[Creaky's note: I figured I'd try writing something again last night, but it ended up being a bit longer than I'd anticipated. Still getting used to trying to format this stuff on the boards in a legible way, fanfiction isn't really my thing usually. But here it is anyway - I'll update periodically, I hope.] “Commander’s Log: 3rd Quarter, Fifth Cycle.” Retro paused momentarily, before the well-worn words slipped out. “Nothing to report.” He sighed. A gust of air filled his ventilators, and he heard the disheartening sound of a fan struggling to keep pace with the others. But he was old – sooner or later, parts start to grind down. Look at Kup – millennia of service, yet only his Spark Chamber, T-Cog and Brain Module were actually original. Every component on the legendary Autobot’s body had been replaced – some pieces several times over. Retro felt fortunate that so far, the only part of him to have given up naturally was a piston from his crane arm. This had, of course, prompted Fixit to demand a change of alt mode. Surge had never truly forgiven him for that. The arguments had gone on for weeks on end, and the sulking longer still. He tapped at his chest piece absentmindedly. No rattle. Not so bad, then – he’d once known a bot with a screw loose (quite literally). It had driven the poor fellow half mad with its rattling about whenever he moved. He quickly scanned over the transfer logs, desperately seeking something to alleviate some of this boredom. His command was stationed on Sentinel Station – a relay facility hidden deep within an asteroid field in the Nebulan system. A five bot team was his only company here. Surge, Tote, Freewheeler, Wheels and Sky-High were hardly the most illustrious Autobots. Nor was he, for that matter. Old, yes, but neither as legendary as Ironhide nor as experienced as Kup, and so - Sentinel Station: a nice, quiet place to go away to and never be seen or heard from again. The station existed as a relay and data hub for the Autobot Command Network. Every communique, every stratagem, every strongly-worded-but-ultimately-polite request for Brainstorm to stop doing whatever it was he was up to this time – it all passed through here. Retro figured that he ought to be satisfied that he was in command of guarding such an instrumental part of Autobot command, but he was ultimately little more than the boss of five caretakers. Secrecy was Sentinel Station’s primary defense. That and the fifteen billion times encrypted data vaults and Autobot battlefleet located only a few hours space bridge away. The idea was that if the ‘Cons ever discovered Sentinel Station’s location (unthinkable!), and mounted an assault to gather the data (preposterous!), the encryption would take centuries for even the most advanced supercomputer (or shockwave) to crack – plenty of time for the response fleet to mobilise and retake the station. In the meantime, the fleet could busy itself with more important matters, such as battling Decepticon armadas and drinking bootlegged Engex. The monitor successfully let him know that there was nothing further of note. Each Autobot’s watch node flashed up as secure, meaning that they were, in all probability, as bored as he was. Or skiving off and having something approaching fun. He briefly considered asking Wheels for a stock check of the supply bay, but then thought better of it. Let the young bots have their fun. It might not last forever. “Log ends.” It might not last forever. The thought cast him back to his last posting on-board the Fist of Primus. Oh, how they’d joked about that name. He remembered chiding some young bots – warforged, mostly – for mocking a ship bearing their creator’s name. They had ignored him and carried on. Then the lance strikes tore the Fist clean in half, and Megatron himself lead the assault that finished off most of the crew. He and Surge had managed to commandeer an escape pod. He remembered trying to help get some of the other crew off the ship, only to see them blasted into ashes by Decepticon firepower. How quickly it can go wrong… He thought. He soon wished he hadn’t, as the Station lurched violently, and with a growing sense of dread he realised that something had collided with it. He stumbled to the comm station. “This is Retro. What in the name of Primus just happened?” Lights started to flicker, and then he heard it – the distinctive crack of small arms fire. He instinctively reached for his gun. It lent a sense of stability to the situation, knowing that he could just shoot at a problem and then it would go away. “Irony’s got a cruel sense of humour.” He leant into the Comm once again, and issued his final order. “All Autobots, fall back to the data centre. Siege mode in two minutes.” His fingers pounded on the keyboard as he initiated the countdown, sending the warning to the Autobot fleet. Password