Cybertronian Events

07.Feb.09

More Cybertronian Events

Author’s note: Prepare for boredom for the first half of this chapter, but the last half is pretty much one giant skirmish (I don’t think, as an author, I could maintain any kind of sanity without including at least one fight per chapter. After all, fights are probably the main reason I like Beast Wars, hee hee hee.). Oh! And just between us… there are three references to Beast Wars International in one scene in this chapter… but they’re all about the same… concept. I don’t know how to further explain it without giving it away.

Of all the things Torcher could have complained about after getting nearly killed by a sword-swinger, why did he have to make the main theme of his babbling those guns? As a matter of fact that’s all he talked about.

“My guns are broken”, “I loved those things”,

But mainly: “He broke my guns.”

Quickrim tried to calm down his partner, even daring to suggest that the guns weren’t the important thing to worry about. He had taken extensive damage during his battle, and he should probably be resting. It was a wonder Quickrim had managed to get Torcher into a CR chamber in the first place. Even then he had started to complain about his beloved e.p.f.’s.

“He broke my guns.” He spoke again, emphasizing his words by slamming his hammer down on a bit of melted alloy which he was using in reconstruction. He had spent years with those guns and with the aid of a streak of sentimentality which he wore around his manner like a necklace, he bemoaned their loss as if he had lost his occupation. As it were, he found only one way to obtain any solace.

“He thought those guns were scrap didn’t he? Aha! I’ll show him, I’ll rebuild those things!” It was true. Even before he had gone to a CR chamber, and even before he told Quickrim it was safe to come out of the room (which Quickrim had surmised for himself after a period of relative silence), Torcher painstakingly searched the hallway for all the blasted shards of firearm he could lay his hands on (his hands were also quite blasted themselves). Having brought them to his own residence, he was now piecing what he could back into at least some resemblance of the two guns’ original frames. Unfortunately, what he could reform from the bits he had found was meager. The rest was improvised. Meanwhile, his obsession increased further.

“Yes, when I’m finished making these, that ‘bot had better duck, because if I see him again… *pfoofgh*” Torcher made a very small noise to exemplify a gunshot. It was almost comical to see such feeling poured into making such a quiet threat.

Quickrim didn’t quite feel like telling Torcher he was beginning to sound like a madman.

“Oh come on, you’ll probably never even see him again.”

But Torcher wasn’t ready to hear this. He was concentrating on his plans for the new guns he was making. A million ideas raced through his head. He needed velocity behind the bullets. At the same time he had to balance that velocity with precision so that his ammunition wouldn’t fire off target. This may have been an easy task on earth, but on Cybertron there was a reason lasers had replaced bullets in handguns. Bullets had a hard time going through Cybertronian plating, and as a result they just didn’t do enough damage. But Torcher had stuck with using bullets, if for no other reason than to say he did. Because of his stubborn pursuit of figuring out how to work with bullets, he had to constantly experiment with different methods. Still, despite all the laborious challenges which had lain before him, he became quite successful at making bullets actually work against his Cybertronian foes, and along the way, he had learned a lot of things about firearms in general. So there he sat, or rather stood, creating whatever seemed best fit to his imagination, and especially what best reminded him of his poor shattered e.p.f.’s , whose operating lives had been snuffed out far too early for his taste.

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“Why did you load your needles with venom?” he bellowed from the CR chamber, even as Torcher’s bullets were being removed from his chest.

From a neighboring chamber, a raspy voice echoed back “What’s that, I can’t quite hear you. Tee hee hee heeheeheehee.”

“You heard me perfectly well. You are a worthless, incompetent, sniveling little scientist with nothing better to do than compromise our mission.” he snarled in retort.

From outside both chambers where the hapless ‘bots were being repaired, a deep voice bellowed. “Silence both of you. There are far more important things to worry about now. Dynamo, you said the other saw you in a mirror? Surely you could have been more discrete than that.”

Unconcerned for his leader’s berating, Dynamo shot back. “Affirmative. I could have been at a different street.” At that statement, his CR chamber door opened revealing to him a robot who was rather astounded, although quite accustomed to statements of that sort from Dynamo.

“What are you insinuating about the assignment?”

Dynamo was neither ashamed nor was he any calmer, but he was perhaps a touch more diplomatic with his next response. “You have long known that despite my agreement with your goals; with your desire for Predacon justice, that I still have felt, even when dealing with maximals, that my honor should never be compromised for the security of any of your plans. You had us go to murder an already weakened ‘bot, through injection of a slow working poison? Should I even have to mention that this same robot had been weakened because we took dishonorable shots at him in a dark alley?” He snorted in contempt. “I deserve to have been poisoned after protecting a mission like that.”

The purple ‘bot emerged from his CR chamber. “I’m glad to hear the venom works.”

Dynamo snarled.

