The Intergalactic Highway

This is the first part of a guaranteed epic of major proportions co-written by myself, Streak, and LeoKingdom. Meet Streak, a Predacon turncoat trying to find his place in the universe. Is the human-Maximal Colony "Zeta" that place, or does fate have other plans for him?


Chapter 1

Not a cloud was in the sky and only one moon was visible. The cries and calls of local creatures could be heard coming from the surrounding forest, but thankfully none of them encroached any closer into the field that the inhabitants of Colony Zeta now resided. It was bright, the temperature was ideal for humans, and nothing horrific had (yet) happened. So Moonhunter, feeling more optimistic than normal, had decided that today could be written in the logs as a good day.

After their commander, Optimus Unus, had warned him not to push his troops too hard, the chief of security had no choice but to step back with his training regimen. But he continued to push his men every day, and had been rewarded by the sight of not only increased fighting acumen amongst them all, but also increased muscle mass in the human members. They were getting stronger, more determined, more formidable. If the Predacons they were forced to share a planet with ever attacked, they would be ready.

As he sauntered through the field and observed his forces, he stopped to watch a certain pair—a Maximal named Streak and a human named Ripley. "Joints," he spoke up to remind Ripley. "The sooner you take out the joints, the easier it'll be to disable a Predacon."

Streak had to admit, the human wasn't bad, as far as humans went. Nonetheless, the aerial warrior wasn't getting any benefit from this practice at all. The bot's movements were deliberately sluggish, his attacks were weak and easily dodged, and he was on foot, which was his least favorite place to fight. Vorns ago, Streak had been talked out of his Predacon allegiance, largely because of how little regard he held for his own kind… but he had to give them credit for their competence, which was more than he could say for the humans. Even if he had been talked into joining the Maximals a long time back, that didn't mean he respected humans any more than he had before. Perhaps he acknowledged their right to exist, but in general he understood them to be inferior creatures to both persuasions of his own species, and not worthy of the resources spent on them.

Go ahead and let me know when my training starts," he said casually to Moonhunter. This was ridiculous, he needed to be training with opponents actually capable of matching him. "Not that I don't appreciate the opportunity to baby-sit your humans, but I think that it probably helps our defense situation more to have me in top shape than to have your Ripley here smacking Predacons in the elbows." Sure that some sort of anger would be forthcoming from his human opponent, Streak began to move his bladed staff--flats-forward, of course--at top speed, the two gleaming, gossamer ends flashing hypnotically as they whistled through the air in wide, sweeping figure-eights. The human was driven back as the Maximal pressed forward, stopping their advance/retreat a few paces short of their commanding officer. He considered smirking triumphantly at the human, but opted to tilt his head instead, as if he was not dismissive of the human, only innocently disappointed that the fight had not continued. This charade would no doubt fail to fool the leader watching.

It was his particular attitude against "fleshlings" that caused Moonhunter to assign him as combat targets for the humans. He wanted Streak to learn to respect his human partners and find that they could be just as reliable in a situation as another Maximal. He knew that better than most… though he could not tell anyone. It was admittedly difficult, but history had recorded enough incidents when Transformers had been taken down by humans—and not just super-powered ones—to prove that it was not a fluke. It could be done, and even if the average Transformer was in general superior to the average human, Moonhunter still wanted to see mutual respect on each side of the species barrier. Especially amongst his department. "It’s all about developing teamwork," he told his mouthy subordinate. "We’re only as strong as our weakest members. No offense, Ripley." The human nodded in affable concession. "If you want a better challenge, I can give Ripley an energy weapon."

"Will an energy weapon make him faster or more skillful?" He looked skeptically at Ripley, but that expression soon softened, if only marginally. "Not to offend him, because I've had my quota of that for the day, but what good is it to grant a more potent weapon to an arm that isn't fast enough to hit the target? It's not even the humans' fault; no amount of determination or willpower could change the basic, physical limitations of their calcium-supported, water-sack bodies. The only reason this is even lasting is because I'm not striking at full speed or full power, and moving slow enough to be hit. Granting the human an energy weapon won't mean anything practical if I remain slow enough to be poked to death, but it will mean even less if I move too fast for the human to hit me."

The lower pair of Streak's wings, still in place, began to beat through the air. His feet lifted a few inches above the ground in a heartbeat. He glided backward over a cushion of air, his tiny black eyes, a stark contrast to the massive blue ones of his beast mode, which now were the dominating ornaments of his uncharacteristically bulky shoulder-pads, narrowed. "Or do you propose that this--or any--human will be able to handle me actually training to improve myself, simply by giving them a slightly superior stick with which to smack me?" The drone of his wings beating through the air grew louder. Moonhunter hadn't seen him in real battle much, but had certainly seen him practice against other Maximals. What would follow would be a high-speed strafe at his opponent, and a swipe with his staff strong enough--even with the flat of the blade--to break ribs and send a human sprawling end over end. A tactic meant for a Cybertronian. A tactic at Cybertronian speeds and with Cybertronian strength. Streak actually considered following through with it, but he fully expected his kill-joy commander to call an end to this before he started taking it seriously.

Arrogance was a pet peeve of Moonhunter's. Whenever a member of his unit bragged about their abilities, he made a point to call them out on it. The bigger the braggart, the more he made them work to back up their claims. Streak had been acting particularly annoying as of lately, and he was tempted to step in and challenge him himself. He filed away that option for later, but the last time he had tired that he had ended up getting wounded in the back by a sore looser afterward.

Moonhunter could see Ripley growing angered by Streak’s less than flattering description; the human would have pressed the attack with renewed vehemence had Streak not taken to the air. "Calm down. Take three kliks," he dismissed the human before turning to Streak. With a motion, he ordered the dragonfly back to the ground.

Streak descended the foot or so he'd been hovering above the ground, and smirked as the human went off to calm down. Nonetheless, he had a point, didn't he? A human couldn't match his speed. A human couldn't match a transformer in strength, firepower, durability...even in terms of intelligence, technology on both sides of the Transformer race put whatever the humans had constructed prior to the merging of the peoples to shame.

"Exactly how many battles were you in during the tail end of the War?" Moonhunter asked. He knew that he was certainly not the most experienced veteran within the community, but sometimes it was not all about experience. Being a warrior was also a process of mentality just as much as it was about strength and speed. Moonhunter took his job very seriously but never, ever assumed he was the best there was. When he fought, he fought with the same sense of ruthless will to survive as he had done at the onset of his life in the war. The day he became confident in his own abilities was the day he would finally fall.

"Engagements? As a Predacon or as a Maximal?" The question came out dry. His allegiance was irrelevant to the question, he knew. Nonetheless, he also knew that whatever number he gave would be held against him that much more by any Maximal listening in. Streak was aware of everyone's inherent distrust of him, and his retort was more in resentment for his commander bringing out these differences than an actual unwillingness to answer. Really, it was a loaded question, whether the commander knew it or not. If the number was small, he was to be looked down on as a braggart. If the number was large, he was to be regarded darkly as a killer of Maximals. His answer underlined his understanding of the implications behind the question. Before the commander could give answer, he went on.

"The number, as you know sir, is irrelevant. My abilities today are what they are, regardless of my fighting history." This much was true. The question was meant only to demean him in front of more experienced bots, to put him in his place, or at least define a place for him from which he would be expected to defer to the long-term veterans, and could maybe still get away with some shenanigans with the younger fighters. Nonetheless, ability spoke for itself, independent from social organization or norms.

Moonhunter narrowed his eyes at Streaks retort. It wasn’t the fact that he had fought on the side of the Predacons that bothered him, it was the fact that he still acted like one. Why did they all have to be so stubborn, arrogant, and even foul-smelling? Nevertheless, Moonhunter was not a pedant commander. If Streak had the skill to back up his claims, the chief of security could tolerate a little bragging. Still, he preferred humility in his troops.

"Only a Predacon would be insulted by the assignment to train the rookie fighters," he sneered. He knew resorting to racial slurs was a bad mistake, but sometimes he could not help himself. He despised their arrogance and proclivities to thuggish violence. Besides, it was true. In general, it was considered an honor to take on the position of a mentor to others. For a mechanical race that was incapable of reproduction, it was the closest thing to a legacy they could pass on to future generations. "Or perhaps your past allegiance is tainting your efforts. Tell me Streak, are you scared by the prospect of facing your former people?"

The blue-dragonfly Maximal simply stared blankly back at his commanding officer as the allegations were laid on. A slight smile twisted his metal lip, and he tilted his head slightly to the side. The Maximals he'd met were usually so clammed up about their prejudices...it was both shocking and strangely refreshing to have Moonhunter throw them in his face. He silently held up one hand, between himself and the bulkier bot in front of him. Three of his fingers were held up.

