LibriumArcana.Games

Coldrock, military capital of the League of Free Sapients

Coldrock was a terraformed planet, a oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, the requirement of the majority of species in the League. The entire planet was given over to military needs, it's continents and seas served as giant training camps for legion after legion of troops. Orbital factories churned out munitions by the hundred ton daily and constant produced new weapons for testing. Meanwhile fleets trained and gathered throughout the system's void, testing new doctrine and weapons against information gathered by spies and agents. It wasn't the only world where soldiers and sailors trained, nor was it even a great concentration of industry by the League's standards. But it was the brain of the great military effort. The war that dwarfed any before it.

Hundreds of billions of individuals were locked in struggle across the light years and parsecs. Thousands of ships in hundreds of fleets as entire species across dozens of star systems devoted themselves to the supreme effort on both sides. For one side victory meant a Million Year Empire, a rule that would stretch across the galaxy, remaking all life itself into it's image. That victory would mean the eternal enslavement or utter extinction of countless species across countless worlds.

For the people who created Coldrock, victory would mean the overthrow of the terror, the end of nightmare and a return to freedom and peace. To that end they had devoted resources and numbers in an effort the no mortal mind could truely grasp... Save some few Cybertronians, who on both sides lead and directed the grim twilight struggle between opposing fates.

Coldrock had a almost a thousand urban environments to train troops, all of them careful recreations of actual enemy building styles and placements. It had only one city. A city of gold and bronze, created for and by Cybertronians. It was here that the 80 some odd Transformers were officially headquartered, for all that many of them had never spent more then a single rotation on Coldrock if that. The Cybertronians were not alone in this city, millions of sapients of all races in the League were there, aiding in business of running a war. They called the city Titan. The Cybertronians called it Fortress Optimus.

In the middle of Fortress Optimus, was a tower, a mighty construction that reached almost 10 miles up and 30 miles deep into the ground. Officially named Military HQ, it was snickering referred to as Breakout's finger (other organs were used varying on the species, more then a few were not the equivalent of a finger). Breakout was an Autobot, build by Optimus Prime, during the war on Cybertron. From the day of his activation he had know warfare and would likely know it until the final day of his destruction. By his own mouth he named himself a warmachine. He had led the League past it's early hopeless days to the current situation of near equality with the GDE. The Cybertronians of his force were a motley mix. Mercenaries, Neutrals, Decepticons, Autobots and permutations unguessed at fought under his direction and served as the main bulwark of the League against over 100 or so Cybertronians under Starvous.

Breakout himself was seated in his office, staring at a large computer monitor as if his gaze could force the numbers to change into something more to his liking. His second Metalhead, a communications and anti-air Autobot waited silently.

"We're sure of this?" Breakout asked again.

"Yeah boss, we're sure. The Free World Alliance is real and if we don't send them aid they will fall to the GDE in 3 standard revolutions. That will be 4 species and 42 worlds they gain for frankly little cost without our help. That will give them enough of the an edge to outproduce us and..." Metalhead shrugged. Both he and everyone else knew the numbers. The GDE had more worlds and factories but their production depended on labor driven by fear of punishment and battered into submission. It simply couldn't match the efficiency and productivity of free labor doing it's level best to stay free. There was a damn limit to that however.

Breakout nodded. He was just jittery. He was sending a unit out to fight and not going. It was damn unnatural but necessary. He couldn't leave the central front and hope to win.

"Alright... Send in our squad then. I'll brief them personally." Breakout said.

"Boss... There's still time to change them out... I mean... Look at some of the hardcases in this unit." Metalhead said quietly.

"They'll fight and they'll do it well. That's what we need right now. Send them up to the office so I can tell them their new assignment." Breakout ordered.

The call came from Metalhead, as Shimmer had been expecting. Scuttlebutt had been rampant, as was common in a military installation, and she'd taken advantage of it as always. Some of the names of the newly arrived Cybertronians were known to her. The number of ancient enemies turned allies against Starvous alone was enough to shock anyone who knew the depths the fighting had taken on Cybertron.

