Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.11: Night Scene
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.11: Night Scene
Racetrack’s Precision Bodywork
The East Merchant District
Praxus
Cybertron
They always said rain was unlucky.
It was very unusual for it to reach Praxus, or any of the northern Lakatera cities. Only once in a long while would the clouds rising above the Iron Sea travel so far. Most often, they would break over Polyhex or be driven west toward Kalis or Prodium. It was rare indeed for the wind to herd them up from the south and pile them menacingly in the sky over the East Ridge.
When it did, anyone sensible huddled inside. Even if the rain was light, it still caused disruption and discomfort, leaving roads slick and joints sodden. When it was heavy, travel in the open became near impossible and it was not uncommon for people to wind up in need of a medic. Some lost control on the expressways and ended up with their bumpers bumped. Some had to deal with short-circuiting systems, rust-rashes and a dozen other maladies that got inside you and wrecked you from within. Some…well, the worst storms had left memorials in their wake.
So rain was unlucky. Over time, that short hand for all the things it caused had mutated. It wasn’t just, ‘rain is unlucky because of the consequences,’ it was, ‘rain brings bad luck.’
Rain brings bad luck.
Aratron looked out at the clouds massing in the sky and quickly looked back at the fender he was supposed to be painting in lacquer. The feme on the work bench shifted on her axles, irritated at him for pausing, no matter how briefly. “Is this going to take much longer? I have things to do and I don’t want to get wet.”
“Sorry,” he mumbled, twisting the applicator to the right setting for making the finishing touches, “I’m nearly done.”
Completing the last layer, he switched off the spray and stepped back, giving his patient the space to transform. She stretched and lifted her arm, examining the rapidly drying fender. She hummed. “Well, it’ll do.” Then added, a little grudgingly, “Thanks.” And, hurriedly beaming payment to the shop’s account, she flipped back into car mode and rushed through the door, intent on beating the rain to the subways.
Aratron raised the applicator in wry salute to her rapidly vanishing back. It wasn’t as if she was the first customer to barely acknowledge his existence. He busied himself cleaning the table and tools, clearing the decks for the next glitch with the money to waste on looking pretty. Which probably wasn’t entirely fair on all the people who came in wanting minor but necessary modifications or dents popped out after a really good night out, but slag it - he was feeling miserable, so why the Pit should he be fair?
Raindrops started to ping off the ground outside. One of the nearest towers trembled, unfolding panels into giant fans to protect its access ways from the coming deluge. Passers-by sped up, glancing up nervously as they made for cover.
“Yeh should get going, lad.” Racetrack came up to Aratron’s side, putting an encouraging hand on his shoulder. “Ye’ve already stayed longer than ah can pay yeh fer.”
“Yeah…sorry…it’s just…” He trailed off uncomfortably.
“Dun be. Ah’m the one who shud be apologisin’, not yuh.” The purple speedster waved his free hand in an irritated gesture. “Yeh a damn good worker. Yeh deserve better pay…”
“But you can’t afford to give me it,” Aratron finished, “Look, I get it. I’ll…I’ll get by.”
“An’ as soon as things pick up agin, ah’m gonna make sure yeh wages go back to what they were - better’n what they were,” Racetrack assured him emphatically, “Now get going a’fore the rain gets heavy!”
Aratron smiled ruefully and nodded. Rapping Racetrack's knuckles with his fist, he pulled free and transformed. Waiting only to flash his lights in response to his boss's half-cheery wave, he drove out into the deepening gloom.
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Inner City
Praxus
Cybertron
The city hunkered down to protect itself from the weather. Buildings reconfigured to create better drains. Expressways grew opalescent covers, tunnels of flexible glass many hix in length that came spiralling out of the lighting rings. The open-air plazas hurriedly stopped being open-air and withdrew underground.
The smart set began to move their parties indoors and everyone else was quick to follow their example.
Fat raindrops splatted unpleasantly against Aratron's hood as he accelerated, leaving behind oily smudges that quickly evaporated in the heat from his engine. He angled for the welcome cover of the underground streets, following a slip road that curved suddenly as it reshaped itself around the buildings shifting above and, just for a moment, he imagined he might be racing for the entranceway forever, the beckoning tunnel always just out of reach.
But then the road caught up with the subway and he shot inside without so much as a bump. Behind him, the drumbeat of the raindrops grew more and more insistent. The noise chased him in, only to become lost beneath the local din.
The underground rang with a thousand sets of wheels and another thousand sets of feet. The whine of hover-drives, the howl of thrusters and the background roar of dumb machinery fought to be heard over the simple thunder of bodies in motion. The air was thick with fumes and the stink of friction. People jostled against each other, everyone determined that their journey was the most important. Aratron was forced to constantly manoeuvre, weaving this way and that to keep from being batted into the walls.
Things were no better when he jumped to his feet and climbed up to the pedestrian level above. A burly heavy-loader nearly flattened him within the first few steps and he caught several dozen more dents and dings before he found the side-street he was looking for. It was that kind of place. You kept moving or you learned what it was like to be a road bump.