required. “Slag.” He knew it, of course he did. He was diligent, he was a model soldier , he was proud to do his duty, he was… old. And sometimes the memory core needed time to warm itself up. As the commander of the Station’s security team, he had a password that gave him access to all the station’s systems and data records. But what? He began thinking of things he’d choose. His Serial Number? The date he was accepted into the Primal Vanguard? Something dear to him. Dearer than that trivia. Then the tired old memory core kicked into gear, and he punched it in. “Siege Mode in T – 2 Minutes and counting. This is not a drill.” The station computer was irritatingly calm in its pronouncement. He transformed into his (craneless) truck mode, and set off at speed to the data centre, praying that those under his command would make it as well. ***** “Siege Mode engaged.” Two Autobots lay dead at his feet. One had been beheaded; the other – a flyer – had attempted to transform and escape, but had suffered a tail-full of splinter-shot for his trouble. Banzaitron felt little satisfaction in their deaths. They barely even counted as soldiers. He checked his ammo. At this rate, he wondered if he’d even need to expend a full clip. At his side, Barricade slid a new shell into the splinter-gun. “Boss.” Barricade’s voice was rough, and the bizarre insect wings formed by some errant car doors on his back wobbled when he spoke. “You’re surprised at how easy this is.” Banzaitron didn’t bother to disguise the statement as a question. “Well, yeah. Secret place like this. Lightly guarded. Not normal. Don’t like it. Makes me twitchy.” “Never underestimate Autobot naiveté, Barricade. Besides – these poor fools aren’t really here to guard it. That’d be Battlefleet Tetrahex.” “Battlefleet could be on its way.” “Yes, I suppose it could be. Fortunate then, isn’t it, that it’s currently engaged with Sixshot’s lot?” “Very clever.” “Yes...” Banzaitron didn’t do arrogant. He was just being honest. As director of the Decepticon Secret Service, it wasn’t in his remit to get carried away with himself. Redirecting Sixshot’s fleet to engage the Autobots had been a nice move, but it ran the risk of giving the game away if any Autobot stopped to question why such an engagement might be fought. Whatever happened, he had to hurry. “Blackout, Lugnut, Mindwipe. Report.” Lugnut’s pounding voice came in loudly. “One Autobot wounded here. We’re outside the data hub. We could use Barricade to crack the, erm, barricade.” "Excellent. We’re en-route. Barricade…” “Boss?” Barricade looked up from the Autobot he was picking apart. “Put that damn crane down and follow me. Do you still have your breaching mines?” “Told me not to carry ‘em.” “I’m fully aware of my commands. But do you still have them?” The sly, lopsided, slightly psychotic grin playing out across Barricade’s spectacularly ugly features told Banzaitron all he needed to know. At least if he couldn’t rely on him to follow orders, he could at least count on Barricade to be himself – terrifying though that prospect may sometimes be. ***** Retro stared at Tote’s arm in shock. The blast doors had closed just as he had tried to get through them, and only this part had gotten through. The ‘Cons were outside. Wheels and Freewheeler had made it inside safely, but Sky-High and Surge were nowhere to be seen. Retro tried to suppress his growing panic and assess the situation. Three Autobots, trapped within a Data Hub, with rows of server banks to their rear, and some scattered service desks around them. Wheels and Freewheeler. Wheels was a competent enough soldier, but Freewheeler was too well used to cosy assignments guarding out of the way facilities. Like this one. He’d seen some action, but not enough, Retro realised glumly. Three guns, two soldiers, one severed arm and no hope. “How in the name of the Primes and all of their wretched creations did they not trigger our sensors?” He screamed, all pretence at calm abandoned. “Scrap knows. Stealth ship?” Wheels was crouched behind a service desk, aiming desperately at the door as though it was the looming threat and not the hardened murderers behind it. “Who gives a flying scrap how they got in? How are we gonna get out?” Freewheeler was getting hysterical. Retro knew his concerns were not invalid, though – the data centre had only one door. And it was currently the only thing between the three Autobots and a horrible, horrible death. “It’s Siege Mode. We don’t get out until relieved. But we’ll be fine. That door can hold anything back.” Retro tried to sound knowledgeable whilst he thought of a way out. Going by Freewheeler’s stifled sobs, it hadn’t worked. He realised he was still holding Tote’s arm, and then a touch of that old warriors pride flickered back to life inside his chassis. Tote, Sky-High, and probably (though he hoped to Primus