"There has only ever been one Cybertronian who I hesitated to kill when it was my duty to do so. He convinced me that the Maximals shared my interests more than did my Predacon compatriots. To escape with him alive, a good show of faith to my new allies, I extinguished the sparks of my squad-mates, the only three Predacons with whom I had regular and casually tolerant relations. Having never seen fit to trust me in real battle, there's no way you could know this, but when I fight, I rarely see anyone I kill. They hear my wings, they know I'm coming approximately six seconds before I arrive. My lock-on missiles are weaving smoke trails and finding targets a second or two before I arrive, and I usually show up just in time to see between two and six enemies either incapacitated, or obliterated. From there, I open up with my rapid-fire weapon and cause as much confusion as possible. With only my secondary weapon, and a body too fragile to stay locked in combat with heavily-armored opponents for too long, it's usually the allies that come in behind me that do the up-close murder." His smile here wasn't self-satisfied, but seemed actually if anything a bit empty, like maybe it disguised a bitter taste in his mouth.

"I deliver over half of my offensive payload in the first few seconds of battle. My adversaries are slated for death before I even see their faces. The guidance systems in my missiles couldn't care less about the prospect of facing my former people, sir." His voice was flat, now. He heard some of the other Maximals growing quiet around him.

"As for me being insulted by the assignment to train rookie fighters, I'm not. I'm insulted by the assignment to train auxiliaries. Give me a rookie Maximal, and I'll train with him, because his abilities will matter on the battlefield. No, sir. I'm not insulted by a teaching assignment. I'm insulted because you're taking time out of my training regime to improve the abilities of a human, implying that his abilities are of equal importance with mine, when this is clearly incorrect. Humans don't belong on the battlefield. If they did, their watery husks wouldn't be so fragile." His last statement was made matter-of-factly. Moonhunter wouldn't take much more lip, he was sure, but the addressing of race in this matter meant that backing down wasn't something that he could do easily, not before the matter had been put away in a satisfactory manner.

Bombardiers were a necessary evil during times of war. Moonhunter understood that. And he was no samurai; he never believed he had to look every single foe that he killed in the eyes. But there was a damn good reason the nickname "flyboy" was often used derogatorily. He was not trying to find fault with this soldier, but Streak was really getting on his nerves. So maybe he had done his function well in the Great War. The wars were (officially) over. Could he adapt his function to a style of combat less drastic than carpet-bombing? Was he courageous enough to?

"I see. And did you kill your former teammates while their backs were turned, or did you give them a chance?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. Before Streak could answer, he went on to the real heart of the matter. "Humans may not belong in a battlefield alongside Maximals and Predacons, or even Autobots and Decepticons," he conceded that much to Streak, but only to make a larger point.

"But it’s not because they can’t stand up to the Predacons. It’s because the feud that exists between the two races should not concern them. And yet, if Bane’s Predacons attacked us, they would not spare the humans and just come after us. The humans have just as much a stake in survival as we do, and they are not going to sit back and do nothing while we fight. They may be fragile, but they are not any less noble than us. Perhaps they are more so. Their wars have never come any where near the ruthlessness and viciousness of our own." He remained stoically still as he lectured Streak, boring his optics into the subordinate officer. He was not saying humans were a perfect species, no, but Moonhunter had a rare outlook on the subject matter. As perhaps the only being who had walked on both sides of the barrier between the species, he knew that Cybertronians were not as superior as they wanted to think they were.

Streak's smile was gone. The beginning of Moonhunter's response was all he cared about. The rest, well...he could spare a short reply for that, just to make it clear that he was unimpressed with the commander's logic, but the real subject of this argument had shifted, and the humans were not central to it any longer.

"Humans can train other humans, it doesn't take me for that. And even if it did, improvement of your Maximals is more important to the survival of your pet humans than improvement of the humans themselves. My training is more important to human survival than Ripley's, if it's humans I'm defending. That is all that need be said on that count. If you want proof," he paused, meeting Moonhunter's glare with an even, black-eyed stare of his own, "Take the training wheels off and see how long he lasts against a Cybertronian."

He didn't wait for an answer to this before forging on. "And as for Predacons, grant no honor to those who have none. I killed two with six missiles. The third was a flyer, like me, and our battle went high into the sky and low to the ground, and lasted until neither of us had any ammunition left. It came down to close-in fighting, and by the end I had to pull my wingman off the end of this very blade."

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze hadn't shifted a millimeter. "Living life as a Predacon, trust is a very limited commodity. We weren't close, but I had learned to trust my life with him on the battlefield. I gave that up to join your cause. I gave up my allies, those who accepted me as one born into their number, I gave up those who accepted me as I was because I thought you Maximals had a lot of things right. I've given up a life surrounded by people programmed to watch my back, and taken on one where each of you would consider letting me die from a field wound on a whim of paranoia. I've endured your cowardly whisperings and your sideways glances. I've given up more to be a part of this than you have. As far as I'm concerned, that makes me more Maximal than you."

Moonhunter actually approved of Streak’s comment regarding how to handle Predacons, and found the story of how he betrayed his former comrades both reassuring and disturbing. Perhaps he and Streak shared the same core beliefs, but their methodologies differed. They were both just as ruthless, but Streak was not as great a team player as Moonhunter would have prefered. Though in all likelihood, that was not his fault. He could actually relate to that – before changing his identity, he had been forced to endure to accusations of not being truly Maximal, of being a half-breed and a freak.

Moonhunter didn’t actually consider himself a Maximal anyway. Sure, he had a Maximal body, but his was not a Maximal’s spirit. But he was not truly human any more, either. So what was he? He was a warrior.

And perhaps this firefly was one too. "Perhaps I misjudged you, Streak," the chief of security admitted finally. He was not arrogant enough to assume he was right all the time. Generally he assumed a pessimistic outlook on almost everyone he met. In such cases, being wrong wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

Though, that was not to say he was going to concede the original point of the argument. "If you want to hone your skills, that’s fine by me," he said. "I can arrange to match you against Maximals more often. But you’ll also continue to aid in combat training for the humans—for their own safety. We are still a team, after all, both Maximals and humans working together for our mutual survival. The better prepared each individual member is, the better the chances for us all. End of discussion." He turned his back to the flier and marched off to see to his other men. Enough time had been spent on Streak’s complaints. They were duly noted, but for now dismissed. Moonhunter was a busy mech and had other things that needed to be dealt with before the end of the cycle.

Chapter 2

Streak sat down with his tray of food, contemplating the contents inside. He didn't have to eat organic material; it wasn't the primary means of sustenance that supported a Transformer, not even a half-biological one like himself. No, this was more an act of recreation than it was a nutritional requirement. He liked the way the green things tasted, the leaves and other vegetables. He didn't know why, but there was something pleasant about the crunch of plant-life. Fortunately his body was outfitted to make use of the cellulose or whatever else was in there, so it didn't go to waste

He had gone out of his way to eat at an unpopulated table. Streak didn't always disdain company, but at the cafeteria most Maximals wanted to socialize and make merry… things he wasn't terribly good at, nor things they particularly wanted him around for. After all, it was difficult to make merry with someone who only found enjoyment if he was heckling or downright berating the person he was talking to. Friendship had never worked the same way for Streak as it seemed to for most Maximals. The closest he'd ever had was Drone, and of course that couldn't be reclaimed. No force in the universe could bring that back.

No, he sat alone as he watched the other tables fill up. It's just as well, he sneered, thinking to himself. The Maximals didn't even have room for everyone they would have wanted at their table. They would just have been even more irked if he had actually chosen to sit over there. No, for the most part, Maximals had no flexibility when it came to peace-time discourse. He had yet to find one he could insult who would take it in stride and simply return the favor at every given opportunity. What was camaraderie without a strong dose of interpersonal conflict?

A choir of angels suddenly began to sing as a near-empty table, with a single loner eating by himself, came into Crosshare's view.

Sometimes it didn't pay to enjoy sleeping so much. Crosshare was forced to be so annoyingly careful when moving about the now-packed dining hall as to not crash into anyone. This was why he liked to get here early, plenty of seats left open and the choice cuts of salads, meats and soups to pick from. But he got the bottom crust of them all, arriving far later than he should have so he got the nasty dry leaves of lettuce, an overly greasy and burned beef patty, a selection of overly ripe fruit in a cup and he didn't even dare give that soup a second glance, save it start saying "Ia Ia Cthulhu fhtagn."

Crosshare worked his way through the crowd and plopped himself down across from the Maximal. He gave a bright toothy smile, "Hi! Hope you don't mind me sitting hear!"

Streak raised his chitin-metal eyebrows at the other Maximal's proposition, watching wordlessly as he took a seat without awaiting an answer. Well...he didn't really seem to care all that much whether Streak wanted him there or not, considering the implicit question came after he sat down. Looking beyond his unwanted guest, Streak noted that there were no other seats, and then just shrugged. What was to be done for it? The rabbit was going to eat, one way or the other, and the table definitely didn't belong to him.

"You certainly seem perky, Ears. Sit down, it's not like you have a choice. I don't think I've noticed you around much. What do you do, again?" He clearly had weapons, but that didn't necessarily mean he was part of Moonhunter's security force. It might be a little embarrassing for most people to admit not knowing someone who they'd been living around for some time, but most such embarrassments slid off of Streak's back. After all, what did he care about his neighbors outside of what they did to either bother or entertain him?