The powder-blue fembot walked into the lift and gave the AI her designation and destination, Breakout's office at the heart of "Breakout's (insert appendage here)". She found it amusing that all the names had the same connotation understandable even to Cybertronians: Up your crankshaft! Some things, Shimmer had found, were universal to all sapients and vulgarity was as common as lifeforms. The number of vulgarities related to reproduction was the only thing Cybertronians lacked.

The door opened, and Shimmer stepped out. There were a couple more checks for her to go through, the security necessary with the skilled spies on both sides of this war. As one of those spies, she appreciated the security, even as part of her reviewed ways to get by it.

The final door, and into Breakout's office. "Hello Breakout. Do you have another mission for me?"

Cutter banked around the building, altitude decreasing until finally, he flared his nose, landing struts extending and touching down. His engines spooled down for a few seconds before whirring and clanking could be heard, the autobot transforming. His optics swept upwards, taking in the awe inspiring sight of the Tower. Or Breakout's Finger when he was in a jovial mood. Cutter smiled. Certainly was an impressive sight.

The green/gray 'bot stepped inside, working his way through the security checkpoints, answering the questions required. Who called for him, what was his business, questions to screen his identity. Finally, the flier took the lift upwards. Breakout had summoned. They had fought together, long ago, on Cybertron. The ground 'bot calling in targets, directing the fight, Cutter zipping through the air, lashing out at targets for him. The Exodus had separated them all. And it was a surprise to find the steely eyed warbot in command, leading an entire nation against the GDE. But Cutter was a fighter, had been from the moment his spark came online, and would be till it shut down.

For now though, the lift opened and Cutter stepped through checkpoints again and again. As he entered, a smile appeared as he spotted the blue fembot. "Well, well, Shimmer, told you we'd meet again." The flier said.

It had been many Vorn between the time Grindstone had last seen a Cybertronian, till he had arrived to aid the League of Sapient Worlds.

And it felt like Vorns that he had been waiting to once more be utilized in a way that befit his nature. On Cybertron, Grindstone was a peaceful Mech, for the most part, enjoying his function as a raceway Security Officer. In his rebuild by the Decepticons after he was rescued, he had undergone a transformation.

He strode through the halls of Military HQ, when he internal comms received the call from Metalhead. Breakout had been known to Grindstone, though the two had not met on the field of combat on Cybertron - and never in the expanses of space. but they held similar ideals.

"I will report shortly, Metalhead," Grindstone replied, before heading to the lifts.

Within moments, the purple and grey Decepticon - who bore more than a passing physical resemblance to the Autobot Warpath - was going through the security protocols, and then entered Breakout's office, "Grindstone, reporting." the large Decepticon rumbled.

A lone Decepticon signal appeared above the atmosphere following a Transwarp signature, and it began to fall. Not fly, fall. It apparently had zero fuel.

"This is Shunt to League aerospace control. Requesting emergency landing clearance, repeat, emergency landing clearance. I am aiming for the long flat area outside of the cityscape. I have zero fuel to maneuver."

Deathstrike lumbered through the street outside of the Military Headquarters. An actuator in his left leg was glitching, firing a quarter of a second late and triggering at seventy percent normal strength, causing the tall robot to limp slightly. It was one of a series of trivial annoyances he endured daily. He wondered if this is what old age was like for organics, a constant stream of infirmities to rival the memories of his glory days.

Unlike with organics, the damage could be reversed. Time, skill, and resources would be required but what had once been could be again. The possibility of improvement also existed and his current form was serviceable. It was undoubtedly why he had gotten the call. Metalhead was not such a fool and to forget there was one thing Deathstrike still did very well.

Blazing blue photoreceptors glared at him, but Deathstrike ignored the Autobot. Breakout's maker had been a 'bot worthy of respect, but too many Autobots liked to forget what Cybertron was like before the coming of Megatron. That was fair Too many Decepticons had forgotten what Megatron had been like and followed the tyrant Starvous. The universe appeared to possess a sense of irony or perhaps those that speculated everything was a series of cycles were correct.

There was an incoming transmission. Shunt was in distress. Deathstrike replied with two words. "En route."