Their leader sighed. “Dynamo, I am aware you dislike the way with which I conduct my operations. But you must remember that if we are dishonorable to the maximals, they were dishonorable to us first. And furthermore, if I begin to suspect that your pitiful guilt is compromising your ability to follow my orders, I will make sure you never have to do a dishonorable thing again.”

Dynamo was fully aware of what his leader meant by this last statement, but he merely stared in response, not willing to give any conceding acknowledgement. And to speak the truth quite plainly, he didn’t really know how to react in the first place. Dynamo had long been tortured by numerous inner questions. He had been hired by his leader for the complex operation which they were now in the beginning stages of, not only because he had a long history with his leader, but also because he was a skilled, nay, hardly-matched warrior. But among the few things keener than his prowess in battle, were his strict moral code and sense of honor. Granted, his moral code was not guided by the same ideals as his maximal foes, but whatever he regarded as the correct thing to do in any situation, he did with unparalleled determination.

That having been noted, it was a very rare thing indeed that his leader had managed to get him into that hospital. But, his leader was quite effective at inspiring his meager (although quite capable) band, and perhaps in a swell of allegiance to the Predacon cause, spurred on by eloquent words, he gladly walked off to his mission. Even then there may have been a small, innocent voice stirring up from the depths of his long-built gruffness, which pleaded with him not to ensure the killing of a defenseless being, albeit a Maximal. But along the way he probably flicked the pleading voice away, as one may do to a fly, and reasoned that real honor would have been to stand up for the rights which he was now fighting for. And had the fly buzzed shrilly back into his ears, the reassuring words of his leader’s inspiration forced it back to its proper place.

Oh, but now when Dynamo had time to reexamine the situation he had put himself in, the little voice came back, and it was shouting at him! Of course, even when shouting, a little voice can still sound quite minimal, but Dynamo had bothered to stoop down and put his ear to the scolding voice. It spoke yet again of his honor, and had somehow managed to get control of Dynamo’s vocal box when he noted he was deserving of being poisoned. It probably would have mentioned the bullets too, had Dynamo not regained his composure. And so, even as his leader continued speaking of his failure and his duty to the Predacon cause, the voice continued its lecture, and in response Dynamo merely stated back to it “Affirmative, affirmative.”

It was not the first time he had encountered the voice either. Quite often, he had considered doing something in battle, and the voice would speak “No, not even he deserves that.” Of course, when dispensing mercy to Dynamo’s reasoning process, the voice was actually quite loud, since mercy seemed to be one of the largest manifestations of his honor. Sometimes, however, the voice would be so persistent, that the honor of which it spoke suggested things that, to any other predacon, would be regarded as pure insanity, plain and simple. At times when Dynamo realized how drastic some of things it asked him to do (or perhaps more often, to not do) in the name of honor were, he would point his finger and call it a Maximal’s voice. To this, the voice would only respond by dropping its jaw in shock, and Dynamo would be forced to apologize.

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“Get out!”

“I’m dead serious.”

“No!”

“Those where his exact words: ‘Tell Primal he gets to visit the stars again.’ Optimus couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Where are we going exactly?” Optimus asked. In response his old friend merely stared back at him. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yup” Chromax interjected. “We’re going to the Eggolyia division.”

The Eggolyia division! It was unquestionably the best place an explorer could venture out to. There was Spheniscidae, a planet whose expansive green atmosphere made the untold amount of ice on that planet shimmer like emerald. This was Optimus’ personal favorite. His friend, Chromax, particularly enjoyed the planet of Asteraceae, which provided enough warmth to support numerous variations of plant life. But overall, the Eggolyia division was a splendorous place whose beauty was, for the most part, untapped. Norvel walked in to Optimus’ office at that moment, and immediately noticed that Chromax and his friend were both staring distantly into space.

“If ye’ ask me, you’re both nuts.” said Norvel. Optimus looked back at him.

“Thank you for that friendly salutation.” he said.

“Standard procedure, boss. I aim ta' please.” Norvel replied happily.

“Oh, there was one other thing Ballista told me when he assigned us to explore that division.” Chromax added.

“What’s that?” inquired Optimus.

“We have a new recruit. Ballista told me he has wonderful credentials.”

“Such as?”

“Well I have Ballista’s typed recommendation if you want to read it.”

“Of course.” Optimus said. Chromax handed him the sheet, and he began to read. “Oh. When do I get to meet him?” Optimus asked.

“He’s supposed to be here in 15 minutes.” Chromax responded. Just then, all three ‘bots heard a crash outside.

“Sorry, sorry” they heard through the door. There was a rather long pause before there was a knock on the office door.

“Come in.” said Optimus. The ‘bot outside opened the door and walked in. He was about six and a half feet tall, a bit shorter than Chromax. After standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway for a few moments, a disorderly stack of mops behind him fell over. He winced in embarrassment as he heard them crash onto the ground. “It’s alright; just leave them.” said Optimus. “So, what’s your name?”