not) Surge had given their lives to defend this place – what right had he to even consider abandoning his duty now? “Autobots. We do our duty. That door falls, we stand in their way. We fall, fifteen billion encryptions stand in their way. This whole place will have been nuked to atoms by that point – so let’s focus on defending the door ‘till the fleet arrives. Tilt the desks to make some cover, we hold them here!” Freewheeler just sobbed quietly. Wheels, for what it was worth, started arranging the service desks into some passable cover. Retro knelt beside Freewheeler, and took the Autobot’s weapon. “I’ll take that, my lad.” ***** Tote wondered why he was still alive. He’d been just behind Freewheeler and Wheels when the doors started to close, he’d reached through, Retro had taken his arm to pull him in, and then… It really, really hurt. He didn’t want to look at it. He kept telling himself that it would probably be okay. He was being kept alive for a reason, after all, so they’d probably fit him with a rough replacement. If not, he was pretty sure he could just wedge something sharp in there. It had served Impactor well enough, right? Two more Decepticons had joined the group that had captured him. He didn’t recognise any of them. The newcomers, a tall one with a martial bearing (the leader?) and a short, squat, ugly thing with a gun almost as big as it was (the psychopath?) seemed to be in no real hurry. A rough, clawed hand grabbed him and thrust him forwards with a yelp. The hand was so big it fit entirely around his head. He prayed that its owner – a giant of a Decepticon with a single, baleful eye – wouldn’t close it any further, or he was certain his head would just give way. “Autobot.” The leader spoke. The voice was unusual, far from the guttural growl of most Decepticon war lords, it was calmer, and put him in mind of a civil servant more than a battle scarred killer. “Y…yes?” “You will identify yourself.” “T…t…tote.” His vocal processor was starting to freeze up. Not good. “Greetings, Tote. I am Banzaitron. You will tell me who is in command here.” “Wh..why?” “Lugnut. Release him.” Tote dropped to the floor, landing right on his stump. Pain flared through his body. He rolled over, but a towering grey Decepticon, not quite as big as the mono eyed brute, but still massive, planted a giant foot right into his chestplate. It caved in, and he felt things, internal things, bend in ways he didn’t think they should bend. “Blackout, do not harm our prisoner. I am in command of this interrogation.” Banzaitron knelt beside Tote and cupped the Autobot’s head in his hands. “Flyer? Crane? Or you?” “Retro. In... in there.” The pain in his chest was a curious incentive to conversation. “Describe him.” “…no…” The pain burnt in Tote’s chest, but he would give in no further. He swore it. He was an Autobot, that fact alone carried some level of pride. Banzaitron smiled sadly, and motioned to the fifth member of the group. “I had hoped I wouldn’t need to use you for this part, Mindwipe. Unfortunately, trying to take every single Autobot inside that centre alive would be an unnecessary risk. Show me their commander.” A Decepticon with a cloak of tattered wings stepped out from behind the two giants, and Tote saw that the fingers of one hand ended, not in fingertips, but in long, sharp needles. Mnemosurgery tools. He screamed as Mindwipe stabbed him through the eyes, and extracted his memory of Retro. The screams stopped when the Decepticon dragged a serrated blade across his throat, tearing his Energon conduits apart. The last sound he made was a quiet gagging noise as his Brain Module shut itself down. “Got it.” A hologram projector mounted on Mindwipe’s forearm displayed an image of Retro. “Very good. My apologies, Mindwipe.” “It's no problem.” Mindwipe shrugged, and though Banzaitron saw that his hands were shaking, he made no mention of it. “Blackout, prepare an Inhibitor Dart. Barricade, breach the door. Lugnut, Mindwipe - kill anyone who isn't already ancient.” ***** The blast damn near seared his optics. He fired blindly with his two blasters, spraying in the direction of the door. Beside him, Wheels screamed as he was cut to pieces by a spray of laser fire, and then he clicked empty. His vision cleared just in time to see a giant grey brute of a Decepticon step through the threshold, and shoot him with something. “Get scrapped, slaggers!” He roared as he charged forwards. Slowly. Why was he moving slowly? That made no sense. What use was a slow charge? He dropped his blasters, and reached for Tote’s arm to bludgeon a Decepticon with. He missed, fumbling in the air, but managed to trip over part of Wheels, landing on his knees. Why didn’t Wheels have a head? More to the point, why couldn’t he get up? He tried to lift his arm, but failed. Everything seemed so… peaceful and slow. Like