The Decepticon warrior leapt into the air and transformed. Once he had been a flyer of grace and power, now he was much less. Still, at least the rebuild allowed him to serve a useful purpose, to fight and fly and matter. He could still touch the void. His rattled as he blew passed the sound barrier on jets of nuclear flame.

The first warning anyone had was when something kicked the door in.

The door in question was a vault blast door made of fourteen inches of solid Titanium Steel, impervious to anything short of a thermobaric bomb, but the blow folded it in half like it was made of newspaper and sent it bouncing across the room like a rubber ball, clearing everything in its path out of it at accelerated rates of speed. Even those things not in the path of the collapsing blast door jumped, overturning chairs and tables sized appropriately for whatever they were, and turning to see what in the name of all that was Holy had just invaded their sanctum.

They were still too late.

In the gaping doorway stood a robot that could only have been a Cybertronian, even had most of the denizens within the vault not been able to recognize him on sight for who he was. Objectively large as it was, standing in the doorway with a flaming sword drawn and held in one hand, it appeared to be approximately the size of a house, peering into the dark room with radioactive green optics and a scowl that could have lit energon on fire.

For about three seconds, nobody moved, everyone, even the other Cybertronian in the room, stunned into inaction by this sudden interruption. And in the time required for the majority of the denizens of the vault-turned-energon bar to recover their senses, the armored Cybertronian locked his optics on the smaller Cybertronian standing against the back wall, and growled out a greeting that removed all doubt about the tenor of this conversation.

"You spark-rusted, exhaust-sucking, piece of cast-out engine discharge!"

The organics or cybernetics in the bar might not have recognized the terminology as particularly strong, but the voice was all they needed to hear, a roaring metalic howl like a diesel engine being fed through a wood chipper. Most everyone scattered before the Cybertronian could even enter the room, giving him a free path to stomp into and through the vault, crushing a table with one stomp as he made a B-line straight for the only other Cybertronian present.

Said other Cybertronian's optics went as wide as road wheels, his challenging reaction dying in his speaker as he beheld a hundred tons of metal anger striding towards him. He tried to cough up several different responses, but managed only a single name.

"C... Cavalier?!"

"You misfiring, waste-of-asphalt, Decepticon slime," shouted Cavalier, approaching with a highly inhospitable look on his face, "why should you live?!"

"Hey!" shouted one of the cybernetics standing next to the other Decepticon. In a flash, the cyborg's hand shifted into a cannon, which he raised towards Cavalier. "Back off, you motherf- "

Cavalier did not even break stride, nor bother to use his sword. With his free hand, he reached forward and grabbed the cyborg's cannon by the barrel. The cannon discharged, perhaps intentionally, perhaps by accident, firing a particle beam into the Cybertronian's frontal armor that could have cut a hole through thirty feet of sheet rock. But Cavalier barely reacted to the shot, which did no worse than gouge the paint from his frontal plate, and stepping forward, he crushed the barrel of the cannon with his hand before lifting the now-screaming cyborg up and effortlessly throwing him against the back wall like a boned fish.

The Cybertronian who was apparently the target of Cavalier's ire did not fail to recognize an opportunity when he saw one. From the back of his hand he extended a six foot blade that burst into red flame as energon coated it. Thus armed, he lunged at Cavalier, intended to drive the blade straight into the larger Cybertronian's throat. Cavalier however merely swung his free arm around to parry the blow with the large kite shield attached to his forearm. The sword glanced off the shield as though made of cardboard, seconds before Cavalier simply removed the other Cybertronian's arm at the shoulder with an upward slash of his own sword.

A horrible digitized scream filled the rapidly emptying vault as the Cybertronian staggered back, clutching at his empty shoulder socket like an organic. His scream was aborted however when Cavalier stepped forward and kicked him square in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap of crushed tables and spilled energon.

"You like how that feels?" asked Cavalier, stepping over the fallen Cybertronian, sword pointed down at his counterpart's throat. "That feel good? You like getting ripped apart? I got to assume that you like it, what with all the fun you had back on Corax II!"

"Co... Corax - "

"Corax II!" shouted Cavalier loud enough to rattle the walls. "Lovely little planet, ice world, bunch of sentient walrus-lookin' things living on it. You remember them, right?"

