Transformers: This Is How It All Began: 2.15: Point of No Return
This Is How It All Began
A Story From Before the Great War
Act 2: The Last Days
2.15: Point of No Return
Sub Level Warehouse Sixty-Seven
South Merchant District
Praxus
Cybertron
That wasn't the end of it, of course.
There were the Praxian guardsmechs to brief, the crime scene to secure, the evidence to catalogue, the property damage to access, and many, many reports to file. Diatrion spent the best part of two hecta-cycles repeating himself in increasing detail to a group of very eager investigators who he suspected were slightly over-compensating for only being involved in the case right at the end.
Then the Magnus arrived.
The shuttle landed while Diatrion was being checked over by a med-tech. He was quite relieved for the interruption - the stocky feme treating him had turned out to be a devout neo-Tractist, who took the opportunity to give him a stern lecture on how the sanctity of life as enshrined in the First Covenant explicitly forbid deliberately endangering that life and how, consequently, his recklessness when it came to his own was an affront to Primus and an insult against his hallowed ancestors. The slim constable sent to inform them that the Magnus wanted to see Diatrion immediately could not have been more welcome if he had been carrying a whole barrel of premium tetra-helix.
Diatrion's relief at escaping the audio-bashing lasted roughly as long as it took to emerge from the temporarily medical platform and see the blue and red figure towering over the crowd of guardsmechs outside.
Deca Magnus did not look pleased. His face was set cold and blank, his optics a smouldering orange. He was listening to the report from the senior Praxian officer with stony patience, twitching his head every so often to look at something that was being pointed out but otherwise completely still and silent. There was a palpable sense of nervousness in the air, not unlike that surrounding unexploded mines. Around him, constables and investigators went hurriedly about their duties, trying to look both parade-ground ready and heavily focused on their whatever it was they were doing.
The constable escorted Diatrion into the Magnus' shadow and they both saluted, snapping to attention. Deca did not react to their presence beyond a curt noise directed at the senior guardsmech when he hesitated for a moment. They stood like that for nearly a cycle while the Magnus heard the rest of the report. Once it was finished, he brusquely dismissed the officer, the constable and everyone else in the immediate area - everyone except Diatrion.
A single glance swept him from head to toe. Then, “In any other circumstances, I would be commending you for your gallantry in the line of duty. I trust you appreciate why I will not be doing so now.”
“I take full responsibility for my actions, sir.” Diatrion answered without hesitation, still at attention.
“And do you take responsibility for the actions of this commercial investigator - this Masz Mech Adep, alias Nightbeat. Do you take responsibility for his actions as well?”
“As much as they intersected with my case and as much as I allowed him to act where I should have prevented him from doing so, yes sir.”
“Intersected with your case?” Something like amusement crossed Deca's face. “This stopped being your case a long time ago. At best it looks like it was this ‘Nightbeat’s’ case. He is gone, by the way.”
Confused, Diatrion asked, “Gone, sir?” He had assumed Nightbeat was being held as a witness by the Praxian officers.
“The local Tarnian consul managed to pull out enough legal technicalities to dazzle the lead investigator into letting him go and hurried him away the moment his statement had been recorded.” This was said in a way that made it clear the lead investigator's prospects for promotion had subsequently withered to nothing. “He is no doubt halfway back to Tarn by now.”
Diatrion nodded his understanding but did not offer any comment.
Nor did the Magnus wait for him to. Looking across towards the warehouse, he continued, “I suppose we should be grateful we got something out of him before he left, although from what I understand it's harder to get him to stop talking. Primus knows what's going to happen when he reports back to his current employer. No doubt I will have to devote the next few quartex to fending off extradition requests from Tarn and keeping those two prisoners of yours in our custody long enough to prove something against them. Prove something using evidence found by us, I mean, not by some wretched commercial investigator. A commercial investigator taking the initiative in an official case - hn!” Deca scowled and spread his hands in disbelief. “And it had to be this case. Do you really have any idea what you have done, investigator?”
