Cybertronian Civil War 12: Tigerhawk

[7Knight-Wolf]

Yo, I'm sorry I've been gone so long! Here's another chapter of CCW.
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Part 12: Tigerhawk

Heading for the café garage where Cheetor’s ship was kept, Cheetor and Topazor left the meeting house. The spacecraft was closely guarded by Crowe minions, they guessed. Before Topazor and Cheetor reached the café, however, a soldier-bot approached them. “Halt by order of the Administrator!” demanded the soldier. “Drop your guns and put your hands up now!”

Topazor was ready for a fight, but Cheetor shook his head. “Let’s see what this is about,” he whispered, dropping his blaster.

The soldier cuffed Cheetor’s wrists with energon bonds. “You’re under arrest for the theft of this ship,” he said. “You took it from another Australian county without permission. Now come quietly and the Administrator will speak with you.”

“What false charges does old Grape-face have for my friend here?” asked Cheetor tauntingly.

The soldier answered, “Topazor is not a criminal. But the Administrator expresses a wish to protect one of the greatest politicians left alive. Administrator will speak with you both.”

“I think the Administrator will interrogate us both,” laughed Cheetor. “No offense, but I’m late for an important mission. I’ve never been late before, and I don’t want to spot my resume. Do you know why I’m never late? Watch!” Cheetor roughly elbowed the soldier, knocking him face-first on the ground. At almost the same instant, Topazor quickly took off Cheetor’s energon bonds, whereon the cat-bot replaced them around the wrists of the Administrator’s soldier. Then they were off. Cheetor was only a blur, running so fast that Topazor could hardly keep up even by flying.

Enemy fire whizzed through the air around Topazor; a flying wolf was much easier to target than a ground-running cat. Topazor skillfully dodged. However, it was soon hard to focus on dodging gunfire and following the blur of Cheetor at the same time, and presently Topazor gave a short howl of pain as his wing was struck. He fell but landed gracefully on top of the Café roof. Cheetor sprung upward to join him.

Using the blaster which he had taken back form the soldier, Cheetor rained carnage on the approaching Crowe bots. Several fell. “Topazor,” shouted Cheetor in his gruff voice, “I’ll hold these guys; you get the ship! If I can’t make it then go alone; here’s the DR-C!”

Topazor took the coding device and, with some reluctance, he broke into the garage. “Sorry!” exclaimed Topazor remorsefully as he punched down the guards. After jumping into the ship, Topazor had trouble starting it up. “I never was a good pilot,” he remembered frantically. “I only know the basics. What should I do?”

After a minute that seemed like a year, Topazor was able to clumsily drive the ship outside. He escaped the garage in the nick of time; ten or fifteen Crowe minions were back there ready to kill. “Where’s Cheetor?” Topazor wondered, hesitating to drive any higher than roof-level. “Come on, Big Cat, let’s go!”

Cheetor didn’t seem to be around. Feeling guilty and nervous, Topazor took off towards the atmosphere. How could he complete the mission without Cheetor?

Suddenly Topazor heard a loud banging coming from the outside of his ship. He thought it might be a tag-along soldier. “What should I do?” Topazor wondered. Shakily, he put the ship on auto-pilot. Then brandishing a spare gun, Topazor opened the top hatch of the ship and peeked out. He was immediately pounced on. Both bots fell into the ship again, Topazor struggling to get on his feet.

But this was not a soldier. Topazor’s “attacker” was Cheetor. “Close the hatch and let me pilot,” ordered the cat-bot. Once the ship was under control again, Cheetor smiled, “I was wondering when you would let me inside. I jumped onto the back of your ship to escape the Crowe guys.”

At last they were safely bound for Cybertron. Topazor stared at Cheetor while catching his breath. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” he observed.

Cheetor’s face was calm but grim. “Yes I am,” he answered shortly.

