Departure and Pondering

29.June.09

Cybertronian philosophers often spoke of the true differences between Predacons and Maximals. Many took up the mantle that no such concept existed. Maximal “honor” would easily become Predacon “villainy” at the switch of a chip segment. Suddenly a more valiant face, and one of an accessible animal, would be switched over to a face more closely resembling an insect of the planet from whence came humanity. And with this small deviation in a mere painting pattern would come the dropping of nobility, a sweeping rush of cruelty, and an allegiance to a 300 year old grudge. Indeed, “morality” became the result of a programming pre-disposition.

            Nihilism was extremely common on Cybertron.

            Quickrim himself was now faced with an extreme ethical dilemma. Torcher was soon to die without medical attention. But they both had a duty to uphold. The thieves had to be stopped.

            Inside the Dome, across a river of disruptor fluid, war was making its cries into the night sky. Lasers pulsed, and innocent ‘bots shouted words, or merely shouted unspeakable feelings. But the most pressing sound the war across the river made was the silence.

            Quickrim knew the protectors of the Dome were losing. How many battles had he fought, and won? He could not speak for Torcher, who he came to know only days before, but he had to suppose his answer would be similar. And they had still been defeated by this band. Even his greatest friend had been a part of it all. It had been too well planned. The guards had to be losing.

            Of course, he had no proof. And Torcher was bleeding out. But still, if they came out with the Disc in tow, what then? Who would stop those villains? But it was only when he looked down on the ground, away from the Dome, that logic began to influence moral decision. He knew the truth. He and Torcher would never be able to defeat the Predacons. They were already defeated. He stared at Torcher’s wound. And that finished it. The thieves would escape. The Disc would be taken. But not one more innocent life would be bled out on his account.

            Quickrim was not well used to abandoning a post he was assigned to, so he felt a bit like a traitor. But still, he helped Torcher get up, and they began their way down the street.

            A subtle noise distracted him, and he turned his head only slightly to the right. Strolling out of a hole that had been smashed into a building was an imposing figure. As he got out of the shadows and into the light of the street, Quickrim saw him for the sword-swinger he had faced earlier.

            Perhaps he was going to have to die fighting after all. He raised his right arm, and saw the fluid streaked over it. He attempted to make the gauss wheel come out of its compartment, but a mechanical whir was all that ensued as it stubbornly remained in place. The ‘bot strode closer. Quickrim raised his left arm. That warrior had to go down, to be part of the street below, or he and his compatriot would. The wheel on his left arm managed to raise itself, but when he shot with it, it merely responded by pulsing blue electricity before emitting intense smoke out of it’s barrel. Then the sword swinger was arm’s reach away from them. He froze, and then cast a long glance up to the balcony of some building down the street.

            Dynamo looked at the stars and around the road. He saw the two dead guards, a damaged battlefield and the red ally of his who had suffered at the very beginning of the fight. He then walked right past the pair of agents.

* * *

            “I need medical attention given to this ‘bot immediately.”

            The femme operating the front desk was only a little shocked by the blue-specked agent who was now leaning against the counter in front of her. Before she had even said a word, workers were on hand placing Torcher on a stretcher and dragging him to what-patient-knows-where.

            “You should talk.” said the lady. Quickrim stood with his mouth open slightly more than normal as he glanced down at his feet and then looked back at her. Fumbling in a sub-compartment, he produced a badge from his agency after looking down to make sure it was the right one.

            “I’m Quickrim, Maximal government forces. I need a room to privately contact my chief.” he gasped out between tired breaths. The ‘bot pointed out a room directly behind him that had its lights turned off. He glanced back to investigate what room she was pointing out, turned back to her and made a small gesture of approval and thanks before walking across to it. Once inside, he shut the door.

            He patched into a secured link and contacted Wirecat’s office. He heard his boss’ voice on the other end.

            “Quickrim, I already know what you’re going to tell me.” His voice sounded defeated. It was final then.

            The disk was stolen. Quickrim’s face dropped.

            “How was the parade, sir?”

            “Quickrim, I don’t have any words to make up for this.” There was a long pause. “I should have listened to you, and I wish I could take it all back.” Quickrim suddenly remembered how he had lasted at the agency past his leader’s cynicism. Wirecat was one of the few with the guts to stoop low enough to admit his faults. But then, there was no time for that sort of speculation now. “Quickrim, are you three all right?”

            You three.

            “Sir, Torcher is under emergency care at the moment.” He froze. Of all the duties he had performed that night, the hardest, he realized, had to be speaking the next sentence. “Arctosteel is dead.” Quickrim stared out a nearby window.