"Ca... Cavalier, I swear. I didn't have anything to do with - "

"DO NOT LIE TO ME!" roared Cavalier at full volume, driving the sword a foot and a half into the floor bare inches from the other Cybertronian's head. This time the walls positively bent from the force of his shout, and those few bystanders who remained ducked behind cover. "I swear to Primus, Division, if you lie to me I will carve your spark out with a steam shovel!"

"It was Massacre!" cried the helpless Cybertronian. "I swear to Primus, Cavalier, Massacre did it, not me! I didn't have anything to do with killing those organics. He wanted to pacify the planet and make an example of them! Said the others would go quietly if we just did it this one time! I can tell you where he is! I'll give you his whole loadout, anything you want! Just don't - "

"Massacre's dead, you sniveling little petro-toad," said Cavalier. "So are Smother and Neutralize, so don't bother trying to sell them out either. I left you 'till last because you're a gutless road-stain and I knew you couldn't resist running off for the nearest Energon dive. You never had the fuel tank for this line of work, Division, you need liquid courage just to flip your own ignition switch."

"Please, oh Primus, please, Cavalier, I didn't do anything, I swear on Cybertron. I just watched 'em do it. I didn't cut anyone, I swear to Primus!"

"Sixteen hundred and thirty five organics, Division! I counted when I burned the bodies. Who do they get to swear to, huh? Did any of them beg before Massacre and his little gang cut them down?"

"I don't know! I swear! I didn't do any - "

The last repetition seemed to piss Cavalier off even more. With a single tug he pulled the sword out of the ground and lowered the tip to within a milimeter of the terrified Cybertronian's optics. "Shut your five-credit speaker before I make change."

Division's speaker failed.

Slowly, the towering Autobot leaned down, keeping the tip of the sword absolutely motionless, his neon green optics boring holes into his petrified counterpart.

"You were an Autobot once," said Cavalier, and with a flick of his sword he slashed at the fallen Cybertronian's chest. A piece of armor sloughed off Division's chest, and Cavalier picked it up with his free hand. An Autobot symbol was stenciled upon the armor fragment with a laser etcher. "Because of that, and because Massacre told me the same story you just did before I cut his spark out, for once, I'm gonna be reasonable. You're gonna leave Fort Optimus tonight, Division. And you're never gonna come back. Never. Otherwise, I'm gonna be unreasonable, do you understand me?"

"I - I'm sorry, Cavalier, please, I didn't mean for any - "

Cavalier reached down, grabbing Division's head and lifting it up. "One more thing," he said. "If you ever come near an organic again, if you ever lay a finger on one, if you so much as rev your engine loud enough to disturb the sleep of a single organic child, I will cut a mouth into your faceplate and feed you your own lasercore."

To this last threat, Division could make no response, and after a moment or two, Cavalier finally let his head drop back to the ground, and stood up.

"You no longer exist, Division," said the armored Autobot. "To me, to the Autobots, to Optimus, you're dead. And dead bots don't make waves. I suggest you find the darkest, quietest hole in the galaxy you can, and hide there until your spark wears out. Because if I ever see you again, I'm gonna use you for shell casings."

Division lay still on the floor, staring up at his tormentor. "C... Cav," he ventured. "Cav... please..."

Cavalier turned away, his optics sweeping across the wrecked Energon bar and the handful of cybernetics and organics who still remained to watch.

"This one's culpable in sixteen hundred counts of murder," he said, holding up the shard of armor he had sliced from Division. "He gets to walk away from me because he hid behind this." With visible disgust, Cavalier dropped the shard to the ground and crushed it under one foot.

"Do what you want with him," he said, and without so much as glancing back at the Cybertronian behind him, Cavalier walked away.

*-------------------------------------------------------*

Two days later, his mood more subdued, but only just, Cavalier walked into Breakout's office.

