting one over on me but I'm on to a fortune with it! So I'm gonna have money to spare and if you're gonna struggle then you gotta let me help you –”

    “You want to help me?” Aratron interrupted, “You buy the next round and you help me forget about it.” He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging off Gauun's hand. “I'll survive. Always have before, right?”
    “Yeah...I guess so.” For a moment, Gauun was at a loss for words. Just for a moment though. He quickly recovered and launched into a rambling account of his new project, seguing into praise for the aerodynamic properties of racers and how they provided such a unique base for decals. Aratron let it wash over him, the familiarity of his friend's over-enthusiasm doing something to carry him away from his everyday worries.

    Gauun may have been a bit of an glitch but no one could ever accuse him of being bad company. He was one of those people who would get you into a conversation even if he had to carry on both sides of it himself. And he never skimped on the oil and fuel. That was pretty much the main reason he had always been hopeless with money. He never got it into his processors that not being paid meant putting off having a good time.

    Despite not really wanting to do anything beyond sit and rust, Aratron was dragged into making sarcastic comments, picking apart dumb ideas and, inevitably, into a long, sprawling argument about the place of aesthetics in the modern industrial sector and how much it must cost to put the average professional gladiator back together again after the semi-finals. Somewhere along the line the two subjects had become mixed up – probably thanks to the growing pile of empty fuel cans spreading unstoppably across the table. Aratron found himself confused about whether Gauun was arguing for prettier smelting pools or for grudge matches to be held over cauldrons of lava. He quickly decided it didn't really matter and tipped another quart of energon into his mouth.

    His optics wandered away from his friend, who was listing to the right at an increasingly disturbing angle, and across the oilhouse floor. The crowd had not thinned as the night wore on but it had changed shape – some parts more literally than others. In one corner, a bunch of technicians had taken to their computer block modes and arranged themselves into an unsteady tower that hummed with excited algorithms. In another, one of the haulers lay spark out in truck mode, panels twitching with the final after-effects of an overload.

    The bar was still jammed with waiting customers, those newly arrived and those going back for the twentieth round. You could have taken a slice through that line and found one of every kind of mech. The sensible, quiet flyer patiently working his way through a whole dect of Tetra-Helix. The blue car, optics bright and wide, ranting inanely into the audio of a bored racer who looked to be on the brink of telling him where to shove it. The lanky loader with his tall glass of black oil, slowly draining it, savouring every drop. The squat tank knocking back can after can, shouting at the servers for more and more fuel. The avir sprawled across the bar, fluttering weakly. The quad jumping up and down, desperate to get some service.

    So many people looking to fry away their troubles in a haze of shorting circuits and burning self-repair systems. Or feed their addictions. Or just have a good night out. That was the point of a cross-section of the city, wasn't it? All kinds of people, here for all kinds of reasons, drinking all sorts of things -

    Gauun poked him. “You still in there?” He frowned, optics slightly out of focus. “You, uh, communing with Primus or something? Cos I don't wanta interrupt a religious experience cos I know how much fuel it'd take to get you back there - an I don't think that's safe - and you probably don't want to get all transcendental anyway cos - cos that's gotta be boring right? I mean, what d'the Circuit Masters do all day anyway? Sit around and look into the wells and think and stuff - gotta be boring.”
    “I don't want to go and be a Circuit Master,” Aratron assured him, slowly and clearly.
    “Thank the Primal Program! I couldn't stand it if I didn't have you to talk to. No one else listens to me!”
    That wasn't true. Lots of people listened to him, if only because he didn't really give anyone any choice.
    “Yeah, but you actually listen,” Gauun went on, even though Aratron was sure he hadn't answered out loud, “You don't just put up with me.”
    “You're my friend,” Aratron told him with a shrug, “That's what friends do.”

    Anything more that Gauun might have said to that was cut off by an angry yell from the bar. The grey racer had leapt up and was going for the blue mech, his hands digging into the car's yellow chest plate. His victim was still talking, apparently undeterred by the fact that his audience was trying to murder him. An instant later, he pivoted effortlessly and, still talking, sent the racer sprawling into a rapidly clearing patch of floor.

    Aratron tried to make out what the car was saying over the din of raised voices and clashing metal. Something about blackmail...? And...insider trading?

    The racer sprang up and swung wildly, hitting three people who were just trying to get out of his way. The servers began to keen in alarm, their sensors and arms swinging about in panic. Ducking under his attacker's fists, the car wrapped one long arm around the racer's waist and whirled him round, the flailing legs driving the crowd even further back. Several people cried out. A loud murmur went up from near the door and a long gap opened, customers moving to the side as the hulking bouncer pulled himself free from the wall, his massive fists flexing hungrily.

    The blue mech had, meanwhile, manoeuvred the racer into a head-lock and managed to pin his arms tightly behind his back. All the prisoner could do was fling his legs about in an attempt to break free. Helpless, he was dragged across the room, right into the path of the oncoming bouncer. Aratron couldn't quite make out what the security mech turned into but he would have put down good money that it was something large and unpleasant.