            “Dead?” Quickrim hardly heard his chief’s response. Star light streamed in through the piece of glass. Star light. So far away, so bright, and so cold. He saw them, he knew they were there, but they were too far away to lend their warmth to him. “Quickrim, are you still there?’” The sun had obviously gone down too, or he’d be hard pressed to see the stars. This face of Cybertron had stubbornly turned its back on it, so its warmth was lost. “You said dead?”

            Dead.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Is there anything else I need to know?”

            “Yes, sir. It’s nothing you wouldn’t have eventually figured out, but I figure I may as well give your investigators a heads up, and they can confirm this. At least, it would save them a lot of time… if I told you this. Arctosteel, he, uh… he was not on our side.”

            “What?”

            “He was supposed to take a sniper position, give us cover. Instead he shot Torcher. He tried to finish us both.”

            “I see.”

            “That’s all then. Do you have any leads on where they went off too?”

            “None yet. They knew what they were doing.”

            “Understood sir. But keep me posted. I want to find them.”

            “Have you gotten any injuries yourself?”

            “I did. But they’re not big enough yet.”

            “Take it easy Quickrim. Whatever wounds you have, you’d do best to tend to them. Understood?”

            The agent looked at the stars again.

            “Understood.” Then he shut the link off. He tried leaning against the wall slowly to sit down, but a complaint in his leg caused him to fall the rest of the way so that he landed on one elbow. He poised himself in a sitting position and then let his arms hang loosely on the ground. He looked across the room at a stash of mops. A few of them suddenly distorted shape and became blurry, and then the rest followed suit until they appeared in front of him like a swirled canvas. He slowly bowed his head and his whole body shook.

* * *

            5 megacycles (3 of them spent in a CR chamber) later, Quickrim stood inside Torcher’s room. Quickrim’s wounds had been too extensive to repair in one visit to the CR chamber, because an over-exposure would have caused the chamber to heal him too quickly, a shift in health that his internal systems would not be ready for.

            It was actually a mark of the hospital’s age that the CR chambers repaired their patients in such a manner. Many had by now been designed to signal a Cybertronian’s internal systems of the sudden change, and so be able to repair one entirely before they ever walked back out. But these, alas, were older editions. And they would have to do.

            Torcher had only recently been awoken from his stasis lock, but was faring at least slightly better. Given time, the bullet hole would heal. But were he to strain it, it would likely rupture again, or so the medical workers informed Quickrim.

            “The doctors told me you’d be able to get to a CR chamber soon.” he began.

            “So,” Torcher stated, “how’d we get out of there alive?”

            “…We weren’t attacked again. The Predacons weren’t out of the Dome yet.” Quickrim explained.

            “You said ‘yet?’ The Disk…”

            “Yeah.”

            Torcher had to pause at this new found horror. Quickrim’s com-link started beeping.

            “Sir?”

            “Quickrim, the police have sent us some surveillance material from around the streets near the Dome shortly after the theft. They want you to review it, see if you recognize anybody.”

            “I’ll leave right now.” Quickrim shut off the link.

* * *

            It didn’t take long after he arrived for Quickrim to make his way into the data room. Inside, the lack of purposeful light sources was pierced by the blue which emanated from various monitors. There always seemed to be a sense of urgency in the room, and today was likely one of the extreme examples of that atmosphere. When Quickrim found Wirecat, he walked over to him and the screen he was surveying.

            “Selffaw, would you show him the footage?” Wirecat inquired. The surveillance recordings were brought up.

            “The thieves took out the cameras in the Dome and surrounding buildings within a quarter-parsec range, using some sort of optically-targeting system virus.” Selffaw began explaining. “These were taken about 15 cycles after the Dome systems report the Golden Disk had been removed from its containment. The location of the camera that recorded this is approximately .283 parsecs West-by-Southwest of the Dome. We suspect those on camera were involved with the Golden Disk thefts based on the descriptions your partner Torcher sent in of the two who invaded the hospital a few days back. All the cameras outside the blackout radius recorded travelling groups which were both rare and inconsistent with your claim of 6 assailants.” Quickrim had stopped listening to the 'bot whose shoulder he was looking over as soon as he realized he could pick out the three faces of the Predacons he had decided to oppose on the road.

            “Yes, sir, this is definitely them.” he stated. Wirecat rubbed his forehead slightly.

            “Selffaw, call an emergency meeting of all the available agents. We need to get everything straightened out before this crisis gets worse.”