Secretly, Topazor thought that Cheetor was a little creepy. The cat-bot had been mysterious and grim ever since they met—he was no longer the childish kitten on the Axalon. “Now,” Topazor supposed with both admiration and an uncomfortable feeling, “Cheetor must be one of the most capable and genius agents in the universe. His coolness and skill are admirable, and yet when one sees him, one can’t help thinking that he’s the sort of person to do anything—just anything to get what he wants. Cheetor is a bot I wouldn’t want for an enemy.”
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Anger works in strange ways. If you have one unresolved source of anger, then that anger will feed on any other source, however small, that comes along. Leaving Walden, Chris and Miratron and Springer didn’t see Walden’s usually busy and happy citizens. There were only patrolling bots, with big guns and grim faces, marching up and deserted streets lined on both sides with dark, locked houses. The people were afraid.

On the way out of town, the team approached a checkpoint staked out by soldier-bots. A grim and hate-filled expression crossed Chris’ face as he took out his gun. When Miratron asked what he was doing, Chris replied grimly, “We gotta fight those soldiers.” Much of his fury now was fed by the angry guilt resulting from Ben’s death.

“Wait,” said the platypus-femme. She lowered Chris’ gun. “I’m a high-ranking Crowe soldier; if we’re challenged, I can vouch for us and get through easily. Let’s do this the clever way—my way.”

Chris jerked his gun away from Miratron, fuming. “DO YOU THINK I’M GOING TO LET THESE DOGS GET AWAY WITH WHAT THEY’RE DOING?!” he shouted. “They’re responsible for the terrorization of Walden. Everybody—the citizens entrusted to me—are scared to death of those Mercenaries! Megatron will take his anger out on Walden if he doesn’t get his way. Now here’s an opportunity to destroy our enemies. So come on!!!”

Springer bent down to Chris’ level. “Do you think Ben would like you playing the avenging angel?” Chris hated the reference to Ben; he wanted the depression out of his mind. He tried to jerk himself away, but Springer kept talking persistently. “Ben might fight Megatron, but he would fight smart. He would wait till we have a chance—till we have Tigerhawk.”

Anxious to shake off the memories of Ben which were roused by Springer’s reference, Chris reluctantly agreed to the plan. The soldiers allowed the group to pass. Miratron urged everyone to travel fast, because the patrollers would soon report the incident to the Administrator. Since he could transform into a helicopter, Springer volunteered to fly Chris and Miratron to the Crowe base.

Anyone looking along the Australian coast could have seen a green helicopter traveling late into the afternoon. When Springer and company reached Sydney, they found it to be a huge futuristic city, similar to a miniscule Cybertronian city. This was a great location for a Crowe base.
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Going as quickly as possible and taking many shortcuts, Cheetor estimated, Cybertron would be in sight by tomorrow. Also, he supposed that the fuel would run out by the time they landed in Cybertropilas. Cheetor’s guesses were correct, and as evening of the second day rolled in, the ship was securely parked on Cybertron. Cybertropilas was a bit more organized than it had been right after the attacks; there were police patrols and heavily-guarded shops where fuel and food could be purchased. But the city was still dark, the airport still in ruin, and there were several skirmishes between Maximals and Predacons. The Government-issued police did not interfere with the warring of the robot clans.

“Well this place looks like scrap,” observed Cheetor.

Soon they were able to find a place to park the ship. Cheetor was made to pay a great sum of money for promised protection of the ship, and another large amount for fuel. There was no leftover money to pay for a cycle in the CR-chamber.

It was dreary and dangerous work asking around for Rattrap. The skilled street-rats in the slums, who could only give information about violence and theft, were known to be quite aggressive. Soon Cheetor turned to more fundamental methods. He captured a soldier and stole his ID code; then posing as a soldier he asked a high-ranking Maximal General where Rattrap might be. The General knew nothing. Topazor, weary of the crime-ridden streets and nightmarish violence, was relieved when Cheetor withdrew to higher, nicer parts of the city. Using one of Cybertropilas’ many public data-bases, the cheetah-bot searched for records concerning Rattrap. To his disappointment, any information about Rattrap was blocked.