    Going purely on size difference, there was no way the blue mech was going to get his captive to the door. He kept going all the same, tightening his grip as the racer tried to throw him off by transforming. Aratron winced in sympathy as armour plates jerked and battered against the car's hands – experience told him that it couldn't have been pleasant for either mech.

    The bouncer loomed over them, demanding they stop their fight and leave before he was forced to rip them new exhausts. The car pointed out that they were leaving anyway and if the bouncer would kindly step aside – his exact words – he would be happy never to bother him or the establishment again, unless it was absolutely necessary or they were selling Novus Special Distillation for a tenth of the usual price. The bouncer growled and lifted a fist to hammer the car into the floor.

    A brilliant flash of light blotted out everyone's vision. Aratron's quickly adjusted. The bouncer wasn't so lucky and, clutching at his face, he collapsed, probably suffering from sensor shock. The 'horns' on either side of the blue car's head rotated back to vertical, their tips glowing slightly with the heat of the photon charge. He smiled, gave a little bow to the crowd, and dragged his captive out of the door.

    Aratron turned slowly back to Gauun, who was shaking his head vigorously in an effort to get his optics working properly again. They stared at each other dumbly. “What the ever-loving Pit just happened?” Gauun demanded, his optics finally snapping back to their normal yellow.
    “I haven't slagging clue,” his friend told him bluntly, reaching for a still half-full can, “But if you're still paying, I plan t' keep drinking like it never did.”
    Gauun thought about this for a micro-cycle. “Good plan,” he concluded, reaching for a can of his own, “Didn't look like it was any of our business anyway. And speakin' of business, did I tell you how I got them to give up on this stupid idea of painting themselves in alien skin patterns...?”
     
  13. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Another good chapter. Thanks.
    The everyday "crap" they deal with really sets up they life on cybertron feeling.
     
  14. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    OMG I'm starting to detox! I need another fix. PLEASE I gots ta have it.
     
  15. The Librarian

    The Librarian Well-Known Member

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    Heh. Sorry - been very busy lately and haven't had much time to write this. But here's the next bit at last!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    2.12: Confessions
    The Underground
    Inner City
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    “This is how it's going to go. You are going to tell me everything. You are going to tell me what Konntryn was doing. You are going to tell me how you found out. You are going to tell me how much detail you got. You are going to tell me who you sold it to.” Nightbeat shifted his balance, pressing his foot down ever so slightly harder. “And you are going to tell me quickly.”

    Almost as if it had been perfectly timed to underline his point (it was two micro-cycles late) a train hurtled past on the opposite track. The shock wave from its passing broke over the two of them, making the grey racer – better known to his friends/enemies/creditors as Hardrive – flinch and squirm. Nightbeat's foot was unrelenting. As were the heavy binders he had fastened around Hardrive's arms and legs.

    The bound mech's struggles died away with the echoes of the train's engines. He stared up at his captor with wide blue optics. “I don't know what you're talking about!”

    The predictability of the response brought out Nightbeat's sadistic tendencies. “Sure you don't,” he growled, digging his heel in, “That's why you tried to attack me in the bar when I accused you of being a blackmailer in league with murderers. Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry here. I don't have time for the usual 'don't know what you mean officer' routines. And you –” He grinned. “You really don't have time for it.”

    Hardive twisted his head in panic, trying to see how far off the next train was. It was hopeless. He was hanging out over the tracks just as they curved into a fairly sharp bend, meaning that there would be no way of seeing what was coming until it was practically on top of him. There was only the rumble of approaching machinery and the roar of the rain, scattered by the surrounding towers until they merged into a meaningless cacophony. Nothing to tell him how long he had left. Nothing to give him any grip on his situation.

    He trembled on the edge of terror, fighting for some purchase on his situation. It slid through his fingers, leaving him with only one way out.

    “Ok! Ok!” He practically screamed it. “He was scraping profit off his shareholders and feeding it into fake companies! He'd done his investors out of thousands! Hid it all in the stock-reports and the investment accounts! I do freelance work as an accountant – one of his stakeholders got suspicious – I did the work, said I'd found nothing and put the screw on that Elite glitch! I'd got everything! Transfer information, account details, the real profit figures! It wasn't hard – just needed to get past the bank's privacy walls. They don't care what he does – did – they got all the money anyway, what did it matter where it came from? No one cared! Only mattered to him – what he'd lose if anyone had found out – it was easy! He was too scared to try and stop me!”

    “That's nice.” Nightbeat smiled. “What a blow for the oppressed. It must have given you an enormous sense of well-being.”
    “It made me fragging rich!” Hardrive shrieked venomously.
    “Which someone else noticed.”
    He nodded frantically, as best he could while lying on his back, optics flashing blue to purple and back again. “Yes! Ok, yes! They did! I –”

    His mouth snapped shut. For the briefest of moments, Nightbeat wondered if he had finally recovered enough of his presence of mind to try and bluff or brave his way off the tracks. But no. It was just another wave of terror, one that threatened to out-class an imminent crushing demise.