“Jubatix, sir.” he replied. Optimus looked at the recommendation sheet. At the top, the name was indeed Jubatix. He read the first trait for which this recruit was suggested. It read “punctuality”. Well, that was one way to put it. “I’m sorry for getting here so clumsily. I just didn’t want to be late. I’m not late, right?” Jubatix asked.

“No, actually your 15 minutes early.” Optimus explained.

“Sorry.” At this, Optimus smiled. This ‘bot seemed quite earnest.

“Jubatix, I have no intention of firing you.”

“Understood sir.”

“And you certainly don’t have to say sir.”

“Sorry, sir- I mean, sorry with… just, I mean, without… just sorry. I’m just excited about this job, and I don’t want to do something to lose it.” He stammered out. But Optimus had to admit, that was the fastest he had ever heard anybody say anything while stammering. He read the next characteristic on the list. “Enthusiastic.” Indeed.

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Quickrim sat down behind his desk for the first time in days and let out a long sigh. He put his hand to his forehead, and rubbed with three fingers in long slow circles. There was so much to think about, and yet, still so many things to do. Because he stared so intently at the desk in front of him, the paper-work landing on it so suddenly scared him half to death. He looked up at the one who threw it.

“’Steel!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in…”

“62 days, 4 hours, 35 minutes, and 14 seconds.” Arctosteel explained. Quickrim just stared at him. “I know, you were just going to say ‘ages’.” Quickrim nodded silently. He shouldn’t have been so surprised- Arctosteel had always been calculating. Well, more precise than calculating. No… more obsessive than precise. Many times before in their friendship, this very characteristic was what saved both of them. And yet, while he was a detail freak, he was still among the fiercest of warriors that Quickrim knew. Their styles were quite different of course. While Quickrim relied on speed, a well developed style of martial arts and the occasional mounted weapon blast, Arctosteel’s main weapons were, well… his weapons. Pouring nearly as much time as Torcher into creating the things, his style was power. Devastating gauss blasts, torpedoes, and advanced targeting systems. In essence, he was a sharpshooter with unwieldy toys. His hand-to-hand style was like his guns- an exhibit of brute force. It wasn’t necessarily beautiful or artistic, but it certainly got the job done.

“So what are you here for?” Quickrim inquired.

“Read the papers.” Arctosteel replied. Quickrim picked it up, and suspecting what his friend intended for him to find, he flipped to the back for Arctosteel’s assignment summary. Quickrim slowly leaned back on his chair as he read his boss’ brief written explanation to Arctosteel about the theft of the C.D. security codes, the encounters with the cat and the swordsman, and his assignment with the assistance of Quickrim and Torcher.

“So” Quickrim stated, “he’s finally started to believe me.” He looked back to Arctosteel. “And we’re working with each other again.”

“Cool, isn’t it?”

“You bet it is.” Quickrim’s expression slowly dropped however, and he leaned back in his chair again.

“What’s wrong?” asked Arctosteel.

“I don’t… even know what to do next. Whoever these people we’re up against are, they potentially have all the knowledge they need to attempt a theft of the Golden Disk. I just don’t know what their next move is going to be, or when they’re going to do it.” Arctosteel placed a hand under his chin. Yeah, that was the look Quickrim knew on his friend. Whenever he was deep in serious thought, his hand would instinctively go there. The sooner it went, the more confident he was concerning what he was thinking about.

“Tonight.” he stated somewhat cryptically. Quickrim knew better than to be skeptical of Arctosteel’s conclusions no matter how quick he came up with them. But he was curious.

“Why tonight? And what? What are they going to do?”

“Tonight is the Mid-orbit celebration. Most of the attention of the police force will be on the security of the parade. After all, big names are going to be there. If there were any time for them to avoid security interference, it would be tonight.”

“That makes sense.” Quickrim acknowledged.

“As to what they’re going to do… As you know, the building that houses the Golden Disk is surrounded by a ring of disrupter fluid. The only way across is a bridge which stretches from the road to the main entrance of that building. But this bridge is closed by a gate, and at all times it is not in use, it’s too halves are raised to a 90 degree angle. The only possible way in is that bridge.”

“O.k.” said Quickrim.

“Now, the only way to open that gate and put down the bridge is its key.”

“Granted.”

“The key, as you know, is only guarded by two ‘bots who stand post next to the gate, opening it for those who have clearance to get inside.”

“That isn’t smart. Do you realize how easy it is to take out two guards?”

"Yes,” Arctosteel replied, “but the truest defenses of the Golden Disk lie within the building in which it is contained. Nobody has ever been stupid enough to try acquiring the key, because the prospects of having any chance once inside the building are practically non-existent.”

“But…” Quickrim began piecing it together, “now we have a group of ‘bots who actually know the defenses inside, and could hypothetically be successful.”

“Indeed, acquiring the key is merely the first step necessary, and all too easy a step at that.”

“So…” Quickrim mused, somewhat taken aback “are you saying the Golden Disk could get stolen tonight?”

