NEW STORM RISING
by shockwing
Metallic screeches pierce the damp air of the judgment chamber as shadowy gray forms beneath the undulating surface splash impatiently, scraping carelessly against the insurmountable tank walls. The Sharkticons circle hungrily as Detritus calmly waits.
“Jury, have you reached a verdict.�
“We have.�
“Guilty or innocent?�
* * *
“Awaken, Razorstorm. The Pit has not yet claimed you.�
As his optics activate, Razorstorm finds himself staring into the night sky. Though oddly familiar with many of the amorphous star clusters above, he struggles to recall a single memory prior to his awakening. From his right, an unknown beige mechanoid peers down at him.
“Who are you?�
“My name is Detritus. Right now, I’m the only friend you’ve got, Razorstorm.�
“Razorstorm? I do not recognize this designation,� he confesses as he becomes aware of the energy bonds anchoring his arms, legs, and chest.
“That’s reasonable. You’ve suffered severe damage to your neural pathways. I’m curious, do you remember anything from before the blackout?�
“No… I can not,� Razorstorm sullenly replies. “Why am I bound?�
“A simple precaution. I had no guarantee your initial reactions would be passive.�
“What happened to me?�
“Good question. I discovered your previous form while scavenging for workable components. Most of your systems were critically damaged. Your power cells were nearly depleted, there was shrapnel lodged in your cerebral grid, and you’re ability to maintain stasis lock was waning,� explains Detritus before adding, “I harvested what I could from your old shell and spent the past few days rebuilding you.� Detritus unconsciously tosses a casual glance toward a broad, twisted pile of untarnished gray scrap metal. A large portion of bent metal resembling a crooked fin juts defiantly from the top of the hollowed out carapace.
As Razorstorm turns his head, Detritus abruptly moves to deactivate the energy bonds whereby obstructing the view of the mangled scrap pile. He then points toward the decrepit vessel to his right. “I have energon on board. Consume as much as you need to restore your systems. I will join you shortly. Then we’ll fly back to my bunker.�
“Where are you going?�
“Not far. I just need to remove some of this useless scrap.�
* * *
“Guilty or innocent?�
Detritus stares at his Quintesson jailor, awaiting the decision. The demonstration seems wholly ridiculous to him considering the prosecution, judge, and jury are all the same sadistic, ovoid five-faced creature. Hands and arm-mounted rotors bound by energy clamps, his fellow captive, a single-eyed, yellow and black hued scientist named Monoculus, quakes before the judge.
“Innocent, I beg you,� bellows the prisoner as he drops suddenly to his knees to frantically plead for his life. “I have committed no crime. I am a scientist! Please, show me mercy!�
Detritus frowns, considering the tactic brazenly shameful. Though he had met Monoculus just the day prior in the detention cells, he thought the scientist might react in a more dignified manner.
“The prisoner will be silent,� bellows the horned visage before twisting through a dizzying succession of faces. “Your craven demonstration pleases the court,� chimes the bulbous-cheeked arbitrator as his countenance finally locks into position. “Jury, I repeat, guilty or innocent?�
Detritus sneers at the choices. Begging never matters; the verdict never changes. Once again, the faces of the swollen mechanical creature begin to shift before halting on the hollowed facade resembling a skull. “Guilty!�
The Sharkticons churn anxiously as two multi-tentacle guards abruptly cast Monoculus into the teeming pool. Detritus peers down the caldron’s edge to witness the ravenous brutes playfully rending limbs from their shrieking victim.
Switching faces once more, the Quintesson commands “Bring forth the next prisoner.� Tentacles shove Detritus to the same spot where Monoculus stood seconds before. “How do you plead?�
Staring into his captor’s anterior face, Detritus replies, “I don’t,� then throws himself backward into the pool. Tiny magnetic spheres burst from his forearms; a few short out the energy bonds as others noisily clamp against the gleaming metal walls. Detritus pulls the severed prisoner’s torso from the gaping jaws of a Sharkticon and sinks toward the bottom of the pool as a torrent of explosions shatters the walls of the judgment chamber above. Pouring through a breach in the crumbling tank walls, the surging water sweeps both of them out of the building along with dozens of fractured Sharkticon carcasses.
