Fic: Under Scrutiny 3:Night on the Town (G1) - R
Title: Under Scrutiny
Chapter: 3 - Night on the Town
Rating: R
Warning: Non-explicit death, violence, gore, torture, mentions of sexual situations and cheerful contemplations of all of the preceding. In sum, Vortex.
Universe: G1
Summary: Vortex is being accused of murder, and for once, he didn't do it. Vortex starts the hunt for the killer. Er, the other killer. Pre-Earth, Vortex POV.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Also to add to the list of things that irritate Onslaught: offering amusing-yet-unhelpful suggestions when he thinks the atmosphere should stay appropriately serious and grim.
My face hurts. And when I poke at the side of my battlemask, it wiggles a bit. Ons has a really fast left hook for bein' such a big guy.
Someone's temper's a little touchy right now. Kinda funny, that. It's not like it's his tailplane in jeopardy. Either he's being super-sensitive about his reputation like he claims, or he's seriously tryin' to protect me.
It'd be funny if it wasn't so weird.
And weird or not, could end up handy - provided he doesn't rip my CPU out first, anyway.
"How 'bout everyone gets a repaint and pretends to be the guy for a couple days." I can't help one more teensy little suggestion. "See if the guy was so incensed by his clashin' paint job that he had to redecorate a room with him."
"Vortex!"
Yup, that's the keep-talking-and-I'll-remove-your-fuel-pump-by-pounding-it-out-of-your-chest look.
Y'know, this ain't a half-bad way of spendin' a shift. 'Least, I haven't had to haul anything anywhere or sit and stare at a computer and do nothin' for hours.
Onslaught's glarin' at me again. Telegraph, telegraph, telegraph. Heh. Why does he even bother wearin' that battlemask? Okay, sure, it provides a little protection in the field, but if that was the only reason to wear it, you'd think he'd take it off the rest of the time, 'cause he certainly ain't usin' it properly to be for the normal reasons.
Okay, sure, I generally don't take mine off, either, but that should be obvious why. It's actually helpful to my job. Creates more perception of detachment - for the other guy, not me. I don't need it, trust me. I'm plenty detached from the situation with or without it. But it makes it harder for other people to read me, y'know? Leaves me free to produce whatever kinda perception I want with my body language and voice. Ons, though, he don't deal with people the way I do, and the only time he fakes his body language is when he's actin' all proper with his superiors.
Yeah, I know, he really is all that stiff-strutted by-the-book commander garbage that he looks like most the time. Until he gets annoyed, then it's still written all over him. So really, what's the point?
Oh, being shook again. Gonna have to get Ons a wall poster or somethin' to demonstrate other ways of getting people's attention that don't involve grabbin' them by the rotor assembly and heavin' them around. Make sure it's got lots a big words and looks important, so he'll actually read it.
"Yes, Onslaught? Did you have something you would like to express to my ever-attentive audio receptors?" I ask sweetly, carefully enunciating every word.
"I believe that should be 'Never-attentive,' Vortex," he tells me. "I want you to investigate the possibility of previous incidents, as you have so astutely suggested that this mech has perpetrated other, similar crimes."
See? And this is why I usually just summarize Ons-speak. "...How'm I supposed to do that?" I ask, modulating my tone into a nice gratin' whine. Ons hates it when I whine. I generally make it a point to do it at least once a day, just for him.
It's good practice for him, havin' to control his temper in the face of minor annoyances. It's like exposure therapy. He, of course, is never properly grateful for my havin' generously donated my time and vocalizer to the greater Decepticon cause.
"I have the utmost faith that you will find a way," he tells me. His tone says do it or else.
Frag it, this sounds like work. And not the fun kind.
x-x-x
Command likes to claim that this entire sector's under Decepticon control. Ain't really true. Sure, we got patrols rumblin' down the street at all hours of the day and night, got jets screamin' in and out of the base, even a few choppers like myself buzzin' around willy-nilly. It's like the Great Purple Presence out on the thoroughfares. Anyone without the Decepticon brand tends to stay to the side of the street, head down and walking as fast as they can without catchin' anyone's attention.
All very normal, very controlled, very... fake. Or, if it ain't fake, it's like a think coatin' of paint on a rusted out wreck. Scrape a bit in the right spot, and you can find where the whole thing's rusted through.
And I never can help but poke at the rust spots, y'know?
