A New Direction: Part 1
A brand mission, a brand new world where many things are not as they same and thier true objective is not even known to them.
PART ONE
Solarflare sat in his bed at his apartment in Cybertropolis. He had been cut loose from the military once again, and they were considered pirates once again. Solarflare sighed deeply as Phoenix sat next to him very distrought. They all new it had to happen one day but it was too soon for all of them. The military had removed any attachments to the Crimson Flames. They still had a lot of money from the payment they got before but they had lost their ship and any future funding. Fire and Brimstone were in the kitchen making breakfast and trying to think of somthing to fo for the day. It had been six weeks since everything had gone to hell and the team had been mostly working in the weapons shop or doing other random duties but still looking for new jobs in their line of work.
Solarflare yawned and headed out to the kitchen as the door alarm went off from downstairs. "What is it?" He said on a intercom down to the Weapon shop workers below.
"There is a message that can only be deleivered to you down her sir." SOlarflare raised an optic ridge a second.
"Send them up." Once up there Solarflare grabbed the message and opened quickly tipping the courier and sending him on his way. He was from the military so Solarflare knew it was important.
The message read:
ATTENTION COMMANDER SOLARFLARE,
YOU HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO MEET AT THE CITIDEL AT 1200 HOURS A WEEK FROM THIS DATE.
The date was today. The finch was suprised a moment. At the bottom of the letter is said four words. "THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED." This floored the finch and the first thing he thought to do was send Switchblade a message. He grabbed a data pad quickly and plugged it into a outside line and sent her a coded message. He prayed that it found her. He quickly went and began to pack his gear.
----------------------
Gaul Stalked about a flat and like Solarflare wondered what he could do for this new day but he was about to get a Message too tha was very similar to Solarflares.
GAUL
YOU HAVE bEEN ASSIGNED TO COMMAND A MISSION OF THE UTMOST IMPORTANCE. He gave the date and time as well. His time an hour earlier then Solarflare's. COMMAND was the word that struck him the most. He quickly dropped what he was doing and went to pack his gear. Finally it was time once again.
Tundra was sitting in their flat in the middle of Cybertropolis, Ret was out right now, investigating a business opertunity. She was fiddling with a letter that had been slipped under the door, her appearence much altered since the battle at Endport. She was now a blue cat, with silver optics, her wings were, obviously, absent.
She decided to open the letter. And, removing one of her Vibro-Daggers from her arm, without activating it, she slit open the letter.
TUNDRA AND RETRO-VIRUS
YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED, BY THE MAXIMAL HIGH COUNCIL, TO APPEARE AT THE CITIDEL ONE WEEK FROM THIS DATE. 1200 HOURS.
At the bottom it read,
CONGRATS, YOUR FATHER WOULD BE PROUD.
Vinoc was in a millitary compound, serving hard time in te brig, a common thing for him. "Yo, Vinoc, theres someone here who has something for you, says it can't be given to anyone else." The guard then opened Vinoc's cell.
Vinoc looked at the guard, and started to walk by him, only to have the guard interceed. "You'll need these." was all the guard said, as he handed him his weapons. Vinoc looked at him susspiciously, took his weapons, and walked out.
Outside the cell's, a bot stood with a letter in hand. He handed it to Vinoc and left wordlessly.
VINOC
YOU ARE HEREBY ORDERED TO APPEAR AT THE CITIDEL ONE WEEK HENCE, 1200 STELLAR CYCLES.
at the bottom it read.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
*The Skideplate Shaker*
“We’ve come a long, long way together, through the hard times, and the good. I’ve got to celebrate you baby, I’ve got to praise you like I should.”
The music of “Praise You” by Fatboy Slim blared over the spears hanging from the ceiling. Rubmur is leaning against a wall, surveying the many ‘bots in the room enjoying dancing. His attention is turned as one of his employees brings him the day’s work. Amongst the usual letters, two letters stick out. Rubmur drops the bag of mail and looks at who the two letters are addressed to. He walked out onto the dance floor, dancing occasionally just to not look out of place and grabbed the arm of Weede. Weede had been staring at the ceiling and the flashing colors for awhile, but the two letters concerned him to.
The two went upstairs to their shared apartment and sat around a table. Here Rubmur read the letters out loud while Weede gazed up at the ceiling and the new lights.
“Attention, blah, blah, ordered to meet at the Citidel, 1200, from this date. Hmm, both letters say pretty much the same thing.”
“You see man, the lights in this room are whitish yellow, but downstairs they’re all ‘woohoo!’”
“Yes I know, I designed them like that. Glad you noticed, two years later. Pack your stuff though, cause we’re off to do some real work.”
“Man, let's eat first…”
Placing the box containing all of his worldly possessions on the floor, Relic looked about his new abode. Built in one of the older sections of Cybertropolis, billed as an apartment, it was little more then a room, but Relic was satisfied, it suited his needs, and most importantly, was cheap.