With eruptions still crackling inside, Detritus pauses to lay Monoculus on a raised pile of metallic debris. A weak grin stretches across the injured prisoner’s face. “You… have delivered me. I am in your debt. Thank you.�
“Curb your gratitude,� replies Detritus flatly. “I am not your savior,� he remarks before plunging his fingers deep into Monoculus’ faceplate to wrench out his eye. Monoculus shrieks in horror as his shoulder servos reflexively thrash the jagged stumps of his arms.
As a half dozen Sharkticons begin to awkwardly mobilize behind them, Detritus safely tucks the pillaged optic into a compartment within his spare gas tank. Leaning over Monoculus, Detritus casually excuses his action by remarking, “Nothing personal, you understand,� before transforming into a beige military Jeep and driving away.
The nearest Sharkticon, a lumbering hulk with a damaged dorsal fin, lunges toward Detritus and locks his monstrous jaws onto the Jeep’s tailgate. Detritus’ rear wheels churn and howl as he awkwardly drags the cumbersome beast behind him, sheering ragged chunks of metal from the smoldering underbelly of the unwelcome passenger.
Swinging his right arm, the Sharkticon’s claws sink into the spare gas tank, prying it from its mooring. Seconds later, the entire tailgate rips free sending the battered Sharkticon rolling end over end into a mound of corroded debris. Unencumbered by the Sharkticon’s suffocating weight, Detritus bursts chaotically forward before losing control and slamming into the massive battle-ravaged carcass of a guardian robot.
Behind him, a final thunderous explosion breaches the outer walls, leveling the entire building. Despite the escalading din and the growing distance, Detritus can still perceive the agonizing wails of his ravaged victim.
* * *
“Where are you going,� inquires Detritus as Razorstorm walks toward the bunker’s rusted hatch.
“Out.�
“What of your repairs?�
Turning to show his black and teal wings, Razorstorm replies, “Fixed.�
“Weapon systems?�
“Recharged.�
“And your turbines…?�
“Will be fully regenerated by the time we leave for Iacon,� answers Razorstorm flatly. “What is on your mind, Detritus?�
Feigning surprise, Detritus smirks. “What do you mean?�
“Spare me your games. You ask questions to which you already know the answer. Say what is on your mind.�
“Very well. I find this obsession of yours… troubling. These excursions are becoming a habit whenever we take sanctuary here.�
“The decision to make this scrap-strewn moon our base of operations was not mine.�
“Duly noted,� responds Detritus grimly. “But before you go, tell me what it is that you think you’ll find out there?�
“Find? Who said I was looking for anything?�
“Please do not insult my intelligence,� scoffs Detritus. “Are you still hoping to discover a clue to your past? Maybe some systemic key to fill the voids in your memory? How many attempts has it been already?�
“And if I am, where is the harm? Our mission log is currently empty. Magnus won’t figure out that the armaments we sold him are the same ones we stole from him weeks ago. Besides, he’ll be after the Constructicons, not us.� Twisting the hatch handle, Razorstorm adds, “How I spend my downtime is of no concern to...�
“The harm,� interjects Detritus, “is this fool’s errand you’re pursuing. It’s a waste of energon. Besides, there is no profit to be made in memories. The past isn’t a commodity for which we can divine value. We work strictly for physical gain. Nothing in the past—yours or mine—can give us that.�
“Not everything has a quantitative value.�
“And I suppose you’re going to give me an example?�
“I’m searching for balance, for meaning.�
“Meaning? By Unicron, you’re beginning to sound like Beachcomber! How can we sell meaning? What is the going rate for purpose? Weapons, energy, supplies, combat support, tactical knowledge; these are all things that carry actual value. And yet you stand here and speak to me of meaning?�
“You do not understand,� hisses Razorstorm as his fingers scrape angrily against the bunker’s door, scoring the tarnished surface. “It is something I must do, yet this choice is not my own.�
“Well then, please, enlighten me of your compulsion.�
“The holes in my memory have been eating away at my conscious mind. This preoccupation is quickly consuming me. It’s getting to the point where I have to struggle to stay focused. This… fog envelops my mind no matter my location or assignment. Two months ago during the job in the Alkalar nebula, I had one such episode and Slag blew off half my wing.�
“And you claimed it was a lucky shot.�
“I lied.�
“You don’t say.�
Dismissing the obvious sarcasm, Razorstorm continues, “These experiences are most pervasive when I’m alone. I can’t even find peace in the CR chamber. I’ve… I’ve been seeing things.�
“Seeing things? So now you’re having delusions?�
“They’re faces, but they’re not really. Just vague phantoms, but they’re familiar somehow. I’m suspended in a void, surrounded by darkness and I find it comforting. Like I belong there, floating with the currents. That’s where I see the faces—tens if not hundreds— suspended amidst the darkness. Then, just as I feel like I’m going to achieve some sort of breakthrough, consciousness snaps back.�
“You’re beginning to sound as unhinged as Galvatron.�
Razorstorm grimaces at the jovial assessment of his mental health.
“Perhaps you’d like me to open you up and take a look? Run some diagnostics? Tear out this glitch.�
“This is not a malfunction!� Staring at Detritus, Razorstorm pauses a moment to regain his composure. “If it was a defective component, I would remove it myself. The best way for me to convey the feeling is instinct. It’s primal, from deep within me. I feel it pulsing all the way down to my spark.�
“And you hope this vision quest will help you find meaning?�
“I’m hoping it will bring me peace.�
Detritus laughs. “It’s curious to hear a Decepticon speak of peace.�
As the laughter continues, Razorstorm angles his wing to catch the currents of a brief breeze. The bunker lights glint from his gleaming metal blades as they methodically turn. Sensing the subtle yet threatening undertone to his partner’s stance, Detritus allows the smile to slowly dissolve from his face.
“So then, how do you intend to start?�
“By going to the beginning. I want to find my previous shell.�
* * *
Hydraulics groan as the cumbersome cargo bay doors leisurely close. The stocky Autobot Gears plops into the pilot’s chair and speaks into the comm device. “Gears to command. I’m returning with the shipment now.� Turning off the communication channel, Gears grumbles, “Don’t know why they didn’t send Sky Lynx or Cosmos. I just hope this scrap bucket can make the trip back.�
“You’re quite the optimist, eh, Autobot?� mocks Razorstorm as he steps through the doorway behind Gears.
Spinning from his seat, Gears first locks his optics on the long barrel of an arm-mounted gun before quickly tracing it upward to the trespasser’s smirking face.
“Razorstorm?! How did you get in here?�
“I am impressed. It’s an honor that someone of your reputation knows my name. Though I didn’t think I’d get the drop on you so easily.�
“Reputation,� scoffs Gears. “I’m surprised you’d show your worthless tailpipe again after that last little scrap on Titania.�
Razorstorm’s eyes narrow. “Spare me this feeble attempt at trickery. I’ve never been to Titania.�
“Never been…? How could you forget something so recent? You had a hideout there.� In spite of Razorstorm’s unwavering glare, Gears then taunts “Must’ve been that pounding Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and me gave you...�
“Enough!� snaps Razorstorm as he lowers his weapon and fires a shot into Gears’ shin. Clutching his damaged leg, Gears falls to one knee as Razorstorm lectures, “Though I lack your considerable age, I have been well prepared for the deceptions of a war-hardened warrior like yourself.�
“Deceptions? What the slag are you talking about? Do I look like a warrior to you?� Though Razorstorm does not reply, Gears knows that he struck a nerve and quickly instructs the ship’s computer to retrieve the video log from the encounter on Titania.