It ain't like some of those stories you can pick up off a naive little Autobot, y'know, those cute little stories about self-important idiots playin' anti-hero, turning a corner off the main street and suddenly findin' themselves in a whole 'nother world, filled with slinkin' mechs hidin' their faction symbols and makin' back-alley deals in actual back alleys.
Cute, like I said. Such a romantic, typical Autobot sorta thing to think. Ain't like that at all. Oh, sure, there's back alleys and lurkin' mechs, but they ain't there to sell you blackmarket high-grade. Drain yours, sure. But they got dealers they sell to who funnel it up to the uptown bars.
Betcha ain't gonna look at a cube of high-grade the same again.
The real underbelly of the city's right there with the rest of it. Take where I'm goin', for example. It's got an official name above the door that I ain't botherin' to read or remember. Mechs hereabouts just call it Photon's. Photon ain't the owner or anything, but he's the artist that people come here t'see, at least in theory. Some sorta light-painting, manipulating wavelengths and slag like that. It's pretty, but ain't my thing, y'know?
Anyway, the place acts like his gallery. It's trendy, with variable lighting dependin' on what Photon's been up to, usually pretty brightly lit, but the light-paintings are bright enough to be better for privacy than any gloomy barroom. Place's got a white-noise thing under the floor, supposedly to keep the conversations of others from distractin' the viewer from the paintings, but mostly used to prevent eavesdropping.
And like I said, it's trendy, which means all sorts of people come there, and ain't no one who looks out of place as long as you ain't covered in internal fluids or rust. No one blinks an optic at a hulkin' 'Con frontliner cozying up to a spindly neutral. Art brings all types together - or for those of us who have the slightest idea what's up, we just assume he's tradin' for new under-the-table weapon upgrades with a blackmarket smuggler.
Me, I'm here for somethin' similar, but it's information I'm tradin' for, not weaponry. I meander my way through a flickering display, lightin' up my paint for a moment. I sidle around a pair of seekers lookin' entirely too serious for the situation, and wish I could take the time to find out what exactly was so important. But I gotta job to do, so I go past them to the mech mannin' the energon dispenser.
As hot as this place is, you'd think it'd serve a decent cube of high-grade, but it don't. Apparently it ain't done to have your senses dulled by high-grade or additives when you're appreciating Photon's 'genius'. Of course, there's plenty of high-grade available, and Taplock here'll even point you straight at them if you ask him nice.
I always ask nice.
Taplock nods to me, but doesn't greet me by name. It's considered a courtesy around here. Kinda pointless if you ask me, since a few breems and a few credits can get you anyone's name and place of manufacture in here. "Business or pleasure?" he asks instead.
"Can't it be both?" I respond, sliding closer. "I got some great comedy video if you wanna take a break and come sit with me." I waft my rotors at him flirtatiously. "We can snuggle up with a good cube of high-grade and call it a night."
As always, Taplock looks mildly annoyed at the come-on. "I'd rather not."
"Come on, it's hilarious stuff. Picked up a vorn's worth of reports from Beastbox," I tell him happily. "Full-length interrogation recordings, even. At one point, he starts hitting this one Autobot, and the little twirp goes 'Stop! I'll tell you-' and wham, Beastbox punches out his vocalizer mid-sentence. Funniest thing ever."
For some reason, Taplock isn't laughing as hard as I am. Go figure.
"Can I get something for you?" he asks, impatient.
"Gotta speak to Epi," I say cheerfully. Not like I was expecting him to take me up on my offer anyway. His loss. Beastbox should get billed as a comedian, really.
"He hates it when you call him that," Taplock tells me, same as always.
I waggle my rotors jauntily. "Yup. He in?"
Taplock hands me a cube, not answering. Which, if you know the routine, is an answer.
Epicenter is the owner of this little shiny piece of real estate. Ain't too much money in the place itself, but he's built it up over the stellar cycles to the best source of whatever you want in the sector. I think that's the real reason he don't offer more refined fuel here, too much effort to slip it past the blockades. Epicenter's an information broker, and the whole place is just a means to get people who know things and people who want to know things in range of his little information net.
He's good. Expensive, though. Most mechs 'round these parts can't exactly afford to talk to the guy. They can either scramble to find enough hard goods to pay him off, or trade in information, but it can be slaggin' hard to find out something he don't already know. He likes to have dirt on everyone, and codes to everywhere, but likelihood is, he already knows all your security passcodes. And as a general rule, he don't work for credit. Most of the time, if he does, you're in for a world of hurt, 'cause the favors he demands in return ain't nice.