* * *

            “Well sir, it was nice doing business with you. The ship is all yours.”

            “Ah, it is appreciated.” Megatron stated to Oilslick, who promptly turned around and walked for the docking bay’s gate. He never quite made it though.

            The smaller purple ‘bot, or Aphonorase as he was called, walked up to Megatron, who was putting his main weapon, still smoking, back into its resting position.

            “Report.” Megatron commanded his subordinate.

            “Given the samples of mech fluid collected from the battlefield in coordination with my files-”

            “Your files?” interrupted Megatron “Certainly you realize that a description as vague as that makes me question the trustworthiness of your source.”

            “My source is quite credible.”

            “I do not doubt that. But then, I did not say ‘credibility’, did I?”

            “I merely hacked the Maximal identification database to match the samples. The process is insultingly simple.”

            “Of course.” Megatron stated, leaving the issue of trust to another time.

            “According to medical records, both of the officers we met last night checked into a hospital about 45 cycles away.”

            “Indeed. Well, we shall not pursue them this time. We do not have the time to silence them, and we do not want to give authorities any extra opportunity to interfere with our plans. Besides, any help those two can offer will not be enough to give away our location.”

            “Another thing we may need to consider- according to communications between police forces and government workers, which I have, again, accessed, most of the guards in the Dome survived. Apparently, the gas administered only put them out for a few megacycles.”

            “How is that possible?” Megatron questioned out loud. “You administered a lethal toxin.”

            On the other end of the Darksyde, Dynamo listened to the conversation and slowly allowed a smile to cross his face.

            “It is of no consequence, no. They will only provide as much assistance as the two officers. Soon, very soon, we will be gone from Cybertron, yes.”

* * *

            The morning cast a different atmosphere on the Dome. The holes in the ground were now plain to see in the dismal grey light. It looked quite ready to rain. But the sun persisted, attempting to permeate the clouds above, so that everything looked glassy.

            Government workers and forensic analysts covered the place, searching for indications of the previous night’s attackers. They had found enough mech fluid to identify each and every one of the six thieves. Naturally, as it was the government that assigned him to this place, they knew Arctosteel had been there too, but they couldn’t seem to find specific evidence that he had been working for the Predacons. Nobody wanted to believe it anyways.

            Two analysts were studying the scorch mark on the road from the grenade which had detonated at ‘Steel’s feet the night before, when a noise came eastward down the road- that of gears grinding against worn out parts, and slow, labored clanking of a metal body against hard stone. Then they saw a ‘bot extremely damaged, who had been scorched by some abrasive or his own systems short circuiting, raising himself over the ridge of the road, trying to get through the fence.

            A few workers ran in his direction, and making short work of the fence along the edge, pulled the ‘bot to complete safety. A short examination determined an undeniable truth:

            Arctosteel was alive.

* * *

            He had flashes of memories… waking up in a hospital to medics working on him… being carted down unknown hallways… seeing shapes beyond a tinted window. At one point, he finally maintained consciousness long enough to hold a conversation with someone.

            This someone, it turned out, was a government worker and he was grilling him about the night previous. But most of his responses were incoherent. He hazily noticed the worker get up and walk away.

            “He isn’t active enough to talk yet. Contact me when he’s ready.” the worker told the head nurse.

            A few megacycles later, some of the nurses noticed that a lot of his diagnostic levels had made extreme progress. It was determined that a biopsy was needed. The results were quite astounding. The head nurse asked for a report from the medic running the biopsy.

            “It appears that his self-repair system has reacted rather strangely with the disruptor fluid he was submerged in. Rather than be destroyed, his body has found some purpose for it. He’s actually rearranging the raw chemicals in his body which had been scorched by the electric shocks caused by the disruption. The self-repair system is naturally replacing the chemicals in the places where they need to be, so his circuits are coming back online, and very fast too. But it’s using the disruptor fluid itself as a fuel for his nano-meds to cause this repair. It’s uh, it’s like an alternative fuel source. That’s why it’s happening so fast. But, that’s not the most interesting part…”

            “Well, what is?” the government worker, who had been listening the whole time, interjected.

            “Well, sir, it appears,” the medic continued “the deposits left over from the respiration of the fluid are forming a bond with his own repaired chemicals. Chiefly left over are the substances Tironium and Plenocin. They’re forming an alloy which is being grafted directly into his superstructure.”

            “We’ve never seen anything like that.” The head nurse noted. “Things could turn bad, even lethal for him. Make sure he’s on highest level observance.” Another nurse came up and whispered something in the head nurses ear. She turned to the government worker. “Sir, he’s conscious again.”