“It is, quite possibly, what they are planning.” stated Arctosteel. Then a smile crept across his face. “But that’s what we’re on this job for, right?” Quickrim at first was glad to hear such enthusiasm, but then he realized something.

“We’re not… going alone are we?” he asked. Arctosteel stared at Quickrim quizzically.

“Uh… no. Why would we? We have plenty of ‘bots in this agency.”

“Yes, but we can only have them if we have the boss’ approval.” Quickrim replied. ‘Steel’s face dropped.

“Well, we can always… hope.” Quickrim merely shook his head in response with a playful smile on his face.

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“Tempting, but… no.” Quickrim looked over at Arctosteel, rolling his eyes and telling him “Told you so” without saying it. “So, these assassins’ grand plan is to, tonight, go to the Security Dome, steal the key to the bridge, and then walk across, get inside and abscond with the Golden Disk.” Arctosteel smiled widely and nodded his head vigorously. “No, I’m not giving you anybody.”

“Why not? Suppose this is actually true- you can’t spare a few extra people?” Quickrim asked.

“Suppose it isn’t true- oh wait it isn’t! Suppose we have a parade tonight and that we have to use everybody we can spare to ensure the safety of those there.”

“There has never been any attack on the parade since it began!” Quickrim said louder.

“Which is something I’m glad to have had a hand in. Quickrim, you’re a field agent- you’re never required to process intelligence information. Do you know how many death threats can be made against one person in one day? Predacons still hold grudges about the Great War, and tonight, great veterans will be there. Let me tell you something. This year, we counted the threats received in regards specifically to the security of the celebration tonight, and those involved, and guess what? Record numbers. Three times the previous record in fact.”

“Three times.” Quickrim muttered astonished.

“That’s right, three times. Don’t regard the security of the parade as something petty. We need every ‘bot we can get there. If you want to defend the Dome, you’re gonna have to do it yourself.”

“Alone?”

“Well, you and Arctosteel, and who knows what your partner from the E.P.F. wants to do.”

“What if we’re outnumbered?”

“What if you aren’t because every little thief running around inside your head is only running around in your head? If you want to play Disk guard tonight, that’s all I can give you.” Quickrim thought. The three of them would hardly ensure any sense of security, only hope. But he knew nothing he could say would sway his boss, and so he turned around and walked out the door with Arctosteel following.

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One of the many things the Cybertronians brought home with them from Earth was the legacy of fireworks. Even to a race whose entire foundation of life seemed to be based on technology unheard of by human scientists, the celebratory appeal of precisely timed and colored chemical explosions was undeniable. The mid-orbit celebration was just about the most festive time on Cybertron, and the wonder of fireworks therefore most highly demanded on this night.

It all seemed so… wrong, to Torcher. He was slightly surprised by the speed in which Arctosteel had predicted the attack of the Dome, but he knew Quickrim enough by now to know that his sources were reliable. And so, he and Quickrim stood concealed across the dark street from the two guards standing in front of the gate, watching, waiting for an impending doom. He had hoped Arctosteel was a loon, he had hoped he was going to be utterly wrong. But the Predacon frequency detector showing six incoming yellow dots in a government restricted zone shattered his hopes on the ground in front of him.

Everything about that night was out of place. How could tiny specks of yellow accurately portray the malice driving the strides of the approaching thieves? And how could the cheerful explosions, echoing a friendship forged with an alien race nearly 300 years ago, light up the sky, and fill it with sound of celebration while those same thieves came closer and closer? The guards too, seemed so unaware. This was not actually the case, of course. The trio had informed them of the possible attack. The guards, however, insisted on staying at their post. If any maniac wanted to try stealing the Disk, they would do what they were hired for.

Arctosteel waited in sniper’s view of the Dome, bridge, and gate about 5 stories off the ground.

Observing the piece of equipment in his hand, Quickrim was able to note that the intruders were moving towards the Dome in a pincer movement. Three came up the road to the left of the gate, and three came up the road to the right, all heading north. The three defenders barely observed them arrive on the road which ran east to west, in the middle of which the gate resided, before the intruders halted.

There was a deadly still. No sound was made but the explosions in the background. This remained for a few moments before a flash of green came from both sides of the guards. Both shots hit their nearest guard across the face, sending such a terrible momentum through their bodies that they flew in opposite directions of each other, blue fluid coming off in drops into the night air, illuminated only by the one bit of celebration coming from the parade down-town which had managed to combust in the brief period before the guards fell to the ground. Torcher sat dumbfounded.

They were dead.

He took both handguns and pushed them down against the side of his legs, being rewarded by two clicks, signifying that the bullets were looking down the barrel and waiting for opposing armor. Torcher kept his hands down where they were. Quickrim quietly allowed his wheels to form into the arm mounted plasma guns which had always been his only weapons. Then they waited as the yellow dots glided closer to each other, soon to converge at the gate.