The console beside Razorstorm blinks then instantly begins playing the images of a familiar teal jet battling three Autobots. “It’s a fake,� scoffs Razorstorm as the feed shows him transforming to wage a firefight with Sunstreaker while an exotic yellow helicopter streaks across the horizon firing at something in the distance. Then, flanking from the left, Sideswipe nails Razorstorm twice in the chest with successive blasts from his gun.
“This is a trick,� he gasps as he glances down to his unmarked chest. “That wasn’t me. It could not have been…� he trails absently while continuing to stare at the screen.
Taking advantage of Razorstorm’s momentary confusion, Gears springs from his kneeled position and throws his considerable weight into Razorstorm, sending them both to the floor. Straddling the larger Decepticon, Gears stands on Razorstorm’s left blaster while he pries the weapon from the right. Using the gun as a club, Gears begins to pistol-whip the stunned Decepticon.
After weathering half a dozen successive blows, Razorstorm drives his knee into Gears’ back. As Gears tumbles forward, Razorstorm catches him by the throat and holds him in mid-air. Lifting his freed left arm, Razorstorm fires twice into Gears’ abdomen.
Dropping the slumping Autobot, Razorstorm stands and activates his rotors. “Playtime’s over, Autobot.�
Within seconds, the blades begin producing a relentless piercing shriek. Grabbing Gears’ good leg, Razorstorm pushes the foot into the blades. Gears shouts in agony as red and blue shards spew out the back. Reaching the knee, Razorstorm sadistically reverses his engines and sprays the shrapnel deep into Gears’ face and fractured torso.
Turning his attention from Gears, Razorstorm inputs new coordinates into the ship’s navigation system before dragging the Autobot to the cargo doors and jettisoning the mangled carcass into space. Returning to the cockpit, Razorstorm seats himself and replays the video log from Titania on a continual loop.
Hours later, as soon as the vessel touches down on the moonbase, Detritus climbs aboard to take inventory of the bounty.
“You’re late. Any trouble?�
“Nothing I couldn’t handle.�
“And the pilot?�
“He seemed a bit… antiquated. And he went down with considerable ease. Strange, considering you told me the Autobot was a highly skilled combat warrior.�
When Detritus does not respond, Razorstorm adds, “He even tried to convince me I had met him once before, on the moon Titania.�
Lifting a weapon from its shipping container, Detritus pauses to glare over at his partner. “The pilot was not Warpath?�
“No. He referred to himself as Gears.�
“Gears? Another of the Autobot’s elite soldiers and a brilliant strategist. His obfuscation was a blatant attempt to get you to lower your guard. Cunning, yes, but as you know, you’ve never been to Titania.�
“Right…� murmurs Razorstorm. “Never been.�
* * *
Using the vague collection of coordinates Detritus gave him, Razorstorm slumps against a stack of tarnished metal plating after having searched for nearly sixty breem. Detritus had claimed that he disposed of the scraps, but Razorstorm cannot overcome the feeling that his partner was lying.
Noticing the glassy surface of a wide puddle a few meters away, Razorstorm feels compelled to gaze into its amber depths. The waning sun continues to cede its position in the evening sky to the black cloak of the insurgent stars. In a short time, the breadth of the night sky will match the dark fathoms of the ocean; he finds the promise oddly comforting.
As he stares, he notices familiar star clusters coming into reflected view. Among them, the Castellon belt. Directing his optics upward, he suddenly realizes that he’s been searching in the wrong direction.
Comparing the current star chart to his memory of the position of the constellations when he first came online, Razorstorm transforms and lunges into the sky heading in the opposite direction. The winds from his whirling blades cut violent swathes into the scrapfield below. Nearly 23 klicks later, he abruptly cuts off his engines and glides quietly toward his destination. From a few hundred meters above, he detects what looks like a ravaged exoskeleton slumped amidst the rusted debris near the place of his awakening. Rising above the gnarled stack of scrap metal, a bent dorsal fin pitches slightly to the right as if bowing to the ebbing daylight.