Most of time, I say, because there's a few of us that get away with it. We're in the same field, y'see, information, so we work out a sorta system for swappin' interesting tidbits we come across. And every once in a while, I do him a favor, and spend a little time after hours procuring something specific from someone specific. As long as the bodies don't turn up, no one looks too closely into what interrogators do with our spare time.
Unfortunately, I got a body turnin' up, and the aggravating part is that I ain't got nothin' to do with it. Fortunately, I got a bit of credit built up with Epi here.
It'll take Epi a bit to show up, so I take over a seat, leanin' back against the table and watching the crowd move. The position ain't particularly comfortable for rotors, but it's a minor discomfort, not exactly unpleasant. Kinda like scratchin' an itch until the paint comes off. Burns a bit, but nice.
Looks like I ain't the only one crowd watchin' tonight. There's a group of Winged Wonders seated next to one of the nearest displays, and a couple of them are lookin' straight at me.
I don't need to look closer to figure out what kind they are. I can see their paint from here. Pink and gray, little sheltered twits who ain't seen enough real combat and think it's edgy to paint up like corpses or like they've been splattered with fresh energon. Feh. The only ones impressed by their little dress-up game is other posers, or soldiers lookin' for easy game that'll be impressed by a little talk of fighting. The leader of their little cadre's had a heavy re-tooling done on the wings, makin' them upswept and sharply angled. Got a fancy pipin' job done, a glowin' energon-pink lit up against glossy gray.
New builds, or neutrals who wanna think of themselves as spookier than the 'Cons. 'Spect I'll find out which real fast, since they've spotted my own dead-gray look and think they've ran into low-rent one of their kind that they can flash their wings at and impress.
Ain't they gonna be surprised.
See, my paint ain't done like this to impress barfly wannabe seekers. It's just a tool, like the battlemask, like the rest, gets the right unconscious reaction from my... clients. A deep-rooted sense of horror, too vague to name and conquer. The little newbies trying lurk around, all artistically grim, they don't understand that. They don't use it. They just wear it because it makes them feel like they're big bad scary mechs.
I'm more than a little tempted to show a couple of them exactly what "scary" means. And maybe see how much that bright pink one likes real energon runnin' down her face. It's gonna have to wait a bit, though. Epi always gets so uptight 'bout hydraulic fluid on his floor.
Speaking of, there's the little slagger now.
Epicenter really ain't much to look at. Ain't never seen his alt, but he certainly looks like a stationary piece o' communications equipment. Table's too high for him, and when he climbs into a chair, he's actually gotta hop up to get into the seat. Looks pretty harmless, and that's the point. Ain't no one gonna feel threatened by him until he goes and pulls out enough blackmail to set the entire sector on your exhaust trail.
"Do you have something for me?" he asks, resting his hands on the table.
I turn in my chair just enough to keep him from bein' directly behind me, but keep watchin' the crowd. Epicenter ain't gonna do anything personally, but I still don't like people at my rotors. "Nope. Buying, ain't sellin' today."
Epicenter's antenna twitch in interest. I don't doubt that he's got a list of things that people like me are askin' for sale to somebody. Autobots, most likely. Price of doin' business, y'know?
"I'm lookin' at a body that showed up in the base this mornin'," I tell him. "And I need to know where and when the others were."
I don't need to explain what body. He probably knew about it before I did. "You believe there were others?" he asked. "Where would you like me to begin the query?"
"Everywhere. Most likely not on bases, but back-alley dumps. Mayhem's woulda been all over it if it'd been happening on other bases, too. Probably a few 'Cons before this ones, certainly neutrals and 'Bots."
"A broad-range search," Epicenter notes, a leadin' comment if I ever heard one.
I flick a rotor. "What, gettin' corrosion on your circuits? Can't handle it anymore?" I ask.
"Of course I can handle it, and seeing as you are such a valued customer, I suppose you're worth the extra effort it will take," Epicenter says smoothly. "I will notify you when I have your information." He slides back out of the chair and disappears into the crowd.
I snort , fans blowing exhaust. 'Valued customer' my aft. Epicenter does nothing outta the goodness of his spark. But I ain't too scared of him screwin' me over; ain't too many mechs feedin' him the kinda information I can. It's a narrow specialty field.
The little knot of angst-filled wingers is still giving me those conspicuous sideways looks, all so obsessed with their studied uniqueness, just like all the others I've ran into over the years, none of them aware that somebody could turn 'em all into real corpses and no one would care. Maybe I'll see about a bit of diversion before I have to get back to work tracking down alternate information sources. Always collaborate everything.