            “Thank you.” he said as he headed out the door and down the hall to the elevator.

* * *

            “I’m awake now officer.” Arctosteel said with clear disdain as the agent stepped into the room with two guards. They positioned themselves on the left and right side of the door. He took stock of where he was and noticed he was lying in a stretcher, hooked up to medical equipment.

            “That’s fantastic.” the agent replied unenergetically. “Well ‘Steel, the accusation against you is pretty heavy. And evidence is coming in that affirms it. Do you know what kind of repercussions that will fit you with?”

            “Sir, I won’t waste your time lying about my involvement in the theft of the Golden Disk. I have to assume my brilliant friend sold me out on that one. But you seem to misunderstand me. I didn’t join them for… money, or something like that. If I joined that way, maybe you could threaten me with the charges being thrown my way. I helped them because of, if you wish to call it so, a sort of… idealism.”

            “You were one of the top Maximal agents, and you’re trying to tell me you joined Predacon thieves for idealism? I will not call it so.” he scoffed.

            “Well,” he said, sitting up from his partially reclined position “I could try explaining it to you, but I don’t think you’d understand. At any rate, it’s not what’s important right now. You want answers, no doubt, to some… thing or other. Maybe who I worked with?” He looked at the ceiling. “…Where they escaped to? What they had planned with the Golden Disk? And I’m not going to tell you.”

            The worker sighed in disgust, stood up and headed for the door. There were other ways to get answers, but he was not authorized to conduct them.

            “Oh, uh… sir!” Arctosteel called to him as he was about to open the door. He stopped in his tracks. “There was one thing I wanted to tell you.” The agent turned around to face him again.

            “And what would that be?” he asked. Then, quite suddenly, Arctosteel was sailing through the air, prepared to smash him into the ground. Two gunshots stopped him in mid-flight, and he fell straight down, remaining absolutely limp. The guards and the agent stared at him and finally started catching their breath. But then they saw his fingers clench, and very quickly, he was rolling on the ground to the two guards.

            As soon as he was at the door, he delivered a blow to the first guard’s jaw, causing him to fall unconscious to the ground. The other guard shot Arctosteel in the side, but he appeared unphased. Desperately, the guard repeated his shots while Arctosteel grabbed the first ‘bot’s quasar shotgun out of his unresisting fingers. He methodically turned around, cocked the gun’s barrel, and in one shot to his opponent’s hip, made him fall.

            The agent pulled out a laser-armed handgun and made repeated shots towards Arctosteel’s chest. Arctosteel turned around and blasted him in the knee. Walking over to him, he wrenched the handgun from his grasp and placed it in a side compartment in his leg. Then he demanded his keycard. The agent relented in fear. Arctosteel walked to the unconscious guard, removed the guard’s officer’s jacket, and then donned it himself. He went to the door and placed the card over the scanner, then heard the power locks deactivate.

            “This,” the agent began chuckling madly “is a maximum security government building. You… you won’t, make it past, the first floor.”

            “Sure.” Arctosteel said as he walked out the door. As soon as he was in the hall, he saw a guard at the end, who was therefore in an adjoining hallway running perpendicular to ‘Steel’s.

            “I heard gunshots! What’s going on in there?” he shouted to ‘Steel.

            “I have no clue.” he responded innocently before shooting off a round. This shot hit the guard’s head and sent him smashing into the glass behind him before he fell forward onto the ground. Sparks began flying off of ‘Steel’s back as laser fire made contact from behind. He turned around and shot the offending ‘bot at the opposite end of the hall. Then he turned back again and walked towards the first one he felled.

            Once there, he noticed three coming from his left, and four from his right. He pulled out the handgun he acquired and placed it in his right hand after pumping his other weapon and placing it in his left. He turned to face the three. Bullets and laser fire bounced off him from in front and behind as he walked forward. He aimed for the closest sentry and got him in the left leg with his handgun. This ‘bot dropped his gun and fell over in shock. He aimed the larger gun in his left hand and shot the next closest ‘bot in the right shoulder, so that he spun and slammed against the wall. Arctosteel placed his third shot close to the last ‘bots spark chamber, but intentionally did not make a direct hit. This one simply faltered on his knees and collapsed backwards.

            Not even bothering with the shots being made from behind him, ‘Steel sprinted towards the end of the hall until he saw double doors to his right. He nonchalantly retrieved a card from the last downed ‘bot and swiped it on the scanner for the double doors. Then he went inside them and gratefully noticed they were an entryway to a staircase. He cocked his gun again, and as he began his descent down the stairs, he realized he had not yet actually killed anyone.