By now, he was certain that word of what had happened at the "bar" would have reached half of Fort Optimus, including of course this particular office. He'd honestly been expecting a summons relating to it ever since. Division was a lying, murdering, cowardly pile of scrap metal, but as far as the brass was concerned, he was still a lying, murdering, cowardly pile of Autobot scrap metal. One did not walk into a bar on Fort Optimus and beat (let alone dismember) an Autobot to the ground without repercussions. Proof, they would ask him for, and proof he did not have, for Division had not been lying in one regard. Massacre had performed the lion's share of the killing, if not all of it, and therefore there was nothing concrete to indicate that Division had been involved at all, save for the statements of three dying Decepticons and one terrified Autobot who would likely have admitted to being Megatron re-incarnated if Cavalier had accused him of it. Massacre had committed the crime, they would say, Primus knew he was certainly capable of worse, and he had been made to pay for it. In cash.

Except Cavalier had been staring into Division's optics and seen the truth as clearly as if it had been translated into radio signals and broadcast to the entire base in the clear. But that didn't matter now.

To Cavalier's surprise, Breakout wasn't alone in the office as he entered. Cutter was there already, and Shimmer, and Grindstone, a former Decepticon-turned-Mercenary, one of many switchbacks these days. What a Gunship, a Courier-bot, and a freelance Decepticon could be doing at a meeting that Cavalier had been called to was beyond him.

Perhaps this had nothing to do with Division at all?

There was company here, so the proper attitude was called for, of course. Cavalier's face morphed into a cock-eyed grin as the armored war-bot stepped into the office, his green optics sweeping across the others already pleasant even as his speaker adopted a laconic, easy drawl.

"Somebody call for a Cavalier?" he asked, leaning against the doorpost.

Farshot's journey had been long, difficult, and frought with many perils - but he had at last arrived at Coldrock a few cycles ago. He had already met Breakout and the others here, and felt at last he had found a cause he could believe in, and fight for.

He thought about all these things and more on the elevator ride up to Breakout's office, where he was to meet the rest of his squad. As the elevator doors opened, his optics noting every detail of the Cybertronians already there, already matching them to his internal database for further reference with present data.

Farshot superficially resembled the infamous Seekers, though with many differences - he was much larger than the usual Seekers, black, grey, and dark blue in color, with gold optics. His head was similar, but his forearm gauntlets were much thicker proportionately - with notable articulated cannon openings above his wrists. His wings were smoother, and more rounded, and the cockpit in the center of his chest rounder, more suited to an interstellar craft than an atmospheric one. He nodded at the others as he approached. "Greetings - I am Farshot."

A very large, tracked, armoured vehicle slowly rumbled up to the Military Headquarters. Without breaking pace it unfolded and refolded itself into a ponderous android and proceeded to the entrance. Not one to be early or late, Blastcap had been passing the time gambling with old soldiers not far from the tower. It was one of the few things she liked. The grizzled veterans were adept cheaters, and against them a game of chance turned into a battle of clever hands and fast wits. One would think a sapient machine who defused touchy explosives for a living would be unmatched at it, but the old men always managed to surprise Blastcap, and there was the joy in it.

Just short of the entrance she felt a large aircraft thunder past, and turning to look at the guncutter swiftly climbing up to the upper reaches of the atmosphere, she recognized its battered form as Deathstrike. "Not dead yet, I see," Blastcap muttered to herself. She focused her purple eyes and zoomed in to the Cybertronian's destination, catching sight of a falling Seeker. "Whatever your problem is, Deathstrike's had it worse. You'll be fine," she said still speaking to herself.

Blastcap turned to the guards and noted the surprise on their faces, they must have heard her musing. Female Cybertronians tended to be more lightly built than the male models, but Blastcap was heavy, blocky, and large; neither her face nor her voice were what most everyone would expect. By this point the average being would have thought the typical reaction either a joke that never got old, or annoyance that never went away, but she instead remained as indifferent as always. "Name's Blastcap, Metalhead has summoned me for an appointment with Breakout."

One of the guards tried to correct her, "That is Commander Breakout," but she remained impassive and said nothing. After an awkward silence the guards looked at each other, the second one shrugged and they let her pass. She made her way into the building and took the appropriate lift.

Some minutes later she strode into Breakout's office, "Blastcap here, what do you need blown up?"

Shunt was adjusting his flight surfaces as he careened. Deceleration was key, but you had to have control. As Deathstryke's return was picked up, the Seeker traded data freely with a once-comrade, accepting the help in getting down. The atmosphere, of course, was trying to cook him, but armor still held.