Starting to unpack Relic’s gaze was drawn to a pile of letters on the night table next to the plain palette that was his bed. The former assassin rose and walked over, picking them up and sheafing through them.
There was some additional paperwork from the prison, and invitations to a re-socialization class. Relic chuckled and put the note away, he’d had enough “re-socialization” to last a life time after the Ragnorak incident.
The next was a letter from the landlady, “Be considerate and keep it down after 11, turn out the lights when you leave, rent is due on the first of the month etc.” Having read the letter Relic sent it spinning towards the wire trash can.
The third read: “CITIZEN BUDO ” Relic indulged in another chuckle, this was another one of his discarded aliases.
“YOUR PRESENCE HAS BEEN SUMMONED TO APPEAR AT THE CITADEL ONE WEEK FROM THIS DATE, 1200 HOURS.”
And at the bottom it read: “THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.”
The letter promptly followed it’s precursor into the garbage as Relic resumed un-packing, having no intention whatsoever of obeying the message. He’d left that life behind him, and if it wasn’t Rat and the Assassin’s guild trying to drag him back in then it was the damn government. He didn’t even know if the letter was actually from the government, or just another one of Rat’s ploys.
The dark bot continued to unpack, and quickly the meagre contents of the box found it’s way to wall and table. With a satisfied smirk Relic sat on the palette, observing his handwork.
His eyes however kept on being drawn to the wastepaper basket, his curiosity piqued. Relic did his best to fight it off, but suddenly he found himself spearing the letter out of the basket with a clawed finger. Turning it right side up, he looked at it carefully.
It certainly couldn’t hurt to just watch and listen, and besides if this was going out to all the members of “the resistance” then there was a chance he might see a few of his old friends.
Relic growled low in his throat as he came to the decision half reluctantly half eagerly. His curiosity had got him more then one scar, he mused as he looked at the iridescent and razor sharp feather on his desk.
Cybertron, Transformer homeworld…
A bar. Nothing unusual about it; dim, dingy, watered down drinks and filled to the rim with shady characters. Located in the section of town deemed ‘the slums’, the ‘bots here all had one thing in common; the desire to forget - drinking till their pockets achieved empty status. Abruptly bounced at that point, their next day would be spent obtaining funds via any means necessary, then return here the next night, they would. Ah, the ever repeating cycle…
In a corner sat Jungle. Nursing a bottle, his panther-bot frame was covered with fresh wounds. Safe to conclude, his day had been a rough one. Almost said, ‘unusually rough’ - but that’s something only he can clarify.
The dark warrior looks to the deep gouge in his lower chest. Instantly the events leading to that injury flash before us, in black and white color…
The background was the city’s interstellar shipping yard. The one responsible, was a female beast warrior with the beast form of a crocodile. No faction markings on her could be seen, we had the wrong vantage point for that. Jungle successfully countered her sword thrust with his built in hand blades, but her retort was executed too quickly for the panther to block - a spinning tail strike to his lower chest.
Taking another gulp from his bottle, Jungle feels the slice across his back. Like before, a clip from the bout is shown to us; Jungle is franticly attempting to locate his foe. His eyes are narrowed and he sniffs the air, spinning about. The female croc having made use of some kind of ‘cloaking devise’ appears behind the panther, successfully striking her sword into Jungle, just as he realizes where she is…
Finishing off the bottle, Jungle feels and gazes upon some of the burns covering the left half of his body. The closing moments of the battle are shown to us, in black and white, like the two previous clips…
Gripping the lady crocodile by the neck with one of his hands, Jungle has her against a machinery piece. His other hand is at the ready; its hand sword is out and poking into the plating protecting her spark casing. The panther wasn’t playing around. In one last ditched gamble, the female warrior fires off her optic beams. Cat like reflexes serving him well, Jungle turns her head enough to avoid being hit. Though what ever did receive the optic blast, explodes…
The dark warrior knocks the bottle off the table, allowing it to join the others on the floor. A beastmodeless ‘bot, baring a Maximal symbol approaches the cat. “Jungle, this just arrived for you.” Dropping the pad on the table, the ‘bot quickly retreats; he didn’t feel like gambling with his life this day. Vision blurred from intoxication, Jungle reads the pad’s text. Giving off a low growl, Jungle crushes it…
The pad had simply read; REPORT TO THE CITADIAL IN ONE WEEK AT 1200 HOURS.
Trance sat in a small room that was equipped with the latest tracking systems and access computers. He had bought a small place of his own on Cybertron just recently and set up an underground bounty hunting agency. He was going through the latest additions of the Police Wanted files, picking out interesting, and worth while bounties. Suddenly, he heard his "doorbell" ring, causing him to curse as he slammed his fists down, standing up to answer it. He opened his door and saw a plain bot standing there, but had a data pad in his hands.
"Are you Trance?" the messanger asked with a hint of fear on his face as Trance glared through his head. Without waiting for an answer, the bot handed Trance the data pad and left, Trance closing the door and walking back to his study. He sat down in his chair and slammed the data pad on his desk, and went back to to the Police files.