    “Have you ever had to shunt your consciousness about while under extreme stress?” Nightbeat asked conversationally, tapping Hardrive's chest with his toes, “It's like trying to squeeze through a narrow pipe while it's being tossed from one side of the Iron Sea to the other. It's not actually impossible but one slip in your concentration and you've had it. How good's your concentration, by the way? They say receiving major damage while you're trying to shunt your spark about is actually worse than dying outright, because you get to feel yourself being shredded into disconnected code before the end. They say you can see your memories and feelings being ripped away until there's not enough left to hold you together and poof! You're gone. Not even enough left to join the Allspark. They say. I mean, you can't believe half of what they say, can you? How would anybody know, anyway? Still...it can't be pleasant, whatever it feels like, can it?”

    “I can't tell you!” Hardrive blurted out frantically, twisting futilely against the restraints, “I...look, please! I can't tell you!”
    “Oh yes you can,” Nightbeat admonished calmly, “And I thought we'd agreed you didn't have time to play the usual games, hmm...?”
    The grey mech's jaw worked soundlessly for a few micro-cycles, optics flickering, expression shifting with fear, frustration and anger. Then, finally, he said something, so quietly that even Nightbeat's acute audios could not quite make it out.

    He said nothing. Simply waited silently, looking down patiently and gently tapping his toes. Eventually, Hardrive repeated himself, slightly louder, just loud enough to be heard.

    Nightbeat smiled.

    Lifting his foot off Hardrive's chest and stepping back, he hauled the unfortunate blackmailer away from the tracks, setting him up on his behind. No sooner had he done so than a massive freight train thundered by, perfectly on time and going at full speed. Hardrive screamed, tried to jump up, and fell flat on his face.

    Still smiling, his captor righted him again and then bent down to speak softly into his main audio-receptors. “Now, let's go over everything you told them and then, if you're good, I might show you how to get out of this city without anyone even knowing you're gone...”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Civic Guard Base
    Tagen
    Cybertron


    “Diatrion! Don't care what you're doing, this is important. Get to Praxus. Right now. Drive here on your own power if you have to, but get here. It's vital. I'm about to crack it all wide open and you're going to need to be here to see it. Especially because if you're not here, I'm probably going to be dead before I can solve it all properly. I mean, I know everything already but I'd really like to be the one who gets to go in and get the slaggers myself, rather than be the one who's slowly cooling corpse points the way to where they're hiding. I'm funny like that, what can I say? So, yes – get up here as fast as you can. Tell them it's official business, get a transfer, desert your post, whatever. Just. Get. Here. Now.”

    Diatrion had no idea how Nightbeat had managed to get the message to the top of the morning's file stack. And, after viewing the low-resolution but extremely animated hologram a couple more times, he concluded that he really did not want to know.

    It took rather longer for him to decide what to do about it.

    The very fact that the commercial investigator had called for his help suggested that things were getting serious. As much as he hated to admit it – and he hated it a lot – there was a very real possibility that Nightbeat had lived up to his word and uncovered something important, even case-solving. Moreover, duty demanded that threats to citizens, supposed or proven, be investigated swiftly. If Nightbeat was in danger, the spirit of the law said that Diatrion owed him protection.

    The letter of the law, however, had some fairly strict things to say about Civic Guardsmechs leaving their assigned positions to chase halfway round the planet on the say-so of private individuals. According to the regulations, he should alert the Praxian investigators and have them determine whether Nightbeat was really being threatened. They could then take the appropriate action. Which would probably be to place Nightbeat in protective custody – protection to and from whom, debatable – and thereby bring his investigation to a crashing halt.

    Diatrion could already hear the long, winding protests and accusations of letting justice be crushed beneath blind reg-following.

    He played the message through again, almost unconsciously noticing the transmission signature was that of a temporary housing block in Praxus' north sector. There was nothing in the data-structure to suggest that it had been bounced about in an effort to disguise its point of origin. There was nothing more than some standard private encryption to secure the contents. It had the look of something composed in a hurry, dashed off between following up leads with Nightbeat's signature verbosity.

    Except that Diatrion couldn't quite believe that. He had studied up on Nightbeat after their...'meeting' and putting that together with his first-hand impressions, he doubted very much if the blue mech did anything in a hurry. Oh, he did everything fast. But that included thinking, planning, acting. A careless, rushed message did not fit with his records. It did not make sense.

    The public channel. The imprecise content. The complete lack of specific information.

    Nightbeat was sending a message and it was sure as scrap not meant for Diatrion. He was trying to bait someone into rash action, or else trying to manoeuvre them into revealing themselves. Diatrion just happened to be the most convincing recipient for the bait.