            But then, he considered, hitting a ‘bot’s spark is a very precise business. Down at the next level, the layout of the building looked much the same, and thus, there was another set of double doors, on the other side of which lay the actual hospital rooms. Of course, he was still on the side which housed the stair-case. But on this new level, there was another sentry guarding the staircase.

            This sentry, as luck would have it, was armed with an automatic pulse weapon, and the sheer power of the thing aimed at Arctosteel’s legs actually made him falter and fall down the rest of the stairs to the landing. He lay stationary to ease down the sentry’s reflexes a little bit. Then he whipped out the handgun with lightning speed, and made three shots to his opponent’s chest plate, all away from the spark chamber. The sentry slid down along the door until he sat in stasis lock on the ground. It occurred to ‘Steel how helpful an automatic weapon would be to his cause, and acquired it.

            The sentry at the doors below had heard the commotion and was already on his way up to ‘Steel’s level. He saw the traitor in time to blast him with his automatic for a while. ‘Steel accepted the pulses as he aimed back, and in a few short seconds of holding down the trigger, accomplished what his opponent had failed.

            Of course, many had heard these shots by now and were filling the stair case from above and below. ‘Steel ran down to the next point where the stairs made a 180 degree turn (essentially, half way between two levels) and waited for ‘bots to turn the bend below. This strategy worked as about four guards crossed into his firing range at different times, which were all put down sniper style. But then the ones coming from above all rounded the corner and started running down, peppering him with suppressing fire. He scrambled to his feet and ran to the next landing, and then turned around again to begin the descent to yet the next level. But about five different sentries, who had learned the lesson from the four who had rounded the corner one at a time, were all waiting for him on the next set of stairs. He quickly jerked back as their shots sprayed concrete and sparks into the air from hitting nothing but the building. Then he looked up and saw the crew from above turn to face him yet again. And beyond the glass in the doors he saw even more coming.

            He couldn’t run up, he couldn’t run down, and he couldn’t run into the hallways. The pulses that began firing at him from seemingly innumerable directions helped convince him of his last option. Resolutely, he hoisted himself above the hole in the concrete which divided the staircase for each level into two halves. He saw the concrete of the first floor- four levels below him in fact- in this hole. And then he let go.

            Holding his arms up to keep his body as thin as possible, he almost made it the whole way, but got caught on part of the second-to-last level’s concrete division. His face was slammed forward into it, and mech fluid sprayed from the concussive wound, but he persisted, and allowed his body to slide through to the first floor.

            None of the sentry’s wished to duplicate this procedure, so while their rush still had them scrambling on the third floor, he was on the first. Still, he heard them and in desperation he got up. His gears were grinding in disdain as he ran to the doors which led into the rooms of the first level. He swiped his card and listened as it made an electronic beep. The rushed footsteps above were coming closer and closer.

            “Come on, come on…” he panicked out loud. Then the power locks deactivated and he rushed into the hallway beyond the doors. He saw a back entrance where truckers loaded supplies, and took away garbage. He ran out of it and into the streets surrounding.

* * *
            “Now hold on- no one said anything about Civil War.” shouted Wirecat, trying to make his voice rise above the din in the meeting room coming from the ‘bots who were agitatedly responding to one agent’s latest suggestion. “Look, this recent theft is certainly something to be concerned about. We all know that the thieves have access to an unthinkable amount of sensitive information. But we do not have any indication, at least at this time, that the band which attacked the Dome was connected with any organization or even anyone else. And lets face it- it’s gonna take a lot more than six Predacons, even with the Golden Disk, to start a war, least of all to win won.”

            “A few days ago, we didn’t know about these six. In the course of those days since our discovery of their existence, they managed to do all that they have, and you’re going to put it past them to be involved with outside help?” Agent C questioned.

            Quickrim, who was present at the meeting, responded.

            “When me and my partner from the E.P.F. went to talk to Galeforce, we were attacked by two of the same ‘bots we saw at the Dome last night. A highly populated task force would doubtless have operatives with specialization for different tasks. Assassins would best be left for Galeforce, while warriors and infiltrators would be there for the theft. Why would two of our suspects be present for both tasks? And why would a large force only send six to take on one of the most well defended institutions on Cybertron?”

            “Apparently they didn’t need anymore.” Agent C retorted.

            “No, apparently not.” Quickrim conceded.