A few hours passed and Trance was about to go tosleep when he remembered about the data pad. He picked it up and activated it, reading the message.
<b>Trance, you are to report to the High Council Citadel exactly a week from todat at 1200 hours.</b>
"Great, democratic boars want me." Trance said as he threw the data pad against the wall and went to bed.
Querion sat alone in a dark corner of a tavern, his chin on a fist, staring lazily into the tankard of drink. An unruly stubble had grown around the edges of his jaw. The wolf-bot scratched at his head ungraciously, and took another drink from his mug. Loud dance music blared around him, flashing neon colours illuminating the surroundings. But he didn't quite notice. Querion sat lost in his own thoughts.
"Arrgh!" he yelled with frustration, his voice drowned out by the music. The wolf-bot looked at his comlink sadly. "She hasn't called in two weeks." He scoured the dance-floor, hoping to find Timber there. "Nope," he sighed to himself.
Querion stood up, the chair dragging noisily against the floorboards. He threw a couple of credits onto the table, and pushed his way past the jiving crowd, out onto the streets.
"The sky sure is dark tonight," Querion muttered, looking up at the darkness above. "No star in sight."
He got to the door of his apartment, fumbling with the keys in his pocket, before getting the door open. He peered curiously inside, groping around the darkness with a hand for the switch.
"Timber?" he called, as the lights snapped on. He was greeted by silence, and a very messy room. The pieces of the broken glass vase still lay where the she-wolf had hurled it two weeks before. Querion side-stepped them carefully, picked up the stack of letters, and dropped himself onto the couch.
"Ouch!" the wolf-bot cried out, as he removed the baseball that was prodding at his spine. "First my head, now my spine," murmured Querion angrily, as he threw the ball into the closet. He went through the letters, tossing junk mail into the trash can as he passed them.
"What's this?"
He opened it, and his eyes widened slightly.
YOU HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO MEET AT THE CITADEL AT 1200 HOURS A WEEK FROM THIS DATE.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
"Again?"
YOU HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO MEET AT THE CITADEL AT 1200 HOURS A WEEK FROM THIS DATE.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
The letter's recipient blinked. "How find Penji?"
======
Caska stood in her quarters, practicing. Her current war had ground to a standstill for several weeks, and she was getting bored. Without warning, the pager on her desk beeped. It could only mean one thing.
YOU HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO MEET AT THE CITADEL AT 1200 HOURS A WEEK FROM THIS DATE. BRING YOUR ASSISTANT.
No confirmation of sender. No sender stated whatsoever. She briefly considered contacting her employer, but thinking about it for a moment, there was no way that could possibly do her any good, and lots of ways it could do her bad. She had little choice but to do what the message said. It would probably be more interesting than waiting for the cese fire to end, anyway.
"This had better not be from those f***ers at council security," she mused.
It was one of the many various pubs in this particular area of Cybertron, there to cater to the groups of freebooters, mercenaries, and other roaming not-quite-criminals that passed through. Fights weren't uncommon, but tonight's brawl was an unusually lively one. Bottles and tankards flew, along with punches, kicks, some of the smaller, lighter bots, and the occasional piece of furniture. The bartender calmy sat under the bar and counted the night's takings, the more expensive drinks stashed safely away and his sawn-off shotgun propped up beside him. He winced occasionally whenever the sounds of things breaking got too loud, mentally calculating the cost of repairs and replacements.
Meanwhile, one of the fight participants was enjoying herself enourmously, battle staff a blurr in the air as she fended off the other rather enthusiastic brawlers. Her commlink chirped in her ear as she elbowed some bot in the gut and tripped him up with her staff.
"What is it, 'Lash?" she subvocalised into her comm, ducking a swipe and retaliating with an ankle sweep and a friendly tap on the head.
[The local authorities are beginning to converge on your position, Spacedust.]
"Heh, took their sweet time. I'll be out in a nano, meet me on the roof, 'kay?"
[Acknowledged. Have fun.]
Dusty quickly worked her way towards the pub's exit, her staff retracting as soon as she was clear. The copper and silver-white femme clipped the short black rod to her upper arm, then started climbing up the service ladder on the side of the small building. She pulled herself up onto the roof just as a small black starfighter descended, its engines glowing faint blue. The cockpit canopy opened as it hovered mere inches above the roof, and Dusty leapt in with practiced grace. The canopy hissed shut as Dusty settled herself, and Whiplash quickly took off and headed for another sector of Cybertron. Local police units could be made out moving in to quell the bar fight, but none paid any notice to the near-silent vessel flying overhead.
"So, anythin' interesting happen while I was out?" Dusty casually asked her starfighter, clipping up the last buckle of her safety harness.
[Nothing as interesting as the brawl you started, I'm sure,] Whiplash replied. About a year and a half ago, Dusty had managed to aquire an advanced AI program, which she'd installed into her starfighter on some whim. At first it had done fairly simple tasks, handling the autopilot and routine nav calculations, but over time it had developed a personality of its own, making the Whiplash into something close to a living being.