    He wondered how much Nightbeat knew and whether he really believed that he needed help. Was the request for help genuine or was it just theatre? More importantly, could it be risked either way?

    No. Of course it couldn't.

    There was no response when he tried to call Nightbeat back. The channel had been blocked, naturally enough. There wasn't much point tying to force someone into the open and then giving them a way to contact you with anonymity. Nightbeat was, despite appearances, thorough.

    Left with no choice, Diatrion went to see his commander.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Commander's Office
    Civic Guard Base
    Tagen
    Cybertron


    Tynllonn wasn't impressed, either with Nightbeat's communication or the way Diatrion had handled the commercial investigator's involvement. He gave a short, irritated speech about the importance of procedure and following the regulations when it came to classified information.

    Diatrion did not bother to defend his actions. There was no way to defend them. His dereliction of duty was too obvious. He focused instead on pleading to be allowed to see the case through. If he could go to Praxus and find out what Nightbeat had uncovered, there was a chance it would lead to Konntryn's murderer. It was, he insisted, not something that could be ignored. Nightbeat's record spoke for itself when it came to his ability. Whatever his methods, if his investigation into the Tarn bombing intersected with the Konntryn case, they could not afford to ignore him.

    At that, Tynllonn frowned, his already black mood darkening further. “You start drawing connections like that,” he boomed, “you're going to start getting in over your pay-grade. I'll not have the Magnus coming down on us because you think you know better than the special investigation squad.”
    “I don't think I know better,” Diatrion said, as measured as he could manage, “That's the point. I don't know. I don't know who killed Konntryn or why. The leads here are dead. If there's a chance Nightbeat does know, we need to get to him before someone else does.”
    Tynllonn glared at him, optic strip burning green. “Konntryn, Konntryn – to the pit with Konntryn! You think this isn't going to go beyond one smashed body? Slag it, if there's even a hint of something political in this...”

    Diatrion drew himself even further to attention. “With respect, commander, my job is to find out who's responsible for the one smashed body and bring them to justice.” He didn't add, that's what the law requires of me. He had a feeling that if he did, any chance of getting to Praxus would die screaming.

    As it was, Tynllonn's glare intensified, boring into his subordinate as if trying to make him back down by shear radiation pressure. When that didn't work, he threw up his arms and sat back in his seat.

    “Fine.” His voice had sunk to a bass growl. “You want to chase some insubordinate idiot-savant around the planet, you go right ahead and chase him. I'll grant you permission, pending the Praxian lot's approval. Shouldn't have any trouble there though,” he added with a dismissive gesture, “They'll probably thank you for taking the responsibility. Which you are. All of it. You do this, the outcome's on you and this...investigator. I'll not lift one finger to get you out of the firing line if it comes to that.”
    Which was, Diatrion thought, an empty threat given that Tynllonn, as the senior officer, was the one the Magnus' office would look to if it came to 'that.' It occurred to him abruptly that his commander was taking a personal risk solely on the basis of Diatrion's judgement and he felt considerable gratitude towards the older mech, not to mention a good deal of vindication. “Thank you sir!” he said aloud, snapping off a parade-ground standard salute.

    Tynllonn just glowered and pointed to the door. “If you're going, go. You don't want to hang around while someone moves in to smash up your lead.”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block
    North District
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    Nightbeat was not an impatient mech. Least-ways, not a mech to whom patience was a great difficulty. If he knew what someone was going to do – and he invariably would, if he set his mind to it – he could out-wait the stars themselves in order to observe the fulfilment of his prediction.

    The difficulty came when he was not certain of the outcome.

    Someone would react to the message to Diatrion. Preferably Diatrion. Certainly someone else with more dangerous intentions. That was, as far as he and universe were concerned, immutable fact rooted in basic psychology and criminal sociology.

    Except he did not know what that someone would be like.

    There were many possibilities. The hired thug. The smooth-talking middle-mech. The professional assassin. Perhaps even someone actually important in the greater scheme of things. But he had very little means of narrowing those possibilities down. What-ifs pummelled him from all sides. Probabilities rose and fell with every scenario he constructed.

    True uncertainty made him restless. Sitting and waiting become painful necessities.

    He tried to distract himself by flipping through the entertainment nets. The Praxus ether was alive with competing channels, all screaming for attention. He skipped straight through the news, which was mainly concerned with the arguments raging within the Prime's Council following Tarn's not-so-subtle annexing of Simfur. That was all politics and politics was inherently boring, following as it did patterns of incomparable predictability. The sport was chiefly gladiatorial, mixed in with races from the tracks out west in the Prodium Trenches. Potentially interesting, if only the natural chaos in the games had been allowed to come through. Instead, it simmered under the surface, tied down tight by unrelenting constructs of theatricality and outside interests.