When both parties had closed about half the distance to the gate, Quickrim nodded to Torcher. Torcher stared at him. Slowly and laboriously, he closed his eyes and opened them again, exhaling with a long breath. Quickrim still looked at him, but Torcher seemed able to stare.

After a few tense moments, he nodded back. Reassured, Quickrim fixed his stare forward at the slumped forms of the guards.

Then the pair broke the silence. Rolling out into the road, they arrived in the center, Torcher facing west and Quickrim facing east. The six thieves appeared startled, but only long enough for the duo in front of them to pick their targets. Then the defenders opened fire.

Torcher’s bullets landed in the chest of a tall, red robot. When he fell in shock, Torcher started firing again, but a purple beam cut his efforts off, biting cruelly into his right arm. Quickrim meanwhile missed a little to the right of his intended target, a green and black fellow, only managing to graze the side of his leg. The robot appeared to be un-phased, and Quickrim decided at that moment that shooting was a poor sport anyways. Getting up from his kneeling position, he charged all three attackers. Twin trained green lasers came right for his left torso, but he deftly spun to his right, allowing the road below to crumble beneath the attack’s heat. Two missiles, both of varying size came at him, one from the green and black Predacon, and the other from a dark grey one. Quickrim actually had time to jump above the larger missile, but when he gravity began pulling him down toward the ground, the other one came flying for his spark chamber. Having no stable ground to base any change in direction off of, Quickrim reached for the missile instinctually and actually managed to catch it by its tail.

He landed on the ground on one knee, with the missile held high in the air behind his body. Looking up from the ground at the other three, he threw the weapon back at their feet. A rather unimpressive explosion resulted, but the placement of the throw made all three stumble to the ground from its force. By the time they stood up again, Quickrim was two feet away from them. The shortest one received a blow to his face from the government agent’s right foot. Ducking low to the ground, another salvo of emerald laser cruised over him, where his chest was only moments ago. He then tackled the grey ‘bot in the chest, sending him cruising to the ground. Quickrim used the momentum of the tackle to continue rotating his body upward, so that he did a perfect flip back onto his feet. His back now to the third opponent, Quickrim wheeled around just in time to notice a flash of silver metal fill his vision. Barely having time to move backwards, he managed a few inches of motion. These few inches still allowed for the enemy’s sword to slash his face, but managed to save Quickrim’s head from being cut through like a cardboard box.

In all of his years of training, Quickrim had always been taught to use anything given to him, even by an opponent’s attack. While many would have reeled from being slashed in such a manner, he used to force of the sword’s blow in combination with his own strength to whirl around in a circle, bringing himself low to the ground to duck under another swipe while sliding his right foot on the ground, connecting with the sword-bot’s right leg. When his enemy had fallen to the ground, he back rolled away from yet another swipe of the sword. The enemy got about halfway up from the ground when Quickrim came dashing at him. He moved the sword in a quick circular motion, parallel to the ground to try getting the Maximal across the mid-section. Anticipating this move, the government agent jumped forward and up with a trajectory slowly turning his body towards the south. This jump brought him not only above the sword, but above the enemy’s head. While in mid-air, he deftly grabbed the wrist of the arm which held the sword. Landing on the ground, he pulled upwards on the hand while twisting it counter-clockwise. Meanwhile, he kicked with his left foot behind the knee of his enemy’s right leg. The extreme pressure from this move, which stretched the enemy’s entire right side, resulted in extreme pain which caused the enemy to drop his sword. Catching the hilt deftly in his free left hand, Quickrim stabbed the sword straight through his enemy’s left calf.

The enemy uttered not one noise of pain. Expecting him to have passed out from shock, Quickrim dropped him to the ground. But as soon as his body landed, he placed both palms on the road. Quickrim watched with equal feelings of awe and horror as the ‘bot painfully lifted himself up to his feet. Slowly, he straightened his position, including his knees. With a half-smile on his face, he grabbed the sword’s hilt, and wrenched it free from his knee. Slowly and skillfully, he brought it near to his face, so that it was suspended between both eyes, pointing towards the sky. Allowing himself a short, gruff smirk, he had one pleasant greeting to give Quickrim:

“DIIIIIEEEEEEE!”

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Torcher had not fared as well as his partner. After being caught in the arm by the laser, he fell directly to the ground. Firing a few rounds in the largest ‘bots direction, he managed to make him fall back for a few moments, but was soon met with a bombardment of automatically fired bullets. They weren’t nearly as powerful as Torcher’s, but their strength was in numbers. Looking forward through the pain, he saw the offending Predacon, and lined up directly for his forehead. But he was too late. After the large Predacon had changed position, he shot Torcher on the side and sent him flying through the wall of building.

He lifted his head up slowly and noticed the two Predacons move off towards the dead guards. He noticed two Predacons already there, and they had acquired the key. Further down the street his partner was stuck in a fight with the sword-bot they had met earlier. He noticed the four Predacons at the gate insert the key into its proper hole.