Dusty chuckled slightly. "Hey, for once, I didn't start the fight, 'Lash."
[I find that somewhat hard to believe,] Whiplash retorted as it handed piloting control over to Dusty.
"Believe whatever y'want," Dusty replied dryly. "So, did anything happen at all?"
[A private message arrived for you via hypernet, to your private account. The security on it is impressive.]
"Hmm..." Dusty quickly brought the message up onscreen, a slight frown creasing her face. There were very few people who knew Dusty's private mail address, and she couldn't think of anyone who'd be sending her anything at this point in time. It took only a nano to placate the security and get to the message's contents, and what she read had her raising a browridge in surprise.
Attention Spacedust. Your presence is required at the Citadel one week from this date, at 1200 hours.
After the date, right down at the bottom, it read, The Resistance is needed.
"F***ING HALF-ASSED STUPID DRUNKEN DOLTS!!!!"
Buckshot grabbed one Bot and slammed him into the wall. He stumbled backwards and Buckshot whirled him around, hoisted him up, and tossed him out onto the curb. He turned, grabbed the other Bot, and punched him hard in the stomach. The Bot doubled over, letting out a whoosh of breath, and Buckshot spun him around and field-goal-kicked him in the skid, sending him flying out into the street.
"AND DON'T F***ING COME BACK UNTIL YOU GET SOME F***ING MANNERS!!!" Buckshot yelled, slamming the door.
The other patrons of the bar looked with fright at him as he let out a sigh. He dusted himself off and looked around at them.
"S'okay, people...go about yer business." he told them with a smile.
There were relieved sighs and the ambient noises of clinking mugs, laughter and conversation continued anew, amidst the techno-beat music emitting from the speakers mounted in the walls. Buckshot cracked his knuckles and walked past the dancing femmebots and swirling colored lights.
He was a bouncer.
And a damn good one.
He headed into the back, grabbing a bottle of brew. He walked into the dressing room nonchalantly, and the ladies paid him no notice.
"Hey Lily...Fiona...Monique...Ruby...Sway...Eliza..." he said distractedly, waving to all the other dancers as he walked. Then he stopped, seeing a fine feminine form in front of him. He walked up and wrapped his arms around her from behind, smelling her deeply.
"Hiya sweets." he said with a grin.
"Hi-yee, sexy." Mimi replied, snuggling against him. "What was all that yelling about?"
"Some damn idiots started an auction for Kirsten's services, it turned into a big fight, I had to toss both their asses out."
"Oh yeah? Kirsten?" Mimi replied. "No wonder you got so mad, you've had your optic on her for months."
"WHA??!! No way!"
"Oh, suuuuure, no way at all..." Mimi replied teasingly.
"Nope, no way, never, I got you and I don't need no one else!" Buckshot replied emphatically.
"Really?"
"Damn straight. ...Unless you wanted to, you know, get a little menage a three action..."
Mimi laughed and swatted him away, as he grinned and fended off her assault.
"Yo Buck! Mimi! Letters!"
One of the bartenders walked in and handed them a pair of plain mail envelopes, heavily sealed.
"Another letter from Calico?" Mimi asked.
"Nah...if it were from Mom, it'd smell kinda like baking." Buckshot replied as he tore it open. "See, whenever she writes, she says the best lighting is in the kitchen, and while she's in there, she...oh...oh s**t."
Attention Buckshot. Your presence is required at the Citadel one week from this date, at 1200 hours.
The Resistance is needed.
Her clawed feet tearing into the turf, Timber tore across the landscape. Her yellow eyes joyfully looking about at the tall trees and blue skies. It all looked real, but the carefully designed park smelt synthetic to her, all one hundred and fifty miles of it, but it was the closest she’d find on Cybertron, and she’d been luxuriating in it.
A slightly pained look entered her eye as she tore towards the gates, she had needed this, but she’d come down harder on Querion then she needed too. After having some time to cool down, she had to admit to herself that she’d played up her hurt more then it actually was, in a bid to get out of the city, away from it all. With a wolfy snicker she admitted that the vase had definitely been a little much, she’d have to apologise for that.
Her stride barely breaking Timber flew out of beast-mode as she jogged up to the gate, where a security guard lounged.
“Timber?” He inquired, startled Timber nodded.
“Someone dropped this off, said to give it to you when you left the park.” The guard explained, passing her a plain letter.
Was it from Querion? How had he found her? She should have known he’d have worried his poor little spark out. Curious and feeling guilty now, Timber flipped the letter over, scanning it quickly.
TIMBER YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT THE CITADEL NEXT WEEK AT 1200 HOURS.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
Another hiss of steam bellowed out from the sides of the Xavier’s landing catwalk as Burnout angrily tromped down it. He was followed by rather antiseptic and non-intelligent looking maintenance bot. It sped around him on the treaded wheels that provided it’s locomotion, and cut him off at the bottom of the ramp. The thin maintenance droid gave Burnout a series of impatient beeps, obviously a binary language.