The side-street was thankfully clear of crowds, walking or otherwise. Light from a train rumbling overhead briefly showed a once-colourful set of shop fronts, their signs flickering infra-red messages at shoppers who weren't there. The ground was littered with cans and fragments of metal, and worryingly unidentifiable objects that could have been broken machines and could have been broken people. Aratron caught a quick movement at the far end, something small and panicked retreating deeper into the shadows. He didn't look too closely.
Only one of the doorways showed signs of recent use. There was less garbage in front of it and the signs around it were just that bit more vibrant. In letters that were just the wrong side of visible light, they proclaimed that this was the Helix Oilhouse, a licensed place of entertainment open throughout the night and serving a wide range of select fuel distillations and quality oils from across Cybertron.
Having seen them all before, Aratron barely glanced at the words and went straight inside. The oilhouse had low-level visible lights, just enough to show up the customer's colours and, perhaps more importantly, the colour of the what they were buying. The usual crowd weren't the flashy decal type, but they weren't about to spend hard-earned pay on second-rate fuel. It wasn't just the high-grades who liked to see a bit of sparkle in their beakers.
Shoving his way through the mass of labourers and technicians - and round the legs of a couple of haulers - Aratron made his way to the bar, signalling for attention from the nearest dispenser. It craned over and beamed him the night's menu. The stock changed daily now, mostly because of increasingly shaky supply lines. He picked out a quart of Detra-Morllon and a tube of Black Metix. The price made him hesitate for half a mirco-cycle but he paid anyway. It wasn't as if saving the money would make him feel any better.
Walking away from the bar, shoving the tube into his shoulder, he looked around for somewhere to drink his fuel in peace. The oil slowly flooded his joints as he moved, pulsing through his body, pleasantly thick. It flushed away the grit and grime of everyday exertion and by the time he spotted Gauun waving enthusiastically at him from a corner, he was feeling freer and more relaxed, if not exactly more cheerful.
“Wheels!” Gauun grabbed his free arm and practically dragged him down onto the bench. “What kept you? I've been sitting here for ages!” He lifted his arms, hunching his shoulders forward to show off the blue markings that had been plastered across them. “What d'you think of these? Pretty cool, huh? It's real cyrianate too! Got it done -”
Aratron slammed his fuel can onto the table between them. “Look, just...don't start, OK? Not tonight.”
“Don't start what? Wheels?” Looking abruptly concerned, Gauun leant forward. “Hey, Wheels, what's wrong?”
He almost said nothing. Almost got up and left, right then and there. It was a stupid, angry impulse that he knew would have felt extremely good to give in to. But he didn't. He was tired and depressed and needed to whine to someone. Perhaps Gauun would even cheer him up. It wouldn't be the first time.
“Racetrack cut my pay again,” he said gloomily, opening his fuel inlet and tipping in a couple of measures of the Detra-Morllon, “Had to. Power rates are up, metal costs are up, customers are down. Again.”
“Mate...” Gauun clapped him on the shoulder. “Can't you find something else?”
“Like what? It's not as if any other bodyshop job would pay any better. And do I look like I'd make a good dock worker? Anyway, I'm not just going to walk out on Racetrack. He's been good to me.”
“Yeah, but...look, if you need help, you come to me, OK? I've got another deal going through with a race team - proper athletes this time - they're budgets gone down too, but that's still mega-shanix for the likes of us, so I got in there as the cheap-but-brilliant alternative and, yeah, they think they're getting one over on me but I'm on to a fortune with it! So I'm gonna have money to spare and if you're gonna struggle then you gotta let me help you -”
“You want to help me?” Aratron interrupted, “You buy the next round and you help me forget about it.” He shifted uncomfortably, shrugging off Gauun's hand. “I'll survive. Always have before, right?”
“Yeah...I guess so.” For a moment, Gauun was at a loss for words. Just for a moment though. He quickly recovered and launched into a rambling account of his new project, seguing into praise for the aerodynamic properties of racers and how they provided such a unique base for decals. Aratron let it wash over him, the familiarity of his friend's over-enthusiasm doing something to carry him away from his everyday worries.
Gauun may have been a bit of an glitch but no one could ever accuse him of being bad company. He was one of those people who would get you into a conversation even if he had to carry on both sides of it himself. And he never skimped on the oil and fuel. That was pretty much the main reason he had always been hopeless with money. He never got it into his processors that not being paid meant putting off having a good time.
Despite not really wanting to do anything beyond sit and rust, Aratron was dragged into making sarcastic comments, picking apart dumb ideas and, inevitably, into a long, sprawling argument about the place of aesthetics in the modern industrial sector and how much it must cost to put the average professional gladiator back together again after the semi-finals. Somewhere along the line the two subjects had become mixed up - probably thanks to the growing pile of empty fuel cans spreading unstoppably across the table. Aratron found himself confused about whether Gauun was arguing for prettier smelting pools or for grudge matches to be held over cauldrons of lava. He quickly decided it didn't really matter and tipped another quart of energon into his mouth.