“Isn’t it natural for an undercover agent’s file to be inaccessible?” asked Topazor.

“But I entered one of his own codes,” answered Cheetor, “and there was no change. That means somebody with authority over the data system updated the access codes without contacting me. Rattrap could have no reason for changing the codes. The only other person who might do it is the Empress.”

“Things just keep going back to the Empress, don’t they?” Topazor shook his head. Was it possible that Cybertron’s own leader had only mysterious, questionable motives behind her every action? “When I worked for the DCS,” Topazor thought aloud, “I remember Airsweep being patronizing…and sometimes secretive.”

“You’re smart to observe that,” said Cheetor. “Let’s find a place to rest for a while.”
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Once in Sydney, Miratron had no difficulty locating the Crowe Base. Getting inside the low-built metal factory would be the difficulty. As she entered access codes and gave passwords, Miratron hoped that the Mercenaries didn’t know about her treachery yet. Megatron could have contacted them already, in which case the whole mission would be blown. Springer seemed to enjoy the anticipation and peril, while Chris stood by sulkily.

After Miratron entered the correct codes, the metal entry-door was slid aside. A Crowe minion checked Miratron’s ID and disarmed everyone else. Now, if there was a fight, Miratron knew her team couldn’t win.

This Crowe stronghold was both a base of operations and a factory, Miratron discovered as a Mercenary led the group along. Throughout the whole Base, arsenal was manufactured. Later, the weapons would be sold to anyone who would pay good money. At the bottom floor (an iron-lined basement stockpiled with provisions, machines, and spare parts), the group came to a guarded door. Here Miratron had to be scanned, use codes, and voice activation all in order to get through the door. Even after that, a serious-looking Mercenary demanded why Miratron wanted to see the “prize” for the Empress.

“Actually, we are here by order of the Empress herself,” Miratron lied. “We must activate the prize and bring it to the Administrator.”

At last convinced, the Mercenary let Miratron and her friends inside. In the center of the room, magnificent and startling inside a great tank of preservation fluid, slept Tigerhawk.

“Nobody’s ever woken him up before,” explained the Mercenary. “Not because it’s impossible. It’s just that us mercenaries clawing for our money don’t care to waste our lives on him. Waking up Tigerhawk is risking your life, cuz ya gotta give him a little of your spark-energy to do it. Giving spark-energy is sort of like how humans donate blood.”

“But more dangerous,” added Miratron. “Spark-operations have never been fully studied. The spark is unpredictable…it’s physical, but it’s connected with something that’s not physical at all.”

“It’s a soul,” said Springer grimly. “Look, we’ve got to wake up Tigerhawk even if there’s a risk. I volunteer for the operation.”

“No, Springer!” objected Chris heatedly, and Miratron looked equally shocked. “Don’t throw your life away,” she implored. Waves of worry were already beginning to wash over her, because she knew how hard it was to dissuade Springer on any matter.

In response to her appeal, however, Springer only laughed. “Come on, guys: I’m a sportsman, an adventurer, after all! And who else would do it but me?” he pointed out seriously.

If it was possible for such a jocular entrepreneur to be sad and serious, Springer looked that way now. Miratron knew that it was more than love of adventure that drove Springer to volunteer—it was the willingness to sacrifice his life for a good cause. Just like Ben had done. This moved Miratron’s heart and she held Springer’s hand.

Springer kissed her cheek. “Wish me luck,” he said.

“Good luck,” rejoined Miratron, breathlessly.