As he listened to the message, the fuzor shook his head and opened his mouth. “I don’t care how much YOU say, you good for nothing pile of scrap.” He produced a datapad and held it up to the bot. “This is how much your boss said the repairs were going to cost. And that’s all I’m going to pay. You go back there and tell him that I’m not going to let him screw me. Better yet, you get HIM out here. I don’t want to talk through brainless droids anymore.” Burnout then slapped the datapad into the maintenance bot’s hand and turned to walk back up the ramp. It gave a disgruntled ‘bweeeep’ before spinning around and heading off toward the main tower.
“WOW! WE’RE HOME! They got the one and only super chewy and extra nummy gooey gooey taffy grease bars here! CMON!!”
Burnout knew to step aside once he heard the first few words. Good thing too cause the moment he did Catfish tore by him, down the ramp, and across the landing pad. Phyphen followed, but she was at a slower pace. The young fox-bot smiled and waved slightly at burnout as she walked as fast as she could down the ramp without running. Once she hit the bottom, though, she immediately cut into a run and tried to catch up with her friend.
“Remember to check in over the com every megacycle!” Rita shouted from the top of the ramp. She knew they would be ok. They always got into some sort of trouble, or course. But they always got out ok.
After the two disappeared from their view, the two remaining adults smiled at each other. “Wow, two years. We’re finally back.” Burn said, walking up the ramp and putting his arms around Rita.
“Yep.” She said, returning the gesture. “Thank Primus that whole “Resistance” thing is all behind us. Hey maybe we can go pay a visit to Retro. I wonder what he’s been up to all this time?”
“Mmm, why be so fast? We just got here. We got the kids out of our hair for a while, why don’t we…. enjoy our privacy?” Burnout grinned smoothly.
Rita chuckled and brought her arms around his head. They exchanged a short but passionate kiss, after which Burnout put his arm behind the mink-bot’s legs and lifted her up. He prepared to carry her back into the ship, when the sound of a voice startled him.
“Ahem.. E-excuse me?”
Burnout abruptly dropped Rita onto the hard metal deck.
“OWWW!”
“Sorry! …. WHADA YOU WANT?!”
“Um.” The small military soldier most likely knew what he’d interrupted. “Sorry sir…… A message for you.” The courier handed Burnout a tube with a scrap of paper inside.
He carefully pulled off the sealer strip and popped off the end off the tube. While he scanned the note, Rita popped up behind him to read over his shoulder…..
RITA, BURNOUT AND COMPANY, YOUR PRESENCE IS REQUESTED AT THE CITADEL NEXT WEEK AT 1200 HOURS.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
“Aww crap!” They said in unison.
"Can't a bot concentrate here?!" Cross yelled at the mumbling behind him. He knew what they were saying. 'Isn't this bot a bit too young to diffuse the bomb?' 'How is this kid going to save this building? Blow us all up?'
Primus, bot should at least register a complaint if they have something against me doing my function. the medic thought, gently lifting out a panel from a time bomb. He liked time bombs since you had a limit that challenged your speed and skill. It was always popular with the terrorist.
Glancing inside the bomb, his golden optics flashed breaking the bomb apart, giving Cross a better idea on whats further inside. Aren't we a bit advance here? He thought a smirk appearing on his face. No challenge...
Cross began his work, seperating the crisscrossed and tangled jungle of wires. Seeing where what lead where and figuring out what it did. With a glance at the timer, the sabre toothed decided to speed up his pace. Showing off was never a good thing when you had no idea which wire to cut. As far as his lay out read, all the wires connected to a dead circuit.
"This is not even a real bomb!" Cross yelled at the bots behind him. "It must be somewhere else. Get your skidplates out of here and find that bomb!"
The bomb squad stumbled out, spreading out through the 20 floored building. They won't find it in time. Cross thought with an angry frown before glancing at the bomb again. He went over the diagrams in his head again and again. "Wait..."
Bending back down at the bomb again, Cross began tearing out the wires before removing the plate underneath them. "Gotcha." He smiled, removing the plate that concealed the real internal circuits of the bomb. Quickly seperating the wires, Cross cut the necessary one and finally cut the final wires with a few nanoclicks to spare. If he hesitanted any longer, he and his bomb squad would be in the scrape yard.
Exiting the now bomb free building, Cross mounted into the back of the transport that earlier depatched them to the building. He heavily sat down on the bench, leaning against the wall of the transport. I need a new job...
"Hey Cross."
"Yes?" The medic shifted his eyes to his commander, who sat down next to him.
"Good job back there. Any of the other guys would have went else where to find the bomb." He said, giving Cross a pat on the back. The medic smiled, giving out a light hearted grunt. His commander then handed him a datapad. "This got sent over during the operation. It's yours."
Cross stared at the datapad before taking it. With a pat on his shoulder, the commander left to sit somewhere else. Without hesitanting, Cross activated the pad which read:
CROSS, YOU HAVE BEEN ORDERED TO MEET AT THE CITIDEL AT 1200 HOURS A WEEK FROM THIS DATE.