It was not the question Diatrion had been expecting and, at first, he was lost for words. Then he realised that the Magnus was not asking about a murder case that a private citizen had been allowed to compromise. He was talking about evidence that directly contradicted official conclusions drawn by senior Civic Guardsmechs investigating a direct attack against one of the most powerful cities on Cybertron. A matter of image and public face, of politics and things far above a simple murder.
Things that Diatrion did not consider himself in the least bit qualified to pass judgement on.
“I tried to do my duty, sir, as best as I could under the circumstances. I regret resorting to breaking regulations and I will accept any dis-commendation without question, however I don't believe that I would have been able to solve the case without Nightbeat's assistance.”
If this was not the answer the Magnus had wanted, he had the decency not to accuse Diatrion of deliberately missing the point. “Perhaps not,” he murmured, optics flashing yellow for an instant, “You have a very interesting definition of 'duty', investigator, if this is where it takes you. Were you trying to prove yourself? Did the thought of a broken case-record drive you so far?”
“No, sir!” Diatrion shifted, embarrassed by the heat that crept into his denial. “If I've gone too far, sir,” he went on in a more even voice, “it was for the victim, not myself.”
“The victim?” Deca sounded genuinely puzzled.
“Konntryn, sir. The mech who was murdered in Tagen.”
The Magnus looked down again and, for the first time, seemed to actually see the mech standing in front of him. The coldness in his expression did not disappear, but it was joined by surprise, a little understanding and, just maybe, a hint of approval. “Justice has been served, investigator?”
“I hope so, sir.”
“You hope so, sir,” Deca mimicked, then hissed and shook his head, “Yes. Don't we all?”
He beckoned for the senior officer to come back. To Diatrion, he said, “You will turn all remaining materials relating to your investigation over to my staff, who will be taking over from now on. You will then return to your home-base in Tagen where you will continue in your normal duties until such time as you are required to give evidence in the prosecution of 'Tornado' and 'Earthquake'. At this time, I will not be endorsing any official reprimand against you for your unorthodox actions throughout this case; however I cannot rule out such a reprimand should a complaint be raised against you.” He paused before adding, “If I were you, I should avoid attracting any attention for a while. Dismissed, investigator.”
“Sir!” Diatrion was not sure if the Magnus even saw him salute. The towering mech had already begun to stride away and to issue orders to the crowd that gathered in his wake. All at once, the whole world seemed to have pushed the lone Tagen guardsmech from its thoughts. Diatrion was left standing in the middle of a crime scene, totally detached from the activity around him.
Dismissed.
After everything...
He broke from the salute, spun on his heel and walked smartly to the edge of the exclusion zone, communicated his credentials to the constables guarding the boundary, logged his authorisation and travel plans with the Praxian Civic Guard base, transformed and pulled out on to the road that would take him towards the train docks. He had his orders.
It was time to get back to work.
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Central Processing Hub
Tarn
Cybertron
Two burly tanks, their battle-masks locked in place, escorted Nightbeat through a maze of hallways to the heart of the Tarnian capital building. They showed him into a large, vaulted chamber humming with power and took up positions outside. The doors sealed behind them, cutting off the light from the corridor. The only illumination left came from the many screens hanging in a great arc from the ceiling.
Nightbeat surveyed the room carefully and with an interested expression, before turning to address the control podium. “Love what you've done with the place. Very oppressive autocratic chic.”
The podium unfolded, complex machinery simplifying down around its master. Viilon straightened, interface cables disengaging and snaking away into their housings, energon feeds shutting off and pulling out of his body, the whole apparatus of technocracy lifting from his back. If you had been fanciful, it might have looked as if he were being released from the grip of a giant fist.
Which just proved how backwards you could get things if you gave in to fancy.
With the podium collapsed into to a simple dais, Viilon turned his monoptical gaze on his visitor but made no move to step down and join him on the floor. Not particularly surprised by this (psychologically advantageous, clear field of fire, close enough to reconnect at a moment's notice if needed), Nightbeat put his hands on his hips and looked steadily back. “I'm guessing you got my report already.” A lie. He wasn't guessing.