"Name's Crosshare, Master Scout, Sniper, and all around ladies 'bot. Pleased to meet you, Stickbug." Crosshare grinned snidely. The grin quickly vanished as he took a spoonful of overly-ripe fruit and had to suppress his gag reflex. Instead he just spat it back out into the cup. "Dear Primus that is nasty!"

Quickly, he grabbed his canister of liquid energon and swished a mouthful of it around to kill the taste and swallowed. Crosshare's ears (which in robot mode had fallen back to form a crest that stretched behind his cranium) twitched sharply. "Need to fix that slaggin' alarm clock of mine."

Streak cocked his head to the side before smirking himself. Unusual, for a Maximal to keep going like that. Not even a pause in his conversational stride. Nice. Streak fussily went through his own salad, eating with a neatness which didn't seem to fit with his otherwise extreme and abrasive lifestyle.

"Indeed. Well, Ears, they call me Streak, though most either call me Pred when they think I don't hear, or nothing at all when they think I can. I do surprise attacks, spearhead missions, and general feats of aerial genius while everyone else slogs it out on foot down below. I'm the cavalry." He finished this proclamation with something of a flourish in his voice and mannerisms.

"And as for the food, yes: it's always bad. Who knows how the fleshbags actually enjoy gorging themselves with the stuff. But a little less comfort means a little more edge on the battlefield, any real fighter knows which of those is more important!" There was a little bit of challenge in his voice, though from his manner, he didn't expect it to get much of a rise out of Crosshare. He had met Predacons who came off the same way: they knew what they liked, and strutting around wasn't about to put them off of it.

"Former Predacon, eh?" Crosshare said after swallowing his salad. "Should have figured from the way you spoke. And the posture's a dead give away. Used to drink with some back on Cybertron. Remember one could never make a straight landing without needin' to get sent to the CR Chamber. An Astronomer I think. Little on the psychotic side but nice and gullible for a few bets."

"Gullible, huh?" Streak didn't particularly like Predacons; after all, he'd opted to leave their ranks for the Maximals. Nonetheless, having been one previously, he couldn't find it in himself to join in criticizing them, at least not in the presence of Maximals. After all, the betrayal of his own kind was evident enough in which side of the line he was sitting on. The last thing he wanted to do was make himself a total sell out.

Crosshare downed another shot of energon before continuing on. "So what's Sparkle-Pants stickin' you on? Ex-Predacon's get it about as worse as Scrapbeetle from my understanding."

"Well, it depends on what it is you want," he said after another mouthful. "They don't let me do any important missions, because they don't trust me. Any of them," he took another bite. "But I also don't have to work as hard, unless you count keeping myself in tip-top shape to humiliate the guys who spar with me. Gotta make sure they don't forget why they're training, after all. You walk away from the Predacons, but you never really walk away, if you know what I mean."

He took a drink from his cup, setting it down gently...his table manners completely inconsistent with every other aspect of his personality. "You've gotta represent every time the Maximals measure themselves up; after all, you're the enemy, even if you're not." He chuckled viciously then, taking another almost dainty sip of his drink and another bite of his salad. "Then again, what was that I said about keeping your edge? It isn't fair, but I like it." That wasn't completely true, but there was no arguing with that evil laughter.

Streak's cackle was rather unnerving, truth be told, but also somewhat hammy like a cheesy movie mad scientist. Crosshare inched back some after the flyer's bought of laughter but wormed his way forward again and took a bite from the greasy burned steak. It was crunchy. Screwing up his face, he spat out the offending morsal. "THAT was just unnatural! What is wrong with the cook? Is he trying to poison me!?" In disgust Crosshare downed the rest of his energon in one gulp and pushed his tray aside. He really needed to fix his alarm.

Crosshare gave the largest smile he could. "So, I got like, five cycle's before my next shift. If you got time how about we play a little game?"

"Game, huh?" Streak asked, munching the last of his salad. He had started earlier than Crosshare, so was finishing up at about the same time as the rabbit was giving up on his meal. He wasn't sure if he liked the emphasis his counterpart had put on the word game, but he also wasn't one to turn down a challenge.

"Well," he said sliding his tray to one side, "That depends on what kind of game you have in mind. If the game is entertaining, well, I don't have a lot of responsibilities, so I don't see why not." He didn't want to dedicate himself to anything before he knew what Crosshare had in mind. After all, he couldn't afford to get into too much trouble, he regularly got himself into it about as deep as he could without forcing his superiors to seriously consider throwing him out of the security force.

"Oh, it should be fun," Crosshare said, his smile never fading. "You know those annoying buzzards that are always dropping 'bombs' on the ship? How 'bout we discourage 'em some? Say… a shooting match?" The bird-like animals had a nasty habit of congregating around the bases and defecating on the roofs, not something that bothered Crosshare much, he rarely was up there. But hey, an excuse to relieve some stress and have some fun was always welcome in the snipers book. Plus, Streak looked like someone with a talent with the gun.

"Whoever shoots the most birds buys the loser's lunch for a week. Sounds fair?" The Jackrabbit-former felt a twinge of tension building in his right hand. The ghost feeling of his rifle's grip tickled his palm and the power output to his left optic dimmed just slightly while the flow to his right optic increased. The excitement of the possible competition and inevitable victory surged through the seasoned sharpshooter.

"Hm...that sounds like it could be interesting. You'd better hope they're not too close together, though," he patted the rapid-fire weapon at his hip. Despite his skill, he usually didn't need to be that accurate, given that his primary weapon was used to cause as much chaos as possible while the smoke from his missiles cleared. "So, will we be using dummy rounds, or wasting their little tail-feathers?" He had no qualms with killing the local wildlife, himself, but he wasn't sure if the humans or the higher-ups would. Hell, target practice, especially with real targets, was always a good idea. It was just a shame the targets would be so slow and helpless. He would probably get taken either way, though. Crosshare was probably some kind of sniper...without wings, he would make a poor bomber, and he didn't seem resilient enough to do direct combat, meaning that he was some kind of light-combatant. This was true of Streak as well, but their builds were distinct enough that they clearly served different functions.

"Pff!" Crosshare batted the air dismissivly. "Why bother shooting at all if you're just going to use glorified chunks of rubber? So, meet me up on the roof in about one cycle? Like a chance to do some last minute checks on my rifle, just to make sure it doesn't backfire and kill me, you know?"

Standing up, Crosshare grabbed his tray and took one more bite from the dry salad before walking over to a waste receptacle mounted in the wall and dumping the whole mess into it, careful not to drop the tray into the chute. He slid the tray back onto the table and leaned against its edge with a cocky grin plastered on his face. "So, is it agreed?"

"Works fine for me, Ears," Streak said after a moment. "As a matter of curiosity… how many Predacons have you put down with that rifle?" The number wouldn't offend him, but he wanted to know nonetheless, possibly to see how much experience this bot had in the field, or simply to know just how massive a betrayal it was to be getting along with this Maximal. He knew that he had a fair kill count... but that he couldn't really take credit for it. The AI of his missiles did almost all of the work once he initiated the firing protocols.

It was a question Crosshare hoped that would never be asked. His optics grew distant for a moment but he shook himself back to reality. Stiffening, he glaced away from the Predacon turn-coat. "Listen, no offense, but I'd really rather not talk about the War, alright? See you in a cycle." He marched off, tossing his tray onto a stack of a dozen identical used ones as he passed by the exit.

Streak watched curiously as the Maximal put his tray on the pile and hastily made his way out of the mess hall. He guessed it was the first time he'd actually asked anyone who hadn't been flaunting their number like it was some kind of record. Big dumb bravados were never ashamed of their numbers; even if it was too low it meant that the war had simply stopped before they'd gotten into their groove. When it came to people like that, he could usually bring out his own kill tally and shut them up. It wasn't really fair, he knew, but he didn't like people boasting about their own kills. It lacked a certain...finesse. Not that he held life to be particularly sacred, but why should others derive so much self-confidence and respect from it? No, though, Crosshare wasn't that type. It had perhaps been forward of him to bring it up. Most Predacons readily divulged the number, if they remembered it, albeit with a little bit of padding. It seemed there was a lot of discomfort there. Whether with the number itself, or something else relating to the war, Streak couldn't guess. Sighing, he finished his own affairs in the mess hall and went to his own quarters.

Streak inspected his gun the same way he always did. More than anything, he checked and double-checked his ammunition, ensuring that he had plenty of shots, not that he would need very many for this endeavor. He just always wanted to have a lot of shots; after all, his weapon spat them out like there was no tomorrow. He would have to toggle the single-fire to make it useful for this contest. When the megacycle was almost up, he went outside to meet Crosshare on the roof of the Zeta Colony.