    The purely entertainment shows were little better. Poetry following ancient schemes as staid and flat as any old ruin. Displays of art no more engaging for being rendered in electronic impulses. Especially the ones meant to be viewed like that. Artists always screamed their intentions and meaning at their audience, for fear that someone might miss the nuances. That was more irritating than boring. Unmysterious things trying too hard to look like mysteries.

    He settled, finally, on the fashion-casts. He had got as far as calculating the top-selling mods for the next cycle, determining that lime would be the new puce and identifying seven presenters who were overdosing on illegal circuit simulators when every network vanished and the lights went out.
    More than out. Everything went completely dark. Every sense was muted. Only the pickling on his armour let him know his spark hadn't suddenly been ripped from his body. That, and the extremely low likelihood of his spark suddenly being ripped from his body.

    Ah. The tingling gave it away. The faint tingle of negons sucking energy from his skin. A black light beam. In theory, an extremely corrosive particle stream, although no one had ever managed to properly weaponise it. Primarily useful because it completely absorbed all exposed photons within the targeted area, thereby rendering anyone caught in that area completely blind. It also severely impeded the progress of sound waves and played havoc with pressure sensors. Result: one severely disorientated victim.

    That was the theory, anyway.

    He just stood still and let the blackness engulf him and waited for it to fade again. The power requirements to maintain a black light beam were high and the emitters tended to collapse if you fired them for long periods of time. Simple mathematics meant that a beam large enough to totally engulf him would only last for about three point seven six cycles.

    Three point seven four cycles later, the beam cut out. The lights in the habitation unit were really off, it turned out, along with every detectably power source in the room. It was not possible to scan beyond the room.

    A slightly-built mech with red optics sat in the shadows that had swallowed the far corner. He was perched causally on the seat extruded from the walls, his features distorted by a complex scrambler field. It made it look almost as if he was caught in a beam of black light himself, albeit one that was fluctuating wildly. That was just an optical illusion though – the technologies were completely distinct.

    “Hi,” the intruder greeted him, his voice distorted but not enough to disguise its natural pleasantness, “Didn't startle you too much, did I?”
    “Oh, no. I try not to be startled. It saves time.” Nightbeat smiled winningly. “For example, I know why you're here, so you don't have to spell it out for me or anything.”
    “Don't I now?” The mech shifted slightly, his crazy cloak fluttering about him. “I did hear you were good at your job.”
    “Oh, I am. So you've heard of me? Good! You tell me who you are and we'll have got through the pointless bits of this conversation in record time!”

    The mech in the corner shifted again. There was a thunk from inside his scrambler field and something came out, rolling across the floor to stop against Nightbeat's toe. He looked down. Hardrive's dead optics looked back at him, the face that contained them frozen in a horrified grimace.

    “Me?” the mech said, “I'm the Black Shadow.
     
  16. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Thak you sir. You never dissapoint.
     
  17. ARCTrooperAlpha

    ARCTrooperAlpha Well-Known Member

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    uh oh, the Cybertronian gangster arrives.......

    Glad to see you again, dude ! Hope everything's fine now
     
  18. batmanprime

    batmanprime Omega-con

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    Got that itch again. Lol
     
  19. The Librarian

    The Librarian Well-Known Member

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    Heh. Well, I'm going to see if I can give you a tripple hit of chapters this month!

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    2.13: The Brink of Victory
    Emirate Xaaron's Suite
    The Celestial Temple
    Iacon
    Cybertron


    “We are acting in good faith and with all due deference to the Inter-State Accords. We haven't done anything wrong in offering our assistance to the people of Simfur, and I am getting tired of repeating this.” Haccano's face-plates shifted in annoyance and he thumped the edge of Xaaron's desk for emphasis. “I would have thought that protecting innocent civilians would be something even the Council could agree on.”
    “And if the Council was convinced that that was what Tarn was doing, they probably would.” Xaaron shrugged. “Would you accept troops in Simfur if it was Vos putting them there?”
    Annoyance became anger. “That is an unjustified comparison. Vos' unscrupulousness has been more than adequately demonstrated by its response to the Mahlex disaster. We, on the other hand, have never behaved with anything less than total honesty with our neighbours.”

    “I know. That's what's so worrying.” Resting his chin on folded hands, Xaaron frowned thoughtfully. “You must understand that doing this will only aggravate your relations with Vos. And I find it hard to believe that is what you really want.”
    “We have never been the aggressor!” Haccano drove a fist into an open palm. “Vos has tried to undermine Tarn since we were established as a city-state. They have only intensified their efforts now that the Logical Revolution has proven a success.”
    “And Vos would argue that Tarn is overtly threatening their borders with its extravagant military investment, that its obsessive monitoring of its citizens is the sign of a dangerously oppressive autocracy, and that by moving troops into Simfur it has simply revealed the expansionism that lies at the heart of Viilon's regime. I suspect everyone on the Council knows this argument by rote – look, I did not ask you hear so we could exchange official rants.”