THE RESISTANCE IS NEEDED.
Cross moaned, "I have a mid-term that day!"
Rhapsody opened the door of her small apartment expecting Wraith but instead it was a large muscular courier, Wraith was standing right behind him. "Can i help you?" She said looking him over carefully.
"Prority message miss." The large bot said snaping his gum and then handing her the message. He touch his temple as a goodbye and walked away. Wraith walked in behind him and hugged her before moving towards her fridge. They had been seeing each other for the entire time the resistance had been on "Break" Wraith still doing black ops while Rhapsody taught a class on military leadership and gurellia warfare.
"Whats it say?" he said opening he door and looking inside for a snack.
"Would you get out of there, we're about to go out. Awww @#%$!" She said looking at the pad.
"Whats it say?" he said looking at the pad. "Aww @#%$!"
[Corr City - Planet Corra Prime, The Galactic Rim]
Like so many other things on the Rim, the Corr City Space Dock hardly rated its name. Small and more than averagely dingy, walls caked with a decades worth of dirt and grime, it was more of a hole than anything else. A hot sticky hole, owing to the pane-less concrete ‘windows’ scattered throughout the building. If the open-air design was meant to be quaint, it failed miserably.
Switchblade took a deep breath, trying to push back her boredom for the twentieth time in as many minutes. Corra Prime was a dull world with even duller problems. The badger ‘bot didn‘t like it a bit. For the last week the planet’s elite had kept her busy shuttling ‘important’ packages back and forth between themselves. Based on the ones doing the sending, she very much doubted it had been worth what she had charged for the service. Yet every one went away happy with the deal, and that was what mattered the most. Switchblade yawned and gave the departure gate crowd another careful glance. She couldn’t wait for her transport to lift. The nominal dangers of intergalactic travel would be a welcome diversion from the endless stream of nothing in Corr City.
Off in the distance a tiny sonic boom heralded the arrival of the 0100 passenger transport off planet. The armed courier almost sighed with relief. She stood, stretched, and made her way to the end of the small boarding line, scanning its occupants more out of habit than necessity. Nothing seemed amiss.
But then, nothing was ever amiss on Corra Prime. Maybe that was what bugged her about the place. Compared to where she spent most of her time, it was decidedly…well…normal. One might go so far as to venture ‘safe’, though out on the Rim that was never an absolute assurance. She popped open a small arm compartment as she walked, digging out a heavy slip of paper. She gave the pass to an automated ticket reader, boarded the transport, and took her seat.
Minutes later, hatches sealed, the transport sprang back to life with an unearthly wail. The carrier lifted slowly into the air, spun 180 degrease, and opened its throttle. With a booming that echoed throughout the tiny space dock, Switchblade’s ship became airborne, pushing its way toward the emptiness of space. The badger femme let the forces behind the ship’s ascent press her gently back into her seat. The transport was older, but well maintained. Someone had even gone to the trouble of installing miniature vid screens in the seat backs. It was rather expensive for the route’s average fliers, but an nice amenity none the less. Switchblade had one all to herself.
Beneath her seat, the lift jets gave the craft a final jolt before kicking off. In the cockpit, a pilot ‘bot engaged the automatic controls and switched on artificial gravity. The ships path leveled out. They were space-born, ready for Transwarp jump. Switchblade smiled at that. She had always enjoyed the concept of traveling through space. It appealed to the child in her. At least, it appealed to that infinitesimally small portion of it that hadn’t been prematurely crushed by the rest of her life.
Her smile flashed ever so briefly into a frown. ‘The child in her’? Where had that come from? She shook her head as if to clear away the seemingly aberrant memory. It was more than slightly disturbing. Corra Prime was making her stir crazy perhaps. She could never remember thinking of such pointlessness before. She never had a childhood. Not a real one anyway, slumming around Cybertron. How could something remind her of what she’d never had and never been?
A disquieting thought struck. Images of Solarflare, Cybertron, and the Resistance flashed through her mind. She said that she would come back when she’d managed to work things out in her life; opened up a little. That’s what she’d been doing for the past two years - dealing with life day to day and working out all the deep-set fears she never even knew that she had. Switchblade always figured that things were getting better. It was easier to talk to people now. Sometimes she even managed to pull her head out of her work long enough to have some fun. Was it possible that she’d finally…
The busy light on her vid screen blinked on abruptly, interrupting the thought. Switchblade raised an optic ridge in surprise. Who would be sending a message to the ship? It was nearly impossible. Maybe a time delay program logged before they lifted, but why would…
She pressed the button activating the screen.
//CARRA PRIME - TRAVELLIS LOOP IN-FLIGHT MESSENGER:
FUNCTIONS: [SEND] [RECEIVE] [ABOUT WESTERN RIM TRANSPORT] [OPTIONS]//
The ‘Receive’ button was highlighted and blinking. She touched it, and the menu changed.
//TWO MESSAGES: [READ] [DELETE]//
Interest piqued, she hit ‘Read’.