Life wasn't what you'd call kind to Crosshare during the Great War. Not kind to any Cybertronian, Autobot, Decepticon, Maximal, Predacon, whatever you were. And he'd only come in at the tail-end of the whole mess. That didn't stop... things from happening. Maybe it's what made him such a coward… or maybe he was a coward before that and just never figured it out before. None of that mattered now anyway. What had happened, happened and there wasn't a slagging thing Crosshare could do about it.

Crosshare entered his quarters, locking the door behind him. Sitting down at a modest sized desk tucked away in the corner, Crosshare produced his sniper rifle from the storage area in his back and a small tool kit from the upper right drawer of the desk and went to work cleaning and checking his gun, quietly and efficiently like he had done a million times before. He disassembled and reassambled the Electron-based weapon a dozen times before the time finally arrived for him to venture to the roof of the Zeta Colony.

"So, who goes first?" Streak asked, slightly exaggerated cockiness evident in his voice and body language.

"Look around yourself Stickbug," Crosshare said flatly. "Those birds like to circle around the place before coming in for a landing." He scanned the vast sky through the lens of his scope. He could pick out the warts on the alien birds' flabby necks and the slimy protective coat covering their six eyes provided a nice shine to the otherwise dull and leathery heads. The ugly things wouldn't be missed, in Crosshare's opinion. He lowered the rifle and made a last-minute adjustment to the scope. "We both pick a side facing away from each other and on my count, open fire. Once the lasers start flying, the birds will scatter. Once they're all out of range we go collect the bodies to see who has the most confirmable hits. Try to avoid disintegrations."

"Fair enough," he said coolly. No point in being overly friendly with a competitor. He turned away from Crosshare, turning the power-level of his weapon down enough to avoid vaporizing all of his hits. He waited, kneeling down and bracing his weapon against his shoulder. He waited for Crosshare's count, and took a bead on one of the flying birds.

Crosshare once again took aim, leveling his sights on the farthest away bird and began a slow, measured count. "One...two...three...fire!" A single pull of the trigger was all it took for the bird's head to vanish in a cloud of red and the limp body to give in to the force of gravity. The avians already began to scatter but not fast enough to save them from his well-placed shots. The second bolt of energy struck a fleeing target through the wing, knocking it from the sky to a surly fatal fall. A third bird fell from a head shot and a fourth simple exploded from a torso shot. Crosshare silently cursed his luck on that one, but kept firing away, downing bird after bird with each pull of the trigger.

Behind him, the sound of Streak's laser fire brought to mind the sound of an epileptic handed a flashing multi-colored machine gun. Primus, is he actually hitting anything? He ignored the temptation to turn about and look at what undoubtedly be one heck of a show and kept racking up the kills even as the birds faded away into the distance.

Streak had a good range of vision, not as good as a sniper's, he knew, but he needed a way to confirm or deny kills made by his missiles. When the count was finished, he opened fire. One, two, three, four. There were a lot of the birds in the sky, today, and luckily, they flew in flocks. He was able to kill half a dozen of them before they could even react to the noise, but once they scattered his killing spree slowed down significantly. It was a lot harder to kill individual birds at range than it was to aim at big congregations.

By the time the birds were out of his range, he had taken down a dozen. They hadn't been that close to begin with, he guessed, but it was a little disappointing to leave it at that when lots of them had just gotten too far away to justify wasting ammunition. It was especially frustrating to have to do all his shooting from one position.... he was used to being able to pursue his targets by wing. He could hear Crosshare continue to fire. How many had he shot down so far? And how much further was his range? He had a sinking feeling about the competition, but also wanted to get an estimate of just how far Crosshare could shoot. He would listen to the shots until they stopped, guessing at just how far the birds had flown by the time he stopped.

Soon, the birds were out of reliable range and Crosshare lowered his Electron Rifle, propping the warm barrel against his shoulder. He gave a sigh of satisfaction. Some good target practice always eased the nerves.

Storing the weapon away, Crosshare shifted into Beast Mode and stretched his new front legs ahead of himself. "Well, that's all for us I suppose. Let's go gather up the bodies and see who won." With a brief nod, Crosshare leaped from the roof and dashed across the field to gather the bodies of the birds.

It took about two mega-cycles to find all the tiny, broken corpses. But when all was said and done, Streak had a pile of nineteen birds and Crosshare had three neat rows of ten birds.

Streak frowned, before hissing derisively. "Of course I accept a shooting challenge from a sniper," he muttered, just loudly enough for the rabbit to hear him. "So, what was it, lunch for a week? Slag. Next time, I'm choosing the contest."

Once more that freakishly large grin appeared on Crosshare's face. "Right you are Stickbug. Don't feel to bad, I actually aim when I shoot. You see, aiming is when you line up the sights on your gun with the target for a more successful kill. You should try it some time."

The drying blood on his artificial fur was starting to make him itch uncomfortably but not something that couldn't be remedied with a hot shower. Alas, his glee at victory was drowned at the sight of his new found ally's rather disagreeable mood. Crosshare sighed in defeat. "Tell you what Stickbug, I'll get rid of the bodies and maybe help you out with your accuracy sometime, okay?" He produced his Plasma Blaster from a third compartment on his hip. With casual interest he tossed a bird over the side of the ship and shot it once. The blast of ionized gas made the fragile body vanish in a flash of flame and smoke. Not that effective against stronger mechs… but for getting rid of garbage, it did the job fine. Figuring it would be a bit boring with a single target, Crosshare picked up two this time and tossed them simultaneously and shot them both with ease. Still boring, but quicker than one bird at a time.

In the end, for all things considered, Crosshare had won himself a nice prize and found a compatriot of sorts in Streak. Not a friend, but an ally, a kindred spirit in the way of the gun. It could have been a lot worse really.

Chapter 3

Streak had been forced to go to the CR chamber after his spar with his "fellow" security 'bot, Sandclaw. She had damaged his wings, his audios, and most importantly, his pride. After getting out, he transformed to dragonfly mode, and set off into the sky, to catch the wind and escape the mockery of the Maximals who hated him. Hated him for being better than them! That was all it was. That was all. But was he? He had been bested at a time when he had been intent on mangling his opponent. She had held back more than he had, and still won. He had been humiliated, and now they would all use it as an excuse to disrespect him, to say that he was all talk and nothing more. He would have none of it.

He would demand to be let into the Wingblades. Diomedes would try to shut him down, but he would demand it! He had more maneuverability and more fire power than any of them! It was a travesty to refuse him membership!

When he finally found the airspace where they were practicing maneuvers, he flew in to give them a buzz. The great albatross was there in the center of the formation, flanked on either side by his eleven Wingblades; a seagull, a golden eagle, a falcon, a mallard, a red-tailed hawk, a condor, a vulture, a pelican, a crane, a barn owl, and a scissortail. They were in the midst of training, and the dragonfly flew hard to keep up with them, hoping to get the leader's attention. The falcon and the hawk, on the extreme ends of the formation, noticed him first, and alerted their leader. It only took a few moments before the twelve of them had transformed and were hovering in place, regarding Streak harshly.

"What do you want, Streak?" Diomedes inquired loudly over the obnoxious roar of his wings.

"I want to join your team. They don't know how to use a flyer in the Security Force. The Wingblades do. You know how to command a flying squad. I'm wasted there, when I could be an asset to you."

"No."

Streak bristled with indignation at the immediate refusal. He was about to argue when Diomedes continued.

"The other Maximals might shy away from this, but I don't take mercy on Predacons." The great albatross kept his composure while he proceeded with his dress-down. "Predacons lack morality. In the event that one of them ceases to be a Predacon, then he lacks loyalty. Both are necessary traits to being a Maximal, in my opinion." The movement of Streak's wings sped up. His irritation could be felt, despite the lack of emotion on his insectoid face. "Not everyone feels this way, but I do, and I won't trust the lives of my men to a Predacon or a traitor. The Wingblades isn't just a club for fighters. It's an elite team, held together by common principles and backgrounds. You don't make the cut, Streak. You should get back to the ground, where you belong."

Streak transformed in an instant, and had his bladed staff in hand as he charged the leader of the Wingblades. He was fast, as fast as anyone else here, he was sure. None of them moved to bar his way. Diomedes dodged the thrust, and grabbed the weapon shaft, pulling Streak over. An elbow smashed into the dragonfly's face, and a moment later, the point of that elbow drove into the back of his neck. Crying out, he flew downward, and felt his weapon jerked from his hand, the blade at the opposite end sliding through his fingers, cutting gouges in his hand. His remaining two wings beat madly to stop his fall, until the albatross drove the heel of his foot into Streak's back, causing his wings to spasm for a moment, and for him to plummet down.

Streak waited to fall a fair distance before trying to right himself again, certain that further abuse would be forthcoming if he did anything but let the fall happen. Now, looking up, he saw the dots that were the Wingblades all looking down at him from over a hundred feet up, laughing he had no doubt. The dot that was Diomedes dropped something...his staff. He didn't have the agility to catch it with only two wings. He watched numbly as it fell to the ground, and he descended to go retrieve it. When he finally made it to the ground, and looked back into the air, the twelve of them were gone.