    With a gesture, Xaaron cut his desk's recording system, then made a show of closing down his in-built third-party recorders. He looked pointedly at Haacono. The big Tarnian scowled, then shut off his own documentation units. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.

    “Where is this all going to end, Haacano?” Xaaron asked, optics dimming a little.
    “With Vos as a smoking ruin, if I had any say in it.”
    “I don't mean the feud. I meant Simfur. Are you honestly telling me those soldiers are just there to keep the peace?”
    Haccano tilted his head to the side. “They asked for our help, Xaaron. No one else would have listened to them. You think the Prime's Council would ever have agreed to deploy Defence Directorate forces inside a city-state, no matter how wretched? If we hadn't gone in, when we did, thousands more would be dead.”
    “And now you have gone in, it's just possible that their lives will be ruined anyway.” Xaaron hissed in exasperation. “I cannot believe that Viilon would do this out of the goodness of his spark, and neither can anyone else. Is he deliberately trying to provoke his neighbours?”

    “I...” Haacano paused, caught between defensiveness and reassurance. “He would never act without good reason.”
    “No doubt he sees securing territory to bolster Tarn's borders following the damage to its economic superiority as a good reason to launch a military occupation.”
    “It is not a military occupation!”
    “Haacano, there are armed Tarnian troops on the streets of Simfur, carrying out arrests and disabling anyone who causes trouble.”
    “On behalf of the new Simfur government!”
    “A government being heavily 'advised' by Tarnian commanders.”
    “Damnit – we are not being underhanded about this!”
    “No. That's the point. You're doing it openly and without fear of the consequences. And as a result, you are making a lot of people extremely nervous. What are you planning for Simfur? Are you going to stop there? Will you go after the other cities that are now taking their fuel from Vos, not you?”

    Making a sound of incoherent fury, Haacano began to rise from his seat, fists clenched. “These are baseless accusations! How dare you use a private conversation to perpetuate Vosian lies in front of me!”
    “Sit down.” Xaaron's tone was so authoritative that Haacano obeyed before he had time to think about it. “Whether you like it or not, these are very real concerns for the rest of us. If the accusations are baseless, we must see proof of Tarn's good intentions. And if this sounds like I'm patronising you, that is simply because I am astounded that you haven't produced that proof already.”

    When Haacano showed no inclination to respond, Xaaron went on, “You must see how reckless this is. The Allspark knows I am the last person to say that the Logical Revolution was, in itself, a bad thing. I was Tarnian before I joined the Defence Directorate, I know how bad it was. But that cannot excuse some of the things Viilon has done. Never mind the moral issues – he scares people, Haacano. Say what you will about the Vosians but at least they attempt to be diplomatic before the act. Viilon simply acts and then, perhaps, will explain himself – if he deems it necessary. He purposefully quashes any real indication of what he will do next. That is terrifying for the rest of us. And it is a hideously dangerous way to behave when your city has a record of disruption and aggressiveness that makes the riots in Simfur look like a slightly excited party.”

    He thought, for a moment, that he would evoke as little response as before. Then Haacano gave a bass hum and let his hands fall open. “Tarn has existed since ancient times,” he said softly, “and Viilon's government has existed for but a few hundred stellar-cycles. The past overshadows us, Xaaron, at every turn. The Vosians call us warmongers and you all half-believe them because the Tarnians have always been aggressively territorial. Viilon saves us from ourselves and you call him a tyrant. You demand proof of our good intentions then give us no time to prove them.” The thickset tank looked up and shook his head sadly. “Do you want reassurance? Do you want me to reassure the High Council, the people of Cybertron, the Prime himself that Tarn's intentions are honourable and that our troops are in Simfur to help its people? Because I don't think I can do that. I'm not sure it is possible for a Tarnian to ever reassure the outside world that his city is not the monster you think it is.” Still looking sorrowful, he got to his feet and shrugged. “You want something that is impossible to give.”

    Xaaron regarded him over steepled fingers. “I fear, Haacano, you are going to have to find a way to make it possible.”
    The tank shrugged again. “We do not have to do anything. Perhaps it is time for the rest of you to start accepting that.”
    “Perhaps...” Xaaron smiled ruefully and rose to show his guest out. “Perhaps. But if you don't mind, I'll let you be the one to put that to the Council.”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    'Red Comet' Temporary Housing Block
    North District
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    Nightbeat held Hardrive's empty gaze for two micro-cycles. He wondered how much of the blackmailer remained intact, frozen powerless and dead within the severed head. Had he been able to shunt his consciousness to safety in the moments before the blow had been struck? Doubtful. Still, like most civilians, he had probably kept himself mostly inside his head, most of the time. It was the natural way to maximise the speed at which you could process your optical feeds, and something they trained you out of when you joined the forces, civic or military (being in your chest most of the time meant that decapitation was less likely to take you out of a fight). It was just possible that enough remained inside what was left of Hardrive to have him rebuilt with maybe only some minor memory loss, or an inability to turn left in low light or something else inconvenient but non-life destroying. And there were patches for that kind of damage.