“This is the place,� he whispers in a voice suited more for a funeral procession or other equally sedate occasion. Razorstorm quickly transforms and lands a few brief meters away.
With much of the valuable components stripped out, only the ruined husk of an old Sharkticon remains. Extending his hand, Razorstorm touches the creature just below the deep pit of a hollowed-out eye socket. The brittle ruddy curls of rusting metal crumple beneath his fingers—the rate of corrosion proves that it has been here for hundreds of years, perhaps even longer.
Numerous energy blasts char the outer hull though close-up he can easily detect precise incisions from a smaller tool like a laser scalpel. The entire lower half cut away, the interior robot components were completely eviscerated. The lower jaw of the creature’s once cavernous mouth has been torn out and every single tooth removed. Razorstorm glances from the empty jaw line to the shining blades of his wing rotors. Though he has never seen this creature before, Razorstorm’s instincts reveal to him the truth, that the battered visage before him is the same face that haunts his memories. And that realization propels him toward a far more devastating conclusion.
“This,� he gasps, “was me.�
Walking around to the front, Razorstorm slides his hand up the side and across the bulbous face. There, he finds a large piece of oxidized shrapnel extending into the middle of the beast’s forehead. The embossed letter “J� is visible through the rust. Clutching the exposed end, Razorstorm cautiously begins to pry the jagged object free. The metal viciously scrapes against the ragged gash as two more letters, both “E’s,� come into view.
Just before extracting the object completely, Razorstorm recognizes the crumpled shard as being a segment of a tailgate. A beige tailgate.
* * *
“That’s far enough. Stay where I can see you.�
Turning toward the voice, Detritus focuses his optics on a short green Autobot.
“Brawn?!� Detritus gasps. “I heard you were dead...�
“I get that a lot,� quips Brawn as he pushes past Detritus and opens the first box.
“You’ll find it’s all there.�
“You won’t mind if I check for myself?� replies Brawn gruffly as he continues rifling through the cargo containers.
“Be my guest. I must point out that my original agreement was with Magnus…�
“Plans changed,� interjects Brawn. “I have your payment if you still want it.�
“I’m flexible.�
“I figured as much.� Brawn lifts a pulse cannon from the box and asks, “How exactly did you get your hands on these?�
“An honest trader never shares his secrets.�
“Yeah, and a mercenary isn’t known to be trustworthy,� counters Brawn. “Especially considering that this specific cargo was stolen a few weeks ago. And now it turns up in your possession. Rather convenient, don’t you think?�
“Trustworthiness like everything else, my friend, can be bought. Regarding the weapons, let’s just say that the Constructicon stronghold was not well guarded.�
“You telling me that Hook’s crew were behind the theft? You wouldn’t happen to also know if they were behind Gears’ disappearance?� asks Brawn as he approaches Detritus.
“Why would I lie? I would never risk my reputation by supplying faulty information. Though the status of your friend is wholly unknown to me.�
“Right. And what reason would you have to tell me the truth? Especially when such information could be used for profit.�
“Your continued suspicion wounds me, little Autobot.�
“Little?� Standing toe to toe, Brawn stares up at the mercenary. “Aw. Now you’ve gone and hurt my feelings, Detritus.�
The two do not move for what seems like minutes as each one sizes up the other. Detritus, however, is first to break the silence by commenting, “This is quite an impressive cache of weapon—enough to, say, take down Bruticus. Might I inquire how they’re going to be used?�
“No,� replies Brawn as he hands over a container holding Detritus’ payment. “Now beat it.�
“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure, Brawn. And a surprising one at that. Give my regards to Magnus… and Gears.�
Moments after Detritus exits the warehouse, Ultra Magnus enters from the rear with Perceptor in tow.
“You hear that?�
“Every word,� replies Magnus.