Moonhunter had to admit, he wasn’t a very imaginative commander when he was dealing with fliers. Not only was three dimensional fighting not his strong suite, he hated having to deal with the egos. Fliers just had a natural propensity to be egotistical. He didn’t know exactly why that was, but he did have a mental image of hot air being caught in their helmets while in flight and never really escaping. Unrealistic, but personally amusing. They weren’t all like that, he knew… but flying did seem to go to one’s head.

As he departed the Zeta-2 after a routine inspection, he looked up into the sky and snorted. Yep, those flyboys were still at it. Something was different though. He stopped in his tracks and zoomed in, barely making out Streak fighting with them. "Oh for the love of…" he muttered. He never knew which deity to refer to any more.

He wasn’t really surprised when he saw Streak begin his plummet to the ground. Moonhunter shifted into his lycanthropic form and took off into the jungle, jaunting on all fours to where he could best calculate where his subordinate officer would land. He could hear the crack of Streak falling through tree branches a few meters to his right, and calmly walked the rest of the way. "Can’t keep out of trouble, can you?" he asked, putting his hands on his hips. But there was an unusual lack of sharpness to his voice, almost a hint of concern. In fact Moonhunter was slightly disappointed Streak hadn’t managed to put those fly guys in their place.

With his wings damaged, Streak lacked the control to effectively navigate away from the canopy. Breaking down through it was a tricky process, and when he finally cleared it, keeping his eyes on where his staff had dropped, he snapped to attention at the sound of Moonhunter's voice. What? He saw? His anger flared.

"Stay out of my way, Moonhunter," he snapped, turning his eyes away. He didn't want to look in the officer's face right now. He had tried to switch over to the Wingblades before. He was sure the wolf would see it as running away, or something similarly stupid. That wasn't it! It had nothing to do with Sandclaw...he was just tired of their nonsense. He needed real fliers to train with. He was wasted on the ground! "I'm not on duty!" He began trudging doggedly through the underbrush, seeking out his fallen wings.

"Everyone knows I should be up there," he muttered bitterly, making sure it was loud enough for Moonhunter to overhear. "That idiot just doesn't know how to do his job, it's the only reason we're stuck together. Talk him down, solve both our problems."

Streak’s words bordered on insubordination. He had to know it, but Moonhunter knew better than to call him on it. Even if he did bitch a lot, he did his job, and that was all the constable ever asked from anybody. Besides, respect could not be forced, and he was not the kind of commander to use the rulebooks to try to force respect. In fact he hated those types just as much as everyone else.

"I wasn’t going to get on your case, if that’s what you were expecting," Moonhunter said, though he literally did avoid Streak’s path as the flier rummaged around for his missing wings. Though he did volunteer helpfully, "I think I heard your weapon fall a few clicks to your left."

Streak marched sullenly toward the left, wordlessly searching for his fallen weapon. He could bicker with Moonhunter once he found it. It took him a few minutes, but eventually he found it sticking up from the earth next to a tree. Wrenching it out, he began wiping the dirt away from it.

Moonhunter had to ask, "Mind telling me why you wanna join those elitist aftholes anyway? Whatever they did in the war, they’re not much more than circus clowns with wings these days." He treated Diomedes as a fellow professional but he made no secret that he disapproved of the actions of some of the mechs in his team. Often he had had to brig three or four of them over nights for inebriated misconduct. And he secretly enjoyed doing it. They were worse than trouble-makers, they were trouble-makers with superiority complexes.

"Yeah, their civilian act is stupid: they're just showboating." The dirt was sliding from the grooves where the wing had folded into the spear-head, but after a moment he decided he knew a faster way, and manipulated the weapon deftly in his hands, inducing one side to unfold into a full wing, the flat surface of which was much easier to clean.

"Even so. They fly. You don't. And the only reason they don't do anything now is because the Predacons haven't made a move on us, yet." He made a circular motion with his hand, indicating the territory all around them. "If that happens, they'll be the only force we have fast enough to quickly react to an attack from any direction, the only team that can be assigned to defend a broad swathe of territory. If a fight with the Predacons breaks out, they could be the key to victory. Or if the Predacons have a similar team, then they could be the only thing stopping us from falling." Finally satisfied, he replaced the weapon onto his back, in the form of two functional wings.

"I know you don't like flight, Moonhunter, but something to understand about that kind of mobility: we can attack anywhere, and we can defend anywhere. If there are four places to defend, one group of flyers can function as a quick-response team and fly out to any beleaguered position with full force. If there are four places to attack, the defenders need four times the number of flyers to adequately compensate for the one team that can simply choose to hit any position without warning." He said this matter-of-factly, though his voice wasn't prideful, more to the point.

"Never said I don’t like flight," Moonhunter said to clarify. He just didn’t like doing it himself anywhere there was gravity. Yes, the big, brave former bounty hunter and leader of Colony Zeta’s security force had a fear of heights. He hadn’t lost all his human foibles, after all. He was still a decent pilot out in space, and had survived more than one dogfight. In fact, he rather enjoyed those. Facing probable death and weaving a starhopper through energy beams never made him feel more alive. "It’s just not my specialty."

Moonhunter wondered if Streak's anticipation of a Predacon attack was a result of his drilling that mindset into his troops, or if it was a result of Streak’s insight into Predacon mentality. Streak put the "ass" in "asset," but he was still an asset, a scope into the enemy. Moonhunter was just beginning to realize that and he was sorry he had not thought of it earlier. Streak had proved himself many times over, but Moonhunter was still slow to trust him. And not because of his former allegiance; Moonhunter hardly trusted anybody. The lycanthrope crossed his arms, scowling somewhat. "You don’t need to talk down to me. I’m commander of security specifically because of my understanding and experience with tactics, not because of my winning personality."

He knew that at one point Diodemes had been considered for the job, before Moonhunter signed up. "And because I’m Diodemedes' superior officer as well, I’m making the specific choice to keep you on my team not his little club. I want a flier who’s more concerned with his job than looking good for the ladies." Yes, Moonhunter was making a complement. Someone call Guiness.

"Great," Streak snapped back, blowing off the complement. The reference to ladies reminded him of that fragger, Sandclaw. He wanted to rip her more for beating him. He had scarred her, had messed her up badly, but in the end she had humiliated him. An unforgivable crime. Moonhunter had, too, but enough people lost to him that they couldn't get on Streak too badly for it. Nonetheless, he hadn't forgiven himself for losing to the wolf and more so the femme.

"No promises I won't cut Sandclaw's spark out, then. I'll take her down in the spar next time, and cut her even deeper. And given time, I'll be better than you, too. You've just been doing this longer than me, that's why you're the commander and I'm not: you've reached your peak. I'll reach mine." He knew that Moonhunter was trying to be friendly with him, but he had suffered grievous injury to his pride, twice now in a single day. He didn't appreciate sympathy on most days, and today he despised it. To indulge in it would be to accept his weaknesses, however temporarily. He had always gotten better by hardening himself to his environment. He would do it here. If he let this mech commiserate with him, he would get softer. What he needed was more edge. Moonhunter was one of the obstacles in his way toward being the best. Streak would not be weakened by him.

He looked off toward the colony, thinking about training...possibly in his room, where no one could see how much he was putting into it, how much it mattered to him. Yes, his body was inferior to those of his opponents, but he would get past that, and be the best around, by sheer force of will alone. No one was better than he was; he just needed to work hard enough to get over his own design obstacles.

"Just you wait," he growled low.

Chapter 4

Then…

Streak sat lightly onto the ground, kicking a stone on his way down. He wanted to be training to take down Sandclaw or Diomedes, but instead he was stuck here, thirty meters below ground, babysitting a mining team that had decided they needed to dig close to the Predacon territorial line. He wasn't alone; the bull Maximal, Taurius, was with him. To Streak's annoyance, Taurius was impossible to get a rise out of… contrary to the stereotypical fury associated with his beast form, the Maximal was very level-headed and never took the bait for a good argument. Plus, he was big, strong, moderately skillful, and reputedly courageous. He was nobody's favorite, but the bull had no enemies. Conversely, Streak had been noticing the miners whispering when they thought he wasn't looking. He had plenty of enemies, or at least Maximals who would like to see him get "put in his place." This perceived hostility had set him on edge, and he'd been jeering at the miners all morning.

"So, I ran into that little slag, Shift the other day," the miners tensed. "Ah, so you've heard of my little buddy, Shift, have you? The blind one? Couldn't see someone twice his height half his length in front of him. Ran himself right into me, then tried to apologize for it. Well, I'll tell you, I laid into him..." The diggers were becoming irritated. Of course they'd worked with him before...they had to have. They might even be friends with him. Streak didn't know, nor care. They'd heard this story already, probably...it was why they laughed about his loss to that stupid femme. Well, he'd just twist the knife a little more. They weren't tough or brave enough to say anything back--

"Shut up!" one of them managed, before the other grabbed his shoulder. Streak wasn't the strongest fighter on the Security Force, but he was probably the most likely to accept a fight with a civilian. The dragonfly had flown to his feet at the first sign of the miner's aggression. Taurius had been keeping quiet, but his hand was resting on the pommel of his massive blaster.