    Nightbeat looked up and met the red optics of the mech opposite and knew that Hardrive was not going to be coming back, not with all the patches in the world.

    He shrugged expansively and batted the head away with a foot. “I only said I'd get him out of the city. And aren't you a little small to be a global criminal brotherhood?”
    Behind his sensor baffles, 'The Black Shadow' seemed to smile. “To you, I'm the Black Shadow. All of it. When I speak, we all speak.”
    “A spokesmech?”
    “A voice. And anyway.” A gun barrel extended through the distortion field, silver and ugly. “I'm the only bit of the Black Shadow you need to worry about right now.”

    Nightbeat tilted his head to the side and smiled back. “What do you want?”
    “You're the investigator, you tell me.”
    “People usually find it annoying when I'm insufferably clever.”
    “I'm willing to be impressed.”
    “Oh, well, in that case – you're obviously here to find out what I know and then to kill me to prevent me telling anyone else – but only after I've told you who I've already told so you can go and kill them to stop them telling anyone else and if I play this right I can probably get you hunted down on a charge of attempting to murder the entire population of Praxus, but I won't because I think that anyone who can get a black light projector installed in my room without me noticing is probably extremely clever. Especially since it was a black light projector not a bomb. You're cautious and not willing to just blow me up when that could be both evidence I was on to something and a real problem for you if I had somehow managed to get what I know past your surveillance.”

    “Plus which, you as good as asked me to come,” the red-eyed mech added patiently.
    “Plus which I as good as asked you to come,” Nigthbeat agreed cheerfully, “But I thought that was too obvious to be worth mentioning. Similarly, you know who blew up the Mahlex district, don't you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Are you going to tell me?”
    “Would it make you tell me what I want to know?”
    “I doubt it.”
    “Then I'm just going to start shooting you until you tell me how you found out about Hardrive.”

    Crossing his arms, Nightbeat paced to and fro for a moment. “You really need me to spell that out? I'd have thought it was obvious.”
    “Let's pretend I'm stupid.”
    “You don't want me to do that. I don't like stupid people.” He stopped and hummed. “I just hacked into Konntryn's files and found out who'd been in there before. Not exactly awesomely complicated.”
    “Those files were locked behind a premium grade firewall and a Civic Guard lock-out after the murder.”
    “I'm very clever and standards are dropping all over the place.”

    The red optics dimmed and then brightened, the gun never wavering. “That's kind of disappointing. Like cheating.”
    “So what? You'd have done exactly the same. If you'd had to.”
    “If I'd not known who did it before, you mean?”
    “Obviously. I'm assuming one of the local Black Shadows has decided that usual operating procedures are getting in the way of a little profit on the side?”
    “Why would you think that?”
    “Because Hardrive said the Black Shadow had made him hand over the dirt on Konntryn and the Black Shadow doesn't do terrorism.”
    “Why do you think they were really one of us?”
    “Because you're here and I haven't found a body conveniently stripped of anything that could connect it to you. You're worried enough to come here and kill me rather than just point me where you want me to go.”
    “Perhaps we think you're clever too.”
    “Perhaps you do but that's no reason to not just hand me the culprit and let me take them to Tarn. You'd only act like this if the culprit actually was Black Shadow. Also – you'd have to be insane to pretend you were Black Shadow when you weren't. You might as well just jump in a smelting pool and be done with it.”

    The voice of the Black Shadow nodded sagely – at least, that was what it looked like. “You're right about us not doing terrorism, too. It's not smart.”
    Not in comparison to murdering people for their wealth, stealing from honest (ish) merchants and making life miserable for anyone who gets in your way, you mean? Nightbeat kept the obvious sarcastic retort in the privacy of his thoughts. Antagonising this mech would not help.

    Out loud, he said, “Of course not. People don't excuse obvious mass-murder. No one really cares if the First Covenant gets broken in private but doing it in public is just plain bad taste. The Black Shadow sticks to theft and generic violence, it's just a menace. It starts taking money to commit acts of grand destruction of life and property, it becomes something to be hunted down and crushed.”
    “It's easier when no one cares,” the Black Shadow confirmed casually.
    “Which means when you're done with me, you're going to make one or two of your brothers vanish.”
    “Something like that.”
    “Right, well before you get on with that, can I point out a mistake you're making?”

    The gun moved, ever so slightly. “I didn't shoot you three cycles ago?”
    Nightbeat's expression remained very, very neutral. “No. I mean that you didn't ask me what the box on the wall is.”