“You believe him?�
“Not as far as I could throw Trypticon.�
“So what now?�
“Perceptor, did you install the tracker?�
“Yes, Ultra Magnus. It has been programmed with a recursive modulating frequency. Detritus won’t easily detect it.�
“Good. First, we get these weapons to a secure location. Then we pay a friendly visit to the Constructicons.�
* * *
“Back so soon? Thought you’d be gone for days,� Detritus condescendingly remarks while soldering a chip to a small communication device. “Did you give up?�
“No.�
Detritus pauses to set down the control then turns to face Razorstorm. “No? That must mean you found something. Did you find your enlightenment?�
“More or less.�
“Your cryptic responses are growing more tedious by the nanosecond. Do you plan on sharing or should I just get back to work?�
Opening the jet hood of his chest compartment, Razorstorm removes the beige tailgate he found and drops it at Detritus’ feet.
Glancing from his partner to the tailgate, Detritus remarks, “Thanks, but I already fabricated a replacement.�
“Explain yourself,� growls Razorstorm.
“This means nothing. I’ve been in countless battles. There must be dozens of those lying around this moon.�
“I’ll wager that none of the others have to be pried free from the head of a Sharkticon. Or is that your standard manner of disposal?�
Detritus smirks in a manner that would unsettle even Starscream. “I admit I’m surprised by your discovery; however this ultimately means nothing.�
“I will be the judge of that.�
“What do you expect from me? You think I’ve going to divulge all my secrets over your threatening posture and a busted tailgate? You can’t be serious.�
“In a moment you’ll find out just how serious I am.�
“Right here,� snaps Detritus as he points toward the bent piece of metal, “is a line that you do not want to cross with me. Do yourself a favor and forget what you found in the scrap yard.�
“Forget it? The only way for me to forget it is if it were forcibly purged from my neural grid.�
Detritus opens his mouth to speak but decides to wait.
“I know I’m close now. I have not come this far just to back down on your threats. You crippled my former shell. You put me in stasis lock. And you lied about my being on Titania.�
“You think this knowledge worries me? All you have are pieces. As I said, this means nothing for who you are right now. I think…�
“To hell with what you think! You stole my memory!�
“In case you have forgotten, I gave you life.�
“Built from the ruins of the former, which you also destroyed.�
“You had no true existence before me. I gave you intelligence. I gave you purpose. I made you everything you are right now. Before me, you were an insignificant slave to truly vile masters.�
“I fail to see how that differs from my current status.�
Detritus pauses as the sting of Razorstorm’s statement burrows deeper. “We are partners. I’ve never treated you differently. Without me, you would’ve ceased to function.� Pointing his finger at Razorstorm, Detritus adds sternly, “You owe me.�
“You’re right. It’s time I repay my debt.�
Rotors whirling, Razorstorm angrily springs toward Detritus who quickly slides open a small panel in his forearm. Entering a code, Detritus remotely powers down Razorstorm’s blades.
“What is happening?� screams Razorstorm haltingly as he glances from wing to wing. “What have… you… done?�
“You bring this upon yourself, every time,� remarks Detritus as he activates the final failsafe inside Razorstorm’s brain.
Mouth agape, Razorstorm struggles against a paralyzing numbness surging upward through his frame just as the scorching flash of a single laser shot tears deep into his chest, knocking him to the ground. The sting of the impact is the last sensation he suffers as the blackness spreads inward from his periphery.
Then, even as his auditory systems dim, Razorstorm hears Detritus casually add, “Nothing personal, you understand.�
* * *
“Awaken, Razorstorm. The Pit has not yet claimed you.�
As his optics activate, Razorstorm finds himself staring into a vacuous daytime sky. The glare from the golden sun ricochets chaotically off of the nearby stacks of mangled debris like the piercing beams reflecting from a disco ball. Though he is unable to recall a single memory prior to his awakening, Razorstorm experiences an unsettling familiarity pulsing from deep within. From his right, an unknown beige mechanoid peers down at him.
“Who are you?�
“My name is Detritus. And right now,� he continues while leaning closer, “I’m the only friend you’ve got.�
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