"Let him come!" cried Streak, his small black eyes alight with thirst for retribution. Anyone who made fun of him for what happened...well, they'd pay. He'd make sure everyone knew it, too. The miner looked to his friend who had held him back, who returned a mischievous smile that Streak didn't quite understand. That was when the second one spoke for the first time.

"I have a better idea." With that, the laser drill in his hand fired upward, cleanly slicing the base of a stalactite that hung from the ceiling above Streak's head. The crystal was unlikely to cause serious damage, but it would hurt. Streak perceived the threat a split-second before he stupidly looked up to see what it was. Diving to the side, he narrowly moved his head out of the plummeting dagger's path. It penetrated his broad shoulder pad, piercing the armor and circuitry a half-inch deep. Incensed, the blue dragonfly ripped it out and reached for his gun. Taurius was there a moment later to restrain him. The miners laughed while the bull held back the insect. That was the end of round one. Unfortunately...something unexpected would occur during round two.

Now…

Moonhunter did not like surprises. He had always known suspected that Streak would be a recipe for disaster: a Predacon living amongst Maximals, combined with an abrasive nature (Or did that go without saying after the "Predacon" part?), and the fact that they were all stuck together. Maximals were far from perfect beings themselves, but even worse, many could be self-righteous as if they were anyway - Moonhunter knew that from personal experience. Shift, Sandclaw, the Wingblades, even the Predacon's commander, Bane – Streak had gotten into scrapes with them all since coming to this planet. He had tried to treat Streak with respect himself, but it was only a matter of time before someone pushed someone else too far. Moonhunter prayed to whatever deity was up there that Streak had not gone too far.

He had assembled a team as hastily as he could, bringing three other members of the security force with him. He had no idea what was going on, but he knew that something was very, very wrong and he wanted to be prepared. If there was anything to be sure of on this planet, it was that one could not be sure of anything. Taurius was most likely down, as he was no longer responding to Moonhunter’s comms. As he lead the team through the jungle as quickly as possible, he reviewed the final transmission over and over in his head, trying to get any clue, anything at all that would give him some idea of what was going on.

"Moonhunter! Come in Moonhunter!" Taurius had bellowed over the airwaves. There was no sound of digging in the background, nor the voices of any miners having stopped work. There had been four miners in all...any accident would have them exclaiming after a fallen comrade. Something else was wrong. "I need reinforcements at the dig site. Streak has attacked the mining team. I attempted to intervene, but was unable to help them," his words came in pained gasps, like he was experiencing a temporary reprieve from hard--or desperate--work. "I repeat, I need reinforcements. By Primus, he's fast...the team is dead. I am trying to keep him in the cave, to keep him occupied. I hope-" He was then cut off. The video input spun madly, before blacking out. The audio remained functional for a few seconds longer, but nothing more telling than the sounds of scuffle and grinding metal could be heard.

The excavation site was a mess. Equipment was knocked over, a small device was on fire; the land was pitted with scorch marks left behind by energy weapons. The only sign of the team was someone’s arm, twisted and detached from its owner’s body. As soon as they came into the clearing Moonhunter transformed and ordered everyone to have their weapons ready. Carefully, he inched his way to the mouth of the cave and shone his light in, piercing the ominous blackness. Redtop inched into the other side of the cave mouth, making sure both sides were covered. Moonhunter drew the gun from his right leg and aimed into the darkness. "STREAK!" he called out into the cave as loudly as he could. He wanted to give his officer one chance to explain himself rather than charge in shooting. They owed him that much. "IF YOU’RE IN THERE, COME OUT NOW. SLOWLY."

Then…

It had happened quickly. He had been sitting on the rock, being watched by Taurius while he stewed, when he began to feel very different. Something inside him seemed to wake up, and a new self-awareness and curiosity blossomed from his mind. His attention turned inward, he lost sight of the miners who had shamed him; quite a feat for someone of his temperament. He studied his hands, clenching his fist and spreading his fingers. An odd sensation had taken him, like he was studying it from the inside as well as out. He felt a fierce intelligence light within him, and he stared at the hand, cross-referencing what he could see with a library of structural information Streak had not been aware that he knew. He gauged the limits of its endostructure, the strength it could wield before breaking, and began contemplating improvements. These thoughts flowed too quickly for him to wonder why he was having them. Next had come a consideration about the exostructure of the hand, its resistance to external damage, and how to enhance the performance of the outer material as well. This internal diagnostic raced through his mind as Streak sat stock-still on the rock. His fascination grew, as did his determination. This hand wasn't good enough. It had been beaten by Sandclaw. It had been beaten my Moonhunter. It could be beaten by a million other Maximals. It needed to be made better. He considered his arms and legs, his lightly-armored torso, even the wings behind his back that he couldn't see. Everything was suboptimal! He could make the changes himself! After a short time, a great feeling of satisfaction came over him. He stood up, and Taurius tensed.

"You're going to pay for my shoulder, miner." The miners, tired of his attitude, all held their equipment at the ready. Taurius quickly disarmed him, unclipping his gun from his belt. Streak sneered. Like a rabid wolf to the miners' sheep, he had dove amidst the technicians, and Taurius tried to go in after him. It wasn't until the first scream that the bull became truly worried. They started running, all of them but the bull, but it was too late for the two who had argued with him. They were dead. The massive Taurius pulled the dragonfly back by his shoulder, but found himself face first in the dirt. The miners had been heading for the mouth of the cave. One of them almost made it before Streak disassembled him.

Now…

The dragonfly sat down on the same stone from before, studying his hand again. What was this sensation? What was this new thing? How was it that he had been able to do these incredible, terrible things? He would be in awful trouble...Taurius had been talking into his comm before Streak found him, everyone would know what he had done. Nonetheless, he couldn't find it in himself to be unhappy. He was so strong! His loss to Sandclaw...it must have done something. Some rogue program in him, that must be what it was. What else could cause such a colossal shift in strength in just a few minutes? Had he been programmed for greatness from the beginning? Had this been a time-delayed process? He didn't know where this new strength had come from, all he knew was that he had inadvertently killed the first two, and by that time he was so taken with the power that he did not want to stop fighting. Unarmed, he had dispatched them all. The miners hadn't really been much, but Taurius had been. Nonetheless, he had not meant to completely twist his head off. This power...it was the best thing Streak had ever experienced, and it was going to land him in the brig for the rest of his life, at best! It was just as the Maximal resolved that he couldn't turn himself in that he heard his commander's call down the mining shaft.

"That's a negative," he called back loudly to Moonhunter's voice. So, it was too late to just run, either. His "boss" undoubtedly had the mouth of the tunnel blockaded. Had he thought a little faster, he might have just clammed up and waited for a chance to escape...they might have missed him. "Something weird is going on, Moonhunter. They drew weapons on me first, it wasn't supposed to go this far. None of the weapon fire was from me." He didn't know how far that would take him. Had Taurius told them the nature of the slaughter? If they believed he hadn't fired a weapon, they might not try to lock him up immediately. After all, he looked the same. With the weak body they were used to, it was inconceivable that he could do so much damage without his weapon. "I'm not coming out until we work something out."

Moonhunter had a dozen questions. As Streak revealed his presence within the cave, one of those questions was answered. But his words brought about even more questions. The constable swore. There was no way Streak could have done all this. He was a decent fighter, but his lithe frame held him back. The miners he could have killed, yes, but not so brutally. Taurius? Only on a good day, under the best of conditions. And judging by the lack of any sign of the burly Maximal, those conditions had been exceeded beyond anyone’s’ expectation.

Obviously, he could not charge in guns blazing. He never lead his men into a potential deathtrap. And Streak was still one of this own men… in theory. He wanted a deal? Moonhunter would see what he wanted, but he was not in a position to be very trusting. There was no way he could have seen this coming, but now any future deaths at Streak’s hands would be on his head. "All right," he finally decided. "Why don’t you just explain to me exactly what happened while you stay in that tunnel down there?"

He looked back, nodding to his men to charge their weapons. He would avoid shooting if at all possible, but if Streak came blazing out, he would not allow them to be sheep for the slaughter. And if Streak did come out weapons drawn, well… they had all dispatched Predacons before. Personal relationship or not, they would not hesitate to defend themselves and Colony Zeta.

Streak sighed. They were just talking for now. Nonetheless, he was still in trouble. This would take a lot of explaining. How did one simply say they hadn't known their own strength? He hadn't been powerful enough to do these things before today, so he hadn't known how far it would go once he started brawling. Nonetheless, that wasn't enough of an explanation for why he hadn't stopped after the first deaths. The truth of it...the truth was...he hadn't wanted to. He'd disliked the miners, and he'd disliked Taurius for holding him back before. But more than either of those things, he had loved being so strong, and had wanted to see the limits of his new strength. He hadn't consciously decided to kill them all, but he'd let his better judgment waver while he tested his power. It was strange. No matter how much trouble he was in, he couldn't see these new developments as a bad thing. The thrill of these new, miraculously extended boundaries overshadowed any mundane punishment he might receive. Even being kicked from the Maximals might be alright in exchange for this power.