    He did not, even slightly, make any move to point towards the hand-sized, dull grey cube clamped to one of the artistically bare support pillars. All the same, he could tell – just about – that the Black Shadow's gaze had momentarily flickered away from him and towards the cube.
    “What is it?”
    “A Tarnian military communicator. Specially adapted for long-range reconnaissance. It compresses reports into pico-cycle long bursts and transmits them to high-orbit satellites under the cover of the usual fluctuations in the local power grids. I used it a little while before you arrived to send my latest findings direct to Viilon. He knows all about your involvement.”
    The Black Shadow was nonplussed by this revelation. “So what? He still won't know who actually blew up his city, will he? Or have you been trying to fool me?”
    “Wouldn't dare,” Nightbeat answered quickly and accurately, “No, you're right. He won't know precisely. But he knows the Black Shadow was involved.”

    The mech with the red optics actually laughed at that. “Oh, yeah, that's a real big mistake. Because we're so scared that Tarn might know it was someone saying they were us who hurt them.”
    “Who's talking about Tarn? I'm talking about Viilon.” Nightbeat paused, as if to try and gather his thoughts for some great effort of explanation. It gave him enough time to see if the Black Shadow would work it out for himself. He didn't. Which was a pity, since he had seemed so intelligent.

    “Do you know what they called Viilon when he was in the military – before he took it into his head to depose the old warlords and rebuild Tarn along scientific lines, I mean. Do you know what his nickname was? No? They called him Shockwave.” There was no reply but it was just possible, behind all the distortion, that the Black Shadow was looking interested. Encouraged that he was not likely to be shot immediately, Nightbeat went on. “They called him that because once he decided you needed to go down, it was as if the bomb that killed you had already gone off. If he came after you, he would not stop, deviate or turn back until you had been dealt with.”
    “Oh, I get it. I kill you and I get hunted down by a one-eyed glitch who doesn't know when to give up, is that it?”

    Nightbeat shook his head vigorously. “No. You kill me, Viilon decides he doesn't have time to play games any more and he takes the Black Shadow apart piece by piece until he finds out what he wants to know. He might be logical but he can't afford to be patient when there's someone out there willing and able to strike against him. I was the tactful option. The tactical option will involve Tarnian crack troops hunting all of you down and ripping information from what's left of your higher processors.” He jerked a thumb at Hardrive's head, lying forgotten by the door. “If you're lucky, when they're finished, there'll be about enough left of you as there is of him.”

    Silence. The Black Shadow's optics narrowed. Then, “You're not exactly scaring me, here.”
    Nightbeat twitched, desperate to pace and wave his arms about, frustrated that he could not drive the point home with more theatre. “No, but it's making you hesitate because you know I'm right, or that, at the very least, it's something you should consider before shooting me to death. Are you really willing to risk the destruction of your brotherhood just to make a particularly brilliant and infuriating commercial sneak shut up?”

    After an eternity measuring precisely one and three eighth cycles, the Black Shadow cocked his chin and let the barrel of his gun slip ever so slightly off target. “So what? What am I supposed to do instead of killing you?”

    The investigator grinned, widely and in triumph. “I was starting to think you'd never ask...”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    Train Dock Five
    North District
    Praxus
    Cybertron


    Diatrion rolled off the train with his mind full of worst-case scenarios. Really, he had thought of pretty much nothing else throughout the trip, excepting reviewing his case notes over and over again and logging the usual travel permits with border control. Would he find Nightbeat's broken body lying in an alley in the Praxus Underground? His corpse, smashed to bits in a Dead End and stripped clean by ravenous Empties? His head, neatly planted on a spike outside the Civic Guard base? The molten remains of his chaises dredged out of the local smelting pits? Or would he just not find him at all? Would the investigator have simply vanished, never to be seen again?

    As was inevitable, Nightbeat was waiting on the platform, perfectly intact, with his engine revving impatiently.

    “About time too! I was about to think I'd have to start without you!”
    Diatrion – who was, even in truck mode, easily as big again as the other mech – parked himself squarely across the blue car's path. “Start what?”
    “To act on information received, of course! Come on! We need to move quickly!”
    “Why?” Diatrion asked with practised infinite patience.
    “Because,” Nightbeat snapped, speaking so fast he was in danger of breaking the sound barrier, “if we don't the murderers will get away, we'll miss the chance to solve the destruction of the Mahlex District and the Black Shadow will hunt down and kill me because I didn't save them from Viilon's perfectly logical wrath. None of these would be good, so can we please just HURRY.”

    Several responses ran through Diatrion's processors, mingling with genuine relief that Nightbeat had both stayed alive and managed to get somewhere with his investigations, and instinctive suspicion about the validity of his claims. What exactly had he found out? Who were the murderers (murderers, plural)? Where on Cybertron did the Black Shadow come into anything?

    But the urgency in Nightbeat's voice was impossible to ignore. And Diatrion had not come all that way to ruin everything at the last moment.

    “All right,” he said, reversing smoothly to allow Nightbeat to get out, “You can explain on the way.”

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     
  20. ARCTrooperAlpha

    ARCTrooperAlpha Well-Known Member

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    Juicy as usual