“Correct.” Still the same flat voice. As if it would ever change.
“So - I suppose this is the part where you say thank you and pay me. Or torture me a bit to see if that report was accurate. I'd say the odds were about even. “
“I have already corroborated your report.” Viilon gestured, sending images and data spooling across the screens. “It is accurate in every respect, albeit unnecessarily florid in tone.”
Nightbeat shrugged. “Most people like a little excitement in the prose. Helps them feel they were there too.”
An alarm sounded in his head. 'Corroborated your report.' That was what the cyol had said. 'Corroborated.' Fine. Very sensible. And good, if it meant he got paid. Yes, fine.
How?
How had Viilon corroborated that report? He couldn't have got it more than a dozen deca-cycles ago. To have double checked everything so quickly...no. There was something missing. Some vital bit of information that Nightbeat was simply unaware of.
What?
“So, my literary short-comings aside, you're happy with my work, then?” he said, because the first rule of everything was that you never, ever showed that you didn't know something.
“It has been satisfactory,” Viilon acknowledged, optic steady, body motionless.
“Great! So that means you'll pay me, yes?”
“The agreed fee has already been deposited to your account. You basic rates plus expenses, plus remuneration for injuries received in the course of your employment. I can provide you with a channel should you wish to confirm the transfer.”
Oh, yes, because he could totally trust a communications system slaved to this cyol's will. “Don't worry, I believe you,” Nightbeat smiled. He could just ask. Here and now. It went against every instinct he possessed, sure, but Viilon was perhaps the one person who just would not care about impertinent questions. At worst, he'd just ignore them. Except that he was a head of state as well as an emotionless logic-worshipper and heads of state tended to disapprove of people probing their secrets. “So, that's it then?”
“Our business is concluded,” Viilon confirmed.
“You don't want to ask me anything? Don't need anything clarified?”
“Your report was comprehensive.”
So why in the name of reason was Nightbeat there? If there were no questions to be answered, why was he standing in the heart of Tarn, before its absolute ruler? Certainly not just so that he could be told his work had been satisfactory, or to be paid. Both those could have been done remotely, and they were magnificently superfluous anyway. Protective custody to keep him out of the Civic Guard's hands for a while? That might have involved bringing him to Tarn but not to this temple to control-freakery. It just wasn't logical. Why was he there?
Why?
“So I'm free to go?” He was only partially successful at keeping a trace concern out of his voice. The sudden rush of unanswered questions was becoming a little overwhelming, even for him. It was like getting halfway across a bridge only to see the other side falling into the ravine below.
“Our business is concluded,” the purple cyol repeated, “You may leave.”
“Just like that?” No-no-no-no! This wasn't right! What was he missing? What was this damned calculator playing at?
“As you say.”
In their first meeting, Viilon's lack of expression had been a challenge, something to be tested and needled, just to see if it would give way. Now it was a barrier, an impediment to understanding. A frustration of monumental proportions because there was no way to approach it, no purchase, no reasonable line of attack. Something was missing, some piece of the puzzle - and Nightbeat could not see it. Could not even see the shape of it. To have come so far and then...
“I'll be off then.”
No reply. Obviously. Well then. He spun on his heel and took a step towards the door. Think it through, think it through. Logic. The key was logic. There had to be a reason for his being brought there. There was no reason for his being there if his business with Viilon really was concluded, so logically it could not really be finished. He took another step. All that stuff about his report being satisfactory - that couldn't be true then. Simply a platitude designed to lull him into a false sense of security. Surprise, one-eye, no good! Assume the inverse then. Assume that the report had not been satisfactory, that Viilon wanted more. Assume that.
A deep dread began to form at the back of his processors. Step three.
He had had fun threatening the Black Shadow with Viilon - with Shockwave's - reputation. So much fun that he had forgotten what it meant. Viilon, who had single-handedly turned Tarn from a broken war-zone into a prosperous city. Viilon, who had been the terror of the battlefield even before that. Viilon, who saw the world through the filter of pure, clinical logic.
Viilon who corroborated everything. Which meant...
Step four.