After all, I don't actually trust Epicenter.
Chapter: 3 - Night on the Town
Rating: R
Warning: Non-explicit death, violence, gore, torture, mentions of sexual situations and cheerful contemplations of all of the preceding. In sum, Vortex.
Universe: G1
Summary: Vortex is being accused of murder, and for once, he didn't do it. Vortex starts the hunt for the killer. Er, the other killer. Pre-Earth, Vortex POV.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Also to add to the list of things that irritate Onslaught: offering amusing-yet-unhelpful suggestions when he thinks the atmosphere should stay appropriately serious and grim.
My face hurts. And when I poke at the side of my battlemask, it wiggles a bit. Ons has a really fast left hook for bein' such a big guy.
Someone's temper's a little touchy right now. Kinda funny, that. It's not like it's his tailplane in jeopardy. Either he's being super-sensitive about his reputation like he claims, or he's seriously tryin' to protect me.
It'd be funny if it wasn't so weird.
And weird or not, could end up handy - provided he doesn't rip my CPU out first, anyway.
"How 'bout everyone gets a repaint and pretends to be the guy for a couple days." I can't help one more teensy little suggestion. "See if the guy was so incensed by his clashin' paint job that he had to redecorate a room with him."
"Vortex!"
Yup, that's the keep-talking-and-I'll-remove-your-fuel-pump-by-pounding-it-out-of-your-chest look.
Y'know, this ain't a half-bad way of spendin' a shift. 'Least, I haven't had to haul anything anywhere or sit and stare at a computer and do nothin' for hours.
Onslaught's glarin' at me again. Telegraph, telegraph, telegraph. Heh. Why does he even bother wearin' that battlemask? Okay, sure, it provides a little protection in the field, but if that was the only reason to wear it, you'd think he'd take it off the rest of the time, 'cause he certainly ain't usin' it properly to be for the normal reasons.
Okay, sure, I generally don't take mine off, either, but that should be obvious why. It's actually helpful to my job. Creates more perception of detachment - for the other guy, not me. I don't need it, trust me. I'm plenty detached from the situation with or without it. But it makes it harder for other people to read me, y'know? Leaves me free to produce whatever kinda perception I want with my body language and voice. Ons, though, he don't deal with people the way I do, and the only time he fakes his body language is when he's actin' all proper with his superiors.
Yeah, I know, he really is all that stiff-strutted by-the-book commander garbage that he looks like most the time. Until he gets annoyed, then it's still written all over him. So really, what's the point?
Oh, being shook again. Gonna have to get Ons a wall poster or somethin' to demonstrate other ways of getting people's attention that don't involve grabbin' them by the rotor assembly and heavin' them around. Make sure it's got lots a big words and looks important, so he'll actually read it.
"Yes, Onslaught? Did you have something you would like to express to my ever-attentive audio receptors?" I ask sweetly, carefully enunciating every word.
"I believe that should be 'Never-attentive,' Vortex," he tells me. "I want you to investigate the possibility of previous incidents, as you have so astutely suggested that this mech has perpetrated other, similar crimes."
See? And this is why I usually just summarize Ons-speak. "...How'm I supposed to do that?" I ask, modulating my tone into a nice gratin' whine. Ons hates it when I whine. I generally make it a point to do it at least once a day, just for him.
It's good practice for him, havin' to control his temper in the face of minor annoyances. It's like exposure therapy. He, of course, is never properly grateful for my havin' generously donated my time and vocalizer to the greater Decepticon cause.
"I have the utmost faith that you will find a way," he tells me. His tone says do it or else.
Frag it, this sounds like work. And not the fun kind.
x-x-x
Command likes to claim that this entire sector's under Decepticon control. Ain't really true. Sure, we got patrols rumblin' down the street at all hours of the day and night, got jets screamin' in and out of the base, even a few choppers like myself buzzin' around willy-nilly. It's like the Great Purple Presence out on the thoroughfares. Anyone without the Decepticon brand tends to stay to the side of the street, head down and walking as fast as they can without catchin' anyone's attention.
All very normal, very controlled, very... fake. Or, if it ain't fake, it's like a think coatin' of paint on a rusted out wreck. Scrape a bit in the right spot, and you can find where the whole thing's rusted through.
And I never can help but poke at the rust spots, y'know?
It ain't like some of those stories you can pick up off a naive little Autobot, y'know, those cute little stories about self-important idiots playin' anti-hero, turning a corner off the main street and suddenly findin' themselves in a whole 'nother world, filled with slinkin' mechs hidin' their faction symbols and makin' back-alley deals in actual back alleys.