No! Not that! He had to get moving, he had to stop them. He ground his gears in an attempt to make them move. But his legs were already numb from the damage to his torso which had resulted from the last blast. Slowly he watched as they began to move with a lethargic life. He lifted off the ground with his hands, and managed to bring the bottom of his right foot into full contact with the ground. His left foot followed as he resolutely, but slowly stood up.

As he began coming out of the building, he saw the two halves of the bridge descend to a parallel position. The four Predacons in front of the gate waited impatiently as the end of the halves finally met, forming one solid bridge. The gate solemnly swung open. The bridge was theirs.

When they began advancing, Torcher became more desperate. Slowly, he transformed back into a motorcycle. But in the time his weak body regained his form, the thieves, who had had been running across the bridge had already managed to reach the half-way point. He slowly started driving forward, silently willing for his motor to work faster. But it kept on going slowly. Still, its slow pace was still accelerating, and Torcher knew that would have to do. He arrived on the bridge, but by the time he reached the halfway-point, they were already at the Dome’s door.

He transformed, and not knowing what else to do, pulled out his handguns. He fired rapidly, hoping to cause as much damage to the four Predacons as possible. Given the distance between him and his target, however, and the extent of his injuries, the most he managed to do was graze the largest ‘bot in the shoulder. The light reflecting off of the disruptor fluid below the bridge revealed his color to be a solid purple with green highlights.

When the bullet hit his shoulder, he turned around for a brief moment while the other three worked at unlocking the door. He gazed mysteriously upwards, and then with a contended look, turned back towards the door.

Torcher was puzzled by this gesture, but let it go. He finally decided to line up a shot, looking right for the center of the purple Predacon’s back.

Suddenly a powerful plasma shot coursed straight through the right side of his chest from behind. Seeing the world grow dark, he fell forward and lay motionless.

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Dynamo dropped his sword and before Quickrim could think, shredded his chest with eye-beams. Quickrim fell to his knees with a gasp. The Predacon walked slowly towards him and grabbed his neck, hoisting him off the ground until they were face to face.

“It is such a shame to see you fall after suffering one wound” Dynamo stated with a smirk. Suddenly Quickrim reached over Dynamo’s arm with his leg and kicked him in the face. Dynamo dropped him, and promptly received a swift blow to the stomach from the clasped hands of the agent. Quickrim then gave an upper-cut to his stunned enemy, spun around a complete circle, and vaulting off of his left foot, delivered a kick to Dynamo’s head with his right foot.

“It certainly would be” Quickrim responded. He then looked at his floored opponent. The sword, that blasted sword, had fallen out of his grasp. Dynamo reached for it, but was pushed down by Quickrim who cart-wheeled over him, and then landed on his feet in front of the sword. He kicked it over the fence lining the road, and listened gratefully as he heard the sword sparking in the disruptor fluid on the other side.

This may have actually hurt Quickrim more than it helped him, for no ‘bot destroyed Dynamo’s sword and walked away alive. He got up and grabbed Quickrim, lifting him above his head and then slamming him head-first onto the ground. He let go, and once Quickrim was on the ground, he kicked him angrily in the side, sending him a few feet away with the force of the connection. Quickrim barely had time to get to his hands and knees before he was thrown into the wall in front of him.

Realizing he had to get a grip on the fight before he was completely dominated, he wheeled his head around, and saw Dynamo coming after him. He blasted a hole through the wall in front of him just in the nick of time to dodge a flying kick from the Predacon. Taken completely by surprise, Dynamo flew straight through the new hole in the wall, but still managed to land on his feet. Quickrim came dashing in guns blazing.

Dynamo was continually pushed back as a gauss blast hit his shoulder, then his leg, then his torso. A final shot straight to the chest sent him flying backwards onto a glass ceiling. It shattered instantly, and he fell into the basement.

Quickrim went to the edge of the ceiling and saw Dynamo attempting to get to his feet. He was moving slowly, and Quickrim decided against fighting him further. He could only get out of the basement once he found the stairs, and at his slow walking rate, that was going to take at least long enough for Quickrim to go help Torcher.

When Quickrim looked around at the street which had become a battleground, there was nobody around except for a red ‘bot who lay unconscious on the street. He had to find Torcher. He noticed with a start that the gate was open and the bridge was down. He frantically looked at the bridge and saw Torcher’s limp form in the middle of it.

And the Predacons were entering the Dome!

He transformed and cruised at top speed to Torcher’s unconscious form. Just when he arrived, the Predacons closed the Dome’s entrance and the bridge began lifting its two halves. Torcher, who had somehow managed to be right on the line where the two halves met, began sliding down, soon to fall into the fluid below. Quickrim transformed in the blink of an eye, and grabbed Torcher just as he fell through the widening gap. After staring with fear for a few moments at the liquid death below, Quickrim lifted Torcher above his body and transformed again into a car, so that Torcher landed on the roof. He began driving, but the bridge was lifting itself up to quickly to merely run to safety. Realizing when the bridge was at a 45 degree angle that the effort would be useless, Quickrim transformed back into his robot mode, and grabbed Torcher. They began sliding at an accelerated rate, and then the bridge became completely perpendicular to the road below.