Meanwhile, the cardinal-Maximal Redtop had activated his specialized night-vision optic. He had been doing his best to make out the shapes within the darkness. It wasn't until the pacing, contemplating Streak kicked an irregular piece of debris out of his path that the Maximal was able to tell what it was. Taurius's bot-mode head, crushed on the sides as if by some immense strength. Wires and twisted metal hung grotesquely from the bottom of its neck. His repulsed gasp followed, and he informed his commander. Whatever was in there...it wasn't Streak.

Some seventh sense went off within the dragonfly's mind. His eyes immediately locked onto the head of his patrol partner, and followed the line of sight between it and Redtop at the mouth of the tunnel. Streak couldn't see in the dark, at least not before now...today he could see perfectly. Further, he could see that the weapon in the Security guard's hands was fully charged, and was leveled at his chest. All it would take was Moonhunter's say-so, and Redtop would open fire. Something inside of Streak's mind railed at the thought. That familiar anger, the indignation of being betrayed by the people he had sacrificed his home to join, and something new, a fervent and desperate need to preserve his new, perfect body. The wings unfolded from his back, and the cave exploded with air, funneling the noise and the wind their way. The blue streak launched out of the tunnel in exactly one second. Not enough time to issue the order to fire, not enough time for the cardinal to respond.

Redtop's chest armor caved against the charging knee of the flyer. He had no time to respond whatever, how could it have happened so fast? His optics were just widening with realization as the follow-up strike caught him beneath the chin. Flying upward, he wondered why he had taken off--he wasn't in beast-mode--but this was cut short as the earth came back into view and came rushing back up at him.

The dragonfly turned on his heel. Speed was everything - everyone was so slow by comparison! Streak couldn't get enough! His foot lashed out, striking the weapon of the next Maximal – Moonhunter - out of his hand. He jumped, an action carrying him well over the head of his superior officer, almost to the ceiling of the enclosure, and then his wings sprang to life again, powering his descent to bring him like a missile, feet-first into the Maximal on the commander's left, leveling him. From this, he stepped forward and turned, facing his superior from a position a little beyond the third victim. Streak had that all-too-familiar sneer was on his face. Amazing! If only he had discovered this hidden program, this buried strength, earlier!

Sometimes Moonhunter’s own cold-heartedness astounded him. Later on, if he survived this, he would remark at his lack of emotion upon seeing Taurius’s lifeless head. He hadn’t known the Maximal long, but he had trained with him, taken the time to hone a few close-combat moves. He should have been more upset at the realization that he was dead. But Moonhunter had seen so much death in his life that it had lost its impact. It was no less tragic to him, otherwise he would not have dedicated his life to preventing it as much as he could, but it stimulated zero emotional response. Even out here, away from the battle zone, where he had come to regain a grasp on his humanity.

And yet, he was once again forced into combat—this time against one of his own, of all beings. He just couldn’t catch a break. But whatever Streak was now, he was certainly no longer one of Moonhunter’s men. Before he could even give Redtop an order, a blur shot out of the cave and suddenly, there was a gaping crater in the red Maximal’s chest, crushing his spark casing inside. One of the worst thing about traitors was that they knew where and how to hit you. They could be even more lethal than a lifelong enemy.

He and his remaining men fired a few shots but nothing came close to hitting Streak. Before he could realize what was happening, his weapon was knocked out of his hand—and his hand almost went along with it. Then the Maximal closest to him was in the ground, with Streak on top of him. Finally he was standing still long enough to fire off a shot, but no one dared take a shot for fear of hitting their commander. Sensing a momentary reprieve, he held up his hand in an order for them to halt but stand ready. Their weapons remained leveled at Streak but no one fired a shot. Moonhunter’s hand moved down to his hip, where his second pistol remained holstered. "So this is how it’s going to be, Streak?" he asked, scowling at the traitor. "After all your talk about not wanting to kill innocents, you’re still just a Predacon thug deep down."

"What!?" Streak's outrage was clear in his voice. Something else was there, too. Something held that outrage in check. He knew that his position was difficult to defend. He had killed Taurius, and those miners. He looked down at Redtop. He was dead, as well. Yeah...he'd killed everyone he'd fought except the Maximal he was standing on right now. But he didn't want to stop. This strength, it was so excellent, so pure. He'd been a fringe fighter for so long, relying on speed and agility...it was so fantastic to have the raw strength to do his fighting up-close and without concern. To go forward instead of run back.

"He was going to put a round in me! You were about to tell him to." His voice took on a dangerous tone, a voice that might come from a hungry, angry serpent in some myth. "Thug? How many times did I hold back for your stupid human pets? How many times did I let that idiot Dean pretend he was as strong or as fast as me? How many times was I humiliated sparring against you or the other goons in your squad because my primary weapon is inordinately lethal?" His eyes widened with his frustration and anger. "No, Moonhunter, this is exactly the way it's always been: me with the power to kill anyone, but holding back because you told me to. Some new program activated inside of me when the miners damaged me," he pointed at the puncture in his shoulder. It seemed smaller to him, somehow. "And it gave me strength I wasn't used to. They were killed accidentally. Your man there I killed in self-defense." He stepped off of the bot beneath him, and then as if in afterthought, surveying all of the guns trained on him, all of the fearful or hateful eyes of the other Maximals, he placed his foot on the fallen Maximal's back.

"You think I'm a Predacon thug, well...how about we exercise some of your Maximal honor, then? I can be sporting, even if you intended to kill me. This new power of mine is impressive, I think I'd even be a match for Optimus Unus, or even Bane, as I am now. I'm sure I could chew through a few more of my old Security buddies before you take me down, not to mention the one I'm standing on now."

He sneered, but the expression was empty. His optics betrayed his wariness. "But, I have an idea. I challenge you to single combat. You have your martial arts you're so proud of, and you can hold your own against nasty Predacons a lot better than these subordinates, right? You've beaten me enough times," he added the last part bitterly. "If you can show your superiority over me just one more time, I'll come quietly, you can do what you want with me. I'm physically stronger now, but it was so easy for you before, surely that won't matter? If you fail, you call off your men and let me go." He was worried about killing his superior. Could he avoid repeating his action against Redtop? If he could, did that mean the previous deaths had been on purpose?

The constable sneered as he listened to Streak’s rant, so weakly trying to justify his actions. So the miners had tried to attack him? He had probably done something to piss them off, but that didn’t justify their taking action against him. Even more unjustifiable, though, was murdering them. Streak was a warrior, they were not. He could have disabled them without killing them - Moonhunter had spent plenty of time training his troops how to do just that. He noted that Streak didn’t even try to justify killing Taurius. He had not yet decided whether to allow Redtop to take the shot before Streak jumped them, but at this point he doubted that the rogue would believe him. "Oh for once, come off your high horse, Streak. You were designed to carry lethal weapons, we all know that. Matrix knows we never stopped hearing about it. But it was never you doing the killing in battle, was it? It was the bombs. Those things you carry were never any mark of your warrior’s skills."

As was habitual, Moonhunter weighed the pros and cons of Streak’s challenge. The twofold-turncoat had dismantled the minors and Taurius easily. But he'd had the element of surprise then. Moonhunter still did not know the extent or the source of Streak’s new power, but he was prepared for a foe that was stronger than him now. If he could defeat Streak and bring him in quietly, he could not pass up that chance and have even more deaths on his head. And Streak had challenged his honor. Call him old-fashioned, but he had to answer that. Speaking of Unus, Moonhunter found himself wishing for him… but as usual, the colony's inept commander was nowhere to be found.

His hand moved away from his pistol, instead drawing his laser sword from its storage in his back compartment and activating it. The jade blade materialized angrily into existence once again. "Very well," Moonhunter said, posing for battle. He ordered his men to move back, to give them room. "But before we start know this, I’m giving you one more chance. If you surrender now, quietly, and allow us to figure out what has changed in you, I promise you a fair trial. If you go down this path, Streak, you will never be welcome back. You’ll be a fugitive, and I doubt even the Predacons would want you back after your little ‘thing’ with Bane."

Streak did the equivalent of a human grinding its teeth as Moonhunter talked down to him. So his missiles had done his killing for him. It wasn't his fault he was designed that way! He had considered his missiles as he had considered the rest of his body...no changes. They were perfect for what they were designed to do, the only part of him that was. Even his new self-improvement program, or whatever it was, could find no fault with their lethality. His superior had beaten him, and it was because of superior programming, superior structure...programming and structure he didn't need, because all he was, was a carrier for a perfect weapon. None of that... none of it had to be true anymore, however.