Cute, like I said. Such a romantic, typical Autobot sorta thing to think. Ain't like that at all. Oh, sure, there's back alleys and lurkin' mechs, but they ain't there to sell you blackmarket high-grade. Drain yours, sure. But they got dealers they sell to who funnel it up to the uptown bars.
Betcha ain't gonna look at a cube of high-grade the same again.
The real underbelly of the city's right there with the rest of it. Take where I'm goin', for example. It's got an official name above the door that I ain't botherin' to read or remember. Mechs hereabouts just call it Photon's. Photon ain't the owner or anything, but he's the artist that people come here t'see, at least in theory. Some sorta light-painting, manipulating wavelengths and slag like that. It's pretty, but ain't my thing, y'know?
Anyway, the place acts like his gallery. It's trendy, with variable lighting dependin' on what Photon's been up to, usually pretty brightly lit, but the light-paintings are bright enough to be better for privacy than any gloomy barroom. Place's got a white-noise thing under the floor, supposedly to keep the conversations of others from distractin' the viewer from the paintings, but mostly used to prevent eavesdropping.
And like I said, it's trendy, which means all sorts of people come there, and ain't no one who looks out of place as long as you ain't covered in internal fluids or rust. No one blinks an optic at a hulkin' 'Con frontliner cozying up to a spindly neutral. Art brings all types together - or for those of us who have the slightest idea what's up, we just assume he's tradin' for new under-the-table weapon upgrades with a blackmarket smuggler.
Me, I'm here for somethin' similar, but it's information I'm tradin' for, not weaponry. I meander my way through a flickering display, lightin' up my paint for a moment. I sidle around a pair of seekers lookin' entirely too serious for the situation, and wish I could take the time to find out what exactly was so important. But I gotta job to do, so I go past them to the mech mannin' the energon dispenser.
As hot as this place is, you'd think it'd serve a decent cube of high-grade, but it don't. Apparently it ain't done to have your senses dulled by high-grade or additives when you're appreciating Photon's 'genius'. Of course, there's plenty of high-grade available, and Taplock here'll even point you straight at them if you ask him nice.
I always ask nice.
Taplock nods to me, but doesn't greet me by name. It's considered a courtesy around here. Kinda pointless if you ask me, since a few breems and a few credits can get you anyone's name and place of manufacture in here. "Business or pleasure?" he asks instead.
"Can't it be both?" I respond, sliding closer. "I got some great comedy video if you wanna take a break and come sit with me." I waft my rotors at him flirtatiously. "We can snuggle up with a good cube of high-grade and call it a night."
As always, Taplock looks mildly annoyed at the come-on. "I'd rather not."
"Come on, it's hilarious stuff. Picked up a vorn's worth of reports from Beastbox," I tell him happily. "Full-length interrogation recordings, even. At one point, he starts hitting this one Autobot, and the little twirp goes 'Stop! I'll tell you-' and wham, Beastbox punches out his vocalizer mid-sentence. Funniest thing ever."
For some reason, Taplock isn't laughing as hard as I am. Go figure.
"Can I get something for you?" he asks, impatient.
"Gotta speak to Epi," I say cheerfully. Not like I was expecting him to take me up on my offer anyway. His loss. Beastbox should get billed as a comedian, really.
"He hates it when you call him that," Taplock tells me, same as always.
I waggle my rotors jauntily. "Yup. He in?"
Taplock hands me a cube, not answering. Which, if you know the routine, is an answer.
Epicenter is the owner of this little shiny piece of real estate. Ain't too much money in the place itself, but he's built it up over the stellar cycles to the best source of whatever you want in the sector. I think that's the real reason he don't offer more refined fuel here, too much effort to slip it past the blockades. Epicenter's an information broker, and the whole place is just a means to get people who know things and people who want to know things in range of his little information net.
He's good. Expensive, though. Most mechs 'round these parts can't exactly afford to talk to the guy. They can either scramble to find enough hard goods to pay him off, or trade in information, but it can be slaggin' hard to find out something he don't already know. He likes to have dirt on everyone, and codes to everywhere, but likelihood is, he already knows all your security passcodes. And as a general rule, he don't work for credit. Most of the time, if he does, you're in for a world of hurt, 'cause the favors he demands in return ain't nice.