His optics wandered away from his friend, who was listing to the right at an increasingly disturbing angle, and across the oilhouse floor. The crowd had not thinned as the night wore on but it had changed shape - some parts more literally than others. In one corner, a bunch of technicians had taken to their computer block modes and arranged themselves into an unsteady tower that hummed with excited algorithms. In another, one of the haulers lay spark out in truck mode, panels twitching with the final after-effects of an overload.
The bar was still jammed with waiting customers, those newly arrived and those going back for the twentieth round. You could have taken a slice through that line and found one of every kind of mech. The sensible, quiet flyer patiently working his way through a whole dect of Tetra-Helix. The blue car, optics bright and wide, ranting inanely into the audio of a bored racer who looked to be on the brink of telling him where to shove it. The lanky loader with his tall glass of black oil, slowly draining it, savouring every drop. The squat tank knocking back can after can, shouting at the servers for more and more fuel. The avir sprawled across the bar, fluttering weakly. The quad jumping up and down, desperate to get some service.
So many people looking to fry away their troubles in a haze of shorting circuits and burning self-repair systems. Or feed their addictions. Or just have a good night out. That was the point of a cross-section of the city, wasn't it? All kinds of people, here for all kinds of reasons, drinking all sorts of things -
Gauun poked him. “You still in there?” He frowned, optics slightly out of focus. “You, uh, communing with Primus or something? Cos I don't wanta interrupt a religious experience cos I know how much fuel it'd take to get you back there - an I don't think that's safe - and you probably don't want to get all transcendental anyway cos - cos that's gotta be boring right? I mean, what d'the Circuit Masters do all day anyway? Sit around and look into the wells and think and stuff - gotta be boring.”
“I don't want to go and be a Circuit Master,” Aratron assured him, slowly and clearly.
“Thank the Primal Program! I couldn't stand it if I didn't have you to talk to. No one else listens to me!”
That wasn't true. Lots of people listened to him, if only because he didn't really give anyone any choice.
“Yeah, but you actually listen,” Gauun went on, even though Aratron was sure he hadn't answered out loud, “You don't just put up with me.”
“You're my friend,” Aratron told him with a shrug, “That's what friends do.”
Anything more that Gauun might have said to that was cut off by an angry yell from the bar. The grey racer had leapt up and was going for the blue mech, his hands digging into the car's yellow chest plate. His victim was still talking, apparently undeterred by the fact that his audience was trying to murder him. An instant later, he pivoted effortlessly and, still talking, sent the racer sprawling into a rapidly clearing patch of floor.
Aratron tried to make out what the car was saying over the din of raised voices and clashing metal. Something about blackmail...? And...insider trading?
The racer sprang up and swung wildly, hitting three people who were just trying to get out of his way. The servers began to keen in alarm, their sensors and arms swinging about in panic. Ducking under his attacker's fists, the car wrapped one long arm around the racer's waist and whirled him round, the flailing legs driving the crowd even further back. Several people cried out. A loud murmur went up from near the door and a long gap opened, customers moving to the side as the hulking bouncer pulled himself free from the wall, his massive fists flexing hungrily.
The blue mech had, meanwhile, manoeuvred the racer into a head-lock and managed to pin his arms tightly behind his back. All the prisoner could do was fling his legs about in an attempt to break free. Helpless, he was dragged across the room, right into the path of the oncoming bouncer. Aratron couldn't quite make out what the security mech turned into but he would have put down good money that it was something large and unpleasant.
Going purely on size difference, there was no way the blue mech was going to get his captive to the door. He kept going all the same, tightening his grip as the racer tried to throw him off by transforming. Aratron winced in sympathy as armour plates jerked and battered against the car's hands - experience told him that it couldn't have been pleasant for either mech.
The bouncer loomed over them, demanding they stop their fight and leave before he was forced to rip them new exhausts. The car pointed out that they were leaving anyway and if the bouncer would kindly step aside - his exact words - he would be happy never to bother him or the establishment again, unless it was absolutely necessary or they were selling Novus Special Distillation for a tenth of the usual price. The bouncer growled and lifted a fist to hammer the car into the floor.
A brilliant flash of light blotted out everyone's vision. Aratron's quickly adjusted. The bouncer wasn't so lucky and, clutching at his face, he collapsed, probably suffering from sensor shock. The 'horns' on either side of the blue car's head rotated back to vertical, their tips glowing slightly with the heat of the photon charge. He smiled, gave a little bow to the crowd, and dragged his captive out of the door.
Aratron turned slowly back to Gauun, who was shaking his head vigorously in an effort to get his optics working properly again. They stared at each other dumbly. “What the ever-loving Pit just happened?” Gauun demanded, his optics finally snapping back to their normal yellow.
“I haven't slagging clue,” his friend told him bluntly, reaching for a still half-full can, “But if you're still paying, I plan t' keep drinking like it never did.”
Gauun thought about this for a micro-cycle. “Good plan,” he concluded, reaching for a can of his own, “Didn't look like it was any of our business anyway. And speakin' of business, did I tell you how I got them to give up on this stupid idea of painting themselves in alien skin patterns...?”
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