            “Well, obviously,” Agent D spoke up “they were equipped well enough. They didn’t get their infiltration tools from nowhere. But their method of action, as you suggested Agent E, would indicate that they do not work with whoever they acquired those tools from.”

            “They did have the resources to find Galeforce in that hospital.” Quickrim added.

            “Didn't you and your partner from the E.P.F just go to a hospital?” Wirecat asked.

            “Yeah, but I anticipated that they would be too busy with whatever plans they had to actually come snuff us out. Besides, we were so wounded after the battle, we didn't exactly have the choice to avoid a medical center.” Quickrim explained.

            “So they have ‘connections’.” Agent C said. “But we don’t know of any major revolutionary groups. I mean, Predacon-side forces and even the Predacon secret police have access to technology, but they have always been vehemently opposed to open conflict, and, at least ‘officially’ in support of continued peace. Wirecat, have they appeared any more agitated lately? You would know better than anyone else.”

            “To put it simply, no.” Wirecat explained.

            “Then where are they getting their goods from? Just because we don’t know about antagonistic organizations doesn’t mean they don’t exist.” Agent C replied.

            Wirecat heard a beeping on his comlink, and switched it to personal listening, putting a finger to his head.

            “Continue discussing.” he said. He then looked away. “Yeah, this is Wirecat. What is it?”

            “I know we have a lot of questions,” Agent B continued the conversation. “It appears we don’t even know what to ask. But look, a lot of this speculation is going to be cleared when we can…” at this, he trailed off and took a few nervous glances at Quickrim.

            “When what?” Quickrim asked innocently.

            “Well, when we can question Arctosteel.” he finished.

            “Oh.” Quickrim said. He had already been briefed that Arctosteel was alive.

            “No!” Wirecat shouted. Everyone looked around to him, but he was standing up, and staring at the wall behind his chair, away from their gazes. “That’s impossible. I want a full ‘bot hunt on that criminal, now!” He clicked his comlink off and turned around. He was not really surprised at all the curious optics fixed on him when he did so. And he knew he had to answer their unspoken questions.

            “Arctosteel escaped maximum security.”

            “How?”, “That’s crazy!” and “What!?!” all echoed around in the room in discordance while some 'bots stared blankly into space, and others looked down on the floor. One ‘bot had a different idea.

            “Torcher?” Quickrim said into his comlink, standing up and heading for the meeting room’s door.

            He got no response.

            “Torcher, come in please.” static greeted him in response. Quickrim turned around.

            “Sir,” he addressed Wirecat, “request permission to get to Torcher’s location and warn him of Arctosteel’s escape. They knew where Galeforce was. They might be too busy, but I know Arctosteel. He'll perform his next mission before asking what it is, and he wants us both dead. He has time to get to Torcher before he goes back to his compatriots.”

            “Permission granted.” Wirecat acknowledged. “Watch yourself Quickrim.” he said.

            And with a nod, Quickrim was off, out the door, through the halls, and towards the main entrance. He ran out into the road, transformed, and began driving into the distance with all imaginable haste.

* * *

            He made it to the hospital and gotten to the front desk.

            “Hey, weren’t you here this morning?” the ‘bot at the desk asked him.

            “Yeah, I, uh, couldn’t resist.” Quickrim said unenthusiastically. “I’m here to visit Torcher.”

            “And you wanted to ask permission? Aw, hun, you and I are becoming the best of buddies.” she said.

            “I had to. Do I have that permission?” he asked.

            “Sure, kiddo.” she said. Quickrim began shuffling off. Then he glanced back.

            “Kiddo?” he asked.

            “Oh, just go.” she said waving her hand dismissively, smiling at the humor of the situation.

            Quickrim made his way up the stairs and found Torcher’s room.

            “I was told he was allowed to have visitors.” he said to a doctor who was looking at some computerized charts on a monitor embedded in the wall outside Torcher’s room.

            “Oh, sure.” he said without looking away.

            “Thanks.” he said. He opened the door and walked in the room. Torcher was standing up and staring at a monitor next to his bed which displayed different vital signs.

            “Hmm… my circulation pressure is 59/43. That sounds cool.” he said, tilting his head to the right and tapping the monitor.

            “Torcher! I tried reaching you on your comlink, but it wasn’t working.” Quickrim said. Torcher turned around from the monitor and saw Quickrim.

            “Wow, I didn’t expect you. Oh- the comlink. I had to remove it- it needed a complete repair. It’ll be ready in a few megacycles. So what’s up?” he said.

            “Arctosteel survived.” Quickrim said.