There was no hesitation when the call was made. She held a great deal of respect and admiration of Breakout, so if he needed mech power, she was certainly going to provide it.

In drawing closer to the office, the noise made it clear that quite a crowed had gathered and-

Why was that tank mech blocking doorway?

"Hey, it's door frame, not a picture frame."

There was a flash of a grin as the steel gray femme ducked under Cavelier's arm to wedge through the door.

When well inside she greeted Breakout with a not as soon as she could catch optic contact, politely standing at attention among the gather crowd.

"Merka here sir, reporting in."

Deathstrike watched the orange blaze streak across the sky. Calculations sped through his brain as he roared forward at full power. "There's a problem Shunt. I'm not going to make it in time. You're going to have to increase your drag without slagging yourself or you're going to make a very large impact crater."

So many projects, so little time...

Crankcase's imposing figure approached Breakout's Office with little fanfare. He would have preferred being back at the lab working on, well, whatever he was going to focus on this planetary cycle. A lesser Autobot would have received his complaints for being called away from his work, but Breakout? If Breakout needed him for something, well, that was different.

It was then that he saw the imposing tank-bot figure in the doorway and grumbled. "Hey, coming through." Not being one to patiently wait, he pressed his way through, arguably being one of the few bots who could.

Grindstone watched as others filed into the room, his red optics boring into Cavalier. For a moment, Grindstone was almost certain the every rumbly Autobot would act with a modicum of of discipline - a thought which disappeared in a astrosecond as soon as the grin broke on the other tank's faceplate and he spoke.

Others tried to squeeze past Cavalier, who blocked the door, and Grindstone shook his head, almost sadly, "Do not stand in the door like a Fleshling Child held in awe Cavalier..or were you constructed in a tool shed?"

"It's Cavalier, and he's found a place he can pose," Shimmer quipped to Grindstone. The fembot smiled at Cavalier , but her voice was playful sarcasm. "Enjoy that he's graced us with his presence."

She turned to the other two FemBots. "Blastcap, I've not seen you since Cybertron! Added more armorplate, I see. Merka, what happened to your paint?"

Now this was more like it.

"As a matter of fact, I was constructed in a toolshed, Grindstone," said Cavalier, pointedly failing to move out of the doorway as other bots squeezed past him, at least until Crankcase shoved him out of the way. "And don't mind me, I was just admiring the view." He left unsaid exactly which view he was admiring, but smiled, nodded, and touched a finger to the side of his head at Merka, Shimmer, and Blastcap in turn. The closest thing he could get to a tip of the hat.

"Well, a collection of dignitaries like this," he said to nobody in particular, "I'd assume that something somewhat important's in the offing. Some Decepticon decide to make himself enough of a nuisance to warrant sending me in?"

Cavalier's statement was met with a humored optic roll, though her attention was quickly distracted by Shimmer's question. The femme chuckled, it was not the first time she had been asked that.

"Well, when you get banged up enough times, consistently getting new paint jobs on top of repairs just seems like a waste of time." Her hands rested on her hips as she gave a grin.

"So I just decided to do without it."

Blastcap had ignored the knight-shaped android until now, but hearing his name triggered something in her memory. A cascading set of images filled her vision, culminating in a picture of a large armoured figure semi-obscured by fire and smoke. The word "Cavalier?" flashed across it. They were the old memories of a mission gone horribly wrong. She had seen the figure advancing on her seconds before she blew that corridor, and minutes before she blew damn near the whole station in pure desperation.

Was it him? Had he survived? Only a handful made it out of Axis Station alive. Among them was a common story of large robot helping them past fire and debris to board the few life boats that had survived the assault. The figure she had glimpsed matched the usual description of The Unknown Hero of Axis. He had always been listed among the dead, but a rumour once circulated that an gallant Autobot soldier named Cavalier might be him. Blastcap did not know if anyone had asked him directly, and at any rate it was just a rumour, but she nevertheless filed the information away for further reference.