"You idiot," he growled, his fingers twitching after his weapon for a moment, before changing his mind and leaving his wings on his back. He would test this new strength on its own, without his weapon. "Like that's some deal?" He lowered his center of the ground, his stance became wider, as one leg slid behind the other, bracing against the cavern floor. "I was never welcome in the first place."

He launched himself at his superior. His speed was even greater than before, faster than any Maximal or Predacon he had ever met on the battlefield. Moonhunter's reactions were fast, fast enough to raise his blade into a defensive position before Streak slammed into him. The sword crackled viciously along his forearm, and the pain was exquisite. But something in him was furious. Something in him was burgeoning with all of his hatred and fury, and there was plenty to spare. Pain... he could work through pain.

Moonhunter flew backward among his subordinates. His sword remained, however, screaming against the metal of the dragonfly's hand. Streak bit down against his own cry of pain, against the sensation of burning misery in his digits, against the remembered laughter of those he'd killed to join. He wrenched the sword from the tumbling Maximal's grasp, taking it blade first. He cast the blade back into the cave. His superior was rising from the ground, the impact had been brutal, but he was tough and skillful; something he had to respect. Nonetheless, he had a duel to win. A split second after Moonhunter found his footing, the dragonfly had closed the distance between them. Two powerful hands grabbed the commander by the shoulders as a knee, driven by impossible forces, plowed up through the wolf's head on his chest. Heedless of the massive extent of injury he had inflicted, Streak planted his feet and forcibly threw his commander backward into the cave. He bounced once, and then rolled.

The dragonfly leaped high through the air, his right fist upraised to complete the arc with a devastating hammer motion. The damage Moonhunter managed to avoid the overly dramatic attack. The stone beneath his right shoulder powderized with a crash that temporarily overloaded the audios. The blue dragonfly grabbed him just as he rolled to his feet, however, and lifted him one-handed off his feet. The grip began to tighten, and then - didn't stop tightening. The shoulder Streak had grabbed whined against the pressure, before the alloy warped and crunched. The dragonfly cast his commander like a rag-doll to the rocks, near his sword.

"I told you, didn't I? I just hadn't reached my peak. Now I'm there, Moonhunter, and you're no match for me. Sure, I can admit I was weaker than you. But now, that time is over. That time is over for a lot of people." He walked slowly toward the commander who - despite everything - didn't appear to be down for good yet. "What do you say now!?"

Streak and Moonhunter had one thing in common: they did not originally begin life as Maximals. And how they dealt with their origins was what differed so greatly between them. In one respect, he was braver than Moonhunter. Streak wore his original alliance on his sleeve, rubbing everyone’s noses in it. Moonhunter hid the fact that he was different, buried it and changed identities so many times that only a few knew who he was today. He understood what it was to be an outcast—and Primus knew, he had tried to be accepting of the former Predacon. But he himself had taken the coward’s way out for the sake of convenience. Unlike Streak, he wasn’t a member of any minority group with other members who he could turn to for support. He was singular.

And he was on the verge of being a minority of none if Streak kept up this beating. For a moment, Moonhunter honestly thought he had a chance… but only for a moment. The dragonfly was too fast, too strong. Moonhunter was not afraid to die, but he did not want his death to be so meaningless. Destroyed by one of his own officers on a power kick, that was not the way he wanted to go out. Like he had any say in the matter, but he was not willing to concede just yet. As Streak tossed him yet again into a rock outcropping, Moonhunter stood up defiantly, picking up his sword symbolically more than for any other reason. His flesh was tattered and torn, revealing joints that whined in protest because they were deprived of the mech fluid that was bleeding out.

"I say you’re a fool," he answered, actually managing a spiteful laugh. "All that power, Streak, and you don’t know what to do with it. Instead of wielding it, you allow it to wield you. So what do you do? You go and slaughter some dumb miners who were always beneath you to begin with. And then you murder your own partner for trying to stop you, for trying to do what you did when you killed your Predacon compatriots to join us. What next? You kill me? And then what? You do what any Predacon would do? Conquer and kill, and kill and kill, just because you can? Just because you have the power, doesn’t mean you’re worthy to wield it, Streak." He knew, he was speaking from his own personal experience. When he had first wielded the seeming-infinite power of an Autobot body, he had almost let the power go to his head. But in his first battle against a Decepticon on more even terms, he had been defeated. He had been humbled. Streak lacked even the purpose that drove Moonhunter to learn and grow, to deserve the power he now wielded.

"I don't intend to kill you," he replied quickly, cutting into Moonhunter's rhetoric almost before it was done. "But it sure would help if you'd stay down." He was clearly upset, but as always, that came with an edge of violence...Streak acted on his emotions. He was currently trying to keep himself from actually doing as Moonhunter said. This strength was so much more than he was used to.

"I didn't intend to kill them either...I'm just not used to this yet. I'm not about to give you the opportunity to take away something I've wanted for so long. Those bots have to be avenged, or at least their killer chained down, to your sensibilities. I may not know what to do with this power yet, but I'm not about to let you lock it away forever before I figure that out." With that, he rushed the wolf-Maximal, but now that his superior expected his speed, he was quicker to center the blade. Streak jumped over his opponent entirely, landing on the other side, not quickly enough to stop Moonhunter from rounding on him though.

Nothing to be done for it. He came in slower, avoiding impalement on the laser sword. He blocked it with his forearm twice, and the blade bit down, damaging the circuits, but not nearly as much as they should have. The pain was enough to slow him down, enough to grant Moonhunter a third strike at his torso before he caught the mech's wrist, and wrenched it to the side with his right hand. His left, he slammed into Moonhunter's elbow, which--with a metallic shriek--gave way. He planted a straight-kick into his leader's side, sending the heavier but now more fragile Maximal skidding across the stone floor.

"And worthy? What do you know about that? I've suffered and worked for this. I've gone into the thick of battle and had my light-weight chassis punched full of holes. I've paid my dues, whether you think so or not. Now stay down, you stupid slag, you've clearly lost." I don't want to kill you, he thought urgently. He didn't let this feeling show on his face, however.

Moonhunter hadn’t really expected his words to have impact on Streak. There was no stopping a fool when they were hell-bent on a course of action, especially when they were drunk with power and thought themselves indestructible. Although the way things were going, Streak was probably on his way to becoming just that. Maybe it was just his imagination, but the dragonfly already seemed faster then when this fight had begun. He got a few blows in, but nothing effective enough, and not enough to stop Streak from removing his arm with one hand. What impressed him the most was how easily Streak had done it. Moonhunter had lost limbs many times over the vorns, but not to someone this small before.

And then he was back on his skit-plate on the ground. He just couldn’t stay on his feet this time, despite his vigilant efforts. But he wasn’t going to bow before Streak. It was a matter of principal – more than the whole "rather die on my feet" axiom. He wasn’t about to feed this upstart’s ego, wasn’t going to catalyze his lust for power. Shakily, Moonhunter stood back up, barely maintaining his balance. This wasn’t supposed to be a fight to the death, but he would rather die than enable the rise of a monster. "Slag… you. …You may think… you’ve worked for this Streak… but you don’t have the… responsibility to wield such power." If he died by Streak’s hands now, he would die being proven right… and Colony Zeta would stop at nothing to end Streak before he killed anyone else.

Streak was becoming enraged. Who was his commander to judge? They all dealt in death. The high ups, with the most power, had been the ones sending droves of lesser soldiers to their deaths. Responsible? Responsible? Who was Moonhunter to tell him about responsibility? Like those more highly ranked than the two of them had been any less responsible for mass death than he was right now?

"That's not for you to deci-" Just as Streak began bellowing his retort, the other Maximals began shooting at him. Even the one he had stomped into the ground managed to pull himself up and fire his weapon. Streak had always known their honor was for show, but he'd always thought that a few of them really did believe in it. Moonhunter, for one. And as long as Moonhunter was in charge, honor would be - if loosely - upheld. But that wasn't to be. Official challenge or no, they were shooting at him now, and it hurt. He screamed, he screamed as the shots drilled into his body. He curled himself pathetically, into a smaller target, and rolled feebly across the ground. He had always been fragile. He had always been vulnerable to shots in the back, or shots at all, if he wasn't in the air. How foolish to trust them, how idiotic not to keep to his strengths and forget that they were Cybertronians, and the same deceit he found in the Predacons could be found to a lesser extent in them. It was always a matter of culture, not ability. Honor was fine, to a point. That point had been reached, and now they'd decided he wasn't worth saving. Not if Moonhunter couldn't defeat him.

Streak roared. His gears began whirring madly, and he rushed the firing line. The shots hit him, and they burned. Smoke and steam came up from the holes in his body, but through the pain, he managed to leap over their line and make it to the other side. He stumbled...he'd been damaged pretty badly...another shot came his way, then another...then he was hit. He pushed himself to keep going. As soon as he reached the mouth of the cavern, as soon as he reached the open air, he spread his wings. With an explosion of air, more impressive than any before, he took off. In a matter of seconds, he was just a dot on the horizon.

TO BE CONTINUED.