            “Good news. We can get information from him, can’t we?”

            “That would have been the plan. He’s escaped where he was transported to, so he’s on the loose. Are you done with your treatment?” Quickrim asked.

            “Well, yeah, but I’m suppose to stay here for 36 megacycles.”

            “Well, so much for that.”

            Quickrim and Torcher walked out of the room and went past the doctor.

            “Hey, wait. You can’t leave!” The doctor shouted after them as they began heading down the stairs. When they were on the first floor, they headed for the doors again.

            “What are you doing?” The femme ‘bot asked as they walked by their desk.

            “I know, I know, I’m not supposed to leave, but I have to anyways.” Torcher said. The two continued walking down the hall. Quickrim glanced back momentarily and saw the look of disbelief etched on her face.

            “Sorry.” he said, as they reached the door. Once they were on the road, Quickrim transformed into his vehicle, and Torcher into his motorcycle.

            “Where are we headed?” Torcher asked.

            “My agency’s headquarters.” Quickrim stated matter-of-factly. A few cycles later, while they were driving, a beeping sound made itself heard from Quickrim’s dashboard.

            “What’s that?” Torcher asked. Quickrim didn’t reply. “Quickrim, what is that?”

            “Torcher, you know the way to HQ by yourself, don’t you?” Quickrim asked.

            “Well, yeah.” he said.

            “I know you’re still making a recovery, but I need to drive ahead. Something’s going down at HQ.” And with that, he charged full speed ahead.

            “Hey, wai- …oh bother.” Torcher said to someone who was now out of earshot.

* * *

            It was time. It had taken a while, but it was time.

            Megatron strode over to his commanding chair, and took a pensive glance around at all the lights on monitors and gauges across the room, blinkingly illuminating the otherwise darkened bridge of the Predacons’ massive ship, the Darksyde. He finally sat down in his chair, and all others present turned around in their chairs to face the different mechanics of their stations.

            “Systems check.” He commanded.

            “Weapon systems fully functional.” Dynamo announced.

            “Transwarp drive fully functional.” Stingbyte announced.

            “Power core operating at 75%.” Aphonorase announced.

            “Navigation systems online.” Screech announced.

            “Manual and auto-pilot systems are ready for use.” Polis announced.

            “Navigation, set a course to the Olim division. We’re going to Earth.” Megatron commanded. He took hold of the ship’s main thruster and slowly lifted the ship off of its launching pad.

            The Darksyde passed through an open doorway at the end of the hangar and was slowly covered in starlight.

            “Course for Olim division has been properly programmed Megatron.” Screech told him. Megatron smiled. He pulled the hand grip on the underside of the thruster upwards, powering the ship’s main propulsion units. And then he tilted the thruster forward. The ship accelerated, and was soon lost to the galaxy.

* * *

            The first thing Quickrim noticed when he pulled up in front of his building was a persistent but lonely fire burning from some form of an old desk, lying on its side on the pavement.

            Quickrim quickly transformed and walked tentatively towards the scene. Workers were going around chaotically, trying to repair, and to save.

            Glass had gone everywhere, and that of it which surrounded the fire was illuminated with red. Not a single window in the entranceway had remained intact. Out of habit, Quickrim walked over the threshold where the doors once stood. Inside, the walls were filled with scorch marks from incendiary, laser, and quasar fire. Computers were overturned and cracked. Chairs were strewn disoriented on the floor. Some desks were tilted on their side in a seemingly organized fashion, and had holes burned into their fronts. When he had walked far enough inside, he saw that there were wounded ‘bots lying in stasis lock behind most of the tables. Apparently, they had fallen wherever they were shot.

            He saw one arm protruding out of a stack of electronic notepads which were in front of a computer rack. The rack was tilted strangely, with its front facing the ground. Whoever owned the arm was likely buried underneath the rack. The arm itself was twitching minorly. Quickrim ran over to the rack and pushed it off the ‘bot, and then scattered the notepads aside.

            The lights had mostly been lost in the firefight, and Quickrim had to rely on the fading evening light outside. And even from its distance in front of the now shattered glass doors, the desk fire reflected on the metallic panel of the wounded ‘bots forearm. Upon further examination, Quickrim was able to note that he was looking at Wirecat.

            “Sir!” he shouted. He looked away “We need a medic.”

            “Our on-staff medics are occupied right now. More are on the way.” one of the agents, who had made himself busy with the work at hand, told Quickrim.

            “Quickrim…” Wirecat’s voice waded to him groggily. Quickrim whipped back around to face him.