The destruction of Axis Station and its crash unto the planet below would have been an old shame for Blastcap, except that everyone who knew of her involvement was dead. All of the station databanks were destroyed. The rest of her infiltration team perished in a mad scramble to get off the dying orbital. None of the survivors had any idea as to who could have sabotaged the defence systems. The mercenary fleet that bombarded Axis was only told that their target's defences had been disabled, not who had done so. Finally, Blastcap's employers were reduced to radioactive ash in an unfortunate and obviously completely unrelated accident.

As far as anyone knew, the set of explosions that ejected a third of Axis' mass back into space, and kept the death toll on the planet below seven figures, had been Acts of God. As far as anyone knew, the life boat found on another planet of the system ejected itself when the orbital blew, and sadly nobody had ever been aboard it. As far as anyone knew, the Cybertronian named Blastcap was never aboard Axis Station. At least so Blastcap thought. Now stood before her an Autobot who could very well have been there and survived incognito as she did.

This could be a problem. A lot of innocents died, and by all accounts Cavalier was not the type to simply let such things go. He could not know that Blastcap had been deceived, betrayed, and left to die, that the mission wasn't supposed to be that way. But then, why had he never gone after her? For that matter, why was there no reaction from him on seeing her in the office? Perhaps he simply did not recognize her. Perhaps he had been unable to get a clear view of her, just as she had not gotten a clear view of him. Most likely, the Cybertronian at the other end of that corridor, so very long ago, was simply someone else. But if that was the case, who annihilated the mercenary fleet that blasted Axis off its orbit?

This was a troublesome conundrum. The gathered company looked suspiciously like a ragtag bunch of misfits, and Blastcap knew from experience how it went with such groups. They were about to be sent on a lengthy and undoubtedly very dangerous adventure, learn about the power of friendship, and make a positive impact on the Galaxy. Alternatively they were all going to die before the month was out. Either way, she couldn't spend the whole time waiting for Cavalier to run her through.

After a few moments of deliberation, Blastcap decided to ask Cavalier about the rumour she had once heard, but not immediately. Once everyone was sobered up by the inevitably gloomy briefing, she'd take him aside and bring it up. Blastcap hated being subtle and indirect, she was no good at it and preferred getting straight to the point, but sometimes one had to at least try to be delicate. For now, she would make small talk.

Shimmer wrote:She turned to the other two FemBots. "Blastcap, I've not seen you since Cybertron! Added more armorplate, I see.

"You asked that question last time we saw each other, Shimmer. Once again, my armour plating has not undergone significant modifications. You may, however, notice that I am no longer crimson." The statement was blunt and flat, but anyone who knew Blastcap would be aware that she always spoke like that.

Cavalier wrote:"Well, a collection of dignitaries like this," he said to nobody in particular, "I'd assume that something somewhat important's in the offing. Some Decepticon decide to make himself enough of a nuisance to warrant sending me in?"

Blastcap answered in a complete deadpan, "Fully one tenth of all Cybertronians in the League have been summoned to this office by its head honcho. I think we all just won an all expenses paid trip to the middle of an epic cluster fuck somewhere. Most likely a critical and difficult situation that could very well decide the outcome of the war, but is sufficiently distant form the main fronts that it cannot be addressed by simply shifting already committed forces. Successfully resolving it will require a wide skillset from a number of experts in their fields who will be sent on a desperate mission to prevent our doom. Hence the gathered company. Either that or Breakout is throwing a party and needs catering."

Watching and listening to the gathered Cybertronians in the room, Farshot knew from his own limited experience that despite being mechanical life, Cybertronians would follow the same rules as organics when it came to gelling into a cohesive group - either the group would learn to trust one another and live on, or infighting would destroy it more effectively than opposition gunfire.

Hearing Blastcap's deadpan assessment of the situation prompted Farshot to speak, his low voice making itself heard through all the other conversations in the room not by volume, but by simple harmonics. "Either way it goes then, it should be...," he smiled slightly as he paused, looking for the right word, "...educational."

Those looking at him began to notice another unusual detail about Farshot, apart from his large size as a Seeker-styled Cybertronian, or the long gunbarrel on his back - he had no logos, whether Autobot or Decepticon, anywhere on his frame.