an all too familiar dream. Banzaitron looked at the old Autobot. He briefly wondered how it must feel to have failed so wonderfully. He was not accustomed to it, himself. Still, he figured it was probably a sensation he’d not regret missing out on. “Retro, isn’t it? We’ve come for your data vault.” Banzaitron sounded dis-interested- like he was just performing a routine inspection. “Lots of plans. Lots and lots of secrets. Juicy secrets.” Barricade was poking his head into the rows of server banks. “Quite, Barricade. Retro, my friend, this is only going to…” He didn’t finish the sentence. A scream sounded from Barricade’s corner of the room, followed by the sound of metal hitting metal. Barricade fell backwards, and another Autobot emerged from his hiding place and grabbed for the shrapnel-gun. A thin beam of red light burst from Banzaitron’s eyes, and the sudden threat was extinguished in a burst of flame and a loud, prolonged scream as Freewheeler caught fire. “Barricade.” The stunted Decepticon recovered from his surprise assault and quickly gave in to his baser desires, stomping a foot onto Freewheeler’s burning chest, and tearing his equally burning head away from the socket. The screams ended abruptly. “Thank you. Now…” Banzaitron turned his attention back to Retro, “This is only going to end in one way. I’ve come for the data, and I’m going to have it all within the hour. Give me your security password, and I’ll leave you alive.” Retro spat a gobbet of oil into Banzaitron’s face. The Decepticon didn’t even flinch. “Really, now. I’m giving you a fair offer.” “I’ve… I’ve lived… long enough… you… clutch munching… piston licker.” Retro felt so weary, so tired, so exhausted - but so, so angry. Angrier that he’d ever been in his life. “I don’t think…” Banzaitron got down on his haunches to speak to Retro face to face, “I don’t think you quite understand your position here. There are two options. Option one – you give me the password and I let you live. Option two – you don’t give me the password, and you die horribly.” “It’d take… centuries… to crack into… this system…” “Crack it? Why would I have to crack it? I want you to understand, Retro. I hate you. You’re the worst kind of Autobot – you don’t even bother to die properly, instead you let yourself grow old. Testament to your failure to achieve anything of note. I’m not offering you this choice for YOU. Mindwipe here could extract the password from your memory in seconds, but doing so would be very painful for him. And you see, I look after those I command. I genuinely do not want any of these…” He gestured around at the Decepticons in the room. “these… fine figures of Decepticons to suffer more than is absolutely necessary in the course of Duty. I OWE them that. They do as I say and I keep them whole. It’s our deal. A commander has a responsibility to his troops, don’t you think? Tell me the password, or I will instruct Mindwipe will rip it from you. And then you will be privy to a spark-warming display – a soldier willing to put himself through great agony to follow his commander’s orders.” “Shove it… up your… tailpipe.” Banzaitron sighed. A bit of smoke wafted from the corners of his eyes, where the heat ray had been emitted. He rose to his feet and walked over to the interface module on the wall. “Mindwipe, tell me the password. But don’t kill him.” Retro went blind as the needles pierced his eyes. He felt his entire life spread out before him, laid bare to the Decepticon intruder. And then he felt it get torn apart. “Got it.” Mindwipe extracted the needles, leaving Retro to sob quietly. “Password is ‘SURGE’.” Banzaitron keyed in the code. The screen lit up – full access. The Autobots’ secrets laid bare – they’d gotten careless. How could any data hub remain secret from the head of the Decepticon Secret Service? From the Megatron’s Spymaster himself? He opened a link to the Oculus, his stealth-ship. “Squawkbox. It’s secure. Get down here, I need you to search and extract anything that might give us a lead. Quickly.” “On my way, boss.” Banzaitron turned to regard his Decepticons. Lugnut: the unyielding fist of the DSS. Blackout: standing impassively, as though utterly devoid of all feeling. Mindwipe: quietly shaking in pain. Barricade: somehow managing to still find pieces of Freewheeler to peel apart. Squawkbox: incoming. Phase one: almost complete. He turned to the quietly sobbing Retro, and regarded him with a mixture of hate and genuine pity. He tried to think of something to say. Something that would appropriately spell out his feelings, something honest. He wanted to say something that could sum up in one word the intensity of his revulsion, his rage and his desire to inflict pain. But what? What could possibly suffice? “Autobot.” He said at last, before a bolt of heat shot from his eyes and set the old soldier alight.