            “Wirecat! What, what happened here?”

            “Ar… Arctosteel.” he said between winces of pain.

            “Arctosteel did all of this?” Quickrim asked. “How? How did he do all of this?”

            The same agent who had addressed Quickrim before walked over to him.

            “I came too late to help, but I saw the last few moments, and a bit on surveillance. Arctosteel was unstoppable. We fired on him. I mean, of course we know how to defend ourselves. There was nothing we could do. We fought, but he took everything we threw.”

            Quickrim looked around desperately at the carnage around him. And the agent kept talking.

            “It wasn’t natural. He didn’t… dodge it, or run away. He didn’t hide. He just got shot over and over. And he shot back. He fell a few times, but he always got back up.”

            “That’s not possible. That isn’t possible!” he shouted at the agent. “I… we… he- he got shot yesterday. Well, more like… grenaded, over the edge. I saw him a bit before he fell over though, o.k.? Metal flew off of him- sparks. The grenade scorched him. And before that, I was able to scare him with my guns for a while. No invincible fighter would be afraid of having guns pointed at him.”

            “He obviously wasn’t afraid here.” the agent noted.

            “Quickrim…” Wirecat called again.

            “What, what is it sir?” Quickrim asked. Wirecat pulled himself to a sitting position.

            “He- he wanted access to a computer. He was obviously a fugitive, and well, we had opposing goals. He won. Look, he accessed that computer over there before smashing it. It’s built to retain its memory on a backup disk, made of miniscule material. It’s so insignificant a piece that it’s practically guaranteed to survive smashing, but the information literally radiates off of it after a while. It just can’t hold it. Bring that computer over to me.”

            Quickrim dashed off to grab a smashed computer lying against the back wall, while the agent propped Wirecat into a more comfortable position against the computer rack. Quickrim came back and put the pieces in front of Wirecat.

            The boss laboriously moved to a piece of the computer that used to be the very back bottom corner. He raised his own fist and smashed it into a smaller set of fragments. He found a green drive, and slid his finger along the top. A hardly visible piece of gray film-looking material slid out. Wirecat grabbed it delicately.

            “Quickrim, open your wrist port. It should be able to upload onto your own CPU.” Quickrim did just that. Suddenly, he couldn’t see the room, but saw a virtual system in front of him. He still heard Wirecat’s voice.

            “Is it working?”

            “Yes.” Quickrim said.

            “Search the latest information viewed. It will be what Arctosteel was looking for.”

            Quickrim was able to grab some form of a floating envelope and open it. Documents flew past him rapidly as his computer looked for the latest entries. Then the last page opened on the computer showed itself to him.

            “Computer system memory successfully uploaded. Original drive’s memory depleting.” Quickrim’s own computer announced.

            “O.k., I see it.” he said out loud.

            “What is it?” Wirecat asked. Quickrim studied it.

            “It’s… It’s a listing of ships at a docking bay. It has today's schedule of their planned departure time, and their equipment. Could he have been looking to escape Cybertron permanently?”

            The other agent and Wirecat both looked around at the mess in the room.

            “No.” they both stated intensively. Wirecat continued.

            “Nobody with the kind of invulnerability he’s found would feel the need to escape.”

            “Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with police forces his whole life.” Quickrim suggested.

            “But then, all ships are capable of getting away from here at least at the speed of light. He would hardly need a government computer to tell him what ship he wanted best. He could easily have just gone to the bay, and picked one out for himself there.” the other agent suggested.

            “O.k., but what does this agency know about docked ships that the docking bay doesn’t?”

            “Advanced technological specifications.” Wirecat said. “Docking bays know the speed of the ships they house, at least generally, but pilots only need to hand in official prints and specifications of the models they own to the government licensing committee. As of this stellar cycle, the only concept that hasn’t become common to public ships is transwarp technology. It is, essentially, the only mystery that an escaping fugitive would need to know about from an official information source.”

            “So he was looking up transwarp ships?” Quickrim asked. “That makes no sense. Transwarp technology is for time travel. Nobody needs to escape that badly. Besides, you said he wouldn’t be motivated by escape.”

            Wirecat sat silent, and then realization found him.

            “I mean, this makes absolutely no sense, and-”

            “Quickrim.” Wirecat interjected. “I think I understand it all now- everything, from the theft of the Golden Disk, to the events of today. Did a transwarp ship depart earlier according to that schedule?”

            Quickrim searched.

            “Yes, just like half a megacycle ago.”

            “It’s as I feared.” Wirecat said.