"Sit down Bots, Deathstrike will be joining us shortly, he got called away on a short retrieval mission." Breakout ordered, gesturing at a large table with containers of energon and datacubes.

"Ah, so it's basically like every time we worked together back on Cybertron?" Shunt replied dryly to Deathstryke. He tipped his front upwards, presenting a larger section to both brake himself and dissipate heat better. It wasn't ideal, of course; he was flying like a brick with a lifting body.

Shunt looked like a comet coming down, his systems making unpleasant noises as he came down. "Can you give me some directions to a landing strip?"

Grindstone shook his head, the blank face plate didn't have a mouth, or nose to give it features - the Decepticons medics who repaired and rebuilt him originally, didn't feel the need to give a emotive face to their new killing. Instead, he only had two patches of the grey flex-metal that made up most Cybertronian faces, and in those patches, two rectangular patches that light up when he spoke.

"You have not changed a micron in the past 300 Vorns Cavalier....I am not cognizant of why I expected it to be different now." Grindstone's voice sounded much like his name, deep, filled with a rumbly bass quality which gave it a authoritative tone - despite the fact he never lead anything more than a heavy infantry squad and had no personal desire to become a part of the officer corps. He had grown to enjoy being a soldier a great deal - though he had not imagined being such before the War changed his destiny.

"Of course, Commander" Grindstone spoke, moving to a nearby seat, and positioning himself in it. It wasn't that he disliked any of the Cybertronians in the room, he actually liked most of them, and trusted them with his Laser Core in battle - Grindstone was simply all business when it was at hand.

"No," said Deathstrike. "Every time we worked together back on Cybertron a large crater full of molten slag was the good outcome. Here it's the bad one."

Deathstrike studied Shunt's angle of descent and noted the flyer's adjusted velocity. "Now just keep that up and I'm mostly sure that all you'll need is a new paint job. This should work."

He extended his underbelly grapple claws. The other Decepticon was close now. Deathstrike's sensors registered a noticeable increase in temperature they closed. Beneath them was the sprawling false Cybertron of Fortress Optimus, but it least it was named after a specific 'bot and not the Primes in general. Optimus had earned his respect and was a worthy leader in war and presumably in peace. But there was no peace and both Optimus and Megatron were gone.

"Good thing I rarely miss," said Deathstrike said, "because you'll be in worse shape than me if I do." The air shimmered around Shunt, who was glowing a bright cherry red. They were close now. Deathstrike sped under and passed the descending plane and then dropped down as Shunt fell beneath him.

Contact. Grapples bit and held, maglocks hummed at full power. "Got you!" They tumbled. Engines roared, correcting course. The ground grew closer, a tower of bronze and glass was almost directly ahead.

A jerk and a trail of fusion fire and they slid by the side. Deathstrike orientated himself up and they began to climb over the tops of the towers. "There's a field by Military HQ and I have a meeting," he said as he circled around and killed velocity. "Kill two organics with one shot."

The tower known as Breakout's Finger was dead ahead. Deathstrike signaled to emergency crews and the tower that he was coming in. "Here we go," he said as ducked down low and slow to drop Shunt and then climbed up through the air.

It was as Shunt disconnected from his fellow Decepticon flyer and skidded over the field, carving furrows as he shed heat and speed, that it first struck him.

He was enjoying himself.

Not even in the fighting yet, but his neural net pulsed with enjoyment and excitement, not harvest schedules, religious ceremonies, and matters of defense. His paint was all but gone from re-entry and his bouncing landing, leaving him merely heated metal and armour. This would work. He had already dropped, literally, from the sky and placed his life in another's hands, and it had gone well.

As the Decepticon Seeker transformed, his entire structure making the soft 'tink, tink' of cooling metal parts, he stretched. The emergency crews blasted him full on with extinguishers and coolants, and he leaned into it.

Oh yes, he thought. This was going to be FUN.

Moving to the table, Farshot claimed one of the larger chairs, one built to accommodate his larger frame as he watched the other gathered Cybertronians doing the same. He said nothing, simply preferring to observe everyone else - how they moved, how they talked, how they looked at others in the room.

This was certainly going to be interesting.