Quickrim and Torcher fell, with Quickrim holding Torcher so that he would absorb most of the damage of falling. He knew that Torcher couldn’t handle much more. Quickrim also knew that gravity was out of his hands, so he closed his eyes, waiting for the impact.

For moments, the world was finally silent again, save for the wind sailing past Quickrim’s audio sensors. He opened his eyes and saw the sky above. The stars spun around him in a dazzling spectacle as he whirled in the air. The firecrackers popped to add to the sense of it all. And then they hit the ground.

Quickrim did indeed take most of the damage from the fall. Then they were sent flying across the street, bouncing the whole time. Quickrim managed to run into the first bit of solid foundation they had met all day when he slammed into the corner of a building. The pain from the impact of the building was excruciating as his back was the point of contact. His legs dug into the wall, while everything above his torso lashed into the air. Quickrim could hear his joints dislocate. Meanwhile, Torcher flew out of his arms and into the wall, going once again, through it.

Quickrim then fell a few feet back onto the road with an uneventful thud. He tried moving, but his back was completely shot. He laid there in pain. He had been defeated.

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From that point, everything moved like Clock-work for the Predacons. The dark grey Predacon managed to disable nearly every security system in the Dome (his greatest feat yet, despite his long history as a technological scientist). Of course, the amount of guards on duty would have been a huge hassle. But the small purple and yellow scientist was among the most highly advanced Cybertronian biologists, and even a secure facility like the Dome allowed itself a ventilation system, which he of course abused. The guards didn’t see the gas coming, and all but a few were incapacitated in a few nano-clicks. All the predacons had been inoculated previous to the mission.

The few guards remaining worked desperately to foil the thieves’ plot. Of course, with all the security systems disabled (save for the chamber of the Dome which actually housed the Golden Disk), the Predacons had free reign to move in and out of rooms as they pleased. This made the fight for the Disk more of a shoot-out than anything else.

The Predacons worked their way to the correct chamber, blasting down all who opposed them. When they arrived at the door to the chamber, the technological scientist worked to hack his way into the chamber, while the biologist and the yellow/black thief guarded one entrance to the hallway, and their leader faced the other.

One guard stepped into the hallway with a large automatic plasma gatling gun. The destructive power of the thing could have easily swept all four Predacons down the hall, but then, the guard had never faced the quick reaction time of Megatron.

Megatron blasted him as soon as he turned the corner. He retrieved the monstrosity, and many guards soon faced its terror as he turned the corner himself and cleaned the hall of Maximals as easily as a mop cleans dirt. Megatron then heard two words.

“We’re in.” How long Megatron had waited to hear those words! Certainly he had dreamed of the moment when he’d be inside the chamber. But how he wished he could say of the Predacon cause “We’re in.” How he wished he could say “We’re in” power, “We’re in” control, “We’re in domination”. Ah, yes! That would suit him just nicely. Megatron gave the biologist the gun, and strode forward into the room. The Golden Disk was suspended fifty feet into the air, and 25 feet away from the balcony which went around the room. The code breaker worked the control panel in the room until it displayed three words:

Retrieve?

Yes

The code breaker stepped aside and naturally allowed his leader to have the honors. Megatron stepped forward and surveyed the three words. He was almost insulted that “no” was even an option. He held his hand in mid-air…

“Yeeeeesssss!”

…and retrieved.

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Quickrim faded in and out of consciousness. He was in his room. He was still a child. The closest star put its warmth through his window, much like the sun does for earth. He could hear his brother running around outside. Always an early riser that one.

“Quickrim”, he heard his brother whisper. How did he get inside that quickly? “Quickrim.” Quickrim grumbled.

“Ooughghh, can’t I just sleep?” he inquired, not quite awake enough to be frustrated.

“No, no brother, you can’t sleep.”

“Why not?”

“It’s day-time.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

“There’s more work to be done. You can’t sleep. Its daytime.”

“Work? What work?”

“Its daytime. You have to be up. Be up. Be up!” Quickrim turned to face his brother. “Quickrim… come on.” Quickrim looked around. He grumbled again. Then he slowly got to his feet. His brother smiled.

Suddenly he felt his back again.

“Quickrim.” He heard the voice. It was coming from inside the building.

“Torcher?” He inquired weakly.

“Quickrim- I, I need help. I’m bleeding out.” Quickrim could have died of despair right there. He knew how much pain his partner must have been in. But he was helpless himself. He had been totally paralyzed.

“Quickrim? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, yeah, I am. Torcher, I can’t move. I can’t move!” Quickrim nearly spat the words out. They were so lacking in hope. And they couldn’t help Torcher.