Most of time, I say, because there's a few of us that get away with it. We're in the same field, y'see, information, so we work out a sorta system for swappin' interesting tidbits we come across. And every once in a while, I do him a favor, and spend a little time after hours procuring something specific from someone specific. As long as the bodies don't turn up, no one looks too closely into what interrogators do with our spare time.
Unfortunately, I got a body turnin' up, and the aggravating part is that I ain't got nothin' to do with it. Fortunately, I got a bit of credit built up with Epi here.
It'll take Epi a bit to show up, so I take over a seat, leanin' back against the table and watching the crowd move. The position ain't particularly comfortable for rotors, but it's a minor discomfort, not exactly unpleasant. Kinda like scratchin' an itch until the paint comes off. Burns a bit, but nice.
Looks like I ain't the only one crowd watchin' tonight. There's a group of Winged Wonders seated next to one of the nearest displays, and a couple of them are lookin' straight at me.
I don't need to look closer to figure out what kind they are. I can see their paint from here. Pink and gray, little sheltered twits who ain't seen enough real combat and think it's edgy to paint up like corpses or like they've been splattered with fresh energon. Feh. The only ones impressed by their little dress-up game is other posers, or soldiers lookin' for easy game that'll be impressed by a little talk of fighting. The leader of their little cadre's had a heavy re-tooling done on the wings, makin' them upswept and sharply angled. Got a fancy pipin' job done, a glowin' energon-pink lit up against glossy gray.
New builds, or neutrals who wanna think of themselves as spookier than the 'Cons. 'Spect I'll find out which real fast, since they've spotted my own dead-gray look and think they've ran into low-rent one of their kind that they can flash their wings at and impress.
Ain't they gonna be surprised.
See, my paint ain't done like this to impress barfly wannabe seekers. It's just a tool, like the battlemask, like the rest, gets the right unconscious reaction from my... clients. A deep-rooted sense of horror, too vague to name and conquer. The little newbies trying lurk around, all artistically grim, they don't understand that. They don't use it. They just wear it because it makes them feel like they're big bad scary mechs.
I'm more than a little tempted to show a couple of them exactly what "scary" means. And maybe see how much that bright pink one likes real energon runnin' down her face. It's gonna have to wait a bit, though. Epi always gets so uptight 'bout hydraulic fluid on his floor.
Speaking of, there's the little slagger now.
Epicenter really ain't much to look at. Ain't never seen his alt, but he certainly looks like a stationary piece o' communications equipment. Table's too high for him, and when he climbs into a chair, he's actually gotta hop up to get into the seat. Looks pretty harmless, and that's the point. Ain't no one gonna feel threatened by him until he goes and pulls out enough blackmail to set the entire sector on your exhaust trail.
"Do you have something for me?" he asks, resting his hands on the table.
I turn in my chair just enough to keep him from bein' directly behind me, but keep watchin' the crowd. Epicenter ain't gonna do anything personally, but I still don't like people at my rotors. "Nope. Buying, ain't sellin' today."
Epicenter's antenna twitch in interest. I don't doubt that he's got a list of things that people like me are askin' for sale to somebody. Autobots, most likely. Price of doin' business, y'know?
"I'm lookin' at a body that showed up in the base this mornin'," I tell him. "And I need to know where and when the others were."
I don't need to explain what body. He probably knew about it before I did. "You believe there were others?" he asked. "Where would you like me to begin the query?"
"Everywhere. Most likely not on bases, but back-alley dumps. Mayhem's woulda been all over it if it'd been happening on other bases, too. Probably a few 'Cons before this ones, certainly neutrals and 'Bots."
"A broad-range search," Epicenter notes, a leadin' comment if I ever heard one.
I flick a rotor. "What, gettin' corrosion on your circuits? Can't handle it anymore?" I ask.
"Of course I can handle it, and seeing as you are such a valued customer, I suppose you're worth the extra effort it will take," Epicenter says smoothly. "I will notify you when I have your information." He slides back out of the chair and disappears into the crowd.
I snort , fans blowing exhaust. 'Valued customer' my aft. Epicenter does nothing outta the goodness of his spark. But I ain't too scared of him screwin' me over; ain't too many mechs feedin' him the kinda information I can. It's a narrow specialty field.
The little knot of angst-filled wingers is still giving me those conspicuous sideways looks, all so obsessed with their studied uniqueness, just like all the others I've ran into over the years, none of them aware that somebody could turn 'em all into real corpses and no one would care. Maybe I'll see about a bit of diversion before I have to get back to work tracking down alternate information sources. Always collaborate everything.
After all, I don't actually trust Epicenter.