//MESSAGE 1 IS AS FOLLOWS:
REQUEST MEETING WITH YOU ON CYBERTRON AS SOON AS POSSIBLE. WISH TO DISCUSS TERMS OF EMPLOYMENT IN A MATTER OF MUTUAL INTEREST. MEET WITH ME BEFORE CONTACTING ANYONE ELSE. SUBJECT IS OF MOST VITAL NATURE. THE RESISTANCE HAS BEEN CALLED. - S.E. GARRAK
MESSAGE 2 IS AS FOLLOWS:
SWITCHBLADE, THE RESISTANCE HAS BEEN CALLED TO THE CITADEL. DON’T KNOW WHY. NOT SURE IF YOU HAVE BEEN CONTACTED ALREADY. WILL SEND MORE WHEN BRIEFED. TAKE CARE. I HOPE TO SEE YOU AGAIN SOON. -S.F.//
Switchblade deleted the messages, hardly believing what she had read. It had to be his work. Nobody else knew where she was all the time. Her unseen watcher from the shadows occasionally left her short cryptic messages with helpful information. She didn’t know exactly who he was, or why he wanted to help her so much, but he had never led her down the wrong path before. Suddenly her head began to throb. Memories of her hectic time in Endport sprang unbidden to her mind. She sighed. It was drawing her back in, just when she though her life had normalized.
Dimly she recalled wishing for something, anything to break the monotony of Corr City and its hopelessly self-concerned political hierarchy. The courier sighed again. She should be more careful of what she whished for.
The freighter slowly touched down on the surface of Cybertron, gently settling its landing gear on the ground. It stopped and paused, humming and rumbling, then its exhaust ports belched ion fumes with an ear-splitting pop. The Happy Customer's hatch rolled down and a single Bot poked his head out.
He was tall and lanky, a Maximal giraffe. He wore various ship-repair tools on his belt and a simple tunic slung over his torso for that "travelling man" vibe some customers seemed to like. His neck abruptly telescoped up and he looked around. No one around.
Filch's neck lowered back to normal and he sauntered down the exit ramp. He hopped off the end onto the ground, and the ramp extended back up into the ship. Filch activated the security system with a small beeper, then began making his way to any place he might find.
"Just a regular Joe, with a regular job, just your average white suburbanite slob..." he sung to himself as he walked, humming some Terran tune he'd heard once.
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!!!!!!!!!!!
He whirled around as the Happy Customer's security system kicked in, pulling his arc welder out of his transporter buffer.
"Gah!!! My ship!!!" he yelled, running back to it. He slid under one of the landing legs, rolling and coming up with his gun raised to face- a kid?
Phyphen looked at him with surprise, and he could clearly see her hand still on the handle to the door hatch. Next to her, another young femme looked at him with wide optics.
Filch frowned and lowered the arc welder, and abruptly smiled smoothly.
"Hello, ladies." he said. "You appear to be lost. The name's Filch, merchant for the people and entrepeneur for the ages, salesman by trade and by choice, and you just happen to have the rare and exotic pleasure of being in the vicinity of the Happy Customer, the most famous, nay, legendary vessel in the cosmos, and let me tell you that if you're interested, many of the fascinating and valuable objects within, gleaned from unimaginably alien locales all over the universe, can be yours, yes, YOURS for the taking! Now...how may I help you?"
Phyphen shifted nervously from foot to foot. Catfish took initiative.
"I want one super chewy and extra nummy gooey gooey taffy grease bar please!" she said pleasantly, "You're a giraffe." She added after a moment of thought.
Filch smiled suavely.
"That is correct- you are most perceptive, madam. And quite lovely too." he said, smiling. Filch clearly appreciated Catfish's adult body (and equally clearly had no clue about her less-than-adult mind). "Now, you want a super chewy and extra nummy gooey gooey taffey grease bar...let me check my inventory."
The giraffe fished around in his transporter buffer and finally emerged with a bright, shiny wrapped candy bar.
"I have this- a Super-Choc 5000 extra sugar chocolate, nougat, peanuts and caramel bar! Very tasty! Yours for only five credits! Not quite what you wanted, but close, eh?"
Catfish's eyes went wide as hubcaps as she took in the mound of sugar saturated, fat soaked, lymph clogging, mound of chocolate goodness. She reached out and a few warning shots ricocheted off the ground beside Filch.
"STOP RIGHT THERE AND DROP THE CHOCOLATE BUSTER!"
Rita stomped across the field towards the three figures. Burnout trailed behind her looking bemused.
"Of all the idiotic things to…you were going to feed her CHOCOLATE?" Rita yelled at the tall figure as she approached, "What a thickheaded, moronic, imbecilic…do I know you?"
"I am quite sure you don't, you commerce-disrupting overly violent little-" Filch started in righteous anger, before stopping short. "...Rita?"
"...Filch?" Rita asked.
"Rita!!"
"Filch!!"