The Crowe mercenaries helped set up everything. Watched closely by Crowe’s medical-bot, Springer was temporarily shut down and a cable connected his circuitry to Tigerhawk’s spark. The operation could take up to a full day.
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While Springer was courageously undergoing the operation, Cheetor and Topazor searched for a place to rest on Cybertron. Topazor, though not preferring such a place under an optimal situation, was ready to take a break in the nearest bar they could find. However, Cheetor led Topazor deeper and deeper into the slums of the broken city. At last they came to a grotesque-looking pub; like Katro’s Tavern, but dirtier and darker. The place was quiet but for a few beat-up and crazy-looking old bots who sat in the dark corners guzzling whatever strong drinks they could waste their money on.

Cheetor spoke with the bartender, who was likely to know dark secrets of the city. Meanwhile Topazor sat down at one of the unpleasant tables, and his gaze happened to fall on a certain bot in a corner. This small bot was slumped over the table, old and dirty, his plating almost colorless from age. But Topazor, from studying history, recognized the bot’s single large tooth, and his vulgar red eyes.

It was Rattrap.

“Excuse me,” said Topazor, joining the filthy, elderly rat; “Are you the Beast Warrior Rattrap?”

Rattrap slurped down half a glass of energon fluid. “Heh, I used t’be.” His voice was dry and flat from weariness and age, but it was still complete with the snide tone it had born throughout the Beast Wars. “So who’re you? Er, dat is, who did ya used t’be before all dis? What dream wa’you senselessly followin’ before reality caught up and pulled yer tail?”

“Well, I’m…sort of…trying to save Cybertron,” said Topazor.

“Heh,” scoffed the old rat, “you’re jist one o’those sons-of-Decepticons who says they’re savin’ people and den covers the city wit their lies and filth. Scrap-bots. O’course,” said Rattrap, pausing in his hard-to-decipher, monotonous complaint, “you could be a bot who’s really sincere. In dat case, kiddo, g’head and give up. Have a drink—they’re all that good left in the world!”

“Um, I don’t really understand what you’re talking about,” said Topazor; “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Sir, I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you. Could you put the cup down and act like you care?” he asked, impatiently.

Rattrap laughed a dry, crooked chortle. “But I don’t care,” he said.

“Well you need to care,” growled Topazor, snatching the drink from Rattrap’s grasp. “I know Cheetor. We need some information from you.”

Rattrap grabbed his drink back. “I ain’t got what you need, kiddo. Now have a drink. A toast to Empress Airsweep; may she go on poisoning da universe without complaint from me! As long as she don’t prohibit drinking, that is.”

Topazor was about to loose his temper when Cheetor intervened. “I see you found my old buddy,” said the cat-bot. “Hey Rat-face! What up?”

“Oh, same,” shrugged the old rat sarcastically. “Tea parties, strolls in da park…”

“Me too,” grinned Cheetor. “This is Topazor, and don’t worry; he’s safe. Anyway I’m alive and kicking; and where there’s life there’s hope. The missions are still on.” He paused shortly, and then went on, “So…you got kicked out of Crowe? Tell us everything you learned from them.”

Rattrap leaned back in his chair and tried to summon some energy. “Fine,” he said compliantly; “we’re all gonna die but I’m none de worse for tellin’ some deadly classified hush-hush secrets. Heh, here goes.”
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It had been almost a full day, but Chris and Miratron never left Springer’s unconscious body. Chris’ hard face seemed rougher and wearier than ever. “How long have you known Springer?” Chris asked Miratron.

“A year or two,” shrugged the platypus-bot. “We don’t see each other often because he’s always busy with military and I had the weapon-sellers to deal with. …Springer knew what he was getting into,” she added quietly.

Chris sighed. “I haven’t known him for that long. In fact, I hated him at first. But I’ve seen too many people sacrifice themselves.” He shook his head softly. The closely-guarded exhaustion slipped into Chris’ tone as he continued, “Three people plus Ben died in the fight with Russell. Nightscream always was a crook, but it still hurt to see him offline. …My own father died in a feud between mercenaries and military…so it was Ben who always took care of me. I just can’t stand to see Springer go too.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see,” said Miratron lamely. She could think of no comforting words.