“Your stratagem has failed.” There was no triumph in Viilon's words, no triumph, no pleasure, no satisfaction - just simple fact, plainly stated.
Nightbeat froze, every circuit singing with shock. As if the bomb that killed you had already gone off. “My...stratagem?” he asked, as calmly as he could. No answer. Nothing. Just the hum of the machinery. Very slowly, he turned back to face Viilon. To look up at that unwavering optic. And at the screens hanging above it.
“What...” he began. Then, “What?!”
His report had vanished from the screens, replaced by images of two mechs, one red and massive, one green and missing his face, both clamped into nasty looking devices, their heads encased in tangles of wires and cables that burrowed deep into their armour. Deep into their minds. Into their memories. Into their financial records.
“They're -!” The words tripped over one another. Nightbeat fought for coherence. “They're supposed to be in Praxus!”
“My agents within the Civic Guard were able to deliver them here before they could be more securely imprisoned.” The way Viilon said it, it was of no importance, a mere triviality, not a revelation of deep, deep corruption in one of the oldest Cybertronian institutions.
Nightbeat felt more shock at that than he would have expected. He had no great love for the White and Blues. Being one of them had battered it out of him. Even so, to see them undermined so casually - it hurt. Like seeing an old, slightly dim acquaintance being kicked in the tail for no very good reason.
“And now you're sifting through their brains,” he choked out.
“The search sequence was completed before you arrived.” Viilon turned his head and one of the screens hinged down and across, a new display flashing up. Reams of data rolled past the image of an angular flyer, his regal frame coated in gold and bronze. “This is the mech who funded the bombing of the Mahlex District. Gellr Mech Auon.”
It was a name that would mean nothing to almost everyone. Even Nightbeat, who liked to know all about the movers and shakers who controlled the fuel and the money, had had to look him up.
“A Vosian businessmech, with investments in fuel, foundries and various off-world enterprises.” Viilon paused, raising a finger to point out a particularly pertinent point in Gellrauon's stats. “He has connections to several major political figures in Vos and has been suspected of funding several anti-Tarn demonstrations.”
All of which, Nightbeat knew. All of which Viilon knew he knew. The yellow eye swung remorselessly back and pinned the investigator where he stood.
“You hoped by omitting these details from your report to me and passing Tornado and Earthquake into Civic Guard custody that you would prevent or else delay this connection to Vos from coming to my attention. In doing so, you would present me with an outcome in which I would merely have to wait for the full truth to be exposed by the Civic Guard, who would retain full control of the time and circumstances of that disclosure. In this way, the evidence's power could be limited and contained.” Viilon's optic contracted to a point. “This is not acceptable.”
Everything locked into place. This was what Viilon had wanted uncovering all along. Wanted? Was that the right word? Expected, perhaps. And he must have known that Nightbeat possessed the skills to track the money back to its source, deduced that there was only one reason why that information would have been omitted from the final report, and acted to secure the evidence by any means possible. A calculated risk, one that exposed his agents and lost him one advantage. Yet weighed against the potential political capital to be gained...
Politics. So easy to predict. The patterns just unfolded in Nightbeat's head. He hardly had to think about them. Connections, cause, effect, consequences, recriminations, retaliations. Patterns, spiralling out of each other. Patterns of conflict. Patterns of hatred. Patterns of ruin.
“No!” He barely recognise his own voice. Raw, petulant fury gripped him. He had been so sure, so giddily pleased with the resolution, the perfect solution and now - “No! No-no-no-no-NO!”
Viilon looked past him, optic returning to normal. The doors hissed quietly open and Nightbeat was dimly aware of the guards entering the room.
“As previously discussed, your work has been satisfactory. If you require a reference, it will be sent on to you.” Tarn's master flicked his attention to the hulking brutes who had just come in. “Escort this mech to the nearest transport hub.”
And with that, he reactivated the control podium, folding it around himself once more.
The prisoners vanished from the screens. Gellrauon too. Nightbeat was left flanked by the heavies, a tiny, raging figure to be hustled out and removed from play. A component, no longer needed.
Dismissed.
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