The two pounced at each other and abruptly hugged, Filch easily lifting the much shorter femme through sheer height. The other Bots looked at them bemusedly as they disengaged, laughing, and slapped hands.
"I haven't seen you in years!" Filch told the smiling Rita. "What have you been up to? And why so uptight about the chocolate?"
"Oh around." Rita said vaguely indicating the universe at large with her right hand, "And when Catfish eats chocolate she turns greenish purple and starts bouncing around and explodes. Messy and costly in property damage."
Filch gave her a long careful look to see if she was kidding. She was not. He looked at Catfish and slid the candy bar into a compartment.
"Ah. Well then who are these delightful people?" Filch asked, indicating Burnout and Phyphen. There were introductions all around and raised eyebrows when it came to Burnout.
Burnout frowned.
"So who are you, like an...old boyfriend?" he asked.
Rita and Filch glanced at each other and emphatically shook their heads.
"We're old friends. We used to travel around together in his trading ship. Lots of fun times." Rita explained.
"Like that concubine ploy on Argellia IX..." Filch started.
"I TOLD you never to tell that story!" Rita interrupted. "So what are you doing here?"
"What else? Enriching the economy! Bringing goods to the rich and the poor! Making life just a little bit brighter for Bots everywhere!"
"In other words, nothing."
"More or less. I suppose you and your merry band are up to something more intriguing?
"We might have been, but we just got enlisted. Okay you two! Back to the ship!" Rita jerked a thumb back towards the Xavior. Phyphen made a sound of protest. Catfish blinked at her expectantly.
"We're going to the Citadel." Burnout explained, "No time for extra nummy gooey gooey taffy grease bars."
The kids groaned and allowed themselves to be herded away. Rita and Burnout glanced at each other and through the silent code of those who are the transformer equivalent of married communicated that Burnout would go back and pack while Rita catch up later. They nodded and went off on their separate tasks.
Filch watched the parental way they dealed with Catfish and Phyphen and the monogamal telepathy Rita and Burnout employed, and then looked at Rita with shock.
"You actually managed to obtain a significant other?!" he asked Rita, optics wide.
Rita smirked.
"Shocking, isn't it? Yeah, Burny and I have been together for a long time. Isn't he cute?"
"In a potential-customer sort of way, I suppose. Enlisted, eh? This from the femmebot who purposely ran away from the military?"
Rita made a face.
"It has to do with a non-profit engagement I took part in a few years ago. Rebellion on a planet, bit of a controversy once we got back home, you might have heard of it. I met Burnout there along with a few other interesting characters." She tapped her holster distractedly, "A reunion might be fun."
Filch blinked at her.
"You lost me on 'non-profit'."
Rita gave him a "look". "You're completely hopeless."
The hoverboard hovered into view and came up beside Rita, making techno remix panting sounds. It looked up at Filch curiously. Filch looked down at it.
"You still have this? Why, I'm flattered."
"I kept it for its sheer historical meaning." Rita replied.
"Really?"
"Yeah- historical in that it's the only useful thing you've ever sold."
"Oh, har har, ha ha ha, tee hee, look at me, my sides are positively bursting. Er...why is it moving like that?"
Filch reached towards the board and it whapped his hand. He drew his hand back and rubbed it, looking with surprise at the hoverboard.
"It's sentient Filch, thinks it's a puppy. Don't you?" Rita knelt and scratched the board behind its front bend. It made a sound that was almost, but not completely unlike a woof and wagged its backside back and forth.
Filch's mouth moved up and down for a few cycles before sound came out. "I GAVE that away?!"
"No, you paid me with it. I thought it was a raw deal at the time too."
For once, Filch had trouble speaking.
"It's senti- I could've made millio- D'OH!!!"
Filch smacked his forehead with his hand and Rita shook her head, petting the hoverboard. Filch sighed and looked back at her, suddenly hopeful.
"Can I-"
"NO."
"Sigh..."
"It wouldn't like you anyway. Would you? You wouldn't want to go with the miserly old giraffe now would you?" she asked the board.
It arfed.
"Good." She looked at Filch, "That was a no."
"I suspected as much." Filch said despondently, he was still mooning over the millions of little dollar signs he'd let drop down the drain years ago.
"Don't mope, it's depressing." Rita said, prodding him with her blaster.
"You're depressing." Filch shot back, pushing the blaster away, before perking up. "Say, you're going to the Citadel?"
"S'right."
"Hmm...I've nothing better to do...may I accompany you? My ship will follow yours, we show up, have some laughs, what do you say?"
"Sounds fun." Rita allowed, "But you leave the salesman shtick at the door, clear?"
Filch considered acting mortified and making a huge professional fuss over this. Then he recalled this was Rita and the best way to deal with her.
"No."
The mink watched him for a cycle or two, then shrugged, "Fair enough. Just don't be completely insufferable then."
Filch nodded in agreement and made towards the Happy Customer, as Rita returned to the Xavier. A few moments later, the two ships lifted off and flew off to the Citadel.
Graphics Provided by Riboflavin