Torcher didn’t utter another request for help. If his friend couldn’t move, he wasn’t going to make him die guilty.

Quickrim’s mind wandered to another time where he had laid in that much pain. It was actually at the academy where he had learned his hand-to-hand skills. He was practicing hand parries with another student when that student over-reacted and managed to dislocate his elbow and shoulder. The ‘bot in charge came by…

“Now, remember,” he told him “if you can get past the pain, a whole new world of possibilities opens up.” That’s what he told him right before he grabbed the damaged arm and reset it right then and there. It was so painful. But his arm was completely restored. Quickrim knew what he had to.

“Computer, diagnostics test on vertebral structure!” he commanded.

“All joints disconnected. Damage extreme” his internal systems told him.

“That’s what I thought.” he muttered. “Computer, divert limb control to cranial base.” Quickrim had heard about this many times before. A Cybertronian’s movement control can be weakly tied to the processor on the base of their skull. This requires, however, extreme stretching of internal wires to reroute the plug to which all the mobility wires are connected from the Cybertronian spinal cord to the plug at said base.

The computer complied. The pain was worse than anything as wires in his neck were stretched to their breaking point. But then the most amazing thing happened- his fingers moved. He weakly lifted himself up and pushed forward with his legs while backwards with his arms.

He heard a pop. An agonizing, healing pop. Quickrim had 12 segments to his spinal cord.

“11 more to go.”

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop. They had all been reconnected. His limbs began giving way from the immensity of the pain.

“Computer, revert limb control to main vertebral structure.”

“Acknowledged.” Quickrim stayed still for a few moments, allowing some of the torture to go away. Then he stood. He walked weakly over to Torcher. When he found him, he saw part of his spark was revealed. It pulsated with bright light, and showed the grizzly sight of the blue mech fluid surrounding him. Quickrim immediately got to work. Grabbing a piece of thin metal, he pounded it to be more malleable, and then carefully placed it into Torcher’s spark chamber, making up for the hole in it. He then grabbed more metal and made a very simple, but effective procedure of stuffing it into Torcher’s chest hole. The bleeding soon stopped, but Torcher looked beat. If he didn’t get proper medical attention soon enough, he was going to be a goner for sure.

Quickrim didn’t know what to do. Surely there was no hope to defeat the Predacons now (assuming those in the Dome couldn’t handle themselves), and the longer he waited, the closer Torcher would venture towards death. But he couldn’t abandon the Golden Disk either. So much strife would be caused by its theft, not to mention whatever applications the thieves had planned for it.

“Quickrim, Quickrim.” Torcher stated weakly.

“What is it?” Quickrim inquired.

“I was shot from behind. A sniper round. Examine the wound for yourself. You know what a sniper wound looks like.”

“But there were no other Predacons.” stated Quickrim. Then he heard the cocking of a rifle behind him.

“That’s not entirely true.” Arctosteel stated, pointing his gun at Quickrim’s chest.

“I… I don’t understand.” said Quickrim.

“Ah, yes, but then- you always were a tad simple.” Arctosteel asserted. “Come on, I don’t see how you didn’t recognize what was going on. How was I supposed to just know this was going to happen tonight? Hmmm? And once the Preds’ came without a sniper, it never crossed your mind that surveillance guards outside the Dome would need to be terminated before they knew what was going on? When I was assigned with you by Wirecat, I could hardly contain my dislike for the idea. But it worked out so perfectly didn’t it? And now” he chuckled “I get to do what I’ve wanted to for years.”

“I don’t want to fight you.” Quickrim stated helplessly.

“You don’t have to.” Arctosteel stated menacingly. He fired cruelly at Quickrim’s chest. Quickrim didn’t even move. The force of the blast pushed him onto his back. Arctosteel walked to Quickrim and removed him from the building, laying him against the fence.

“Megatron said we leave none alive to witness, none to warn.” He laughed maliciously. “Not a problem for me.” He then put his shotgun on a side holster and pulled out a grenade launcher attached to his back. He lined up for a shot on Quickrim, but was suddenly dropped to his knees with the sounds of two shots. Torcher had aimed for the legs, and he had aimed well.

Quickrim reacted quickly, rolling on his back to Arctosteel, and punching him across the face. He then got behind him, lifted him up and did a double-legged kick to his stomach, which sent him flying for the fence. Arctosteel sat up and stared at Quickrim, who now had his plasma guns pointed towards him.

They stared at each other for a few tense moments, and then Quickrim sullenly dropped his guns.

“I thought so.” Arctosteel said. Then with a lightning quick motion he raised his grenade launcher and shot at Quickrim. Quickrim deftly turned to the left and the let the explosive fly by him. He was shocked however when it flew back above his head and landed at Arctosteel’s feet. Quickrim stared at his long-known friend for a brief moment of realization before the explosion sent Arctosteel careening through the fence and down into the space below.